The Middies' Berth

He tensed at the subtle reprimind, and gave the Thompson an equal meaning look, before he returned to listening to what he had to say. Interesting, he'd never thought to know what a marine's life was. To him they were just red toy soldiers, ready to be used, plenty to spare , guarding the important parts in the ship, protecting them from the sailors and.. that was it. He never would've thought that they had souls, and histories and that they were human.

This, brought them to a strangely new perspective, enforcing what he had learnt when talking to Quinn. He scolded himself for even caring to think it. Soft heart,.. no place for it on a ship, curse you boy!

"...You hurt your head how?" He had not said please, do tell, quite deliberately and defiantly.

"Banged it on a beam. Sir." If the boy wouldn't make at least the attempt to be polite, Thompson was only going to be as polite as necessary, and no more.

He didn't understand the lad at all, and wondered if there was any way of getting him to be politer. Ah well, it wasn't going to be his problem to solve, was it? That was down to the Lieutenants, and the Captain. All he had to do was follow orders.

He nodded slowly. "....ah.. I see." It was clear to him now, and imagining the man do it, he flushed for there was a smile crawling to the corner of his lips. A faint amusement was there, in the tired boy. He looked from the marine and studied the wall oposite to him."... And your second ship...How was that one?" He asked and sounded a grain more polite. he sensed the tension in the other man and though he was not to care, Thompson was doing him a favour. He proved not to try and stab him in the back, he attempted to comfort him.

"...if you can tell." He added in the quietest of murmurs keeping his gaze still firm on the wall.

Well, it might not have been a 'please' but it was phrased politer than the last question. The lad was trying, anyway.

"Temmyrare? She was a big old thing, with several hundred men and more'n twice as many of us Marines as Terpsy here has. A good sailer, for a ship that size, she was. Though we was packed tight as could be - had to share the berthdecks with the guns, y'see. Not like Terpsy, where we all live below the waterline. Temmyrare had three decks of guns - horrible great big things, they was an' all. An' after Vixen, it was nearly like bein' on dry land again. Exceptin' in a blow, of course."

"..mus've been like a town of it's own...large like that..with so many people livin' in it." He found himself saying and stubbornly he made itself seem as if he were not saying anything special. His hold on Thompson's arm was still stiff and strong and he still held on it almost as if he had taken ownership of it, though atleast he no longer pulled down on it.

"..thought Confidence was big.. when I firs' came on it..big ship...."Then he turned quiet abruptly and bit his lip:".... so after her then?"

It seemed Confidence was a sore spot with the young gentleman, who was holding Thompson's arm as though he were a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

"After Temmyrare, I went ashore. Was posted to Portsmouth at first, but then orders came through for all shore-based Marines to return to their own Division, so I went back home to Chatham. Was supposed to be discharged, only it took so long to sort out that the war started up again, and I went to the receiving ship for a bit, to stand guard on the men the Press brought in. Was there for a month or so, then got posted to Calypso under Captain Ramage. He was a real good captain, he was. Spent most of me time in her out in the Indies. Was like a furnace there, it was so hot. You never felt the like."

"Hot?.. 's ..sure cold here now." He was wet and water made his hair cling to his face as if it were glued to it, his coat was soaked but he didn't even think to take it off, nor to change into something that would keep him warmer. The heat that came from the arm, though probably as equally wet asa his own, did offer some relief.

"Don' ye get ill if ye go ter t' Indies?" He wasn't sure if he had heard it right, or if he had mixed up the names, for his former mess mates rarely did talk or mingle such as they did at that moment. He'd forgotten about his prospects, and didn't even think of the ship that they were closing in to. His whole world shrank to the abandoned middie's berth and a red clad marine who was watching over him.

"What made him good...t' cap'n? He let ye get drunk like?.. or did he have a good stern authority set in place on deck?" Good to the sailors usually meant a lot of drink, but to a midshipman and captain, it could mean a completely different thing.

"Here, ain't you got anythin' to change into, sir?" Regardless of whether he did or not, Thompson pulled him a little closer. It might not be so good as warm, dry clothes, but Thompson was just as wet, and now - down here doing nothing - he was just as cold.

"There's the yellow jack, right enough, but not so much risk of it, sailing round, like. And Captain Ramage - his dad's the Earl of Blazey, y'know - he's fair. Not harsh, like some, but a good leader, and a lucky one, too. Weren't much call for us Marines on his ship. His sailors were just as likely as we were to stop anythin' queer below-decks. If anything strange had been allowed to start in the first place, anyway."

Not harsh and with no problem? The man was indeed as Thompson said. A lucky man! A bloody lucky enough that he would probably gamble himself a fortune were he ever to try his hand in it, or perhaps he was richer, not even trying. He felt tense at first, but as cold as he was the wamrth was welcome and there was nobody there. Sharing it, would ease them both, not that he was yet thinking of the private. He was still living for himself, himself alone. But as the private held him close he felt the wamrth and took it. His other breeches were in need to be washed, being stained red. His other socks were in the chest , bound as it was, on which they were sat. He had clothes, but the effort to get them out weighed , at least at present, the want to have them.

". I see... and then?. .what was then, how was it then?.. n' why did ye change so many ships?" He was right 'stealing' that warmth now.

[From here]

Peter came to the door of the berth. He would not be able to manage his storm coat, but there was a cloak in his chest that he could wrap round himself even with one hand. He pushed open the door and then stopped in amazement.

Thompson was the first to react. He nearly shot to his feet, but for the grip Mister De Guarde had on his arm. "I...I..." If Sergeant Quinn got to hear of this, he'd be doing field punishment for months. He was supposed to be standing sentry, after all, not cuddling up with a soaked middy nobody liked.

The boy released Thompson's arm the moment his innitial shock was over and he stared at Yates near as if he'd seen a ghost. He looked away, and was to his feet as well and pulling at his coat needlessly. To shocked to know what to say he steadied himself and was quiet for a good few moments.

Finally finding the strength to speak he uttered a stuttered: "...Mr. Yates?"

As soon as Mister De Guarde released his arm, he was on his feet, musket by his side. Maybe, just maybe the younger lad wouldn't tell the Sergeant he'd been slack in his duty.

Maybe... but it was a very slim hope.

"I - Dr Crozier says I can go on deck, and.. and I came for my cloak." Peter was a fiery red, his freckles for once looking pale. He sidled across the cabin looking at the floor. "It's in my chest. I'm sorry... I didn't realize..." He opened the chest and then found it difficult to move things neatly with only one arm. He saw the edge of the cloak and pulled at it, so that everything else turned over, and started sliding from the chest. He pushed everything back and edged away towards the door, the cloak clutched in one hand.

"We was... we was only talkin', sir." He spoke quietly, as if to speak louder would convince Mister Yates he had indeed been remiss. Though he was only supposed to stop De Guarde leaving the gunroom, wasn't he? Which he'd been doing.

What did the boy have on his mind that he blushed so and apologised as if he had disturbed something he shouldn't have? Surely he would not have a thought to think of something.....

The youth observed Yates in silence and though he wanted to say something to him, he felt a tad intimidated and even fearful that the boy would go and run and tell the others. Change the sentry at the very least would be an unpleasant ordeal. He didn't want to have to see another face, a different marine.

He blinked and heard the marine speak to the side of him, and he did no more but nod in agreement.

Peter was frightened now. The marine - Thompson was it? - had his musket to hand, and Peter only had a dirk. We was only talkin' Every child knew what that sort of phrase meant. We were only playing meant they had been teasing the baby, or drawing in Papa's book of sermons. So what had they been doing that we was only talkin' was meant to hide? Something to be ashamed of, anyway.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd stood to attention quite so rigidly. "I... I'm sorry, sir."

He should've stayed outside, like Branning had, dependable Branning, never in trouble. Maybe... maybe they'd send Branning down to take over from him, and clap him in irons in disgrace. Who needed a Marine who couldn't stand a proper sentry duty on a young gentleman, anyway? It'd be Master-at-Arms' black book for months...

If he were to say, Yates it was nothing then the boy would think right the opposite. If he were to say nothing, he would be agreeing to the lad's speculations.. if he was to change the topic or tell him good bye, he would seem suspicious. The boy would have snapped at the boy, but had little vigour to it and even less want. So resigned he left himself looking at the boy and wondering why he was scared. of Thompson? But he was a Terpsy, like Yates!

"..Mr. Yates.."He gathered up his courage, though his voice was still frail, and not as challenging as before. Not this time around at least."...He was assigned to watch over me.. under t' First Liuetenant's Bush's orders..." Stray from the topic a little, and yet keep it there.

De Guarde was... was sticking up for him?! He looked nervously at Yates and nodded a little.

"He... he wanted someone to talk to, sir. I'll stand outside though, sir, if you want."

Peter was fourteen. He was not ignorant. He wondered whom he should tell about what he feared he had stumbled into. Or whether that would be behaving like a sneak, which no one liked. He only knew that he could not stand here staring at them like that. He fumbled with the cloak as he reached for the door. "The ship might be about to attack the Frenchman," he said. "I'd better go up and report to the Lieutenant." He backed out of the door and closed it behind him, standing for a moment until the flush had subsided, and he could make his way to the companionway.

And to here

Mathew watched as the boy disappeared through the door and looked at Thompson, nervous, unsure and afraid that Yates came to the worst assumptions, whichever those may be. What could they be?

"..He.. what did he think we was... ?"He began, and turned quiet.

"He... I don't know." It hadn't crossed Thompson's mind that Yates thought they'd been up to anything. He wasn't entirely ignorant of things like that - though he had no experience of it - but his guilt lay elsewhere. He should have been standing outside, like he did when on sentry outside the Captain's cabin. Not sitting down, being all comfy and friendly, talking like he had with the lad.

And just why should Yates think they'd been 'up to' something? De Guarde was the one middy most lower deck folks feared, even after only three days.

He looked at the floor. Still he was cold, but the last arrival had shaken him up terribly. The boy was as red as a if he'd bleed all over his face when he first stumbled in. And when he was leaving he was as convinced that they were just talking as he was that Mathew was a kind and sweet middie. Obviously neither was correct.

He rubbed at his arms and began to tug at his own cuff again, looking at first to the door, listening for sounds and expecting someone to rush in, and at second at Thompson, wondering how much the man now regretted it. He hadn't meant to do it, atleast that was sure.

"...he looked.. " Positively in one armed.

"If he thinks I been slackin', sir, I'm goin' to be in all sorts of trouble," Thompson said slowly. "I'd best stand outside, sir." He looked at the middy and bit his lip.

"It was... it was real nice, talkin' to you, like," he said, awkwardly. "Mebbe... mebbe we can finish talkin' some other time, sir?"