Friday afternoon with the Marines

OOC - This thread picks up, mostly, right after the events in In the Hold - Afternoon Watch, when Private Shriver left to return to the Marines' messdeck.

IC -

In terms of having things to do, Johnson discovered that he was notably lacking. He had carefully cleaned his kit, barked at Vining for leaving his crossbelts lying around, and checked on the sentry at the Frog's cabin. Keeping a wary eye on the Shepherd twins didn't take up enough time, even though Andrew Shepherd was notoriously sly. Worse, Johnson discovered that the injured Thompson had been detailed to help around the sick-berth, so he could not find side-tasks for the Marine to do. All in all, it was shaping up to be a fairly boring afternoon for the poor corporal. To keep himself occupied, he was forced to attempt another repair on his spare shirt.

At least until he spotted a lumbering fellow called Shriver clomp up the ladder. Shriver was second in size only to Branning, and a close second, too. But where Branning was easy-tempered and reliable, Shriver was prone to arguing. Johnson had taken a strong dislike to the man almost immediately after meeting him - which by itself was not necessarily unusual given the corporal's own temperament. It looked as though Shriver had taken a knock about the face, too. Or maybe, Johnson thought wryly, he'd taken a fall in the same manner as Oxley.

"What's that I see there?" Johnson called out, rising up from where he'd been sitting on his sea-chest. The shirt he had been sewing slipped off his legs as he stood, forgotten completely now that there was something more interesting going on. "Looks like you ran into a ring-bolt or something, Shriver. Not taking after Oxley, are you?"

And bugger it. There was Corporal Johnson. Seeing him did not improve Shriver's temper one jot. The Corporal was always interfering with things and poking his nose in where it wasn't wanted. He'd been surprised to get off so lightly earlier, but the Corporal was bound to poke his nose in and give Shrive extra duties or something, just because he could.

He shrugged. "Got hit by that damn Frog, di'n't I? Was jes' mindin' me own bizness, an' all."

Oh for - Johnson rolled his eyes. He might have known that their French 'guest' would cause trouble. Leave it to Shriver to be the one to get into it, though! He didn't believe for an instant that the Marine had been minding his own business, of course, but it was enough that the man had visible sign of injury. The chance to amuse himself a bit was too good to pass up.

"Didn't know Frogs could hit," Johnson commented flatly, folding his arms across his chest. "What sorta business did you have belowdecks anyway? Unless you was tryin' to pick up the slack for that slob Tar, De Guarde?"

That brat! It was bad enough that Thompson, the bloody do-gooder, was talking with him all the time. Why Shriver would put himself out to help him, he couldn't fathom.

He shrugged. He wasn't good at thinking of excuses, and didn't even try. He'd just seen the Frog go below and followed him.

"Hit me with an apple, he did, the bastard. I was just makin' sure he wasn't goin' to do nothin' to the General's horse, an' all, Corp. Weren't doin' no harm."

The General's horse. That was rich. Johnson didn't care a bit what happened to any of the horses in the hold. Smelly, nasty creatures, horses. Couldn't do a thing with them.

So the Frog hadn't even used his fist to hit Shriver, but rather an apple? That drew forth a short chuckle. "Smart of him to use an apple, wasn't it? Not a god idea to risk busting a hand on that rock you got for a head, Shriver."

Something had to be done about that Frog. And Shriver too. He couldn't have his Marines getting into trouble with that one, of course, however much he disliked having one of the enemy aboard. It wouldn't be beneath Shriver to want a crack at revenge, either.

His amusement gone now, Johnson asked, "So you're worried about the General's horse, are you?"

He asked too many questions, Johnson did. Seemed he always wanted to get folks in trouble for something or other.

Shriver shrugged again. "Could have been the horse he was after, Corp. Could've been our stores. He was down there where hadn't no right to go, and there weren't nobody makin' sure he di'n't do nothin', neither. An' what do they want go lettin' Frogs on board of us for, anyways?"

Could have been the horse, or it could not have been. Johnson didn't care either way, except that was the excuse Shriver gave.

"Cap'n said it was what he wanted, and that's that," was the corporal's answer. "It ain't for you to worry about anythin' that ain't your kit unless you're told, either."

If Johnson didn't know better, he'd guess that Shriver was trying to grow a brain. That'd be the day!

So even Corporal Johnson was on the side of the Frog. That was just typical, that was. Shriver didn't know how the man had ever got his stripes if he thought so highly of the enemy. As for the Captain, couldn't he see that the Frog was going to be trouble, that that was all he wanted?

"Yes, Corp," he said, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Well, at least Shriver knew when to shut his gob. Didn't make Johnson like him any better though.

"Don't suppose you've troubled yourself to see the sawbones yet," Johnson grunted. He didn't expect anything except a negative response to that. Shriver was dimmer even than Branning at times, and that was saying something.

"No, I ain't, Corp." Why the blazes would he want to go see the sawbones and get poked and prodded and God knows what-all else. "Just come up here, ain't I?" And got collared by you, he thought, but didn't say the words.

"Of course not."

Sometimes, he wondered how Shriver managed to button up his coat properly. Ugh. Lieutenant Cartwright would have to be told about this, too.

"Get up to sick-berth and see the sawbones," Johnson said gruffly. "And don't trip over any ring-bolts or such on the way there, either."

First the Sergeant, now the Corporal... Shriver didn't think it was going to stop there. At least Brandeson hadn't poked his nose in and all. Cartwright was going to be one of those interfering busybodies. wasn't he? The way he'd come down to poke around the messdeck hadn't escaped Shriver.

"Aye, aye, Corp'ral," he said sulkily, turning to head for'rard to the sickbay.

Johnson scowled at Shriver's back, glad the man was going on his way without being difficult. He didn't care a bit for the Frog guest but he knew Shriver's nature. If there was anybody who'd try picking a fight, aside from Johnson himself anyway, it'd be Shriver.

"And take your time," the corporal muttered to himself, as he returned to his sea-chest. With luck, he could finish a few more stitches before something else happened to interrupt.

Thompson limped his way back to the Marines' messdeck, grateful that he wasn't needed after all. Corporal Johnson was sitting on his sea-chest, sewing and Thompson dug around in his own sea-chest for his old shirt, which had found its way to the bottom. He pulled it out and held it up, looking at it critically.

Take this bit out here, cut out the worn bit on each shoulder... yes, it would do very nicely. He set to work.

Footsteps over the deckboards. Johnson glanced up and scowled at the sight of Thompson returning from wherever it was he'd been. The sick-berth, right. He'd supposedly been helping that other sawbones.

"Back already, Thompson?" Johnson asked, not bothering to move from where he was sitting. Of course, he hadn't quite stilled his sewing needle as he spoke and a moment later he cursed feelingly when the sharp tip of the needle jabbed into his thumb.

"Yes, Corp'ral. He decided I wasn't needed after all, Corp'ral." And there went his chance of doing anything for himself this afternoon. Well, until the Corporal's attention wandered elsewhere, anyway.

He winced in sympathy as Johnson let out a fervent curse. Obviously he'd just stuck his needle into his finger. That wasn't going to improve his temper much at all.

"Not even for that idiot Shriver?" Johnson asked, before sticking his wounded thumb into his mouth for a moment. Hell's bells, that damned needle was sharp enough!

"No, Corp'ral." Though the other Marine did have a nasty bruise on his face, and a scowl to match. He felt he was taking his life into his hands as he asked, "What'd he do, Corp'ral?"

Well, at least his thumb wasn't bleeding much. Johnson studied the tiny bubble of blood and shrugged, swiping his thumb clean with the stained rag he used to wrap up his sewing implements. That was good enough.

"That Frog hit him," the corporal answered shortly, taking care now to watch where his needle was going. "Swung first or somethin', to hear Shriver tell it."

"Oh." The Frog... But if he'd swung first, against Shriver, with no provocation, Thompson would eat his hat.

He turned the shirt inside out to start unpicking the seams. "Shriver's a bloody fool, that's what he is," the Private said eventually.

Well, wasn't that a note. He agreed with Thompson on something.

"Aye," Johnson grunted, annoyed that he held the same opinion as a private. And publicly, no less.

Well, that was... strange. Thompson never thought he'd hear Corporal Johnson agree with him. Shriver was bloody lucky he hadn't landed one on the Frog; hitting an officer meant you'd hang, but Thompson had no idea what the penalty would be for hitting a prisoner. Even if the prisoner was on parole at the time.

"Damn idiot thinks with his fists. If he knows how to think at all."

He bent his head to concentrate on what he was doing.

Hmph. Johnson decided he didn't much care for a private thinking along the same lines as himself. Wasn't natural.

"Makes Branning look fair smart," he said grudgingly.

And of course Branning would have to be nearby to hear that. The big private looked up and grinned broadly, blithely accepting Johnson's comment as praise.

"He'd make bloody Vining look bloody smart," Thompson muttered to the open lid of the sea-chest they shared as he dug for his sewing kit, pulling out Vining's drill jacket, spare shirt... andspare trousers, all shoved in any-old-how as usual, regardless of Thompson's own kit, or the resultant state of his clothes.

Thompson left them out once he'd found his sewing kit, and pulled out his scissors.

Since when, Johnson asked himself, did he ever decide that chatting with his Marines was a good thing?

"Hmph," he said.