Breakfast - Sunday 21st - on deck

Inside the Great Cabin, Bolitho rubbed his eyes wearily as he watched Catchpole taking out his dress coat. After his conversation with Yates during the night, Bolitho had not gotten much sleep. All the events of the previous day had been weighing on his mind, and he only got in a little bit of sleep before he needed to rise. It was Sunday, which meant the crew would be gathering for his inspection. Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, Bolitho stood up to allow Catchpole to help him on with his coat. Properly dressed at last, he left the cabin and made his way out on deck.

As he had anticipated, everyone was already gathered and awaiting his arrival, all the sailors and Marines standing at attention. Time for the inspection to begin. Bolitho approached the nearest Division and saw the men immediately stiffen as he came nearer. But he saw nothing amiss, and so moved on to the next...

[OOC: Since I'm really not sure of all the steps involved in the inspection (the captain's player is clueless as usual), please feel free to give other character's reactions to what Bolitho might be doing. I don't think he'll be finding anything seriously wrong anyway...]

The Marines were the first, as usual. Oxley slipped into place in the ranks just before the Captain came up on deck to inspect them. Thompsonw watched the blue coat of the Captain, with Mister Cartwright's red coat behind him, out of the corner of his eye as he moved along the ranks.

Apart from the bandage on his ankle, there was nothing wrong with Thompson or his kit. His crossbelts were pipeclayed to perfection, the plate was gleaming and he didn't think there was a speck of rust anywhere on his musket. Though things looked different up here to how they appeared in the dimness of 'tween-decks. Vining was probably going to get chewed out for something, but then, Vining usually did get chewed out for something, so that wouldn't be at all unusual.

With the captain on deck he as well as his Division had stood stiffer, and even the more squirmy of the sailors to their left was nudged into silence. De Guarde looked curiously on to the first ones inspected. There was always a posibillity - and it happened often enough - that something would not be fully to standard. He straightened his shirt a little more and found himself regretting he hadn't asked someone, even gone and bothered Thompson, to do his hair for him. But it was too late now and there was no use crying over spilt milk.

He adjusted his slops a little too. It was interesting how silence quickly fell upon the deck with the captain's arrival. Though the latter seemed tired. Was he? And were it for the worry over Crozier and Barrow? Would he even care if one of his sailors had gone and been gravely injured and loose sleep over it. He doubted that, though here on Terpsy everything was possible.

Atleast he hasn't sold any shirts for drink, or exchanged a pair of slops for an opportunity to gamble. What the rules said a sailor had to have, the boy did just as he was supplied.

So far, Bolitho had not seen anything seriously wrong. Yes, some of the men could be a little more attentive to their uniforms and possessions, but other than a few minor infractions, nothing was badly amiss. He was not the sort of captain to call attention to small errors like that. As long as the men were presentable and did their duty when the time came, that was what really mattered to him.

He passed De Guarde's division and could not help noticing how quickly the boy stood to attention as he came by. Perhaps he was learning his lesson after all. But it would take a good deal more than attentiveness if Bolitho was going to consider giving him his former rank back--if he ever would. He had made no promises. If De Guarde did not learn his lesson, he would remain a sailor, and that was that.

The captain was there, and the boy felt and stood as stiff as if made from wood. He felt intimidated and he knew this man held his future in the palm of his hand. He could indeed write to his parents, somehow attempt to use a sort of influence but it would've been short lived if at all successful.

He glanced up at the captain quickly and then dropped his gaze. It wouldn't do to stare at the man, it would be even worse and disrespectful if he were to do so.

He bit at his lip nervously and fought the urge to pull at his sleeve. He prayed that the man would be satisfied.. enough. He spared a longing glance to where the middies stood. Each dressed in their best coat. A middie's coat.

Leat surruptitiously picked a last cat hair off his coat sleeve and saluted Bolitho, before falling in behind him as his Division was inspected. So far so good it seemed anyway - the men had made a decent effort as always - but until the captain had finished this particular part of his inspection he could not help but feel a nervous sensation in his stomach that was in no way connected with last night's evening meal. Bolitho was not by nature a hard-horse captain he knew well enough; but every man was eager to impress his captain, and would take it to heart if anything was found to be seriously wrong.

The second after was Mr. Leat. And as for the captain, De Guarde had stood stiff for that lieutenant as well. He didn't want to clean any more dung, horse or human. He just wanted to rest when rest was given. Nothing more humiliating such as that. He glanced at the other sailors. All prim and proper and even less fidgety. All ready for the inspection and wanting to impress. If he weren't one of them he might've stopped and watched with some curiosity of a spectator. But being one, such a commodity was not given.

De Guarde apparently was learning something, at any rate, since there appeared to be nothing for which Bolitho could reprimand him. And so he passed on, nevertheless giving the boy a stern glare as he went. He saw nothing wrong with the rest of Leat's division either; they were all perfectly presentable. Everything seemed in order. Still so far so good...

He felt a great rush of relief even with the passing glare. Well at the time of the glare he felt faint and fearful, almost like on his old ship. But then the man's gaze was turned and other men came under his scrutinizing gaze and the boy felt his shoulders slump a little, held up some by the presence of Lieutenant Leat.

But they passed! Nothing else mattered, the portion of men who'd allready been screened passed this part of the inspection, this time around. He could feel the blood rush, and nearly hear the fast thumping heartbeat in his ears.

When Bolitho came below to inspect the sickbay, Bridgens was there to meet him at the door. He gave a nervous salute and spoke softly. "Captain, sir, M'Clure asks me to tell you, or rather to ask you, to go quietly as you go, so's not to wake Doctor Crozier. I mean Mister Crozier. It's that hard to make him sleep, sir!" He gave the captain a pleading look before hastily adding, "But all else is present and sober and correct, sir, if you care to look," as he stepped aside to let him enter.

"Then I shall endeavour to be as quiet as possible, Bridgens," Bolitho said, "In the hope that I will not wake him."

He passed Bridgens and stepped into the sickbay. Everything was indeed in its place, just as he had anticipated. But even so, and as much as he wanted to make it a quick visit, Bolitho knew he had to at least see how the patients were doing, despite the fact that the sight of the wounded men--especially Barrow--made his feelings of guilt flare up again.

Fighting back his regrets, he approached the cot where Barrow lay.

Bridgens followed and shook Billy gently by the arm. "Billy, hsst, captain's here." He looked up said, "He made us promise to wake him as soon as you was to come by, sir. It were the only way we could make him go back to sleep."

Billy opened his eyes and looked up, smiling sleepily when he saw the captain.

Bolitho almost wished Bridgens had not said that. Here he was, blaming himself for what had befallen Barrow, and yet Barrow had been waiting anxiously to see him. That only served to make Bolitho feel worse. What would his poor coxswain think if he knew that his captain was really at fault for his injury...

"Hello Barrow," Bolitho heard himself say, his voice calm despite his anxiety, "Have you slept well?"

"Aye, thankee sir," he replied faintly, still grinning. Then he frowned. "Sorry 'bout all the trouble, and the boat, sir."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, so there's no need to apologise. What transpired on shore was no fault of yours," Bolitho said, "I am very proud of how you and all the others handled yourselves. A captain could not ask for a better crew."

Billy's breathing was slightly labored and it still had a rattle, but he smiled. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome," Bolitho nodded, finding he could offer no more words of encouragement for his coxswain. Each moment spent by Barrow's cot was making Bolitho feel more and more awful. Finally he said, "I think it would be best if you got some more sleep. I'm sure Dr. Maturin would agree on that."

Billy nodded and closed his eyes peacefully.

M'Clure hovered, but further away than Bridgens had been. The captain had come in quietly- for which he was thankful- and he'd not upset anyone, yet.
Billy Barrow was on his way off to sleep again, and M'Clure glanced at the captain again. He didn't look hugely happy, although how much of that could be safely put down to the gravity of visiting the sick berth m'Clure wasn't sure.
Again, he cast his eyes over the tidied surfaces near him.

They were all still there, to wait a little longer probably. But with the disappearance of the captain the men relaxed somewhat, if only held back by the presence of lieutenants and midshipmen. The wind kept its strength even and constant. The sun warmed the decks so that they were even more pleasant to stand on and brought light to the faces of men.

to the left of their ship a glitter of bodies announced a swarm of fish which came higher to the surface, perhaps chased there foolishly. A pair of men looked on, pleased or perhaps just in as good spirits at those others.

Rats didn't dare venture above now, for there were too many people and probably the scent of Miss Emily prowling about was just too strong for their liking. Wherever the cat was, judging by what Mr. Leat was picking from his uniform, she did spend the night or a portion of it lying curled up on Mr. Leat's coat.

A sailor stifled a yawn and straightened himself. Above them there must've been a squeal of a bird somewhere though the glare of the sun concealed it. If only for the moment.

The Mainres were dismissed now, to wait on deck until Church was rigged. Oxley hoped it wouldn't be a proper sermon or anything boring like that. Church was dull enough anyway, when you didn't understand half the words and ideas, and couldn't ask about them, though the singing was good in its own way. Even having the Articles of War read out was boring enough, though failry sobering what with all the things that would be punished by death if committed.

But the sooner that was over and done, the sooner it would be dinner time, followed (hopefully) by a make-and-mend afternoon, and then they could have their skylarking.

Sunday was a day that things went differently - usually - than all the other days. Listening to the Articles of War was almost like listening to the mess itself. Repetitive if nothing more, when done every Sunday. He wouldn't be surprised if he saw minds wander, when ears looked to listen. He stretched a little, feeling some stiffness in his left leg. Hopefully it would be all over soon enough, or if only it atleast felt like that. He looked up and observed as a bird flew above the ship's Main mast and then circled around it, heading in the direction of the Mizzen.

Peter stood listening to the Captain with the solemn and interested look he had perfected through years of his father's sermons, his eyes fixed on the quarterdeck but half his attention on what was going on around him. Feet shuffling, uncomfortable in shoes, the creak of wood and rope, and the occasional flap of a sail.

He thought how much happier he would have been, if he had been at home, listening to his father, and not this litany of crimes Punishable By Death. But soon.... He breathed in, blinked against the sunlight, and shifted his own weight, his hands linked behind his back.

And then it was over, and the men dismissed, while the midshipmen and officers hurried to get their sextants for the other, daily ritual of the noon sightings, and calculation of position. And then dinner in the gun room. After that, he had promised to go up to the maintop at least with Simon Fletcher, which would be better than sitting around all day, wishing he was elsewhere...