Friday morning with the Marines

"Depends on the Marine. But..." Foley glanced down at the rag in his hand, then looked around at the expectant faces around him. He knew what they didn't want to hear but he had no good answer to that question.

He sighed. "Most times, it's the gratin'."

It seemed that even the best officers hadn't come up with anything to replace the cat. Thompson glanced at Oxley and saw the lad catch his lip between his teeth as he looked down at the crossbelt in his hands.

"Seems to me, lads, that we hadn't ought to get in any sort o' trouble, then," he said, lightly, looking up. That would be easier said than done, especially where Shriver was concerned, but at least it sounded as though Mister Cartwright was going to tell them what he expected, rather than making them guess at it.

The others looked grim, which was only to be expected.

"Won't be a problem for mosta us," Ware grumbled, casting a pointed glance at Shriver's hammock. There were nods from around the messdeck.

They were mostly good sorts, the other Marines. Oxley glanced over towards where Shriver slung his hammock and hunkered down in his seat a little. He'd already shifted his hammock after a particularly painful run-in with the big Marine's fist. If there was going to be any trouble, Shriver would probably be at the bottom of it. And if the grating was going to get rigged for any Marine, chances were it'd be him getting scratched by the cat.

"Does he get the gratin' rigged very often, though?" Mallory wanted to know.

That he could answer without feeling guilty. "Not often, but our last ship was dead quiet. Was hardly a rowdy lad in the lot by time we left."

That was encouraging... wasn't it? It wasn't as though the Marines on Terpsy were exactly rowdy themselves, after all. Oxley sat quiet, letting the older men question Foley as they would. He thought Mister Cartwright was decent enough, though he didn't want to find out from experience what happened if folks pushed him too far or let him down.

"D'you reckon we've got anythin' to worry about?" Mallory asked. "Y'know, anythin' special he likes to pull lads up over or anythin' like that?"

"He's real big on lads bein' well-drilled. Keepin' lads fit an' like. Most times, if you do your best, he don't give no trouble." Foley rubbed at his crossbelt plate for another moment before setting the rag down. "He don't tolerate insubordination, though. Backtalkin' or not makin' proper obediences. Ignorin' orders is the surest way to get him wound up."

He looked over toward Shriver's hammock as if to emphasise his point. Even he had heard about the big Marine's temper.

"Dunno anyone who wouldn't salute. Even that great lummox Shriver ain't so stupid as to sail as close to the wind as all that," Mallory said, and there was a general murmur of agreement from the others. Anyone who didn't salute deserved what they got. "Can't say the same for him backtalkin' though. Not when he's riled up and all."

"I bloody heared that," Shriver called out grumpily. Foley shook his head.

"For his own sake, he better be mindful how he acts. Riled up or not."

Privately, Oxley thought that a dozen lashes wouldn't make any difference to Shriver. The man was big enough that he probably wouldn't even notice the lash. He hoped the man would behave, though; he hated having to watch a flogging.

"Hope he heared that, an' all," Grattan muttered, looking down at his crossbelt.

Vining made a face. "Shriver's one you don't want riled up at you. Better to let him be."

"Good luck t'him doin' somethin' an' gettin' away with it," Ware countered. "I dunno about you lads, but I'll put a month's pay down that Mister Cartwright won't play no games."

Some heads were bobbing in agreement to that. Across the aisle, Foley grinned to himself. They were catching on quick.

"Reckon he might've met his match in Mister Cartwright," Oxley said, grinning. "Hope so, anyhow. Knockin' me inta the damn mast like he done that time, when there weren't no call for it." He rubbed his shoulder, remembering the incident. He'd sought, and received, permission to shift his hammock across the berth after that.

Foley nodded as he examined the shine of his crossbelt plate. "He'll sure know it, he tries goin' 'gainst the 'Tenant," he said mildly. "Just let him go pushin' lads around like that."

"I wish the 'Tenant had bin here when Shriver done that, then," Oxley said, shifting his crossbelt to pipeclay another section of it. "Might've thought twice then. Though I doubt it. Don't think he think twice 'bout anythin' much."

"He don't even think once, most times," Vining said.

"That's true enough. Allus did act first. Silly goat." He rubbed his shoulder again.

Shriver rolled over again in his hammock. "Who's ya callin' a goat, then?" The big Marine demanded, his voice slightly thick from sleep.

Both Vining and Ware bit down on their tongues to stifle chuckles.

Oxley shrugged and said nothing.

"Clemmie, the ship's bloody goat, that's who," Thompson said, looking up from his sewing again. "Who d'you think?"

"Hard to be sure wi' you lot," Shriver grumbled, glowering at them.

Ware grinned. "Mebbe so. We might set the ol' girl to chewin' on yer fingers while yer sleepin' some time!"

"Could get her to eat your jacket, only I reckon it might make her sick," Thompson said, looking at his sewing, and sighed. It wasn't as easy as it appeared; it never was as easy as it seemed, after all.

"No more sick than chewin' on his fingers would," Everett remarked, joining them. "Prolly tastes like rotten meat, I'll wager. It'd match his temper - sure even ol' Cross-eyes ain't so bad."

Shriver snarled a curse. There was a thump as he rolled out of his hammock. "Ya damned - "

"Now you done it," Vining moaned. "Can't you ever shut up, Ev?"

Thompson dropped his sewing. "Watch it, you lot! There'll be trouble if you ain't careful!"

Both Ware and Vining got up and shoved Everett toward the angry Shriver. Everything had been peaceful until he had shown up. "He started it!" Ware said flatly.

"Oi! C'mon lads - hey!" Everett ducked away from Shriver and tried to run toward the aft ladder.

Shriver lunged for his coat-tail. "Y'little rat!"

Somebody cheered when Everett's flight was cut jerkily short. Even with Shriver involved, the prospect of a fight was always worth noticing.

"Hey, lads, easy now!" Thompson said, though he was as excited as any of them.

Oxley merely grabbed his things and got out of the way. He was not going to run the risk of another meeting with Shriver's fist any time soon.

"Gerroffame!" Everett cried, struggling vainly to wriggle out of his coat. Shriver was not about to let him get away and grabbed the slighter Marine by the collar.

"Rotten meat, eh?"

There was a growing audience of amused, curious Marines. Shriver was widely disliked, but many of them thought it was about time that Everett got a little thumping. It might help keep him from running his gob so much.

Foley casually wiped off his crossbelt plate one last time and ignored the ruckus. It wouldn't last too much longer.