Working Ashore

The jolly-boat bumped up against the pier's pilings and Mister Rutland looked critically over the men sitting in the middle of the boat. Five lads sent ashore for some farce of a punishment. It defied belief. Leave it to the bloody army to think it could impose its own law on the Navy.

"Shift yourselves," the boatswain's mate rumbled, annoyed that he had to be party to this whole charade. "Sooner this is over, sooner we're back off home again."

Chase made a face as he clambered up onto the dock. He was glad to be spared a flogging, but this wasn't likely to be much better. Being put under the provosts' command was in some ways worse than a dozen lashes.

And here were the smug prancing bastards now. Chase and the other sailors pointely refrained from making any obedience to the mounted provosts. Why should they?

Thompson gave the provosts a sour look, deliberately not saluting. He didn't need any soldier watching him as though he was some defaulter. The sooner this was over, the better all round, he thought, wishing that the Captain had pushed to have Terpsy's Marines in charge of this stupid punishment duty. It was better than the grating, though, which was one small comfort.

He scrambled out of the boat and looked around as he waited for the sailors to join him, ignoring the provosts. "What d'you reckon they've got planned?" he said to Cob when the sailor was on dry land.

"That would be all of them?" One of the provosts had approached the clambering group and studied them critically. There was one red coat though he wasn't wearing a coat. Good, that man was accounted for at least. There was the other man whose face most of the provosts seemed to remember very well too. The one man who'd shouted 'Terpsy's to me', and had made their job much easier in locating who the culprits were.

The men were still in a sour mood. "Put some speed into it." So high on his horse, he looked every bit a pompous, arogant man who had a bone to pick with the lot. His mood could only be lightened since then. They'd make sure use of them.

Thompson ignored the man on the horse and glanced at the sailors. This was just so much rubbish. It'd be just so much better if they had Marines to supervise them. Bloody Provosts had to stick their noses, get honest folks into trouble... and hang around to gloat over it afterwards.

Great.

The seamen exchanged disgusted glances, but managed somehow to keep silent. It wasn't worth showing their disdain. Not yet.

"Looks like all of 'em to me," Corporal Johnson answered in his usual cheerful way. "You heard the officer-type, lads. Get movin' smartly. Just 'cause I ain't got a starter..."

Chase was hard-pressed not to snicker. So the provost wanted things done smartly, did he? They could certainly accommodate him...

Smartly. Thompson could manage smartly... though the over-dressed provosts couldn't, judging by the way they'd stumbled aboard Terpsy the previous day.

"Aye, aye, Corp'ral," he said, the words forming a blunt counterpoint to the cold shoulder the provosts had received.

A few of the men on horses came to ride alongside the small troop. They didn't talk to the men they were to 'guard' though the latter task wasn't really needed but made for a display. The civilians looked curiously to them, wondering probably what would befall these men. Of course their imagination struck them with a far greater selection of options than that the provosts.

The tall, proud men in cumbersome uniforms ignored them, 'guarding' their catch with glee. Of course riding so made it easier for them, and all they needed was to jab the horse a bit at the sides, to make it go and not to let it stop. "There will be plenty enough for you to do." The man at the head of the procession had spoken, loud enough that the whole of the prisoner line could've heard him. At the side there must've been a snide remark exchanged, as the two men smirked and laughed quietly. They brought about a turn at the coming street, which forked out into the familiar scene, a familiar square even, where all of it had happened. The provosts pressed on, though their goal was near clear to all that had been there, and all probably have.

"Your first task.. , of the day." The same provost as before had muttered and got off his horse motioning to the door of the abode in which the crashing, the merrymaking, the vomiting and all sorts of drink and food related things had happened on that fateful night. "Don't dally around, men." He seemed to have paid little respect to their own corporal. The inside of the tavern looked as though a whole battle of Trafalgar had been played out inside of it. But for the Tars, there had only been used landlubbers or rather the sea sick men, it stank, it was littered with broken bits of wood, table and chair, there was a mess here and there that the owner of the abode was hard pressed to clean up. A good duty to the civilian population, and a desirable first option to the provosts. They played with filth, now they could well deal with it.

Thompson sighed. In the cold light of the next day, it was a mess... the wreckage after a battle was worse, of course, what with the blood and the spars and cordage strewn everywhere. It stank of stale alcohol, and there was a large dried puddle of red wine by one wall, with smashed chairs and upended tables all over the place.

"Makin' the punishment fit the crime?" he muttered and glanced at the sailors.

That was their first task? Chase glanced at Taylor, unable to keep from smirking. This was right square in his speciality.

"What d'ya say, Chips?" The topman teased. This particular chore wasn't as bad as he'd thought it might be. Hardly any different than setting a gundeck to rights, after all.

Corporal Johnson pointedly ignored the provost officer and said, "I dunno's I gotta tell you lot what needs doin', or who needs to be doin' it, I hope."

There was a general, almost cheerful, chorus of agreement from the seamen. Chase toed a broken chair aside and headed for the back of the tavern, where he noted the presence of a couple mops and a bucket.

The cheers weren't taken in the same way by the provosts. The men should've been displeased with the task, perhaps annoyed, upset, cursing, but not cheering as if they just got prize money distributed amongst them. The provost officer looked on, as if hoping that the cheer was just an act and he could soon see the disgust on the men's faces.

His fellows also seemed to look hopeful, annoyed, and for the most part still tried to hide the emotion of disappointment, and the loss of the chance to be most pleased. Perhaps their next task would be worse. At least it was not over yet!

Well, of course Cross-Eyes didn't have to tell them what to do. Thompson grabbed the nearest whole chair, and shifted it to the side of the room. If they had to swab the floor, they needed to clear it first, didn't they? He nearly whistled the first few bars of The Rogue's March, but decided against it - Johnson and the provosts might not have a rope's end between them, but he was willing to bet that they could make the day a whole lot nastier if they got too pissed off.

Their lack of dejection obviously bothered the provosts. The knowledge made Chase grin. That lot wanted them miserable and resentful, did they? Pity. It only proved that they had no idea at all about the Navy and the nature of seamen.

"Wish we had Timlin here," Taylor remarked. "Could do with a good bit of fiddlin' to move things along."

"We ain't 'board ship, mebbe we can try a shanty or two," Preddie added with a glance toward Corporal Johnson.

Chase looked over as well and was surprised to see the Marine lounging in one of the few unbroken chairs, his feet up on the only undisturbed table. Was the wonderful grumpy bastard taking a nap? It was an unrepentant, blatant display of unconcern for the provosts.

"Reckon that means a shanty, lads," Chase ventured with a grin as he set to work swabbing.

"Reckon I'm goin' to stand him a drink," Thompson said, unable to hide a grin at Johnson's open disregard of the provosts. "He ain't such a bad sort, under that temper of his."

And someone suggested a shanty, which was fine by Thompson. That'd put the provosts' noses right out of joint, that would - and he heartily agreed. "Here, you was in a merchant ship wasn't you, Joe?" he said, glancing across at Preddie. "Know any good'uns?"

The provosts were seething. The damn Tars made a mockery of their punishment. They'd show them. After this, they'd have something prepared, be damned if they would. Why they could not have hung half of the gathered, they didn't know, but they so wished they had the ability to change the decision now. Would put a grim look to some of them faces if they knew the threat to be real.

That their own corporal had chosen to take a nap only fueled the flame. Steeling themselves, fighting to keep their faces void from further display of their displeasure a few had gone out, but one could not have kept his tongue: "There shall be none of your yowling.. drop that Mop sailor. You'll be wiping the floors with your shirts, you be damned!"

Preddie grinned. "Aye, I knows a few. What d'you wanna hear? Somethin' good an' bawdy?"

"Somethin' that'll curl their toes," Taylor told him.

A laugh had started forming in Chase's gut, but it died quickly when one of the provosts snapped out at them. No shanties... and they were to swab with their shirts? What sort of mad rubbish was that?

All eyes shifted toward Corporal Johnson, who didn't so much as twitch. There was a pause before Johnson gave an irritated snort and said, "Don't be lookin' at me, you lot. I don't wanna see your bared backs, do I?"

That was good enough for Chase. He was in no hurry to give up his mop anyway.

"..Corporal. Tell em to loose their shirts." This was not getting them anywhere, not atleast in the direction they wanted to steer this punishment. Already it angered them that the blackguards would not do anything unless so ordered by their own corporal. It was a cheek that they were showing even against all this. The provosts knew they were guilty but the navy seemed to barely agree to comply with their demand.

".. Willgram, take their mops." The same provost had said and indicated the youngest one. The lad nodded, turned on his heel and walked to the closest sailor. He hadn't been present when the dirtying had happened, but was here now to witness the followup. "..mop." He said trying to sound as intimidating as his odler counterparts. His hand was held out to Chase.

None of the seamen moved. This one was all down to Johnson. The corporal, naturally, seemed unperturbed.

"You give up that mop, Jacob Chase, and I'll have you flogged for it."

Despite himself, Chase grinned. With it put to him like that, there was no choice at all. "Aye, Corporal," he said and leaned pointedly on the mop. No giving up their mops, no peeling out of their shirts. That worked for him.

Willgram turned to the others. He really couldn't yank the mop from under the larger, stronger looking Tar. Even if he'd have done it by force, he doubted his attempts would bear any satisfactory result.

The officer of the provosts seemed eyed the lowly corporal coldly. "..You will tell them to turn in their mops. .and you shall order them to do as ordered by us.., corporal." He said the last word with disdain.

Did they want this done, or not? Seemed 'not'... because winding Corporal Johnson up was not going to help the provosts one tiny little bit. Thompson leaned against the wall. The first provost who tried to strip his shirt from him was going to go flying... which wouldn't help anyone, but would amuse the lads. Though he'd likely get in real trouble for it, which wasn't what he wanted.

"I don't follow orders that're stupid," Johnson replied. "You want this here tavern cleaned up or not?"

It was all Chase could do not to chuckle. There was no way these provosts would honestly win out against the corporal. Officer with them or not.

"Will you call this insubordination.., a cheek to an officer even. " The man spoke coldly, his eyes trained on Johnson. "..Do you... suggest then to say..., you are disobeying our orders even? I shall remind you that you were put under our command for the time being and thus you answer to us..in full."

He paused as if to let those words sink in. "...We thus may punish you, as we fit, in the duration of this... arrangement." He turned towards Chase. "So .. corporal, you may rethink your words, and be so kind as to order your men to do as they have been told."

Johnson lifted an eyebrow. "Only I ain't been put under command, have I? I'm here to keep you lot from putting these lads in it too bad." He tipped himself back in his chair in a gesture of boredom that was only slightly forced. "I dunno as I gotta rethink a thing. It ain't me tryin' to bully these lads around. They was doin' all right as they were."

Did they want the place cleaning up, or not? Thompson wasn't about to move an inch if Corporal Johnson said not to.

Heck - right now, if the Corporal said the sky was orange, Thompson would agree with him against the provosts. And he wasn't taking off his shirt for anyone unless Captain Bolitho himself appeared and demanded it.

Right now, he contented himself with glaring at the provost officer.

"Well... your services are no longer needed." The officer turned as if contemplating. He could not loose face infront of the Tars. If that corporal triumphed, the punishment for sailors would turn out to be a sort of reward.

What could they do? Johnson was not likely to bow to their whims, that much was clear. He was not a man which would easily be bribed, and his loyalty to his ship and its crew was strong, stronger certainly than money.

"...So, whose orders do you follow corporal?" His eyes narrowed darkly.

"I'll believe that when the cap'n says it," Johnson countered. "Whose orders? I'd have thought that was obvious. Cap'n Bolitho and the other officers 'board of Terpsichore. Now, you get one of them fine gennelmen to tell me otherwise. Sir."