25th May - Lieutenants in the tavern

Something landed close by and Cartwright abandoned his attempt to count the grains of wood on the underside of the table to look over. Well! If it wasn't the first luff himself.

"I've not gone anywhere have I?" He asked, frowning in confusion. It must be a very devilish storm to make Mister Bush lose his footing. But then, the deck was pitching most unpleasantly now.

"Gone? Where have we gone?" Bush stared at Cartwright, utterly confused now. Then he looked up, saw the table, and managed to remember that they were on the floor. "No we haven't gone far. Just...taken a bit of a tumble."

For some reason, that phrase sounded immensely amusing, and Bush started to chuckle. A little at first, then a bit more loudly.

A tumble. That made sense. Cartwright grinned. "It seems so. Are we still on the quarterdeck, do you know? Or have we gone over the stairs?"

That was an even more absurd notion than his previous thought about flying shoes. Mister Bush was laughing though, so it must not be a dangerous situation. Cartwright found himself chuckling too. They were both in a terrible state, certainly, if they should both fall to the deck because of some triflingly rough seas.

Bush was still chuckling, so much so that he had some difficulty answering Cartwright.

"I think...I think we've hit the bottom," he said, before losing himself to another fit of giggles.

"The bottom, sir? Of the hold?" Good heavens, the ship must be coming apart! And yet Cartwright thought even this horrible fate ridiculously funny.

A redcoated soldier now came to their table and helped himself to removing the two vacated chairs.

Oh dear. There were two men now, that both toppled onto the floor. It was a clear sign that they were drunk. The Portuguese girl gazed at the pair, perhaps deliberating whether she ought to help them up. Before she could say much she saw one of the redcoats just comandeer the pair of chairs. Perhaps the two drunks would not notice and prefer staying seated anyhow. She smiled and was glad that they did not break either of the glasses. When seeing Cartwright's glass empty, she poured the remaining contents of her bottle into it.

"senhors." She said kindly to them. "More drink? Place to stay overnight?" That would be able to be charged on them as well. A good portion of money that she would be earning from it, or the house would.

"No, the bottom of..." Bush was still laughing, though he tried valiantly to calm himself down. "The bottom of the floor, I fear."

This made him start chuckling again. But then he heard the voice of a woman from above. At first he wondered if they had inadvertently drank themselves to death, and thus were hearing voices of angels. Then he realised it was just the bar wench back again. He made to look up, wanting to tell her they had no need of lodgings for the night. However, he moved a bit too fast and struck his head on the table instead.

Cursing loudly, Bush clutched his head and collapsed back to the floor.

It was the removing of the chairs by a redcoat officer that had made Leat notice that he was apparently now alone at the table with only the tavern wench for company. He looked around in mild distress, wondering where his two companions had gone, but he could see no sign of them through th edimly-lit tobacco fug that filled the room.

He was about to start accusing the woman of kidnap when there was adull thud and a groan from underneath the table. Startled, Leat bent down and was astonished to see both Cartwright and Bush lying flat on the floor, the latter clutching his head and moaning softly.

"Sirs, why are you on the floor?"

Leat was genuinely at a loss as to why his two companions would prefer to be lying on the filthy straw than sitting on chairs - especially Bush. Bush was always so concerned about cleanliness and hygiene on the Terpsy...

"The floor?" Cartwright asked blearily, again distracting from his attempt to count the table's wood grains. "Are we not in a storm...?"

The deck seemed to be pitching less, though, which had to mean the gale was waning.

"No, we are not." Leat's forehead creased with thought. "No. I am sure we're not. But perhaps we should be getting a back to the ship? As you aare not using your chairs anymore I think we may go..."

They weren't in a storm. It must have ended, then. Cartwright chuckled for a moment and managed somehow to lever himself semi-upright. "Excellent news." Perhaps now they might recover from the indignity of falling all the way down into the hold. From the quarterdeck, no less!

"Sirs, shall you rather stay for the night. Safer , yes. Better, and good to sleep." The maid piped into the conversation, all smiles and kindness, which was good for business. "Leave tomorrow?"

"You ain't usin' this table," a redcoat informed Leat, preparing to carry it away.

Grumbling both from pain and annoyance, Bush slowly dragged himself up from under the table, grabbing onto Leat's chair for leverage. Once he finally regained his footing, he wavered for a moment before quickly clutching the chair again to steady himself.

"Yes...yes I think it would be best if we...called it a night," he said, then turned to the barmaid and added, "Which means we will return to our ship. No rooms."

"Aye, William. I mean, sir."

Leat got unsteadily to his feet to, wobbling a bit as he discovered his legs were being a little slow on the uptake for some reason, but he found support by taking hold of Bush's coat sleeve.

"Cartwright, you need to get up," he said, his voice taking on a tone of studied calm, the red-headed lieutenant making an effort to keep his words from slurring. "We're going back to the ship."

He fished around inside his coat for his purse and dropped a coin on the table as his share in the last bottle. It was silver.

"C'mon, I know the way."

Up? Right. Up. Cartwright lurched to his feet and remembered, just in time, not to look down again to check for his shoes. He said nothing but cast about for his hat, trusting that the two sea officers could find their way about ship better than he.

After depositing his own share of payment on the table, Bush took a hesitant step but found that he was swaying much more than he wished to be. Leat was holding onto his coat, though Bush could not fathom why, being as he was every bit as unsteady as the second lieutenant. Although maybe that was not such a bad idea. Perhaps if they clung to each other, they might be able to remain upright, and hopefully get back to the ship in one piece. So Bush took hold of Leat's coat to steady himself and looked to see if Cartwright was with them. He was.

"Well, lead on then, Mishter Leat."

"Aye, sir!" Leat swayed and took a firmer hold around Bush's middle, the lieutenants now propped against each other shoulder to shoulder.

"Come along, Mr. Cartwright - follow on!"

Bush and he took a couple of staggering steps forward, and succeeded in knocking over their table, bring the half-empty bottle and glasses to the floor with a crash.

"Oh, sorry," Leat said absently, more to the table than the wench who was looking at the mess furiously. The red-headed lieutenant then suddenly laughed and said to the recoats that had been trying to oust them at the end of the evening;

"Well, you can certainly have our table now! An' wass' more, you can pay for wass' left of it! Gentlemen, good evening!"

And not paying any attention to the protests being howled in his direction, Leat concentrated all his effort on getting to the door. It looked very far away, but he knew it must be just an illusion, because there was no way that room could have grown whilst he was in here (he'd have noticed), and so he aimed for the open door, urged Bush forward in what seemed like a rather unco-ordinated three-legged race, and happily they made it through and outside into the street without much more than a cursorary bump against the doorframe.

"Come on, Cartwright, old fellow!"

The Maid was indeed upset. She had gathered but for the payment of one man, they broke a table and a few glasses, broke the bottles which now littered the floor. Oh, she would have gotten a hold of them and let them see what was what, if not for the crowd barring her access to the drunk men.

Well the redcoats, to whom Leat has spoken, would have to pay, since they seemed to be in some relation to these men for sure. With a huff, and a puff and a sweep of her dress she had began to pick up the pieces, cursing the officers in Portuguese, and cursing the exact lot even more. If they ever came to this tavern, boy they would pay. For what they broke and drank, with interest, and then for what they would have drunk then. Aye, they'd pay a much higher price, the damned lot!

Outside in the street, a woman accosted Cartwright, obviously English in his unmistakable red coat, and an important officer with his shining gorget. "English, English!" she addressed him, catching his sleeve. "You with me?" What she lacked in communication skills, she more than made up for in body language, quickly wrapping her arms around his neck.

Keep up. He had to keep up with the two sea officers, or he would never find his way back to the ship. It wasn't so easy to walk, strangely. Cartwright settled upon a weaving sort of stride and did his best to keep within a pace or two of the others.

That was until a woman appeared from nowhere and attached herself to his neck. His tottering balance collapsed and with it went his body.

"Now this is ridiculous!" The Marine burst out, incensed that he should lose his footing again in this damned storm.

"No, no," she soothed, laughing amiably and kissing his face. Surely he would find that pleasant. What man would not? If he wanted to lie down and do it right here in the street, well, she was willing enough, for a price.

"Get off!"

Really, now. He had been doing admirably well keeping his footing and all until this daft girl had flung herself at him. His men must think him a complete disgrace to see this!

"...We'll rant an' we'll roar like true British sailors, we'll range an' we'll roam o'er all the shalt shees, until we shtrike shoundingsh in the Shannel of Old Engand, from Ushant to Shilly ish thirty-five leaguesh..."

"T'isn't, though."

"How much ish... is it, then?" Oxley was just on the other side of sober and was having to concentrate so as not to slur his words, though he was in a better state than Grattan and McEwen, who were slurring everything and trying to keep each other upright.

"Look - itsh the 'Tenant!"

"Sheemsh to be havin' shum short of trouble..."

"Wish I could have trouble wiv a woman..."

Oxley followed Grattan's wavering finger. The Lieutenant looked rather blurry. "Tell him to get in focus," he muttered, wondering if another drink would sort it out. It was rather funny, though, and he couldn't help giggling at the fact that the Lieutenant couldn't focus himself.