Friday morning with the Marines

He gave the final button a last quick rub and looked up. "Jus' done," he said, folding the rag and putting it and the tin of brick-dust to one side before scrambling to his feet, being careful not to let the jacket anywhere near the floor. "I... I hope it's all right, like," he said as he held it out for Foley to inspect his work.

Hum. Foley looked over the lad's work with a critical eye, noting how each button had been given a high polish. With a nod, he handed the jacket back. "Nicely done, boyo. Now on to brushing. Here," the steward retrieved a bristle-brush from the small box near his foot. "Hold the jacket up a bit, I'll show you how it's s'posed to git brushed."

Oxley did as he was told, holding the coat up and keeping an eye on Foley. "Is it all right like that?" he asked. He was starting to relax a bit now; this wasn't as bad as he'd thought it was going to be, although he had no doubt that between Cartwright and Foley, he would be kept busy till supper-time, if not later.

"That's good," Foley told him, giving the brush's bristles a good swipe with the opened palm of his hand. "Ah good. Still soft, them. Watch this," he added, and worked the brush over the red wool, starting at the shoulders.

"His facin's don't need any touchin' up, except maybe to wipe off some dirt," Foley went on as he worked. "Bit tricky gettin' round the seams on the shoulders and cuffs, though. Always brush down, straight-like. Here now, you try." And he held the brush out to Oxley.

He frowned. How was he supposed to hold the coat and brush it, at the same time? He wasn't as big as Foley, after all. Not yet, anyway.

He finally lay it over his bandaged arm and used his other hand to brush, though he'd have to put the brush down to turn it over so that he could get to the other side.

"Do you... do you like bein' Mister Cartwright's steward? I mean, apart from the sugar-candy." Anyone would like it, probably, if there was sugar-candy involved.

Clever lad, Foley thought as he dug back into Cartwright's sea-chest. The man's working uniform needed a good washing, and cleaning up afterward.

"Aye, it's good enough work," he answered. "Hard sometimes balancin' it out 'tween me own duties an' takin' care of Mister Cartwright's errands. Git plenny of time ashore, though!"

With a grin, he nodded at the jacket Oxley had precariously balanced over his arm in order to brush it. "Try layin' it over his hammock, boyo. I'll be back in a jiff, gotta draw up some water fer washin'."

Laying it over the officer's cot would make things a lot easier, and Oxley put the brush down before following Foley's instructions. That was much easier, he decided, though as Foley stepped out, he felt a little more ill at ease. What if Mister George or Mister Bush stuck their heads in and found him here?

You got permish'n t'be here, he thought. And they ain't goin' to do that anyway. Don't be so daft.

He worked methodically, brushing down the back, then each sleeve, before turning it over to do the front.

Cartwright decided that he was quite pleased with the Marines' performance at musket drill. They had maintained their skills handsomely under Sergeant Quinn's guidance. Their previous officer, to all accounts, had been no better than a wine bottle dressed up in a Marine's coat. It was not generally in Cartwright's nature to think ill of a fellow officer, but nothing he had heard gave that man a good report.

Once the men had been dismissed from drill, Cartwright headed below. He could use a fresh shirt and perhaps half a glass of brandy if there were any other officers in the wardroom to share a drink with. Otherwise, he thought he might look over the watch bills again.

"Ah, Master Oxley," the lieutenant said as he entered his cabin. He'd nearly forgotten that he'd sentenced the drummer to steward-assistance duty. "A fresh shirt, if you please. How has Foley been treating you?"

"Ah!" The sound of Mister Cartwright's voice behind made him jump, and he nearly dropped the clothes brush, spinning round to come to attention. What had he been asked? Oh.

"F.. fine, thank you, sir." He bit his lip and dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir, I dunno where he keeps your shirts. Though he'll be back soon, sir."

He really hadn't expected the officer to come below any time soon, and he was sure the man could hear his heart pounding from across the cabin.

"Carry on, Oxley," Cartwright told him, hiding a grin. He was already unbuttoning his jacket and peeling it off. Goodness but that was a relief. "Most of my rig stays in the sea-chest there, except for my coats. Foley hangs them up, most of the time."

He fished a neatly folded shirt from the sea-chest and shook it out carefully. "Gone to fetch washing water, I expect," he added, not minding that Oxley seemed too startled to react to his initial request. There was only so much Foley would have been able to tell him up to now. Cartwright peeled off his soaked shirt and tossed it in the general direction of his sea-chest. Then, after looking around futilely for a towel, he glanced at Oxley.

"Might I trouble you for that old shirt there, Oxley? The one just behind you."

Oxley looked around and picked up the shirt indicated but paused before passing it over. "He was jus' darnin' this'n, sir," he said hesitantly.

Being this close to an officer for more than a few moments was making him nervous - and it would be a fine thing if Mister Cartwright got a needle in him because Oxley hadn't said anything.

A brief glance at the shirt revealed that to be the truth. "So he was," Cartwright agreed, carefully patting the worn shirt for a forgotten needle. When he was satisfied there wasn't one, he used the shirt to pat his sweat-dampened torso dry.

"I would be remiss if I didn't ask for your thoughts about this unusual form of punishment," he asked after deeming himself sufficiently clean. Ordinarily, Foley would have everything ready to help him shave, but Cartwright was willing to attempt the tasks himself. "Pass that basin, would you? Mind you don't tip it, it's got water in it."

"It beats doin' extra drill, sir," Oxley said, picking up the basin carefully to pass it over. "Mik... Mister Foley says you've done it afore, when he... done his side in."

It also meant that he was kept apart from the others, and the other wardroom officers knew where he was, which he didn't appreciate much, but he didn't think he could say that. "There's a lot to do, sir, an' it ain't just busy-work, neither."

He felt awkward standing there, but he'd feel more awkward if he were to turn his full attention back to the officer's coat. He hated coming under the scrutiny of an officer like this. Any officer was bad, but his own was ten times worse. And that was part of it too, he knew it was.

Ah, yes. Cartwright nodded as he remembered that. He accepted the basin and placed it on the tiny table next to him. "Yes, though I'm sure Mister Foley hasn't imparted the entire story. It's a good deal more interesting when heard in full."

That was only putting it mildly, he thought with a trace of amusement. Foley had been caught trying to use a bent marlin-spike and bit of handmade netting to fish from one of the gunports. The gunner's mate who'd caught him had tried stealing the couple of fish Foley had already managed to catch, which had sparked off a fight. The injury to Foley's side had been caused by that marlin-spike, when he'd fallen onto the same side as the pocket he'd hidden the marlin-spike in.

"There is a lot to do," he went on, picking up his shaving razor. "More, perhaps, than most Marines' regular duties entail. There are rarely willing volunteers for this sort of work."

The light note had disappeared from his voice, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. There was no using this as punishment a second time, if Oxley was unable to learn his lesson.

"Y... yes, sir," the drummer replied and quickly turned back to brushing Mister Cartwright's coat.

It wasn't bloody fair. He'd never meant to get into a fight. The stupid idiot had been jawing away quite happily with Thompson, and Oxley had just thought he could do with some friends closer to him in age. That would be the last time he'd try to be nice to him. He'd just keep away from him and where he couldn't keep away from him, he'd ignore him.

He didn't want to end up doing something worse than this. The next time, it'd be... Well, there wasn't going to be a next time. He wasn't stupid.

He glanced across at Mister Cartwright, who was starting to shave.

"I... I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled. He wanted to explain, but couldn't, not to an officer, not without admitting he had been fighting and dragging the other boy's name out into the open. Not that he deserved Oxley's silence.

It seemed that Oxley had taken his point. Just as well. Cartwright disliked using field punishment for lone offenders if he could avoid it and he had no love at all for the lash. Oxley's apology gave him pause and he lowered the razor to glance down at the lad. There was no doubt that he was genuinely sorry.

"Don't worry over it excessively," Cartwright said, dipping the razor into the basin before setting it back to his cheek. "So you had a knock, every fellow does. Learn from it and be that much wiser after."

Oxley sighed before taking a breath and turned to face the officer, steeling himself. "Sir, I... I want to say summat, but not 'ficially, like, please."

"Certainly," Cartwright said, nodding slightly. Unofficial conversations were almost more desirable than official ones. Especially in circumstances like this one. He set his razor down and dabbed at his face with the old shirt that Foley had so recently sewn up.

Bother it. Why couldn't he keep shaving? Having the Lieutenant watching him like this was, well, bloody unnerving.

"I..." he began, fiddling with the clothes brush. Well, it wasn't like Mister Cartwright was going to do anything more to him, was it? And he'd asked it to be unofficial.

"I ain't goin' to mention no names, sir, so don't ask me to. Please," he said, wishing the cabin were a bit bigger. "Only, you know what 'appened, sort of, an' I know you know, an'..." And that was just going to go in circles, wasn't it?

He took a breath. "I jus' went up for a bit of air, sir, an' I heard that... someone was upset, so's I went to talk to him, an' we got to talkin' and I said summat I, well, mebbe could've said better, or not at all, an'... Well, he went f'r me, an' I was a bit taken aback, like, an' then he said summat 'gainst me uniform an', well, I never meant for it to happen, sir," he finished up, looking miserably down at the floor.

Hm. Cartwright watched the drummer for a moment before looking down at his opened razor. He didn't doubt that the lad hadn't meant for a fight to start. Neither did he doubt that the Tar had provoked matters, and that Oxley had not backed down. The lieutenant leaned back against the undersized table and braced his palms against the table-top.

"Sometimes," he said slowly, "good intentions are not received as they ought. Not everyone, unfortunately, is willing to be helped. Or even able to be helped. I consider it laudable that you made the attempt, all the same. Even," he added with a slight, almost playful grin, "if you found it ultimately necessary to offer help with your fists."

"I ain't goin' to try that ag'in," he muttered, still looking down. "I jus'... jus' thought as he ought to have some mates of his own age, on'y none of the others won't talk to 'im on account of he bullied Johnny Stenhouse summat awful."

He was just an arrogant, stuck-up prig, was what he was. And why Thompson gave him so much as the time of day, Oxley didn't know.

"An' now you think... you think..." he trailed off, feeling tears pricking at his eyes. He dashed his sleeve impatiently across his face. He wasn't going to cry like some stupid girl, not in front of the Lieutenant.

"Bother it," he mumbled, turning back to the task he'd been set, to hide his face.

"I don't," Cartwright told him firmly, fairly certain he knew what Oxley meant. "Here." He held out the old shirt to the drummer and contemplated the wisdom of getting the lad half a glass of wine to help buoy his spirits.

After a moment's pause, Cartwright said, "What I do think is, you've learnt the necessary lesson and have, appropriately, resolved not to make the same mistake a second time. That in itself is more of a recommendation of sound judgment than simply admitting to wrong-doing in the first place." He offered a reassuring smile. "Unofficially, I'll tell you that I gave you this particular detail as much for punishment as to also prevent repercussion from the other fellow. Boys are clever in their own ways. I'd be remiss if I didn't attempt to make further mischief on his part impossible."

Oxley took the shirt and wiped his eyes shamefacedly. If de Guarde wanted to find a way to get him back, he'd only have to wait a bit, but he couldn't tell Mister Cartwright that, but at least the lieutenant was trying.

Sound judgement... he thought Oxley had sound judgement. Which meant he'd done the right thing to tell the officer.

He nodded, swallowed hard against the lump that was in his throat and managed a wan smile, feeling much better.

"I'll do me best, sir," he said, meaning with today's duties and in the future with de Guarde and, well, everything. "And I am real sorry, sir."

"Good lad. I know you will."

Cartwright waited patiently as the drummer collected himself. His point had been made and was understood. Now to finish cleaning himself up and return topside.

"Mind you don't brush that coat into threads, now," the lieutenant admonished playfully as he picked up his razor again. "Foley won't be pleased if you do!"

Oxley was still holding the shirt, he realised, and turned to spread it out over Mister Cartwright's sea-chest to let it air a bit before turning back to brushing his coat. He'd done the back by now and turned it over to start on the front.

Not only had the officer not blown up at him, he'd listened to him and understood, and accepted his apologies. Oxley felt much better for having told him, which surprised the boy a little.

"Thanks, sir," he said, glancing back up at the officer. He looked back down at the coat and managed a proper grin. "I won't, honest."