Friday morning with the Marines

Foley nodded. "All right. He should be back any time now. Set his desk to rights, boyo, an' I'll get the tea."

The desk was already almost cleaned off, fortunately. Foley grinned to himself as he stepped over the musket that was still propped in the cabin's doorway. It was getting to be less and less of a punishment detail for the drummer as the day wore on, he thought.

Oxley frowned. There wasn't much to sort out on the desk, that he could see, though there was a bit of a damp patch where Mister Cartwright's shaving bowl had slopped over a little, and he found a rag to mop it up with, before clearing it of everything else that didn't belong there. He stowed the things carefully in the officer's sea-chest and wondered what else he should do. He hoped Foley wasn't going to take too long making the Lieutenant's tea; he still felt as though he was trespassing without the older Marine around.

It took some time longer than usual to get the lieutenant's tea. Foley had to jostle Markham out of the way more than once, which stirred up less than pleasant glares and remarks from the wardroom steward. During his absence, Cartwright himself reappeared, already halfway out of his jacket before he'd made it into his cabin.

"Ah, Master Oxley," the officer greeted as he tossed his jacket carelessly in the general direction of his sea-chest. Next to be removed was his hat, though he took slightly more care setting that aside. "Surviving well enough, I trust?"

How on earth did the Lieutenant time it so that he came in while Foley was away?

He came to attention, less startled this time than he had been earlier, but still a little ill at ease. "Yes, sir," he said in answer to the Lieutenant's question, and wondered whether or not he should ask whether the officer would want him to wait table at dinner later. Probably he shouldn't, he decided; no good ever came of anyone opening their mouth to ask an officer a question like that.

"Mister Foley's just gettin' your tea, sir," he said instead, wondering what else the officer would require of him before the day was over.

"Ah." Cartwright nodded, unsurprised by the news. He sat at the tiny desk and rolled his sleeves back up to his elbows. For a couple minutes, he busied himself with setting up his writing implements, then he turned his attention back to the drummer boy.

"Ever stood in as a steward during officers' dinner before?"

(OOC - Flying visit only...)

Oh, damn. He felt his heart sink a little, but he was determined to do his best, no matter what - he'd promised that earlier.

"No, sir. But I'll do me best, sir, if you want me to do it."

And if it really didn't mean anything other than pouring wine, he thought he was capable of handling that without too much difficulty. He hoped he could, anyway.

Cartwright smiled to himself. He'd expected an answer like that.

"I'm surprised Foley didn't tell you," the lieutenant said. "Volunteers only for dinner steward duty. Unless you're Master Foley himself."

Oxley let out his breath in relief. "No, sir, I ain't him. I'm jus' me, sir. And... and I don't mind, if you wanted me to." Much, he added mentally, and wondered what else the Lieutenant had in mind for him to do before the day was over.

"I'll leave the choice to you," Cartwright said easily. The alternative to acting as dinner steward was less pleasant, but that was something the drummer would have to find out for himself, if he so chose.

Just how bad could it be? The alternative was probably going to be no better - officers were like that, making you choose and then telling you what the alternative was.

Though, if he did something wrong, he wouldn't just embarrass himself. He'd embarrass the Lieutenant, too, and he really didn't want that. He'd got off pretty lightly so far, anyway.

"I... I'll do it, sir," he said finally, hoping desperately that he'd made the right choice.

Good lad. Foley wasn't likely to be pleased, but Oxley had been present to take the choice and he had not.

"Very well," Cartwright said. "Foley will instruct you on the broader points, but it is not difficult."

Another smile came onto his face. His poor steward would not be pleased with the duty he'd just drawn, but... Markham would appreciate help cleaning the wardroom after dinner, he was sure.

Foley had said it was pretty simple, but Oxley was more concerned that the other officers would end up staring at him, or something, or he'd make a fool of himself somehow.

"Aye, aye, sir," he said, though the officer probably didn't need an answer.

"Gotchyer tea, sir," Foley said, balancing a cup and tin-pot as he came back into the cabin. Cartwright gave up wrestling with the knot in the strings that held his letters satchel closed, at least for the moment, and smiled gratefully.

"Thank you, Foley. You'll be pleased to know you have a respite from dinner duty. Master Oxley will be standing in for you. In return, you'll assist Markham in tidying up afterward."

Foley's grin changed quickly to an immediately-squashed expression of dismay. "Aye sir," the steward said and set the cup and tin-pot down on the desk.

Oxley directed an apologetic look and a half-shrug at Foley and made up his mind that, unless he was wanted for anything else, he'd help out. He hadn't meant for Foley to come off worst, after all, and it would be pretty unfair if he didn't at least make the offer.

Foley simply shrugged fractionally, already resigned to his alloted duty. He disliked Markham and was reasonably sure the wardroom steward's sentiment was the same.

"That'll be all for now, lads. I'll send for you if I need you," Cartwright said. And that was it. Foley knew this routine well. In two bells, it would be time to return.

"C'mon boyo. Back to the messdeck, we gots our kit needs lookin' after," the steward said to Oxley.

Oxley nodded and followed the older Marine out to the messdeck. "I... I'll help you, after, if you want, Mikey," he said, and sighed. "They never tell you what the choice is till you've made it, neither, officers don't."

And if they were to have the chance to look after their own stuff for a bit, Oxley could get on and pipeclay his crossbelt. It was starting to look a bit grubby. But then, it always looked a bit grubby, especially the bit where his drumsticks lived.

"If you want," the steward said. Then he grinned. "That's always the way, least with Mister Cartwright. All about choosin' your own fate, or so he says it."

He glanced across at the older Marine and gave a rueful shrug. "Sometimes I'd rather know the bad news first. Easier not to talk yourself into a hangman's noose - or as good as - if you know it's a choice 'tween that or summat else. Seems you can talk yourself into an awful lot of trouble with Mister Cartwright, an' without meanin' to, and all."

Foley nodded. "Oh aye, you sure can. Better to learn that early, with him. Hey, Vining, shift off, that's my box you're sittin' on!"

Vining looked up. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he said before shifting across to another sea-chest.

Oxley crossed to his own sea-chest for his crossbelt. "Anyone'd think the l'tenant wants folks to talk theirselves into trouble," he said, putting the lid down and straightening up, the crossbelt in his hand.

"It's me, all right," Foley said, opening his sea-chest once Vining had moved. He had some decent work to do on his kit before going back to his officer's cabin. It would start with his crossbelts, if only out of necessity.

Oxley's remark got him thinking and he didn't reply for a moment. "If he thinks you done somethin' wrong, that's so," he said slowly. "But he finds out who's done good that way, too. Guess it works out pretty even."

Oxley shrugged. "Dunno how that works. Seems to me folks are more likely to talk themselves into trouble than otherwise, though. I mean he's nice enough an' all, but I'd rather not know I'm goin' to end up talkin' meself into a world of trouble, that's all."

"Well..." Foley paused a moment in his work, frowning thoughtfully. "That's the best way to know what's goin' on aboard, isn't it? Listenin' to lads talkin'. Don't always have to be about trouble."

"Maybe. It just seems a strange sort of thing for an officer. Well, it does after havin' Mister Brandeson, anyways." He looked up from his crossbelt and shrugged. "Ain't met any officer quite like Mister Cartwright. I don't want to get on his bad side, I don't mind sayin' that."

Having moved over to use Everett's sea-chest as a perch, Vining scoffed. "Mister Brandeson weren't worth the dye in his coat. Better off rid of him, we is."

"Too true, that," Grattan agreed. "Ain't seen much from Mister Cartwright, but any officer'd be better than the last one."

Foley grinned to himself as he worked. His officer wasn't like others, that was sure. "I wouldn't recommend gettin' on his bad side neither, boyo. But I'd be amiss if I didn't say, you lot are in for some good'n'heavy work. Mister Cartwright believes in exercisin' his lads, at more'n just musket drill."