Off-watch with the Marines

Thompson watched as Branning held his piece of bread to the cat.

"That's the way to her heart, sure 'nough," he said. "Though mind you don't feed her so much she decides she don't like huntin' rats any more."

"Dunno 'bout that," Branning replied. "I ain't knowed a cat wot stopped likin' to hunt rats."

"Mebbe you'm right," Thompson said, pausing in rubbing the cat's belly to give her the chance to sniff at the offering and decide whether to accept it or not. "Rats, mice or birds, cats do like their huntin', for sure."

Emily sniffed at the mup of bread with interest. It was certainly unusual, and carried the scent of several other interesting things that had been in Branning's seachest; but on the whole whilst she could stand biscuit, bread was not desirable. She had learnt from experience that if she ate that she got a terrible tummy ache, and so once her curiosity had been satisfied she turned her attention back to enjoying the fussing of the first Marine again.

Thompson shrugged. "Mebbe not, then. Don't suppose you've got any biscuit hidden away? She might like that a bit better."

He scratched behind her ears, and wondered if he could liberate a piece of spun-yarn for next time she deigned to visit them. Cats always liked playing with bits of string, after all.

Or maybe Miss Emily wasn't in the mood for bread. Branning shrugged when the cat ignored the treat and popped the bread into his own mouth without a second thought.

"Pity," he said, reaching out again to scratch the feline's ears. "Got that from one of the Tars wot'd gone ashore. Don't think I got any biscuit, neither."

"What about a bit of spun-yarn?" Thompson asked, voicing his earlier thought. "Cats like chasin' around a bit of string, though I dunno for why." Emily looked blissed out, though, draping herself over his lap with sheer abandon as he rubbed her tummy.

"Mebbe it's like trainin' fer chasin' rats?" Branning offered, wondering if he had some bits of yarn tucked away somewhere. There was a good chance of there being some in his sea-chest, though he couldn't think of precisely where, as filled with assorted things as his sea-chest was.

"Mebbe. S'pose a bit o' string looks summat like a rat's tail." He grinned at the cat on his lap. "We'll have to find a bit o' string for next time you come a-vistin' us. Would you like that, Miss?"

"I'm sure she would. An' if we find one, she might come back t' us even sooner. Then we can give her some proper trainin', if that's what it is," Allen said, then added, "We sure like havin' you stop by, miss."

"Shame you've adopted Mister Leat, Miss," Thompson said, running his hand over her fur. "We'd like you to be the Marines' cat." He grinned. "Well, some of us would. Though I dunno what Corp'ral Johnson'd make of it all."

"Don't think th' Corp'ral would take t' her th' way we do. Can't see him pettin' her an' playin' wit' her an' all."

Allen contemplated that idea for a moment, trying to picture Johnson petting Emily. Then he gave up, realising it was much too unbelievable to even imagine it.

Branning was nodding his unspoken agreement, having filled his cheeks with another hunk of the soft bread from his bundle. He couldn't imagine Johnson taking well to the cat either.

"Brea'?" He asked, offering what was left of the loaf to the other two Marines.

"Sure you don't mind?" Thompson asked, pulling a chunk off anyway, trying not to dislodge the cat. He wasn't one to turn down the chance of some soft tommy, even if the cat had strange ideas about the stuff.

Allen glanced at the proffered bread, then he reached over and tore off a piece for himself.

"Thanks mate. I 'preciate that," he said, trying not to think about where the bread may have come from and how long Branning had been keeping it.

"Notta trouble," Branning replied, looking pleased. "Best ate while it's fresh, anyhow."

"True enough. It don't last forever at sea, arter all." He shifted a little. Why was it that sprains just ached, until you tried standing, and then it screamed at you?

Rubbish. Johnson stomped away from the wardroom, his face dark, just having been dismissed by Lieutenant Cartwright. Absolute rubbish! The lieutenant was a soft-heart, as plainly evidenced by the lecture he'd just given to Johnson. Such lax attitudes with regard to discipline and good order never lead to good things.

"Smarmy bastard," the corporal grumbled to himself, forcing himself to ignore the small cluster of Marines on the other side of the messdeck. Cartwright had bade him to mind his temper, damn his eyes. No good would come of that, Johnson knew. How was he supposed to even begin to manage that, when the Marines loved to be slack if permitted?

Rubbish!

Sounded like someone was in a bad mood, from the sounds coming from across the berthdeck. Thompson cautiously turned his head. Corporal Johnson. He hadn't thought it would be anyone else.

"Better watch out, lads," he said, turning back and indicating with a thumb. "Don't think the new Lieutenant's made him very happy, somehow."

Allen nodded quickly. It was more than apparent that Johnson was angry. That new lieutenant must have told him off, and now he would most likely take out his frustrations on the rest of them.

"Well that's jus' great," he muttered.

Unlike his mates, Branning merely shrugged at Corporal Johnson's return and apparent foul mood. He was rarely bothered by the corporal's temper.

"Least he ain't said nothin' yet," he observed. "That's summat."

"True 'nough," Thompson said. "Though you'd best go down, Miss." He regretfully put the cat down before digging in his trouser pocket. He came up with another piece of hardtack and offered it to her.

If Corporal Johnson came over here to have a word with them, Thompson didn't want to get in trouble for playing with the cat, instead of doing something useful. And seeing as he was on light duties, he was going to get a lot more attention from the Corporal anyway, probably.

Oxley wandered aft towards the Marines' berthdeck, careful not to spill the water in his mug. He saw Johnson stomp for'rard from the wardroom and frowned at the group of Marines sitting down across the deck from him.

"What's eatin' the Corp'ral?" he asked, putting his mug down and scooping up Miss Emily, who Thompson had just put down on the deck. "Sorry to hear 'bout your foot, mate," he said to the older man, running a hand over Emily's soft fur.

"Meeuw!"

Emily made a small noise of protest as she was lifted up so suddenly after being put down and manhandled to be cuddled against someone's chest.

"Oh, I'm sorry, miss." He loosened his hold enough to let her comfortable. "Didn't mean to startle you." He rubbed a finger gently over her head.