Friday afternoon with the Marines

Thompson closed the sea-chest lid, ignoring the pile of Vining's kit he'd left scattered around - he was going to make that man learn to keep his things tidy, if it killed them both to do it! - and sat down again.

The Corporal had busied himself again with his own sewing, leaving Thompson wondering to himself how he'd managed to have what, by Johnson's standards, was a friendly chat. And not get his head bitten off, either.

Quinn had left the wardroom after talking to Captain Padstowe. Lieutenant Cartwright had not been in the wardroom, so he stopped off in the Marines' messdeck.

Private Thompson was doing something to a shirt, as was Corporal Johnson, Private Branning had his carving out and the various others were looking after various bits and pieces of their kit.

"Has anyone seen Mister Cartwright?" he asked, addressing the deck at large.

Mister Cartwright. Johnson managed, just barely, to suppress a derisive snort.

"Topside probably, Sarn't," he offered unhelpfully.

'Topside probably'. Trust Johnson to be as helpful as a wet flint.

"He headed up to the quarterdeck 'bout half a bell ago, Sarn't," Grattan said, looking up from polishing his crossbelt plate.

Quinn nodded his thanks and headed topside himself.

Johnson rolled his eyes as Quinn went topside. He hadn't lied, had he? Last he knew, Cartwright was topside.

"Officers," he grumbled. They never were where they should be, anyway.

Quinn headed up the ladder to the gundeck and nodded to the sentry by the quarterdeck steps before heading up to the quarterdeck. Generally speaking, this was officers' country, and he had no right to be here, but he was on duty and did not feel inclined to bawl for the Lieutenant's attention from the bottom of the steps.

He kept firmly to leeward, hoping the appearance of a red jacket would be enough to attract Carwright's attention.

Aboard ship, it was impossible to avoid hearing rumours, even on the quarterdeck. The helmsman and the master's mate of the watch had been whispering between themselves about something apparently of interest and it was only by chance that Cartwright had overheard them. Their French guest had confronted a Marine and knocked him out, according to the ship's boy who'd scuttled up to the helmsman discreetly.

The news was unpleasant to hear, but Cartwright had only a few moments to consider it and what he might do to find out the truth of it before another red-coat appeared on deck. Sergeant Quinn. What remarkable timing, the lieutenant thought humourlessly.

"Sergeant," Cartwright greeted as he walked casually toward the deck-stairs.

"Sir," Quinn said, offering a salute. "Bit of bad news, sir." He sighed, not quite sure of how to put it. "One of our men was involved in an unfortunate incident in the hold with the French gentleman a few minutes ago, sir," he said. "The Frenchman ended up hitting him, sir." He lowered his voice. "I suspect extreme provocation, sir."

And please God, Cartwright was the sort of officer they should have had all along, someone who could help sort this whole mess out.

That was a far cry from the Frenchman setting on a Marine and knocking him out, Cartwright thought. And a bit trickier to deal with.

"I see," Cartwright said slowly. "Where is this Marine now?"

God willing, the injury to the Marine would be slight. If blood had been drawn, it would be far more difficult to settle the matter reasonably. Especially if there was extreme provocation, as Sergeant Quinn believed.

"I believe he has gone to see the Doctor - Doctor Maturin, I mean, sir. There was some bruising to the cheek. Nothing serious, I think, though I thought it wisest for him to see the doctor anyway, sir."

He took a breath. "He was hit with an apple. At least, the French gentleman was holding an apple when he done it, I don't think it was done a-purpose, like, sir."

Hit by an apple? That was a good deal better than being struck by a closed fist, he supposed. Cartwright pursed his lips thoughtfully. At least the Marine had been sent to see the ship's surgeon. One less thing to be concerned with.

"Whether a-purpose or not, it's an unpleasant matter," Cartwright said. "Have that Marine sent to my cabin when Doctor Maturin is finished with him. Please see to it that the sentry on our guest's cabin is replaced as well; I will speak with him myself after hearing what that one Marine wishes to say."

Then, after a moment's pause, he added, "Thank you, Sergeant. Well done."

"Aye, aye, sir. Oh, an' I had to tell the Army gent - Captain Padstowe I think his name is - about it, on account the French gent might have broken his parole a-doing it, sir."

He saluted and turned to go.

Well, wasn't this an unpleasant turn of events. Cartwright kept his annoyance from showing as he made his way below. He had given his word that there would be no trouble from the Marines, and now there had been.

Cartwright didn't doubt Sergeant Quinn's assessment, as the sergeant knew the men better than he, but he wanted to hear the involved Marine's story himself before passing any final judgment. This was not how he had initially wished his first cruise with this detachment to go!

Quinn reappeared on the messdeck to find Shriver newly returned from the sickbay. He had a forbidding on his bruised face. and was pulling the contents of his sea-chest around in a temper.

Quinn watched him for a moment. "Private Shriver!"

The Marine straightened, spinning round. "What."

Quinn waited.

"What, Sarn't."

"Mister Cartwright wants a word with you in his cabin. Now. And wipe that scowl off your face."

Shriver snorted, irritably pulled his jacket straight and stalked aft to the wardroom.

At least he wasn't refusing orders, which was good.

Quinn turned to the other Marines. "Branning, I'd like you relieve to Mallory. He's on sentry outside the French officer's cabin."

"Aye Sarn't!" Branning looked faintly pleased to be given something important to do. He hurriedly stuffed his carving block and knife back into his sea-chest, grabbed his hat and crossbelts, and hurried aft. The big Marine passed the less-happy Shriver on his way to the wardroom, but completely ignored the man.

Cartwright noted the arrival of the two Marines with a measure of subdued relief. It seemed that Sergeant Quinn was prompt in all his duties. Very much a good thing. The lieutenant waited until the man who introduced himself as Branning had replaced the previous sentry before turning his gaze to the second Marine.

"Name," he said curtly, keenly aware that there were most likely other officers in their cabins.

Shriver pulled himself to attention and half-heartedly tried to wipe the scowl off his face.

"Private Shriver, sir."

Let the officer fight for answers if he wanted them. That would suit Shriver just fine.

Shriver. Somehow, the name seemed to suit this hulking, resentful private. Cartwright kept his own expression neutral as he studied the man. The swelling on Shriver's cheek was impossible to miss, but it didn't look particularly serious. The Frenchman had done well to use an apple for a weapon, in Cartwright's estimation.

"I am told you saw fit to take a stroll in the hold," Cartwright began, taking care to avoid including any other details. He wanted to hear Shriver tell the tale from his own view. "What happened?"

Ah, crap. One of them sort of officers.

"Noticed the Fro... Frenchy goin' downta the hold, sir. Thought he was gonna get up to summat he shouldn't with the General's horse what's down there, sir, so I follered him. Asked him what he was doin', polite-like, and 'e went for me." He chanced a glance at the officer's face. "And Sarn't Quinn found us. Didn't do nothin' else, sir."

It was a bland statement, all things considered. Cartwright listened and tried to imagine their French guest actively attempting to attack this big fellow. He couldn't picture it. Neither could he quite picture Shriver being polite to a "Frog". That wasn't taking into account how Cartwright had seen the Frenchman behave, either.

"I see," Cartwright said neutrally. "You did nothing, even after the capitaine 'went for' you."

"Was too shocked to, sir. Weren't 'spectin' it, was I?" He sounded sulky and knew it, but couldn't help it and couldn't be bothered, anyway.

Bloody officers, always poking their noses in and getting folks in trouble.

Indeed. This Marine wasn't doing much to convince Cartwright that he was truly the wronged party. His expression and tone of voice alone suggested a lack of sincerity.

"No, I suppose you weren't," Cartwright said dryly. There wasn't much else he could hope to get from Shriver at this point, he thought. He was more inclined to believe the French capitaine had been provoked after hearing Shriver's story, but he would have to speak with the capitaine himself before he could make an informed decision.

"That will do, for the moment. Return to the messdeck and remain there until I send for you again."

"Aye, aye, sir," Shriver said, managing to salute, though not particularly smartly, before heading back out of the wardroom to the messdeck.

He knew the officer was going to believe the Frog over him, and it wasn't fair, nor right. He was English, wasn't he? So why wouldn't the officer take his word over that of some French bastard? Just because the man was an officer didn't mean it was right. As far as Shriver was concerned, any English private was worth any three French officers.

He went to his own table and sulked.

Cartwright waited until Shriver had gone before pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. First it was Oxley getting into a fight. Now it was this. How many more unpleasant affairs would he get confronted with before the day was over?

How best could he approach the French capitaine in order to hear his side of the tale? Cartwright stepped out of his cabin and glanced toward the other big Marine, the one called Branning. He was about to ask the man if he had seen the capitaine when he heard voices from the Frenchman's cabin. Ah. The poor fellow should not be disturbed just at that moment, it seemed. Sighing to himself, Cartwright made his way back topside. He would try to speak with the capitaine later in the day, with any luck.

Apart from anything else, Quinn was developing a headache. He thought he was, at any rate. Giving Shiver two hours' field punishment wouldn't mean very much to the big Marine. He was second only in size to Branning, but had none of Branning's easy-going, even-tempered nature. Where Branning could be compared to an ox, Shriver was a bull, and a bad-tempered one at that.

So, it was either two hours' field punishment, or having him parade for the officer of the watch every hour. He could do both, but thought that might be a bit excessive. Two hours' marching would mean that the Marine and whoever was taking the punishment would probably end up getting in everybody's way, whereas the kit parade would only put out Shriver himself.

Though kit parade would be more suitable for Vining. Quinn bit back a curse as he caught his foot in a discarded cross-belt.

"Vining! If I catch any of your kit out of its proper place again, you will be on report!"

Vining looked up, startled, and grabbed his errant crossbelt. "Aye, aye, Sar'nt," he said, looking worried.

Thompson, working on some sewing, hid a grin, and Quinn headed to the petty officers' berth, still trying to make up his mind about Shriver.

Since Shriver had returned from his meeting with Lieutenant Cartwright, Johnson had succeeded in sticking himself in the thumb with his sewing needle no less than twice more. Sergeant Quinn's appearance on the messdeck coincided with a third such mishap, and Johnson decided that he'd had enough sewing for one afternoon.

"Bleedin' stitches," the corporal grumbled to himself, eying the small splotches of red on the rag that protected his sewing implements. When Quinn barked at Vining for leaving his kit lying around again, Johnson very nearly smirked. Despite the disruption that came with having a Frog passenger aboard, the Marines' routines were continuing with barely an interruption.