After the Battle

The relation of Captain Bolitho's wounding and subsequent care made Chase shake his head. He'd been there for a good part of it and the recollection was dead-on.

He glanced over briefly when De Guarde addressed him, but it seemed that the boy had nothing to say. Just as well. Chase was in no mood to bandy words with the boy, after what he'd said up on the foc's'le. Shrugging carelessly, the topman turned his attention back to his work and paid De Guarde no more mind. If the boy really did need something, he would speak up again. If not, he could just sit and work the rest of them.

Bush had been driving the men hard on board the Victorieuse, and Peter, unable to lend a hand - or at least, unable to lend both hands - had been useful for running from one end of the ship to the other, as seamen removed the dead, and cleaned up. Now that the battle was over, they did not throw the dead overboard, not even the French dead, and a group of French seamen were sewing their shipmates into sailcloth shrouds. Someone would be doing the same on the Terpsy, Peter thought, as he went down into the ship to look for the Carpenter's mate. A French ship smelt differently, he realized. The same underlying odours of sea, and wood and tar, and men. He would not mistake this sharp smell for that of the British ship. Perhaps all ships had a different smell. He would have to ask someone more experienced that he was. Eventually Kinsella came back and relieved him. A seaman was on hand to steady him as he went down the side into the boat. He would be back in time for the burial of Dunnock, he thought. The Frenchmen would be buried from the side of their own ship, and Dunnock from the Terpsichore. At least he had not been thrown overboard...

"Chase." He said again and stood, walking across to the sailor. He sat down beside him and placed his rope into his lap. He didn't however just yet begin to work on it.

"I request an apology for speaking so ill about me." He spoke, his eyes on the man, sternly, though there might have just been a hint of plead in them as well.

"..n' see to this rope.., if it's fine." He saw that most hammocks had already been sewn shut, and perhaps they would be at last called to witness the burial. He would have to remind himself where to go and where not to plant his feet. He hadn't yet noticed young Yates, and wondered if the boy had also been lost, then scratched that thought for if he was, he'd bee certainly seen somewhere amongst the dead bodies. Perhaps he was just helping Lt. Bush on the other ship. It made sense and so the lad's lack of presence was explained.

An apology? Chase looked up, frowning. What had he to apologise for?

"Ain't no apologisin' for tellin' the truth," the topman said. "We don't talk fancy or gentle like officers but most lads can handle it. That rope's fine," he added, giving the newly-repaired rope an experimental tug.

"Yer called me daft, and that ain't t' truth.. nor will I stand for it." He nodded at the rope and placed it near the rest of them. He wasn't proud of the task accomplished, but he was glad he needn't repeat it, nor seem as if he was unable to accomplish such a simple job.

"N' ye suggested I would flee. Ain't a coward like that. Wouldn' bring me family shame." Wouldn't tell them what changed neither.

"..they're almos' done." He indicated to the sober task of dead bodies being sewn into the hammocks. He looked atleast more serious when he spoke, as if at barest aware of the gravity of the task and thought.

The battle, and the hot sweating running about on the Frenchman's decks had driven Peter's other concerns from his mind. But having been heaved aboard by Oates, he made his way towards the Captain's cabin, to bring Bush's compliments and the latest report, and found that the Marine on sentry duty was Thompson. He turned away, shaking, and went to look for Lieutenant George. It would anyway be better if the Lieutenant took the report to the Captain, who would only be annoyed with Peter's ignorance.

"What'll ya do 'bout it, then?" Chase had no patience for this. He stood up, leaving his finished rope forgotten at his feet.

They were nearly ready for the formal burial ceremony. Chase nudged Chicken Dyer with his foot and the two topmen headed for the foc's'le. Westdale looked happy enough working on the ropes but he was welcome to join the others if he wished. As for De Guarde... Chase didn't care what the boy did, as long as he stayed out of the way.

"Comin' 'long wi' us, Westdale?"

"I..." He blinked as the sailor stood and turned and with his friend he left to invite Westdale to come with them. Used to having his way it felt like a bucket of cold water had been dunked onto his head and he still felt the shivers it had him have. The world of the seamen was very different than that of the officers. He could not demand attention from none of them nor intimidate them with the colour of his coat.

Respect was something he hadn't thought of needing to earn before, and fear was something he could not use here. Pursing his lips into a scowl the boy stood as if waiting for the sailors to return, learning their error. Yet, they didn't seem to even consider it and he felt the eyes of other men at his back, expectant.

He placed his near finished rope on the floor and dusted his hands. He pulled at his slops to ease them of his bum and then turned to where Westdale, Chase and Dyer was. He thought he knew that last man also. Bitting at his lip and having much of his pride thrown to the fishes, he walked up to them, looking like a pup learning his way.

"...May I.... come too?" It was not what he wanted to say, but saw that were he to demand, the answer would certainly be a no. Even now, it might be such, or perhaps a - do what you want, suit yourself - which might mean something similar.

Both Chase and Dyer turned back. But where Dyer scowled and turned away again, Chase sighed and nodded.

"Hurry up," he said.

He paused and nodded. "Aye!" He hadn't been slow as he were earlier. Quite on the contrary, really. Being given a heads up to follow, he thought it was right to do it as they wished. The thought made him shudder for a moment, yet he cast it away. Sacrifice something, to gain something. Which in this case was, the trip to the foc'sle with the top men.

The crew was slowly drifting toward the foc's'le, drawn instinctually by the knowledge that there were bodies to be buried. Chase and Dyer waited for De Guarde only for a moment before continuing on their way.

In a minute or two, the officers should be gathering amidships. The crew would concentrate there, after seeing to it that their mates were carried down from the foc's'le.

Mr George had given Peter a curious look, as the boy passed on Mr Bush's message. Peter hoped that the 3rd lieutenant had simply been concerned for his well-being, and that seemed likely when George said: "I'll speak to the Captain after the service, Mr Yates. You'd better get along there yourself - there's few enough of his friends here, anyway. And then you'll go down to sickbay and get Dr Crozier to look at your arm..." His gruffness hid his concern for the young boy, and he frowned after him as Peter left. The midshipman was pale, with pain or distress pulling his brows together over his freckled nose. Probably just shocked by the battle, George thought, and the death of one of his fellows. Enough to make anyone look worried. But he could not rid himself of the notion that there was more.

Thompson would be able to join in only because the captain would be reading the service, and thus wouldn't need a sentry on the Cabin for those few minutes.

Mister Yates had come aft, and then seemed to change his mind and gone again. Seeing him brought to mind the fact that Thompson was likely to be in trouble for not standing on sentry when he should have been.

He'd been keeping guard on the lad as ordered, yes, but he should have been standing outside the middies' berth. And what was it the lad thought they'd been up to? He needed to have a word with him soon, if possible.

De Guarde followed silently, looking yerningly to the spot where the midshipmen and other officers would stand, before quickly scampering after Chase.

Peter stood next to Fletcher, his eyes fixed on the deck where the sailcloth bundles lay. He realized how easily he could have been one of them and looked forward to see if Samuels was there, and the cook, who had saved him. The Marine - he flickered a glance at the Marines who were forming a line, but could not recognize anyone. He turned his gaze back to the deck.

They were falling naturally into their divisions. Chase, Dyer, and the other foretopmen stood near the rail, their faces mostly expressionless. It was almost time. He spotted Mister Yates standing with the other midshipmen and wondered how the lad had made it through the battle. Somebody would've had to looking after him.

"Hold fast, lads," Chase muttered, sensing Dyer stiffen at the sight of De Guarde coming to stand with them.

De Guarde walked closer and turned, standing beside the sailors, trying to ignore the feeling of tension that came with his arrival. Rather than to worry himself about the look that Dyer was giving him, he looked ahead at the midshipmen, of which there were only three now. Yates, Chandos and Fletcher. Kinsella was still on the Frenchy and it was a question if he would come to join them.

He frowned, shifting on his bare feet and shuffeled a bit closer to the men in whose division he now was.

in a way it was probably good that the first real joining of the sailors de Guarde did was now, when everyone was concerned with more important things. Not that it made them any less uneasy, just less likely to act on it.

All they had to do was stand there and do nothing, he kept reminding himself, and they'd get along fine.

After the whole ordeal of disrating De Guarde, Bolitho had remained in his cabin. Though he kept up the pretence of resting, his mind was much too busy for him to get any decent rest. He wanted to see if everything had been put back to rights after the battle, on both ships. And he knew the crew would be gathering for the funeral fairly soon.

Before he changed into his dress coat, he took a moment to inspect the wound in his side. Crozier had done a wonderful job tending to him, though he could already see a fair amount of blood seeping into the bandage. Bolitho knew he would have to return to the sickbay, but not now. The fallen crewmembers had to be given their proper send-off first. Tugging on his coat, he went to the door and opened it.

He saw that Thompson was on sentry duty outside the cabin, and Bolitho nodded to him as he emerged.

"We'll be having the funeral now, Thompson," he said, "As I'll not be needing a sentry, you may go and join the crew."

The door behind him opened and Captain Bolitho stepped out, wearing his full uniform coat.

Thompson sprang to attention, as was only right, only for Bolitho to pause beside him. "We'll be having the funeral now, Thompson. As I'll not be needing a sentry, you may go and join the crew."

The Marine glanced sideways at the Captain, who looked a little haggard. Someone said he'd caught a sword-slash in the side, or something, so no wonder he looked as though he was in pain.

"Aye, aye, sir," Thompson said. "Thank you, sir." He saluted and headed for'rard to fall in with the other Marines. His temper had improved in the half-glass or so that he'd been on sentry, and he fell in between Branning and Allen with a sigh. At least De Guarde was standing in the right place, which was something.

He wondered how long it would be before the lad got into trouble as a seaman and ended up confined in irons with a Marine sentry. He hoped it wouldn't be him, when it happened.

After the Frenchman had struck, and the wounded had been taken to the sickbays, the prisoners taken to the hold and placed under guard, Edrington returned to the Terpsichore. There were dead, he knew, including one of the young midshipmen who had been at the Captain's dinner. And a list of wounded that included the Captain and the 2nd lieutenant. The First was in charge on the Victorieuse, and the third bustling about on the British ship. In his cabin, he stripped off his blood stained clothes. He would have liked to change into something clean, but the funeral service required that he appear in uniform, as a mark of respect. So - regretting the absence of Private Abernethy - he smartened himself up and went out on deck.

The crew were already gathering, the officers on the gangway, and he went to take his place among them.

Slowly, Bolitho walked over to where the rest of the officers had gathered for the funeral. All the dead were sewn up in their hammocks, ready to be given their proper burial at sea. He saw everyone look in his direction as he approached, and he nodded solemnly before beginning.

First he led the crew in reciting the Lord's Prayer, then he began to read off the list of the fallen men. As he neared the end, he paused to catch his breath for a moment, for he was still in pain and still exhausted.

"Jameson Donahue, Able Seaman. Robert Green, Marine Private." Another pause, though this one was due to sadness, not weariness. "Julian Dunnock, Midshipman."

Then Bolitho took a deep breath and finished the speech.

"We therefore commit their bodies to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the one to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, Amen."

[OOC: Green had no first name listed, so I hope no one minds that I gave him one.]

He saw the lines of marines gather on one side, the officers there in navy blue, and even the captain was at last approaching, though his gait showed he must've been in pain even as he held himself as stoically. The sailors were in most gathered as well, and the bodies lay , tucked and sewn in awaiting their departure into the depths of the sea.

He fidgeted in his spot and frowned, noticing a faimiliar face amongst the red, yet feeling that the man still was angry and this upset him too. He looked at the other sailors and felt to be the smallest there. A trait that was in part quite helpful when and if he'd have wished to 'disappear' amongst the crowd.

There too he spotted one of the guests that they shipped to the foreign lands, and the marks on his uniform spoke that he'd not solely been a man hiding below, but must have fought with the best of them. An unexpected thing for the young former middie.

And then the funeral's procession began. The captain spoke the names, and the boy as all of the crew listened in silence, as complete that one might have been able to hear a pin drop if not for the creaking of their ship.

The splash as each shrouded body hit the water was loud in the silence, though it was a silence broken by the sounds of a ship at sea.

One of those corpses was Green's, and the knowledge that he would never see the man's face again, laughing at some inane joke, or grumbling about the weather or the state of his trousers after Emily had paid a visit, brought a lump to his throat and a hint of dampness to his eyes.

At least... at least he'd been able to say his farewells. That was something, even if it wasn't much.

There was many a sober face on board now. Men who lost their friends, officers who lost their young gentlemen, sailors who had lost their messmates and marines their fellow men. Moistened eyes of some spoke clearly how dear they held those lost, and then there was the silence which showed such great respect to the departing dead.

It wasn't a pleasant thing to do, and on the other ship, the French would depart in a similar manner, sewn in their hammocks and splashing into the sea, to take them and bring them to their final resting place.