25th May - Lieutenants in the tavern

"Oh, yes. Of course. Right, then."

Bush chuckled despite his faux pas, finding it more amusing than anything. After all he did not speak the language. Why had he thought that Leat was asking for a large amount of bottles, anyway? Deciding it was nothing to concern himself with, Bush shrugged and reached for one of the bottles that the woman had placed on the table.

"The lingo is hard to follow, sir," Leat said, not wanting Bush feel hurt. "I think two is 'dosh', but I've no idea what a bottle is."

He held out his glass for Bush to fill with his own, and only giggled when the first lieutenant slopped it slightly.

"Your skill at the language trumps mine, sur... ah, sir." Cartwright looked up at the two Mister Leats, interrupting what had become a fascinated study of the clarity of his empty glass. He pushed his glass forward on the table, not sure he could ably lift the vessel just that moment. "Another, sir. If you don't mind."

"Damned if I know what a bottle ish," Bush said, not caring at all that he did not speak Portuguese, "At least you know enough to ask for wine."

He was a bit surprised that he spilled some wine while pouring Leat a fresh glass, but somehow he could not help finding it funny, and he quickly joined in laughing.

"Hmm, it sheems your glass moved, Mr. Leat," he remarked. Seeing that Cartwright had slid his glass across the table, Bush nudged the bottle towards Leat. "Perhaps you'd better give it a go this time..."

"If you insist, sir," Leat said, reaching out at the bottle which seemed to be wavering somewhat. "Though would you mind holding it still for a moment?"

"The glass?" Cartwright asked, moving his other hand forward to help keep the empty vessel firmly on the table.

"The bottle. Or both." Leat tipped the bottle into the Marine lieutenant's glass. "Say when."

Right. The glass, at least, wasn't going anywhere. Cartwright was sure of that. He watched the wine cascade down from the bottle into the glass with all the intent of a child watching a little waterfall. Say when...

The wine slopped just a little over the rim and Cartwright remembered that it wasn't supposed to do that. "That'll... that's good," he said and tried to carefully draw the over-full glass toward him again. It wouldn't do to spill too much of this bliss in liquid form.

Leat was mildly surprised that the glass was near overflowing, and that he had not noticed it. But still, Cartwright seemed happy. He smiled again. He seemed to be smiling a lot this evening, but that didn't seem to bother him either.

"Mr. Bush, where do you think we'll be bound for next?"

"Hmm." Bush frowned slightly. He could have sworn that Bolitho had told him something about that, but now he was drawing a complete blank. "Well wherever it may be, hopefully we should be able to get out to sea."

Knowing there were soldiers in the tavern, he lowered his voice as he added, "And to get away from the bloody army."

The army. Cartwright made a face. Pack of brainless rocks, the army.

"I'll drink to tha - " To his embarrassment, Cartwright's statement was interrupted by a hiccup, this one faster to sneak up on him before.

The midshipman now returned with a couple of strong fellows who offered the lieutenants cheerful salutes. They were used to Mister Deverel and his ways, but it was amusing to see officers from other ships enjoying themselves in the same fashion.

"Right, Mister Deverel, up ye come." They lifted him to his feet, bumping the table and sloshing the wine. "Sorry, sirs. Rough seas, eh?" one of them said, grinning as he hauled his lieutenant up.

Leat frowned in genuine confusion.

"Rough seas? What do you man by that, man? Has the glass dropped?"

"Er, no sir. Sorry sir. I only meant about the table - bit unsteady it is. Come on, Mister Deverel, let's get you on your way."

Leat had not really noticed, but supposed the sailors knew what they were talking about.

"I suppose it is Mr. Deverel that is the more unsteady," he said, taking a vague shot at wit. "Be sure it's on the larboard side you take him in."

Though it was highly unlikely that Deverel hardly came in any other way than the larboard entry port after a night ashore...

"Music," he remarked to Cartwright, returning to a subject that'd been mentioned before the Midshipman's first appearance. "I'd say you were right, though to be honest I don't think much of their music over here."

They got Deverel to his feet, and a spasmodic hiccup threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. A rather low ceiling. "Mind yer head, sir," said one of his minders.



He looked around the tavern that was about to leave, the friends from whom he must depart, and he felt rather sorry to be going. "The last thing, it's always the very last thing, as when there's nothing can save you but toasted brown bread or that particular little folding wooden arm chair. They're all the same, things and people, pulling you in directions you don't want to go. Spend thirty five pounds, and what." He clapped a fond hand onto Cartwright's shoulder. "Have your bread toasted, old friend, on the fire, with a fork held by that pretty lass. Adieu!"

"It is rather rough, that's true." Perhaps they were better off without music then. Cartwright managed a shrug and drank a little more wine. Typically, Mister Deverel chose that moment to whack him on the shoulder. Some of his wine slopped over the rim of the glass and onto his jacket.

"Oh. Oops," he muttered, setting the glass back down onto the table. At least Deverel was making his departure.

Bush frowned slightly. Deverel's babbling was making no sense to him. Not that it ever really did, but Bush found his banter even more confusing now.

"Yes well...we shall keep that in mind," he said absently, more to his glass than to Deverel, being as he was paying much more attention to it at the moment. Though he had to admit that Deverel's antics were not annoying him nearly as much as he would have thought. Perhaps it was because Deverel was finally leaving. Yes, surely that was the reason.

Leat in the meantime was still following the train of thought regarding music.

"It is a shame, though, that they can't play it any better. Can't sing either, which is a shame too. Not very musical at all."

"If music be the love of food... the love of food... PLAY ON!" Deverel shouted with a laugh while his attendant seamen were retrieving the boot he had lost under the table. He began to sing. "She lives on a hill, and she has good beer and ale to sell! And of good fellows she thinks no ill! Now now now now now!"

"Oh for the love of God, ish he not gone yet?" Bush grumbled, putting his head in his hands. He was glad Deverel was leaving but he did not want to hear the man singing on the way out. "I'll take tavern music over that cacophony any day..."

"Now now now now now now!" Deverel continued, laughing as he sent the other boot flying.

Clapping his hands over his ears Leat glared at the sailors holding Deverel.

"For God's sake, get him back to his berth before he hurts somneone!"

The midshipman cringed at the shouted order and nodded to the seamen to carry the lieutenant away while he himself recovered the boots and soon followed them. At last, Deverel was carried and dragged out of the tavern, still singing.

It was not a particularly funny scene. Far from it, in fact. Yet, somehow, Cartwright found himself chuckling. Quietly, at first, then more helplessly. Of course it would be Deverel making a spectacle. Who else but him?

Cartwright put his head down onto the table and covered it with his arms, trying desperately to contain his strange mirth.