22nd - around midnight and a little after

Claggart stood leaning on the parapet and watched the calm sea. He loved to be here at nights. It was so silent, peaceful, and - no damned sun to torture his sensitive skin and eyes. Yes, even this man-beast had his Achilles heel.
And the stars always seemed friendly to him. Cold, untouchable and so high over everything. He liked their pallid light and their mirror images on the water.
We could say he was in an almost-romantic state of mind (although he didn't think of wishes). But did he really have a soul? Some doubted it, and some said he had, but he worshipped Devil, not God.
He might have been smiled on both interpretations.

Evenings after a fight were nearly always sleepless ones for Johnson. He found it hard to suppress the need to be up and moving after the rush and press of combat. Thus, while most of the Marines were happily swaying in their hammocks below, Johnson was up making a slow circuit around the ship, checking the sentries and enjoying the light ruffle of breeze whispering along through the opened gunports.

It was more pleasant topside, he thought grudgingly, as he completed his rounds and found himself on the weather deck again. At least it was a clear night. Johnson pulled his hat off and ran a hand over his hair. It was just as well that he was up and about anyway, as he'd have to collect and replace the sentries when the watches changed.

Who could have told what was he thinking about? He lived in darkness and he wasn't too talkative when it came to his past and his secrets. He barely knew people aboard yet - he met one of the Lieutenants, he knew Deverel and he already got a spy. The boy was weak, drunk and a coward - a natural born Judas, eh?
He smiled.
Then he heard footsteps and turned around slowly. One of the marines... according to his uniform.
"Good evening, corporal" he said on his dark, velvety bass voice.

Other than the occasional quiet murmurings from the watch on deck, there was no notable conversation. Johnson gave his hat a slow, careful examination, noting a light scrape on one side. The plume needed cleaning too, as it was beginning to look somewhat ragged.

A voice reached out to greet him and he looked up. It was one of the crew, though he didn't immediately recognise who. "Evenin'," Johnson grunted in reply.

He thought he should introduce himself, as he was new on board.

"John Claggart, master-at-arms. Transported from Defiance."

He was a tall and thin man about 35, with jet-black hair and strange violet eyes in his pallid and classic-cut face. You could say he was attractive, but there was an aura of unknown danger around him.

Master-at-Arms. Johnson looked him over neutrally, not sure if he would like Claggart. Something about the man seemed off.

"Johnson," the corporal said, deciding he was in a tolerable enough mood to be partially polite. He offered his hand.

He shaked the other man's hand. His touch was cold like death's. Summer and hotness had apparently no effect on him - he was a creature of night and ice.

"Glad to meet you" he said.

Johnson smothered the desire to grimace when Claggart returned his handshake. The man's hand was cold, disconcertingly cold.

"Indeed," Johnson replied. The feeling that there was something off about the Master-at-Arms grew stronger, though he couldn't be sure why.

"Come off Defiance, then?" He had heard some of his lads talking about a Marine corporal from that ship, and what he'd heard had not been heartening.

"Yes, along with Mr. Deverel and Mr. Oxley."

Mr. Oxley wasn't too happy that he came too, actually. Or at least he didn't seem too happy.

"I've heard my colleague here died, that's what my Captain said... what happened to him? Fell in action?"

His voice was rather pleasant, somehow mellifluous, but the strange lowness it had was a rare thing. He could've easily sung in a Russian church choir, or sing any of those kill-with-low-notes Mozart roles.

Oxley? Johnson frowned. The drummer hadn't been sent anywhere that he should come back, or Johnson would have known about it. Must be some other poor sod with the same name.

"Aye, that's so," the corporal said. "Pity, I s'pose." Not that he'd really had anything to do with the previous Master-at-Arms, though. He couldn't even think of the man's name.

"Think you'll do a better job not coppin' it?" Johnson asked, after a pause. "Though you Tars seem so bloody good at that."

"I hope so... though one can never know in a war. Still, being killed is not my style. Killing the frog-eater bastards fits me better."

There was not the slighest hint of irony in his voice.

He was not really afraid of the possibility of falling. He loved battles - he loved killing. He never thought of danger. Slaying the French - that was exactly he came for. And if he falls - why to fear anything? There's nothing after death, only the void.

That, Johnson thought, was a fine sentiment to live by. It was certainly less than ideal to be the one killed.

"Aye," he agreed. "We laid into 'em right nice today, too. My lads did themselves proud."

Except perhaps Mister Cartwight, who had returned to the ship without his coat or hat and smelling awfully. It was reported that he had been quite determined in his leadership and actions, but to Johnson it was nothing short of disgraceful for an officer to end up so poorly turned out.

"We had a good time on Defiance, too. I got a cut in the arm, but the Frenchman who did it got a little... bigger one."

Actually, he ended in two pieces. But Claggart didn't mean it, it was only the freshly sharpened sword... or something. Or the berserker rage he often had in battles.

"I couldn't imagine what to do if we finally win. How to live without our daily dose of killings."

Johnson nearly grinned when he thought about that idiot Marine corporal he'd met. The man was from Defiance, which helped form Johnson's opinion about that ship's detachment rather firmly. You could usually judge a ship by her Marines, after all.

"Aye," Johnson grunted, a little wary of Claggart's last statement. It was not killing that he enjoyed so much as simply fighting. He did like a good skirmish or even a brawl. But a 'daily dose of killings'? That was taking it a bit far.

"There's always them Yanks," he pointed out after a moment.

"Well, yes. But somehow, the French are more fun to kill."

Yanks? Yes, he did kill some. Not exactly in war though. But if they're going to kick Buonaparte's ass, they'll need some new enemy. Or he needs to go and continue his old job - but it was more trouble than fun, and he had to go to the Navy at one point before they could catch him.

"And of course, there's India and China. A good place to fight, and mysterious too."

That was true. Johnson nodded slightly. Frogs, at least, knew how to fight.

"Good to be posted out in the East Indies, then?" He asked, unable to help being a little curious.

"Honestly? It's terribly hot and filled with pagans who kill each other to make their gods happy."

In other words... it was hard, but fun. Although he prefered the North - he didn't like sun.

This time Johnson couldn't squash a grin. That sounded like a really rowdy place, which meant it would probably suit him just nicely.

"Seems a fine place to be," Johnson remarked, wondering if there was any way he could get himself onto an India-bound ship after this commission was over. "Many of our ships go out there?"

"Quite a lot. And I know many of our men remain there - the lasses are pretty and the opium is fine, or so they say."

Claggart himself wasn't interested in the pretty Indian lasses. You can never know if they have a pet asp in their beds, and... he was a woman-hater in general. Sure, many of them tried to catch him, but somehow, they always wanted more than one night. And Claggart swore he won't ever marry. Being a slave of a woman... no, thank you.
As for the opium - that was better, but he rarely used it. He still had some in his bag, in a silver box - but it needed a certain mood and thank god, or devil, he didn't have it since he came back from India. On long monsoon nights it was tempting, but here he didn't feel the need yet.

Opium? Johnson puzzled over that a moment, then shrugged. "If it's fine enough there for lads to stay, it can't be a bad place t'all." The Marine looked over the rail at the midnight sea. "What's it take to get onto an India-bound ship?"

"The lasses are tempting, ain't they?"

He grinned on his cold way. 'Always the skirts... it's the only thing they can think besides the rum.' He thought.

"Well, you need either luck to be on the right ship or friends who help you."

He was on the right ship when it happened, but he wouldn't call it a luck.

"Aye, they is," Johnson agreed. He was surprised to discover that he did not dislike bandying words with this fellow, which was something of an unusual occurrence. That wasn't to say that Johnson lacked friends, or at least conversation partners, but it was strange for him to take so quickly with a newly-arrived sailor.

"Luck's more the way," he added. "Ain't much use in expectin' officers to be friendly enough to you that way. They're too busy doin' favours for each other."

That was true. Most of the officers were from the high class - and only kind to each other.
Claggart also had some of their blood, but he never really cared, and he was more of an adventurer than a gentleman. He wasn't in any class - too much of a half-blood for the aristocrats and too much of a stranger for the bourgeois. His mother wasn't even English after all.

"I think you are right about the favors, Corporal." He parodized an old woman's voice. "After all, they are all relatives. They can barely marry each other. Nothing is more easy to take a nephew or a godson as a Middie..."

Johnson's lip curled up in a slight grin. "Aye. There's enough of that giong on 'round the squadron. If it ain't takin' some admiral's brat as a middie, it's movin' 'tenants and cap'ns around like play-things. Ain't ever a thought for us lads."

"The lords of the Admiralty apparently like chess. Like the ol' Grim Reaper, as they say."

And they are but their chess-pieces, no more.
Although the warrant also have their own little toys - the tars.