Sunny morning

"We could... could say they were stolen' from me n' Chase's chest. ...not off of me." He bit his lip. "Couldn't we? Jus' say they were taken from there.. n' I wear me second pair.. n'..." He hugged the coat tighter around him, his pace quickening.

"They'll laugh if they'um find out how you found me. N' that man.. remember. t' one who insulted me. He'd be rubbin' it in me face, like there was no tomorrow..."He chewed at his lip. Well, atleast he confirmed that it wasn't the said sailor. Not directly perhaps, but if the man wasn't supposed to know, he couldn't have done it.

Dyer frowned. Even with his own dislike for De Guarde, he was unnerved by the boy's apparent fear. "Mebbe we could," he said grudgingly. For all the good it would do, they certainly could.

"Seward won't say a bleedin' word." Of that, Dyer was dead sure. "It weren't one'a our lads what done this, aye?"

If it was, Chase would have their heads pickled for being so stupid.

"No.." He shook his head. "Wasn' ours." He halted and made a turn. They were close to Chase's chest, which filled the boy with joy. All went smooth so far. No body below. What helped Chase search for him better, helped him stay out of view.

"We'um say that.. then. " He nodded. "Keep to t' story." He felt tired and cold, and glad that Dyer wasn't the kind who would've shouted - lookie wot' I found - but rather handed him his coat. It was strange, as he'd expected it the other way around. After all, he was a sailor. Sailors were bad.

"Chase didn' even notice eh?" He murmured glancing across the narrower space.

It wasn't a Tar. Dyer set his jaw, his hands tightening into fists. That meant it was a damned Marine responsible.

"Chase went right belowdecks, y'know, t'search the hold. Most likely place t'stash a body. More loyal fella there ain't, that 'un." Dyer looked aft, toward the Marines' messdeck. Those interfering bastards.

"Git dressed an' turn out wi' the other lads," Dyer said gruffly, rising up form his crouch. "Leave me coat in Cob's sea-chest too."

With that, he moved away, heading quickly toward the companion ladder leading down into the hold.

"Aye." To stash a body? A chill ran down the boy's spine as he watched Dyer leave.

Quickly he began to dress. Slops came up and then his shirt and a cloth that served as much a sailor as it did another. He hugged his shoulders tightly and winced. He had to tell Dyer to forget about it. If he accused the marine, that lad could spread word... though he probably wouldn't dare. Not with him being a sailor and perhaps some sailor actually thinking it a competition.. between the Tars and the lobsters.

He folded the coat neater than he had done even his middie's clothes. He rubbed his eyes. Prank. Bloody prank. Look who'll be laughing when a pair of drum sticks goes missing! And a drum is found filled up with rats. Look who'll be laughing then!

Well, 'tleast he was in his best clothes now, cleanest too. He closed the chest carefully and looked in the direction of the marine's mess. He'd talk to Dyer later. And to Thompson. And then...

... Bloody Oxley. And of all places where he had hit him! A nasty little trick! Deciding it was no time that he would dwell about his plans nor mysery he headed for the deck and fell into the line with the other sailors of his mess.

Half-way through as swift a search of the hold as they could manage, Chase heard somebody call out from behind them. He and Robbins turned back at once, only fumbling here and there as the lantern's feeble light bobbed around. It was Chicken Dyer looking for them, looking unusually serious.

"Found De Guarde. Them Marines jumped him las' night," was Dyer's curt report. "He's dressed agin an' back topside, stan'in' in division. We better git up there too."

The three seamen bounded up the companion ladder, taking care to extinguish the lantern and leave it just out of sight on the messdeck. Chase was fighting angry at Dyer's news, but he couldn't do anything more than grumble. For the seamen to hand out a thumping to another of their number was how things went; but if a Marine dared to try the same, the seamen were quick to make their displeasure known.

"Shoulda called out," Chase hissed to De Guarde, once the topman was back on the weather deck. Watts had noticed the three stragglers and bawled at them for being late, but his attention moved swiftly on.

"On what grounds?" The boy responded in whisper, no less eager to have Watts at his throat. He stood straighter, looking on ahead. Chase was late, and confirmed Dyer's story coming along side with the man. It wasn't like Chase to be late after all.

"..my hammock.."He then whispered in alarm, tilting his head again to the taller Jack Tar. "'s still down below!" Unless someone had done and got it ready for him. The latter of which he doubted.

"T'git saved sooner," Chase retorted. He was glad that Dyer had acted sensibly for once and helped the boy, at least, but honestly! It wouldn't have been necessary if De Guarde had had any pluck.

"Yer hammock's been took care of," Robbins added.

Dyer grunted and said, "We'll see 'bout them bullocks later too."

He glanced at Chase:" ...Saved from what?" He looked at Dyer. So he DID tell him.

"Dyer..we'um goin' t' talk later .. 'bout that." It felt strange to have others upset about something that happened to him. Of course, it was that kind of competition. Lobsers had no right to what the sailors did. It would be the same the other way around probably.

His hammock was taken care of, which had the boy nod glad of the news. He lifted his chin, glancing along the line. Breakfast, then fetching the hidden bottle and filling it up, with what ration he had.

"From wherever them Marines left you," was Chase's answer. He still couldn't believe that there Marines stupid enough to have a go against any of the Tars, even one as poorly-regarded as De Guarde.

"What's t'talk 'bout?" Dyer asked. "Marines oughta know better than t'shove us lads around, but seems they don't. So we'll teach 'em."

His brother had never been able to keep quiet when he'd managed a successful prank and this time was no different. After only a token resistance, Andrew had told him everything. Thomas had to admit, he was impressed with his brother's quick, clever thinking, but the reality that he had stolen clothes off a seaman was dangerous.

"They'll flog you fer that, y'know," Thomas said and wasn't surprised when Andrew only shrugged.

"Who'll b'lieve De Guarde? Even them Tars think 'e's worthless."

Thomas shook his head. "If ya've tol' me, yer gonna tell summody else. Can't ever keep yer gob shut. Who else knows?"

"Nobody. Well. Oxley mighta seen me sneakin' back after but I did go t'the 'ead too. Tha's on'y natch'ral, innit?"

"That's ter talk about firs'." Though the marine did insult him. He could and should pay for it. The boy was tempted by the thought. Ye what would Thompson say? He frowned. And what would he say about Oxley anyhow.

"I wasn' ..conscious, Chase. ..'s only I woke when 'twas already light." He said instead. Debating the conversation they would have to have, first thing on his agenda.

Chase waited until the divisions had been dismissed before answering. It was easier to talk while going about their work anyway.

"What was ya doin' topside anyways?"

"I was...." He looked at Chase, following the group with which he worked. He had known them by name and face by now, and some he'd known by their skills even some likes and dislikes.

"...'needed some fresh air." Which was in part true. He went to have his time alone to play being a midshipman in a near desperate way to 'keep his honour'. And to drink, but that wasn't exactly what Chase needed to know. "So I went there. ..Couldn't have that below. Wot' is... Cob, Wot' is Chicken plannin'?"

"Hm," Chase said, noncommittally. He could understand the need for brisk sea air, but venturing topside alone - at night, no less - when he knew there were men aboard that hated him enough to try throwing him overboard... well, there was no helping the boy, apparently.

Dyer said, "I'm plannin' some good'n proper get-back, s'what I'm plannin'. Marines tend they own bi'ness, an' we tends ours. There's no crossin' lines like what they done."

"..Dyer. Don't get at all marines jus' fer.. " He shook his head waving his hand as if the motion would explain what he meant. " ..Dyer. I .."He hadn't decided about it yet. Did he want to frame a marine, report him to an officer. If he was first reporting, then Oxley's defense would be weaker. ..Though the officers wouldn't believe him. HE was De Guarde. And anybody else was more credible obviously.

Well, he hoped the marines would see the bruise on the marine. Show them that he wasn't all that weak.

"..Ain't us havin' breakfast now?" He asked, absentmindedly , not much thinking of what he asked after all.

Someone had rescued de Guarde's clothes with the minimum of fuss while the newly-awakened watch were being checked to make sure everyone was present.

It had been fun seeing the things flying, but it was not something Oxley was anxious to repeat any time soon, and it would get traced back to him soon enough anyway. de Guarde hadn't seen Andrew Shepherd come up, after all, and if asked, Oxley could say, perfectly truthfully, that it had been his idea.

And now the Marines were parading for drill; the new start to their day. He just hoped he could avoid de Guarde till later. He really ought to apologise, but after the fight last night, he had no real hopes that an apology would be accepted by the other lad. He'd probably try to pay Oxley back for both the fight and the prank, anyway.

Thompson had been puzzled by the sudden burst of laughter he'd heard from topside, and wondered what was going on. He'd have to collar Andrew Shepherd later and see if he knew anything about it - it sounded like the sort of thing that the lad would have been at the bottom of.

He pulled his new shirt out of his sea-chest. It was nearly finished now; it wasn't as though he'd been working on it furiously. His mother had been able to do two in a day, though he had no idea how.

He had a sudden idea and pulled his other shirt out as well. It was more worn - it was quite thin over the shoulders, where his crossbelts sat - but there was plenty of decent fabric in it. More than enough for him to be able to cut it down... He'd have to see whether they were going to have a make-and-mend afternoon on Sunday, after Church and Divisions.

With a bit time spent, and no closer to his decision on what he was to do about the events, the boy was again dressed in the old pair of slops, with his cleaner attire stashed safely in the shared chest. He was shaken about the manner he had awakened. Luck be best, that Dyer was the one who found him, and not that other sailor. What was his name again? Well, the one who had all the mind to have him thrown over board.

He wondered if the man had done it the first time, or if he just carried the foulest of tempers. He hadn't seen Oxley, not ever since last night. Though what mattered more to him - once he had an opportunity - was to see, where Oxley stashed things. He looked up. What were the sailors up to? Dyer seemed intend earlier, and that in part worried him too.

[OOC: Inserted, because the officer was away.]

The slops having been brought down and aloft from the halliards on closer inspection had revealed little signs of overship save the half-embroidered name of 'De Gu-' embroidered in the waistband of the trousers.

De Guarde had appeared on deck fully clothed at Divisions, yet with a nice fat black eye adorning his pale and pinched face. The lieutenant stiffened.

"How did you acquire that, De Guarde?" he enquired coldly.

De Guarde made a quick sharp salute, when he was addressed. The tone stiffled any hope he had that he were to be believed. It was cold. With a sinking heart, and torn still between telling the truth or letting it drop. Having revenge through an officer or through personal means.

He hadn't answered right away. Instead he stood, with his lips parted, set in a word that did not come.

".. I.." He began, then turned quiet. Put blame, point a finger, tell the truth? Or say you were clumsy and fell? Well, if he said he got into a fight, he too would be in trouble, and if he would say he had gotten struck by the marine without any provocation he would be found to lie. And then perhaps all of the blame was solely on him.

".....fell." He answered.

The Marines were parading for drill. Cartwright watched them from near the quarterdeck stairs, observing with interest how the men moved to their places. It was plain that many of them had their preferences when it came to where they stood. Habit was a powerful thing.

One of the younger Marines, Cartwright noticed, was sporting bruises on his face. The lieutenant frowned. Such markings always meant only one thing. That any of his Marines should find reasons to fight annoyed him. He looked toward Corporal Johnson before deciding that to summon the man was to invite undue trouble.

"You there," Cartwright said, choosing to approach the bruised Marine himself. "Fall out and come here."

Oh.... crap. Now he was for it.

Drat that de Guarde for getting his eye - it was a sure sign he'd been fighting, and that could only be trouble.

He fell out as ordered and marched over to the officer, standing to attention. "Sir?"

"You fell," Leat repeated flatly. No fall at sea could ever produce such a precise bruise as that - Leat had had his own experiences with such bruises - and coupled with the recovered slops it did not make for a believable story. "And what, pray did you fall into?"

Cartwright waited until the young Marine came to a halt in front of him before looking more closely at him. Somebody had knocked him around fiercely. He waited a beat, knowing what the Marine would blame as the cause of his injury.

"Where did you fall, Marine?"