Friday morning with the Marines

"More'n musket drill?" Oxley looked up from examining his crossbelt. If Mister Cartwright's ideas of punishment duty were anything to go by, they were in for a very interesting time indeed, though he couldn't fathom what Foley meant. "He's got some strange ideas about punishment duty, I'll say that much," he said, and wondered what, precisely, a man would end up doing if he got on Mister Cartwright's bad side.

"He's got some strange ideas 'bout a lot of things," Foley agreed, "but they makes sense after seein' 'em work. Most times."

Grattan glanced at him, his expression sceptical. "What d'you mean, more'n musket drill?"

"Sword drill. Relays up an' down the shrouds. Marksmanship drills. That sorta thing," the steward explained. "Says it's good for keepin' lads quick on their feet."

"Relays up an' down the shrouds? You mean, like a skylarkin', sort of?" Oxley asked. All that didn't sound too bad anyway, which was something. He wondered how some of the Marines would respond to having to scramble about in the rigging, though. Not all of them were as agile as he was, after all. "Sounds interestin', anyway."

~~~

Thompson glanced up from where he was polishing his shoes. His ankle had settled down somewhat but only to a dull and insistent ache. Marksmanship drill and relays up and down the rigging sounded interesting, as the lad had said. 'Sword drill' probably meant with cutlasses, and that could be useful as well. After all, if you were stuck fighting below decks, a musket and bayonet were limited due to the headroom - or rather, the lack of it.

"Sounds a good officer," he said, thankful they seemed to have finally found themselves a proper officer, however strange his ideas might be.

"Not quite like a skylarkin'," Foley answered. "I only seen it a coupla times, but it's done with muskets slung 'cross your back and an extra cartridge box or two."

Grattan still looked sceptical but he said nothing else. Vining was listening in clear interest and it seemed that another Marine's attention had been caught as well.

"He is, sure," Foley added with a nod toward Thompson. "Long's lads give him a chance. Dunno why your last officer was so bad, but they ain't all rotten."

"The last one was drunk alla the time, that's why," Oxley said. "Left everythin' to Sar'nt Quinn, which ain't no good for anyone. Didn't matter whether folks was real good, or real bad, he took next to no int'rest in things. Was only happy if'n he had a glass o' summat strong to hand."

The others murmured in agreement. Things might be harder with a 'proper' officer, but they could also be easier in a lot of ways, too. And it wasn't as though Sergeant Quinn had allowed them to slack off, though he'd had a struggle at times to keep the detachment well-disciplined and smart.

Ah. Foley nodded, setting his crossbelt aside carefully. He had known officers like that before. They were a plague to their commands. "I'd bet his steward let him down," he muttered to himself. Then, shrugging, he glanced around at the others.

"Don't have to worry 'bout that with Mister Cartwright. It's a bad night if he has more'n two glasses."

"Bad night for him... or for us?" Oxley enquired, pausing in applying pipeclay to his crossbelt. The two choices were not mutually exclusive, of course, though a bad night for the Lieutenant would probably lead to a bad night for the Marines under his command

At his own mess table, Thompson shrugged one shoulder. Brandeson's steward had tried, but he didn't think that even the Archangel Gabriel could have kept the officer out of his brandy bottle.

"Bad night for him. He don't take his problems out on his lads, no matter what," Foley said. "But he ain't a stranger to broodin' if somethin's botherin' him."

"He don't?" This was sounding stranger and stranger, though it was the sort of strangeness Oxley thought he could get used to. The Marine officer on his previous ship had had a temper that meant everyone ended up walking on eggshells if he was upset about something.

Foley shook his head. "Nope. I asked him 'bout that once - had a Marine what had fallen asleep on watch and some Tars got past him over the main-chains - and he said weren't no good punishin' everybody just 'cause one lad mucked somethin' up. He's like a cartload of bricks if you're the one what mucked up, though. Says it ain't gentlemanly."

Mister Cartwright was sounding more and more like the sort of officer that some of the other Marines had spoken about, though Oxley had no real experience of anyone other than Brandeson and Lieutenant Shillingford, the Marine officer in his previous ship.

"Do folks mess up a lot with him bein' like that?" he asked curiously, though he'd already told the officer that he was going to do his best not to mess up. Somehow, there was something about Mister Cartwright that made you want to do your best, because you wanted him to think well of you. Oxley didn't understand why that was, though maybe it had something to do with the way he looked at you, and listened to you when you had something to say.

"Not's much you might think. He got a way of lettin' lads know he trusts 'em to do things right, without ridin' 'em hard." Foley shrugged. "Already got to that with you, din't he?"

"Mhmm," Oxley said. It was a strange though, in a way, to know that the officer had faith in you to not mess up. "Never known an officer like it afore, I ain't. It's strange, like. Nice, but... strange."

Sure it was strange. But it also worked well. Foley picked up his crossbelt again and fished out a rag from his sea-chest. "There's a lot he does that seems strange. Even I wonder 'bout his ideas sometimes."

Then he grinned. "But I can tell you lot that there'll be a parade by tomorrow evenin', if I knows him, an' he'll tell every lad what he expects, an' what he's got planned for the detachment."

There was a pause at Foley's words before everyone turned to look at bits of kit in varying degrees of panic.

Oxley himself turned back to applying pipeclay to his crossbelt, working carefully. "He... he ain't likely to spring any nasty surprises, though, is he?" he asked eventually, looking up again.

"Nasty? Nope. Well. I know mosta his tricks, so they're no surprise. Can't say you lads'll think they're too great at first." Foley grinned at the expressions of the Marines around him. They had no idea what he meant,. but they would soon enough.

It probably just boiled down to something like the officer was going to keep them busy. So long as he didn't end up poking his nose in where it wasn't wanted, and left the men alone when they were off-duty and didn't pick holes in everything, it would all work out. Though it would probably take some getting used to after the freedom they'd had under Brandeson, who'd spent most of his time drunk in his cabin and hadn't really cared what they got up to.

"It'll be all right, though, won't it? I mean, he.. he ain't the sort that'll flog folks if things ain't just so?" Vining asked, causing Oxley to duck his head a bit to hide a smile.

Grinning, Foley worked on the crossbelt plate with the rag. "He might be. Guess you lads'll have to find out for yerselves."

There was a murmur of disappointment from all sides and Thompson grinned. Young Oxley didn't look too run off his feet, and actually had some time to look to his own kit. Vining looked the most worried, which was only right, considering the way he treated his things.

"Y'know," he said, looking up from his sewing. "You'm his steward, an' you know him better'n anyone else aboard this here ship. D'you reckon we've got anythin' to worry about, with him?"

His respsonse had mostly gotten the reaction he'd expected. So his initial thoughts about the detachment were not terribly off-the-mark.

"Not unless you really make him mad," Foley answered. "Other than that, I'll let you lads figure things out."

Thompson nodded thoughtfully. From what Thompson had seen - or been able to work out - he didn't seem like a bad sort of officer. He'd come for'ard the other day and had a bit of a look around, but hadn't shouted or got angry, even though they hadn't expected an inspection and prepared for one. He'd noticed Thompson's injured ankle and told him to sit down rather than have him standing there with one foot off the deck, which a lot of officers wouldn't have bothered about.

And he'd put Oxley on punishment duty earlier this morning, yet it didn't appear to be too arduous, and the lad could have found himself kissing the gunner's daughter, or worse with a harsh officer.

Added to all that was the fact that he seemed t have some... strange ideas about things. That could be interesting, and would certainly break the monotony of endless rounds of sentry-duty.

He wondered how much it would take to make him mad, and what standards he expected of his men.

"You ever known him to get real mad, then?" he asked, wondering what sort of temper he had, and how it showed itself.

"Couple times. He came close to throwing a Tar overboard once, for tryin' to steal from a Marine. Also did have a lad flogged for stealin'." Foley shrugged. "Takes a lot to get him real mad."

Stealing would get anyone mad. Thompson grinned. They would probably find it hard to adjust to having an officer who actually gave a tuppenny damn and didn't just pass all responsibility over to Sergeant Quinn. He wondered just how much of an interest Mister Cartwright was going to take in them, though. It did sound as though he backed his men up over the Tars, though, which could be good. Brandeson wouldn't have cared one way or the other.

"Comes up with some interestin' ideas for punishment detail, seems to me," Grattan said, with a pointed look at Oxley, who flushed crimson.

Foley studied the shine on the crossbelt plate for a moment, giving himself a little time to think about that.

"He does, at that. Minor first offences usually get somethin' interestin' like that, though."

"Beats gettin' sent to the gratin', I'll say that," Thompson said, sending Oxley a sympathetic look that the lad didn't see, and adding to his mental list of Mister Cartwright's characteristics the fact that he seemed to believe in second chances. "What's a major first offence get, then?" he asked, after a pause during which everyone in the Marines' messdeck concentrated on whatever item of kit he was holding. The question was begging to be asked, it seemed, but nobody quite dared to voice it.