Friday afternoon with the Marines

Quinn had made up his mind about Shriver before he reached the petty officers' berth, and turned back to find Corporal Johnson glaring at his sewing kit. It seemed the Corporal had given up on his sewing, which meant that he'd be looking for something else to do. Hopefully he wouldn't mind taking a punishment drill session;m it wasn't as though there had been very many recently, after all.

"Corporal," he said, approaching the table where Johnson was sitting. "Would you take Shriver's field punishment for me? I want him to regret ever thinking that he could hit a guest of the Captain's."

Oh for - Johnson looked up at Quinn's approach and tried not to be annoyed. "Glad to," he grunted, feeling anything but. "Make him sew up the company's shirts that need it, or something. That'd set him right."

Bugger the captain's guests, Johnson thought grumpily. If they were able to stay out of the Marines' way, there wouldn't be any problems.

Johnson didn't look as though he'd be very glad to, but Quinn was used to the corporal's looking as though he'd just finished chewing on a particularly sour lemon. And maybe he could use up some of his temper on the Private.

All the other men in the detachment were decent sorts, but if there was trouble anywhere and there was a Marine involved, Quinn would have bet his last farthing that it would be Shriver's name that would come up.

"As you please, Corporal. And thank you."

That was it, then. Johnson kept a scowl off his face as he stood up. "Usual field punishment, Sarn't?" The corporal asked, after retrieving his hat.

"Yes, I think so, Corp'ral." He hoped it would do some good; he did not want to end up discussing Shriver's behaviour with the Lieutenant after hearing that the Private had got into a fight or something.

Johnson felt the faintest tug of a smirk but fought it back. 'Usual field punishment' dictated what Johnson could do, but not so much how long it should last.

"Aye aye, Sarn't," he said, then raised his voice. "Private Shriver!"

"Wha'?" Shriver twisted round in his seat, saw who was calling and hastily corrected himself. "Wha', Corp'ral?"

It would be Johnson. They'd finally decided what to do with him, then. Shame they couldn't have forgotten about him, but then, they would all come down on the side of the Frog, wouldn't they?

Oh! That'd come so very close to giving Johnson a legitimate reason to chew the idiot out. "Get all your kit and report to me topside," Johnson told him curtly. "You've got five minutes, and everythin' better be squared away!"

To emphasise the order, he gave his crossbelt plate a quick shine with his sleeve before turning to head topside himself. Just let Shriver have some flaw in his kit!

Five minutes?! How was he supposed to get everything squared away in five minutes? He hastily pulled on his crossbelts on and grabbed his musket.

He'd only done what everyone else wanted to do, why should he get landed with punishment for it? He snatched his hat up and crammed it on his head before clattering up the ladder to report to the Corporal.

It seemed to Johnson that he'd been waiting half of forever by the time Shriver appeared at the top of the ladder. He favoured the unfortunate Marine with a speculative glare and grimaced.

"Took you long enough," Johnson commented as he walked casually around Shriver, giving his uniform and kit a careful inspection. It wouldn't do for the Marine to have anything wrong with his presentation, especially before field punishment.

It was unfortunate, he thought, that he couldn't find anything immediately wrong with Shriver's appearance.

Shriver managed to hold his tongue - just! - and resolutely glared ahead of him. He hated drill, hated inspections and hated the fact it was Corporal Johnson in charge of this. How the man had ever got his stripes, Shriver couldn't say for the life of him.

This was not going to be fun, especially with Johnson prowling round him trying to find something wrong with his turn-out. The Corporal didn't like him. Fine. Shriver didn't exactly like the Corporal, either, so there was one thing they agreed on.

"Right then. You know how it goes, Shriver," Johnson said, feeling slightly cheated that Shriver hadn't tried to protest. "Get to it."

If nothing else, the corporal decided, it would be fun to see how many turns around the deck it would take for Shriver to get tired and sloppy. He pushed his hat back just slightly and folded his arms across his chest. That was assuming Johnson himself wouldn't get bored with the entire proceeding first.

He shouldered his musket, sighed, and started. Twice round the deck was fine. The third time round , he narrowly avoided a ring-bolt. And by the fourth time, his left arm was starting to ache from the weight of the musket. He shifted it a little, surreptitiously, hoping Johnson wouldn't see it.

(OOC - now I really am off to bed! See you!)

Watching Shriver essentially walk in circles was starting to make Johnson feel sleepy. To keep himself awake, Johnson got himself moving as well, pacing the deck just at the base of the quarterdeck stairs. Every now and then, he looked up to make sure Shriver wasn't shirking.

"Quit slackin'!" He called out, even though the Marine wasn't visibly moving any slower. Once Shriver started dragging his feet, it would be hard to get him moving smartly again. Better to avoid that in the first place.

He wasn't slacking. He sighed as he shifted his musket again, hoping the slight movement wouldn't catch the Corporal's eye. Why, of all people, did it have to be Corporal Johnson who'd pulled this duty? And why pick on him, Private Shriver, anyway? He hadn't done any more than half the others in the barky would like to have done, after all. And he probably going to get a proper chewing out from the Lieutenant, too.

That was better, if only a little. Johnson stifled a yawn and wandered back toward the larboard rail. He was bored with the assignment already, but he couldn't dismiss Shriver so early. Quinn would have his hide if he did. Maybe their new lieutenant would intervene and take over. Or maybe not. Johnson saw the officer just before he disappeared down the aft ladder. Dammit.

Looked like the Corporal was bored already. Shriver was heading aft now, toward where the Corporal was waiting for him. Bother the man, he thought, letting his steps slow a little and his feet start to drag.

He hadn't registered the presence of a ringbolt, though, and caught his foot in it. He found himself sprawling on the deck, almost at Johnson's feet. And if that wasn't bad enough, the clatter of his musket falling to the deck was going to bring Johnson's wrath down heavily on his head.

Damn, damn, damn.

The noise of something heavy hitting the deck had Johnson stopping short in his aimless pacing and the rattle of a musket falling had him spinning around. The hell!

"Shriver!" His bellow was enough to wake the dead. The bungling bastard! There was a clatter of shod feet on the ladder as somebody came dashing topside, but Johnson's awareness had narrowed down to tunnel vision. Stupid clod-footed oaf!

"On your bloody feet! Damn your hide, thought you knew better than to heave your kit around! Straighten up, I ain't seen a bigger bumbling oaf in all my life."

Now he understood why Sergeant Quinn had given him this chore. Clever bastard!

Bugger it. He scrambled to his feet and snatched up his musket. And didn't that give Corporal Johnson the perfect excuse to lay into him. He stood to attention rigidly, though he'd have liked nothing better than to storm off. That would only lead to the grating, though, and even Shriver wasn't stupid enough to wish that down on himself.

And who put that stupid ringbolt there in the first place for him to trip over?

To Shriver's credit, he got back to his feet quickly enough. Johnson quivered as he held himself stiffly at attention, trying very hard to keep from lashing out at Shriver. What gave the man the right to disgrace himself in full view of the officers on the quarterdeck?

"Start again," Johnson snarled. "Try not to trip over your hooves this time."

Ah, damn. He shouldered his musket again, scowling and moved off, thinking dire thoughts. If it hadn't been for that damn Frog, he wouldn't be here now. And he just knew Johnson was looking for any excuse to lay into him, and after he'd done them all a favour and shown them that Frog couldn't be trusted. So now he was stuck with Johnson and his temper for even longer - and his arm was already starting to ache a bit from the weight of the musket.

Now there was no taking his eyes off the errant Marine. Johnson folded his arms back across his chest and leaned back against the deck rail, all semblance of boredom completely evaporated.

Perhaps fortunately for him, he didn't notice the re-appearance of Lieutenant Cartwright on the quarterdeck. Not that it would have made any difference in his posture or present mood.

Ah damn. And now the Corporal was going to stand there watching him like a damn hawk.

He avoided the ringbolt this time - nobody was stupid enough to fall over a ringbolt twice in five minutes, after all. His arm was starting to get tired from the weight of the musket, and he had no idea how long he was going to be able to keep this up. He'd probably be up here for a couple of hours, knowing Sergeant Quinn. It just wasn't fair how the NCOs always picked on him.

How many turns around the deck had Shriver gone? Johnson hadn't troubled himself to count. It was nowhere near enough, anyway. The corporal stirred back into motion, casually pacing the deck much as he had before. He could keep this up all day, now.

Assuming, of course, that Sergeant Quinn didn't let Shriver weasel out of it early.

And now the Corporal had gone back to pacing again. It was too early to start slowing down and dragging his feet, really. Another couple of turns of the deck should do it. And of course he was going to be up here for bloody ages. Corporal Johnson might have a short attention span, but he didn't like Shriver and Shriver didn't like him. Only, Johnson was the one with the stripes on his sleeve, and Shriver resented that, too.

He shifted his arm a bit, trying to get the musket comfortable. He wished he could change arms, but he wouldn't get away with doing that, he knew that much.

Why had Sergeant Quinn come down and interrupted in the first place? He'd nearly got the Frog done - the man had hit him, though it had taken some effort. And he was still being treated like a damn Admiral, swanning around the ship as if he owned her.