Drummer's Jacket, 26 May

Thompson had prepared to take the drum from de Guarde at Mister Fletcher's order, only to find himself forestalled by Oxley. That young scamp really was old enough to know better than to muck around playing a joke like that - he was likely to find himself seized up to a grating at his age, rather than bent over a gun.

He sighed and started filling his pipe, watching the proceedings and wondering what Mister Cartwright had said that had put such a look of fear onto Shepherd's face. He'd find out, all in good time. It had been rather a good joke though. It would have been even better if he could be sure that de Guarde actually knew what to do with the drum he'd been carrying.

His manner of getting Andrew's attention was less overtly physical this time. Thomas didn't waste time grabbing his brother around the collar and dragging him anywhere. He settled for seizing his neckcloth and pulling him forward.

" 'Tenant wants us topside. Both of us."

Something like a scowl came onto Andrew's face. "And? What? D'ya 'spect me to go waltzin' up to see him like this? Leggo an' foller me." He ducked his head and slipped out of the loose-hanging neckcloth, leaving the black fabric dangling from Thomas' hand, and scampered aft, stripping out of his blue jacket as he went.

Bewildered, Thomas followed, keeping hold of the abandoned neckcloth and retrieving the discarded jacket as he went. "What the hell're you doin'?"

Andrew had gone out of sight down the aft companion ladder. "Shut up an' help me," he snarled, when Thomas caught up to him at the bottom. His brother was scrambling to tug stockings, shoes, then gaiters onto his feet. "Jacket!"

Jacket. Right. Thomas tossed the blue jacket aside and grabbed up the folded drummer's jacket that lay underneath the ladder. He managed to get his brother's arms into the sleeves and did his best to button the jacket up between Andrew's hurried efforts to get his gaiters properly fastened.

"Don't be forgettin' your hat," Branning offered helpfully.

Andrew growled a curse and fumbled with his stock a moment before Thomas got it secured around his neck. He grabbed his hat and sprang up the ladder, Thomas hard on his heels. That had taken too long, Thomas knew it.

"Sent for, sir," Andrew reported, coming topside with all the grace of a terrified cow.

"Sir," Thomas echoed.

They were going to get shot, Oxley was sure of it. The other two had taken far too long getting back topside, and Andrew - he thought it was Andrew, anyway - looked about as ungainly as a new-born calf. Worse, really - he looked fair terrified, which a new-born calf obviously wouldn't be.

This was going to be some storm when it broke. He fixed his gaze firmly for'rard and prayed that Mister Cartwright would ignore him, would forget he even existed

Some hope.

De Guarde was becoming anxious. The two boys were taking far too long. He had no time on him, but he knew when something wasn't really happening as quick as it should. If the lad had just gone to retrieve his brother, he could've found and brought him back in half the time. Where were they?

Where on earth were they. He shifted left to right and back, nervously. If he should come up to give them time, he might do worse even. But if he would stay here... he decided that perhaps the officer would not figure out that something was wrong, if he stayed below and the two boys appeared. Then nobody would get in trouble. He sucked in some breath and against his better want, remained below tapping his foot, the boot feeling foreign after the long days of walking barefoot or in a Tar's slipper.

He sighed and urged the two boys on. There was one thing at the very least, that he could be glad about which the late coming would indicate. They would've changed, or rather the other Shepherd would not be coming on deck in his Tar slops but in a proper marine coat. This suggested the trouble could be avoided. He thought back on Fletcher. The lad could've betrayed him. He'd have his justice and would be justified to, but he called him Shepherd.

He wondered what to think of that. Did he owe it to Fletcher now. Would he be called on a favour because of that secret or was it just a favour done to forget at another time. He closed his eyes and just decided to wait and see or rather hear what was going on above and if he heard footsteps, to head for the mess, right quick.

"Lads," Cartwright said, looking the two drummers over. It was a futile attempt to find something that might help him tell the two apart. Both were red-faced and both looked as though they'd tossed their uniforms on in a tearing hurry. He realised also that he could not be sure which lad was the one he'd sent below. Clever lads, these two. Damned clever.

Well. The report from Mister Fletcher had been that one of them was ill. Being that this report was all that Cartwright knew for sure - beyond, of course, that the drummer he'd seen had definitely not been one of the Shepherds - he thought he might as well run with that. "I understand one of you has taken ill," he went on. "Not knowing plainly which of you it is, and considering that you both look particularly unwell, I believe the pair of you had best see the surgeon. No standing watches until he is satisfied you are both fit for it."

What were they doing? He was eager for news, he was so curious that the cats own interest would pale in comparison. What was it? Did they trick the man? Did they succeed? Would they all be able to swap back into their cloth - which he regretted to come so soon - to trick another day?

He was certain that the moment he saw either of the Shepherds they'd be interrogated till their ears bled or till he knew it all! But for now, what he had left, was to wait.

He wished he could hear what Mister Cartwright was saying to the Shepherds... but by the looks on their faces, it didn't bode well. Had they been caught out? Well, they had - he obviously wouldn't have recognised de Guarde as being one of his drummers, but that didn't mean anything, much.

Mister Cartwright was a clever sort, who'd say just enough that you thought he knew everything, and get you to talk your way into trouble. That was the impression Oxley had been given the other day, anyway.

No watches? Thomas tried hard not to blink in surprise. Was the lieutenant out of his mind? "Aye aye, sir," he said, neatly speaking up in the same heartbeat as his brother. Out of his mind or not, they were both to see the sawbones. Not that they needed it. Neither of them was ill, dammit.

"This one's yer own fault," Andrew grumbled, once they were out of sight below, on the messdeck.

"Mine?" Thomas burst out in surprise. "Whose brilliant idea was the whole changin' duties bit?"

His brother nodded. "Aye. If you was able to think on yer feet, the 'tenant wouldn't've pegged both of us for anythin'."

"I ain't the one prancin' 'round like a bloody Tar."

And so it went on, all the way forrard to the sick-berth.

~

That was one problem sorted. Hopefully. Cartwright let out a quiet sigh and looked toward the drummer still on deck, perhaps the only one who wasn't in any form of trouble.

"Oxley," he said. "I don't suppose you had anything to do with the Shepherds' latest antics?"

Oxley couldn't help glancing sideways as the Shepherds left, heading for'rard, bickering as they went.

Mister Cartwright was looking directly at him , and his heart sank. He flushed red at the officer's question. There were two option open: He could lie, and stay out of trouble, or he could own up and take whatever punishment Mister Cartwright decided to hand out.

And, after the last time, he'd bet his last farthing that he wouldn't simply end up following Foley around again.

"We was..." he started, and swallowed, trying to get his voice under control. "We was all in it, sir." He didn't dare look at the officer's face. "Though... we showed him what to do, sir. Wasn't goin' to... to put anyone in danger, like, sir, honest."

Why couldn't the deck just open up under his feet right now?

"Showed who?" Cartwright asked, even though he was almost fully sure he knew who Oxley meant.

"I... I..." Why was it so damn easy to let your mouth run away with you and say too much to the Lieutenant?

He was pretty sure neither of the Shepherds had managed to do that.

He swallowed, concentrating on the brass buttons of the officer's coat. "Can't say, sir." It wasn't his secret to give away, dammit.

Ah.

"I see," he said, nodding slowly. "Very well. Until the Shepherds are declared fit for duty, there is only one official drummer able to stand watches. That would be you, I'm afraid. Unless there is anyone else aboard who can adequately handle a drum?"

Spend the next twenty-four hours or more on continuous watch? His shoulders slumped a little and he nearly went to give de Guarde's name away, before a thought crossed his mind.

"Ber... Private Ware can, sir. An' I think Corp'ral Johnson was a drummer when he 'listed, sir."

And if the Corporal ever heard about this, Oxley was going to be dead. He probably wasn't going to be much better off when Ware heard who'd dumped him in it, but he thought he could deal with Ware. Hopefully, the man wouldn't deprive him of too much of his grog ration for this ploy... if it worked.

Ware and Corporal Johnson. Neither of them a name he'd wanted to hear, but they were useful all the same. Cartwright nodded. "Good. I'll speak with them. You'll be relieved promptly when the watches change."

Which still left affairs unresolved with regard to that mysterious other drummer, but Cartwright had an idea how he could remedy that. With a business-like nod toward Oxley, he made his way below.

He heard the steps, he hadn't seen what was going on, but something told him that if he were smart, he best make a run for it just then. He turned about, cursing. He had debated going and changing, really had. He would've done it if not for a few peeks more that he wanted to do after the Shepherds had gone, bickering like two old ladies.

It wasn't the time to think of where's and what's. He tucked the hat under his arm and took the first direction he thought to take. He could run for the Tar's mess. It was just a matter whether he had decided soon enough now.

Relieved at the change of the watch. There was still a threat there, though, and Oxley began to feel even more nervous about how Cartwright was going to resolve this.

He hoped the officer wouldn't drag Mister Leat into it, or worse, Mister Bush. It had only been a bit of fun, after all.

Though, he was pretty sure that he was going to be in for a real punishment this time, and bit his lip. "Most times, it's the cat," Foley had told the gathered Marines on Friday morning, when they'd asked about Mister Cartwright's discipline methods, and he shivered. He wasn't old enough for the cat yet... was he?

"Marine," Cartwright called out when he reached the bottom of the ladder. If it didn't look like the same fellow... "Come here."

De Guarde froze. He had started running too late. Slowly he turned pulling his hat onto his head, low at the front as if believing that the hat itself might hide his identity. He gulped. He had a moment in which he considered just turning again, making a proper run for it and then changing himself quickly. But that thought had so many flaws. There was no way he could change just as quickly as Cartwright could run. He could not hide nor could he run off the ship.. and the ship was fairly small enough for him not to be able to hide well.

With a sharp nod he aproached the man, and gave him a quick salute thinking to stand like he'd seen other marines do, but keep his face in the dark and gloom. "Sir."

Curiously, the Marine attempted to keep his face masked in the shadows. Cartwright found himself intrigued.

"Pass the word for Private Ware to repair aft, to the wardroom," he said, choosing to attend to that piece of business first. There he paused, considering. "You are a drummer, I believe. You may relieve Oxley when the watches change."

There. If he was wrong - which he doubted, given what Oxley had said - he would accept the consequences of it.

"Sah." The first part of the order was easy. He was silly to think that Lieutenant Carwright had thought him a certain marine exactly. He just saw the coat, naturally!

Or so he thought, till Cartwright spoke again, and he blinked. Blinked again, unsure if he heard it right, though a smile was creeping up to his face. "Yes sah." He said quickly. He was recognised as the drummer from earlier, but he was given the task for later. The lieutenant couldn't have thought him a Shepherd! He knew he'd sent those below bickering like a pair of old ladies no less. So, he had to mean it, mean him. But was it a trick? Even if, he couldn't disobey an order or risk doing something foolish because he was suspicious.

"Will do, sah!" He waited a moment as if expecting to be dismissed, barely containing his excitement. He could go back up there! Relieve Oxley and.. and stand as a drummer like they had planned. And this time they couldn't get in trouble for it. Not really, because the lieutenant had ordered it! He didn't know if he would be allowed to do that to a Tar, but why be picky about orders one delighted in? To him, the lieutenant had all right, and he in turn had to answer by following that order. Splendid!

It was a strange turn of events, but one he did not wish to question. No, not at all! Perhaps he should've.

"Carry on," Cartwright said, deftly concealing a grin. He waited a beat to watch the drummer depart before crossing into the wardroom.

"Sah!" The boy barely managed to keep a skip from his step, and a grin from his face. He reserved the appearance of the later for when he turned about. Better find Ware, and he decided the marine's mess was the best and first place to look. He walked first, then he ran with a laugh, and he dived past a few bewildered Tars, who didn't manage to recognise him just then. But only because in the gloom it was hard to pick out a face so quickly as he moved past them.

"Ware?" He peered into the marine's mess and glanced left and right. "S' a Ware here?"

"What." Ware barely troubled himself to poke his head up over the edge of his hammock. "Who's over there shoutin'?"

"T' officer wants you, lieutenant Cartwright. Said you's to repair aft, to the wardroom." The boy delivered the message with but a beat lost in between. He smiled. "I dunno wot' he want 'zactly, but that's what he tole me to say." He grinned ear to ear. Not because of anything he told to Ware, but because of his quick, painless encounter with the earlier mentioned captain.

And after a moment he added: "s' me shoutin'. Sorry." But grinning still.

Officer. Wardroom. Great.

"All right, all right," Ware grunted, freeing himself from the hammock. "Lay off the naggin' and all."

Boys were all the bloody same! He yawned as he tugged his jacket on and buttoned it. What the hell did Mister Cartwright want him for?