Post by Bog on Feb 3, 2012 14:20:52 GMT -5
Title: The Dogwatches
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of historical figures, all names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: A Royal Navy frigate gains a captain whose ideas about running a ship quickly put him at odds with the crew. West Indies/South Carolina, 1780.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own. The narrators will change from scene to scene, as this story is told primarily by the ship's Marines.
The new captain came aboard that morning.
His arrival was much earlier than expected and none of the crew were prepared to receive him. Not even the officers. Were it not for an alert seaman working on the foc's'le, the captain's longboat would have gone unnoticed until it had hooked on at the main chains. As it was, the officer of the watch was hard pressed to organise a side-party in the fifteen minutes it took from the time the longboat pushed off from the dock to the time the bowman hooked on. It was worse for the ship's Marines, who were still in their hammocks, as they would not be woken for at least another bell. When the word was passed for a quarterguard to be mustered at the double, there was near-panic.
Hammocks spilled out bleary-eyed, half-clothed Marines who immediately began dashing around the crowded deck, creating a fumbling scramble to get dressed and grab up their kit. Up forrard in the arms locker, Sergeant Frederick Devlin was grabbing muskets at random and shoving them into Marines' hands as they came hurrying forward, praying he would get the necessary quarterguard suitably outfitted in time to get them all topside. It was not ideal but it was a quick solution to a potentially nasty problem.
There was, however, another problem that immediately arose. Several Marines had spent parts of the night on sentry around the ship and had not found time enough to shave, never mind look after their kit. Devlin did his best to keep those men from finding their way into the quarterguard, but there was no time to closely inspect every man. He was, however, pleased to see a number of men attempting to scrape off the stubble from their chins before hurrying topside.
Despite the swift response of the officer of the watch, the side-party had barely mustered when the longboat hooked on. It was an embarrassing failure of coordination. The embarrassment was compounded when the captain came up through the entry port faster than anticipated, which put the boatswain and his mates off-beat piping him aboard. Sergeant Devlin fared slightly better in giving the order to present arms, but even he was off his mark. It all resulted in a bare few heartbeats during which the captain stood on deck before he was formally recognised.
The officer of the watch, Lieutenant Simcoe, was visibly beside himself. The newly-arrived captain introduced himself as Captain Leaford in a short, clipped tone, which did nothing to ease Simcoe's distress. He fumbled through the introductions of the ship's officers, nearly managing to mispronounce Lieutenant Alderbury's name, but he recovered when he offered to show the captain directly to his cabin. It was a tactful and perfectly reasonable offer, designed to get Leaford off the deck quickly so the ship could resume its work. Their new captain, however, seemed to be wise to such tricks.
"I would rather you called all hands aft, Mister Simcoe," he said casually. "I shall read myself in and remain on deck a while."
Simcoe managed to hide his dismay, but the slight shiver that went through the junior warrant officers was not so well-concealed. Leaford ignored it and turned toward Jonathan Collins, the ship's Captain of Marines. For a moment, he did not speak, with the clear intention of unnerving Collins. When Collins showed no sign of unease at the scrutiny, Leaford said, "I want the names of every Marine in this detail, delivered to me before the end of the watch."
Collins didn't so much as blink. "Aye, sir."
"Very good. Carry on, Mister Simcoe," Leaford said and, clasping his hands behind his back, walked casually toward the quarterdeck. There was another slight pause before the side-party was dismissed, a sign of how swiftly the captain had managed to unnerve the ship's officers. As the boatswain and his mates piped the crew aft, Collins pulled his sergeant aside for a quick, tense conference about the quarterguard. It annoyed him that his men should be so quickly singled out for anything, by a man who had only been on the ship ten minutes. Whatever the captain intended, it could not be good. Collins' concern, however, was not quite the same as the sea officer's.
"How many men have just come off sentry duty?" Collins asked his sergeant, well aware that some men had been a little less sharp than usual. That tended to happen when they had not gotten the chance to shave and straighten up their kit. The presence of those men in the quarterguard, however, was highly improper. Sergeant Devlin should have known better.
"Four, sir. They was in the rank on the forrard side, 'way from the officers."
Four men with only a mildly rougher appearance than their fellows. It would have stood out despite Devlin's precaution and there was no excuse for it, of course, but the speed with which the sea officer had noticed and addressed it did not sit well with Collins. Had it been the ship's previous captain, he would not have been so affronted. Then again, Captain Somersby had always been fair-minded in his treatment of the crew, even the Marines. If what had happened at the entry-port was any sign, the new captain would not be so easy-going.
"Yet they were seen, Sergeant." Collins sighed. There was nothing to be done about the oversight now. "Take more care when you select men for quarterguards in the future."
It was a dismissal and Devlin knew it. He saluted. "Aye sir." Without another word, he tramped away to take his place amongst the men, while Collins went up the stairs to the quarterdeck. Up forrard, the Marine sentry by the belfry reached for the bellrope. Four bells. The morning watch was half over.
Leaford stood at the quarterdeck rail, looking out over the assembled ship's company. From where he stood, Sergeant Devlin had a clear view of the frigate's new captain and he was not sure he liked what he saw. The sea officer was expressionless, his bearing upright and proud. There seemed an air of stiff authority about him, but that could simply be down to the formality of his reading out his commission aloud, thereby assuming command of the ship.
The actual reading was something Devlin tuned out. He had heard this speech innumerable times before. The only things that ever changed were the names. Instead, he devoted his attention to a casual study of the captain and the officers flanking him. Mister Simcoe, the first luff, was still smarting from the earlier travesty that was the captain's arrival aboard. Poor bastard, Devlin thought. The two junior lieutenants, Alderbury and Carver, seemed to be holding themselves unnaturally straight. The midshipmen, of course, could hardly keep still.
Then there was Devlin's own officer. Captain Collins stood almost directly behind Leaford, his face devoid of expression. But for the tightness at the corners of his mouth, there was no sign at all of his feelings. He would be struggling with his anger, Devlin knew. The Marines had shamed themselves and, as a result, had let Collins down. The failure was Devlin's most of all. He had not taken his usual care inspecting the men who turned up for quarterguard. If there was any man to blame for those lads' sloppiness, it was him.
With a start, he realised that Leaford had finished speaking. There was a heavy, expectant silence, during which the captain surveyed the crew. Devlin hoped he would not be put off by the faults that attended his reception aboard. This was a good company. He would even venture to say he had known none better. Certainly Leaford would give them the chance to prove their worth. How could he not?
"That will be all, Mister Simcoe," Leaford said at length, without so much as a glance at the first luff. "Dismiss, if you please."
The shrieking chorus from the silver calls stirred the gathered crew into dispersing. Devlin dismissed the Marines, resolving to have stern words with every man in the detachment about their own responsibility to ensure they were fit to be seen at all times. While he was charged with overseeing that they were properly turned out when need be, he could not chase after every man individually. The lads had forgotten themselves only once, but it was one time too many!
~
Being released from that uncomfortable ceremony was a relief. Collins wasted no time escaping below to the wardroom. There, at least, he could consider himself largely at liberty. Or, if nothing else, temporarily removed from anything going on topside. His steward was already in the cramped cabin, diligently working to finish repairing a hole in one of Collins' spare shirts. He would have already made sure that his own kit and uniform was in good order, of that Collins was confident. To expect anything less from Alfred Hardy would be doing the man a disservice.
Neither of them spoke as Collins peeled off his coat and draped it over his hanging cot. He had writing to do and Hardy knew it. The list of names that Leaford had demanded took only ten minutes to complete, though Collins took his time waiting for the ink to dry. If he earned his Marines a little extra time to straighten themselves up, so much the better. Leaford would probably want a special inspection of the men from the quarterguard. It was the logical thing, or at least it was what Collins himself would want after such a showing.
Hardy helped him back into his coat and ran a soft brush over the wool, making sure it was free of dirt and dust, then he was on his way topside again. With luck, Leaford would have gone to his cabin to begin the work of looking over the ship's books. To his slight surprise, however, the sentry outside the great cabin told him that the captain was on deck. Still? Collins thought that to be odd but said nothing and went up to the weather deck. This did not bode well for any kind of meeting. The great cabin at least afforded the illusion of privacy. On deck, there was not even that.
He made his way onto the quarterdeck, taking care to keep to the leeward side of the deck until Leaford troubled himself to call him over. That wouldn't happen for some time, as it seemed that Leaford was content to converse with Lieutenant Simcoe about the finer workings of the ship. He knew Collins was on deck, of course, but clearly he would not be rushed to finish his conversation. Fine enough.
"Major."
Collins looked up from his review of the list in his hand. So Captain Leaford was finished with his other conversation, finally. "Sir," the Marine said, crossing over to the windward side of the deck. "The names you asked for."
"Hm." Leaford took the paper and looked it over carefully. There was nothing in his expression to suggest what he was thinking. Collins waited. After several long moments, Leaford lifted his gaze from the list to meet Collins'. "These men are below deck now?"
"Yes sir. They are seeing to their kit, with the rest of the detachment."
"Of course," Leaford said blandly. "I want these men put to the grating for sloppiness and neglect of duty. They disgraced this ship by their shoddy appearance, which means they disgraced me. I don't tolerate sloppiness or disgrace very well, Major. Even from Marines."
The words were like a blow to the nose. He wanted the Marines flogged? Collins understood the need to punish them for their failing, but he would have awarded field punishment instead of lashes. And to the entire quarterguard, no less, when there were only a few who were guilty of any real fault. It was outright madness. He was taking a definite dislike to this captain already. "Flogging, sir?" The Marine asked carefully, well aware that there were other sets of ears on the quarterdeck listening to the conversation. That was probably why Leaford had chosen to remain on deck. Clever sod.
"Flogging, Major," Leaford affirmed. "A dozen each will serve. This will not be a problem, I trust?"
Collins seethed inwardly. It was very much a problem, as sea officers were barred from issuing direct punishments to Marines. That was not taking into account Collins' own preference for managing all things relating to his Marines, including punishment. "It is, actually, sir," he said, striving to hold onto his temper. Lieutenant Simcoe was listening to them with undisguised interest and he had no doubt the midshipmen were doing likewise. "Awarding punishment to Marines is a privilege given only to officers of Marines, sir."
"Precisely," Leaford said easily. "That is why <i>you</i> will be the one ordering these men flogged. A dozen lashes per man. It is only... ten men."
Only ten men. "And if I refuse?"
Leaford's neutral expression slipped, just for a moment. "I would not recommend it. It would be unfortunate if you were to find yourself replaced, but I'm sure it will be easy enough to find another officer who is more willing to follow simple orders."
It was sorely tempting to refuse, but he was not about to leave his Marines at this man's mercy. He would have to pass the word through the detachment about what was coming, though he suspected they would know before he made it down to their messdeck. Leaford had won this initial fight, but there was no way Collins would let him have his victory easily.
"Very well, sir," he forced himself to say. "If there is nothing else?"
"No," Leaford told him, magically all politeness again. He held out the paper. "Carry on, Major."
Fuming, Collins took the paper back and stalked off the quarterdeck. He was able to contain himself until he reached the safety of his cabin, where he startled Hardy into stabbing himself with his sewing needle by knocking his folding chair across the cabin. To be forced into an unnecessary punishment parade by a captain who had only just come aboard... obviously he would have to be far more aware of what he and his Marines did to prevent future re-occurrences. Ten men to receive twelve lashes a man. Collins shook his head angrily and crumpled up the paper with the list of names on it. Just the thought of having to order such a thing made his stomach turn.
"Send for Sergeant Devlin," he snapped. Hardy was up and gone at once, well aware that to question his captain was to invite trouble. Something was up and it wasn't good. It took a lot to get his captain into that sort of temper. The steward returned after only a few minutes, a plainly wary Sergeant Devlin in tow. Once the sergeant was shown into the cabin, Hardy disappeared. He would return after Devlin departed. Collins had managed to calm himself somewhat and he was able to face Devlin's questioning look without expression.
"Every man from the quarterguard this morning is to be separated from the others and confined in irons at once," he said without preamble. "There will be a punishment parade today. The men who were in the quarterguard will each receive twelve lashes for their failure to turn out properly, as Marines are always expected to do."
Devlin rocked back on his heels, visibly surprised. "A dozen strokes for being unshaven, sir?"
"Yes, Sergeant," Collins snapped and was instantly ashamed for his anger at the sergeant's question. He exhaled sharply, unclenching his fists only with an effort, and turned partially away. It was not Devlin's fault that this was happening. Taking his frustrations out on him would do nobody any good. "Ordinarily, I would be content with simple field punishment, but circumstances demand a more firm stance."
There was a light rustle of wool as Devlin folded his arms over his chest. He had caught the meaning in his captain's statement. "Understood, sir," the sergeant said, nodding stiffly. Collins was glad that he didn't have to be more specific that it was not his idea to order his own men flogged needlessly. There was no telling how many ears in and around the wardroom might be listening. Privacy was non-existent down here.
"Good. Be sure to impress on the men the importance of maintaining themselves properly at all times. I don't wish to have any more failures of this nature."
"Aye sir." Devlin straightened to attention and saluted. "I'll pass the word, sir."
The sergeant let himself out, taking care to ease the thin door shut behind him. Collins sighed and picked up his overturned chair. A punishment parade meant drafting orders sentencing the guilty Marines. Hardy slipped back into the cabin, silent in his movement as ever. He set a steaming cup of something down on the little desk and went directly back to work on the spare shirt he'd been sewing.
Collins gulped down the cup's contents without bothering to see what it was, and he gasped at the liquid's scalding bite. It was coffee, fresh and strong. Of course Hardy would know to bring that instead of brandy or tea. How had he managed to get some brewed so quickly?
"Hardy," Collins said, after he had finished the order for punishment. "Pass the word for Sergeant Devlin to - "
There was a knock at the cabin door. The two Marines exchanged glances, then Collins called out, "Come."
One of the midshipmen peeked around the door. "Captain's passed the word for all hands and officers to lay aft, sir. At once."
"Very well." Collins laid his quill down into the ink-stained strip of canvas that protected it and carefully rolled it up. The midshipman had vanished immediately after delivering his message, thankfully. A glance across the small cabin showed that Hardy was already packing away his sewing implements. "Let us see what our new captain intends," he said to his steward, who only quirked a slight grin in reply. There was nothing else to say.
~
"What the bloody hell's this all about?" Albert Ware grumbled as he took his place in the neat ranks lining the midships rails. The rest of the ship's company was assembling in the centre of the weather deck, separating themselves from the Marines almost obviously. Every man aboard knew what was going to happen and nobody wanted to join the unlucky Marines at the grating.
His mate, a boyish-faced Somersetman called Higgins, shot him an irritated look. "Better shurrup, Berty, 'fore the cap'n picks ya fer some scratches from the cat next!"
They were both hushed by Corporal McIntyre, as the sea officers appeared on deck. It was time for the old routine of listening to captains read from their commission and orders. Ware sighed in resigned annoyance. He was already wishing the new captain would be replaced. To order the entire quarterguard flogged, for no better reason than because a few of them had not shaved. The very idea was repulsive. Symon Higgins discreetly drove his elbow into Ware's ribs when the Kentish Marine shuffled his feet fractionally in a silent expression of his disgust. They all had to suffer through this. Better to do it without attracting the officers' attention.
Leaford's voice, when he started speaking, was an ear-numbing drone. He recited the formal wording of the relevant Article of War, without once changing pitch, inflection, or volume. It was almost as if he viewed the whole thing as nothing more than a boring bit of ceremony. There was barely a shiver amongst the assembled ship's company as the men listened, for not a one dared to draw the captain's attention his way. Far better to remain safely anonymous and let the Marines bear the brunt of the captain's notice.
"Bo'sun!" Leaford called out abruptly, startling many men with the unexpected shift away from monotony. "Bring up the men for punishment!"
A slight shiver passed through the Marines' ranks, as Matheson, the boatswain, brought his silver call to his lips. Only a handful of seconds passed before the ten Marines were marched topside, led by a studiously-expressionless Corporal Jones. They had all been stripped of their longtailed red coats. Ware bit firmly down on his tongue to keep from muttering anything and watched silently as the Marines to be flogged were paraded near the rigged-up grating.
"These men," Leaford said, "have been found to be in neglect of duty, being poorly-turned out at their prescribed place of duty. In so doing, they brought disgrace and discredit upon this ship, and therefore upon me. I do not hold with disgrace, lads, and I will not tolerate any man who brings it upon me. It would be wise of all of you to take a lesson from these unfortunates and do not commit any sins that may bring you to the same spot where they now stand."
Leaford's voice had risen to a ringing tone of righteous indignation. "Neglect of duty, lads, is one of the most grievous of offences. Men who shirk their responsibilities become slack, lazy, and careless. They become burdens - more than burdens, they become useless and dangerous, doomed to bring failure and death to their ship. Neglect, lads, spawns defeat, and I have never commanded a ship that knew anything of defeat."
From any other captain, that last remark would have been cause for the men to be hopeful, but they were already wary of Leaford and in that light, the boast simply sounded ominous. None of the men moved or even made a sound, which Leaford apparently expected. He smiled - an unsettling gesture, Ware thought - and said "I have every confidence that you lads will not disgrace me. You are a fine lot, brave men all of you."
That little bit, added no doubt to sprinkle false sweetness to the deal, stirred a few seamen into quiet muttering, though that ended swiftly when Matheson glared out over the gathering from where he stood on the quarterdeck stairs. There was a brief silence, as Leaford glanced at the Marines patiently awaiting their punishments.
The petty bit of encouragement the sea officer had offered stood starkly at odds with the rest of his speech, but some of the seamen were apparently willing to overlook that. Stupid sods, Ware thought. Then, just as quickly as the smile had appeared, it was gone. Leaford's craggy face was again stern and forbidding and he barked, "Mister Matheson! One dozen strokes per man, for neglect of duty!"
Matheson hopped down from the quarterdeck stairs and answered with a firm. "Aye aye, sir!" The boatswain gave no sign of his personal feelings about the whole proceeding, but he was far too canny to let himself be marked out as a possible enemy to the captain. "First man up. Come on, Corporal, no time t'be dawdlin'!"
Jones and Colburn, one of the boatswain's mates, led the first Marine forward and secured his wrists to the grating. It would have to be Carter who'd be there in the first rank too, the unlucky bastard. Poor sod couldn't catch a break at all, could he?
"Lay it on!"
Sergeant Devlin and the two corporals ought to be the ones swinging the cat, Ware thought bitterly. It was no matter for the boatswain and his mates to be involved with. But with the whole crew turned out to witness punishment, Devlin and Matheson had apparently agreed that it was best to leave the flogging to the Tars. Poor Carter. Ware winced as the first blow splashed across the Marine's back. An angry red weal appeared immediately, and Ware knew it would only get worse.
Colburn gave the cat a brisk shake after each swing, giving no sign that he was sparing the poor lad on the grating. He probably wasn't, likely for his own sake. The boatswain's mate got on well enough with the Marines and any other time, he would have probably held back some. With the new captain watching, though, he couldn't risk the appearance of leniency.
The eleventh stroke struck one of the opened furrows on Carter's back just right and the Marine stiffened up sharply against the tight bind of the ropes around his wrists, standing almost on his toes. But he didn't cry out. Bless the lad, but he never uttered a word of pain or protest, all the way through it.
The only noise from him was that of ragged, heavy breathing. Jones and Colburn freed Carter's wrists and were careful to support the Marine when he nearly sagged to the deck. To Ware's surprise, Carter pushed the two men away and straightened up as much as he could. He was a little wobbly on his feet but he didn't pitch over.
The Hampshireman turned slowly toward the silent line of officers at the quarterdeck rail and looked up at Captain Collins. The entire Marine detachment nearly burst out into cheers when Carter lifted a slightly trembling arm to salute before shuffling away toward the ladder.
His bold show served to inspire the other Marines waiting to be flogged and to a man, they all made a point to salute the quarterdeck before going below to have their backs washed. Ware noted the flicker of pride on Captain Collins' face at each gesture of obedience. The whole affair was grossly unnecessary but the Marines were proving that they could take unjust flogging with suitable grace and not forget themselves because of it.
The last man at the grating was one of the newer Marines, a skinny lad called Tomilson. He had been the most vocal of the lot, having cursed aloud when the first blow was given, something which was more amusing than embarrassing. Ware earned himself another quick, sharp jab from Higgins' elbow before Sergeant Devlin gruffly dismissed them from parade. The grating was left to the Tars to unrig, as the Marines had more important matters to look after.
"Ballsy little scamp, you is, Tommy," Nick Frazier called out to Carter as the Marines spread out around their messdeck. Most of the flogged men were back from the sick-berth, except for Jenkins and Tomilson, but they would return shortly enough.
Carter offered a toothy grin and said "Sure it weren't nuffin' but proper, innit? Us lads ain't gonna be knowed as soft, no-how!"
His declaration was met with cheerful calls of agreement. It had been a fine show of brass, where Captain Leaford no doubt meant for the floggings to cow the men's spirits. The Tars might be prone to being affected by such things, but the Marines sure weren't, thought Ware with no small pride.
He grinned as he shucked off his crossbelts and laid them carefully into the sea-chest he shared with Higgins. He was due up on sentry next watch and wanted to get some more sewing done before having to turn out for it. The others were likewise settling down to work on various tasks, though here and there a couple lads were curling up for quick naps while they could.
"You lot are bloody mad." Corporal McIntyre came clattering down the aft ladder, his round freckled face showing an expression of resigned amusement. "Cap'n Leaford's fair hoppin' at that whole show, an' at you 'specially, Carter. Well bloody done!"
The Marines chuckled at the light touch of crimson that crept across Carter's cheeks. They enjoyed the idea that their mates' show of quiet defiance had made the intended impression. Not a bad recovery from their momentary disgrace at quarterguard. McIntyre reached out to playfully ruffle Carter's hair, then the corporal was tramping forrard to the arms locker, where he was to help Sergeant Devlin check over the spare muskets. When he was gone, James Bell cast a mock-scowl toward Vaughan and called out "Damn ye fer not 'owlin' like a wee bairn, y'bold Welsh cow!"
Vaughan smirked and patted the bandage around his torso. "I ain't soft, an' you knows it. But we can't all be carved outta rock like you is."
More chuckles. The newly-flogged Marines were all back from sick-berth now, the white of their bandages matching well with the pale skin of their arms and torsos. They fell in with their mates as if nothing had happened, gathering around sea-chests or one of the lowered mess tables, going to work cleaning their kit and uniforms. Something as passingly insignificant as a flogging wasn't enough to distract them from their routines.
Captain Collins observed the lighthearted bantering for several moments before slipping quietly back into the wardroom, both proud of and amused by his Marines. They wouldn't be intimidated by Cornwall's new captain, if their display earlier was anything to go by. He returned to his cabin, thinking to get back to his own routine of preparing the watch rosters for the next week. Hardy was there already, once again working on his sewing. At the rate he was going, he'd finish repairing the shirt by the end of the watch.
"What do you think of all of this?" Collins asked his steward, as he settled in at his tiny desk. It was not often he asked Hardy for his opinion but neither was it unheard of. Sometimes the Londoner could offer a point of view that was pleasantly unbiassed.
Hardy looked up from his work, his thin face thoughtful. "Powerful way to come 'board, sure," he said. "Firs' impressions is sure 'portant ones y'know, sir. Reckon that's why he come down so heavy."
"Perhaps." Collins thought of Leaford's speech and doubted that the morning's flogging would prove to be a one-off event.
"Ain't convinced, is you?" Hardy sounded amused. "Look at it this way, sir. Them lads took it with all the grace they got, an' they ain't gonna be harf so careless agin. Sure they knew it were all Cap'n Leaford behind that whole parade. Corbett was standin' sentry by the stairs, y'know. Who else woulda passed the word 'long so quick? S'prised you ain't figgered them out thataway by now, sir."
That was a good point. Collins unrolled his writing kit and thought about that. In his lingering temper, he hadn't even considered that his Marines would be alerted so quickly to the truth of the whole affair. They certainly hadn't seemed overly distressed by the ordeal of being flogged. With luck, they could prove their worth well and good on their next patrol, whenever they received fresh orders. He dipped his quill into the inkwell, then paused and looked at his steward.
"I want you to pass the word, quietly, that there will be an extra tot for the lads this evening. We can tap the cask of wine from our last prize."
Hardy grinned. "Aye aye, sir."
~
A heavily-freckled face appeared at the opened door of his cabin, barely visible beneath a hat that was two sizes too large. Collins looked up from his book at the boy's discreet cough and tried not to smile. One of the midshipman, of course. Probably the youngest one aboard. "Yes, Mister Hamilton?"
The boy gulped and saluted, nearly knocking his hat off in the process. "Cap'n's compliments, sur, an' wudd ye join hem innis cabin for dinner, sur."
Well, that was somewhat unexpected, Collins thought. He tucked his bookmark into place and nodded. "Thank you, Mister Hamilton." He waited until the midshipman had saluted and disappeared before setting his book aside and swinging out of his hanging cot. So the captain was inviting officers to dine with him for his first night aboard.
It was a courteous gesture. Many sea captains would wait a day or two before inviting his subordinates to dine. Collins suspected the floggings of that morning had something to do with the invitation being made but he shook that thought away as he opened his sea-chest in search of a fresh shirt. A dinner hosted by the ship's captain required being turned out in his best rig.
"Not that 'un, sir, it's got a tear on the cuff," Hardy admonished, slipping into the cabin in his usual ghost-like way. "This 'un, sir. Just cleaned it two days past, too." He held up another shirt for his captain's inspection, briefly, before laying the shirt over the edge of the hanging cot.
Collins hid a grin as his steward muttered observations to himself about the suitability of officers to dress themselves. He should have known that Hardy would hear of the invitation to dinner and turn up to make sure he was properly turned out. It was probably for the best that Hardy chosen the smallclothes anyway. Collins himself had little to do with the regular upkeep of his clothes. Hardy managed all the washing, mending, and storage; all Collins did was wear them. "My best coat is in good enough repair to be worn, I hope," the captain commented dryly.
"It's passable, sir," Hardy answered with a thoughtful frown as he shook out the coat in question. There was a momentary pause, then the steward nodded. "Aye, it'll do, but I'll have to give it another wash tomorrer."
This time, he didn't bother hiding his grin. He peeled off his shirt and let Hardy quickly rub a towel over him to dry up the semi-permanent patches of sweat. It was impossible to avoid sweating in the Caribbean. Once Hardy judged him to be suitably clean, he held out the fresh shirt for Collins to slip over his head. From there, it was a simple matter of changing his breeches and donning the layers that were part of a Marine officer's uniform.
The whole process lasted roughly ten minutes, with Hardy taking care to use a soft-bristled brush on nearly every article of clothing that his captain was to wear. When at last he was dressed, Collins thought sure he would be suitable for presenting to the King. He could understand Hardy's concern, though. Captain Leaford had made it quite clear that he preferred a smart ship and that included the officers.
"S'pose that'll do," Hardy said grudgingly as he put the brush away. He looked his officer over from head to foot and nodded slowly. "Aye. Ain't perfect but it'll do, sure."
Not perfect. Collins simply shook his head. "Thank you, Hardy. I assume you'll be joining us as mess steward as well?"
"Of course, sir." Hardy was picking at his own coat, grimacing at the light stains that were part and parcel of regular hard use. He had never not attended a dinner, whether in the great cabin or in the wardroom. Collins waited until his steward finished the brief cleaning-off of his coat, then gestured toward the door.
"Shall we, then?"
Hardy nodded and followed him out. Behind them, in the wardroom, somebody cursed loudly and there was a heavy thump of something falling to the deck. One of the sea officers must have been roused by a midshipman - the unfortunate Mister Hamilton, Collins saw, when the boy raced out in complete terror - with the captain's invitation to dinner.
He wondered idly who the midshipman had disturbed, then decided it wasn't important. They were outside the great cabin in only a moment anyway. The sentry quirked a very slight grin at the sight of the captain and his steward, then he was thumping his musket butt on the deck and calling out, "Major Collins, sir!"
The cabin steward appeared an instant later to open the screen door. He seemed more wan-faced than usual but managed a thin smile on seeing Hardy trailing behind Collins. Both Marines returned the brief flickering gesture, which seemed to cheer Hales somewhat. As was his right, Collins entered the cabin first and therefore missed the meaning-laden exchange of glances between the two stewards, and the very slight nod from Hardy.
Had he seen it, however, he would not have been surprised to know the reason for the short, silent conversation. It was old habit between Hales and Hardy to save whatever was left of the dinner and share it out amongst the lower deck as best they could. Cornwall's old captain would not have troubled himself a bit about such an arrangement, but Leaford was not likely to consider it a noble practise. It was better to be as discreet as possible about it.
"Ah, Major," Captain Leaford greeted, rising from his chair at the head of the table. "I am pleased you joined us. Sit, sir, and take some claret. Come, Hales, a glass here."
Collins took his customary place at Simcoe's right, leaving the chair at the captain's left hand open to Alderbury, where he was entitled to sit, being the ship's second lieutenant. There was some quiet shuffling as Hales directed a group of ship's boys where each was to stand.
Hardy was already at his proper place, his hands folded in front of him as he waited for the uncomfortably-scrubbed group of ship's boys to be settled behind the officers they would be serving. It would not do if he was to pour his officer a glass before the others were ready to have their own glasses filled.
"No, this will not do," Leaford said abruptly, surveying the table and the seating arrangement. He was smiling, but there was just a hint of displeasure passing across his face. "Lieutenant Alderbury, shift your chair, if you please. Major, you sit so far down, it is not proper. Sit you here, sir, where Mister Alderbury is."
Alderbury, to his credit, simply nodded and rose at once, winding his way carefully between the other seated officers and the young mess servants behind their chairs. Collins, however, felt a measure of unease. He had no interest in sitting immediately near the captain, not the least because he had wished to converse with Finch, the ship's surgeon. Instead, he was to be tucked between Leaford and Cornwall's third lieutenant, Carver. That change was not the only one, either. Leaford was eyeing the midshipmen who were also present, as might a disapproving parent.
"You young gentlemen will shift as well. Mister Slater, there - yes, across the table. Mister Quinn, beside Mister Barton there. Mister Morse and Mister Hamilton... you may stay as you are. Yes, that'll suit much better."
There was a little more shuffling as the midshipmen moved to their new chairs, with their designated servants following them. Leaford nodded when at last the movement had stilled. Why he had upset the usual arrangement was a mystery, though Collins supposed it was probably better not to think on it too much.
He had enough to concern himself with, as he was now obliged to make conversation with Lieutenant Carver, a man he considered much too passive and submissive for his own good. He would also have to participate in whatever discourse that Captain Leaford introduced, which was something he was even less pleased about. With a sigh, he lifted his glass slightly, the signal to Hardy to fill it. It was going to be a long evening.
"Now," Leaford began, having helped himself to a healthy swallow of his own claret, "I must compliment you gentlemen on a truly fine ship. In reading over the books and observing the crew, I can see that there will be no great difficulty in making Cornwall a tight, smart ship."
Collins glanced briefly at Simcoe, who as first lieutenant was directly responsible for maintaining the frigate, from bowsprit to taffrail. He would've thought that Cornwall was already very much a tight, smart ship. As much as he disliked Simcoe - more so than he disliked Carver, in fact - he thought that the first luff knew his trade remarkably well. There had never been any fault noted in the ship's state or performance before now, certainly. What had made Leaford think there was room for improvement? Maybe the ship's bell hadn't been polished yet?
"Sir?" Simcoe asked. "Cornwall is a fine ship. I have never found cause to fault - "
"Yes, yes, I'm sure your previous captain believed in allowing some little slack in exchange for passable quality, but, gentlemen, I have no time for any slack or passable quality," Leaford interrupted. "I would have thought this morning's display would have made that expressly clear."
Simcoe visibly bit down on his tongue. To have attempted to counter that would have been to risk censure. It was too early in their new captain's tenure to raise such barriers, even though it rankled most horribly to hear their previous captain spoken of in such a manner. The other officers held their own silences, even the midshipmen. There was no inclination toward natural conversation, which was a pity, Collins thought.
The captain seemed willing to overlook the silence, which was something. Though, he probably would have begun speaking again even if there had not been such a pause. "I shall conduct a formal inspection of the ship tomorrow, beginning at four bells in the morning watch. I expect the crew to be turned out at Divisions throughout so there may be no interruptions. Afterwards I will inspect the crew. This will include the Marines."
The remark was a nasty little barb, but Collins kept his outward expression neutral. "Aye, sir," was all he said, his acknowledgment joining that from the other officers. The lack of resistance to his stated intentions seemed to please Leaford, for his next words were directed to Hales.
"Very well. You may begin serving, Hales. And be quick with it."
Hales bobbed his head jerkily and disappeared. He returned presently carrying a pot and ladle, albeit somewhat precariously. The captain's cook, aptly named Peg-foot, thumped after him with a tray laden with a set of fine bone-china bowls. In only a few minutes, the bowls were set out in front of each officer and Hales and Peg-foot were swiftly going around the table serving out the soup.
Collins found himself idly studying the soft red of the wine in his glass as he waited. It was already enlightening, this first dinner with the frigate's new captain. He hoped that the conversation would be allowed to shift to less-businesslike subjects, or he was going to be bored entirely to tears.
"Oh come, gentlemen," Leaford chided, startling many of the officers away from their thoughts or their soup-bowls. "You are far too quiet for King's officers."
There was a brief exchange of glances, then Alderbury set down his spoon and said, "Well, sir, perhaps we might press you for details about your last ship?"
"Hm. Perhaps not, Mister Alderbury. Perhaps not. I dislike to dwell upon the past. It is hardly important when there is the present to worry over." The captain helped himself to some soup, then dabbed lightly at his lips with the edge of the tablecloth. "I think, instead, it will be more helpful to learn about this ship, as it is now our collective present. Do you not agree?"
Wasn't that interesting, Collins thought. A refusal to discuss where he'd come from probably meant some sort of unpleasant circumstances. He wondered if he might make discreet enquiries about it. Or maybe he shouldn't, just yet. Better to get a more sound idea of what sort of captain Leaford was first. Many captains, he knew, had connections in all parts of the service. It wouldn't do to ask questions of the wrong officer, after all.
"Cornwall is a fine ship, sir," Alderbury replied, after a nod from Lieutenant Simcoe. "She handles well in most weathers and has recently been recoppered. We were newly arrived here when Admiral Barrington took Saint Lucia, but we had the good fortune to be present for that action. Since then we have mainly been employed on patrol duties."
Leaford made a noise of acknowledgment, but it was impossible to judge if it signalled approval or disdain. "I see."
Nobody seemed sure what to say next, so silence again crept in. It seemed an appropriate time to indulge in the soup, which was really quite good. Peg-foot Dell knew his business as a cook, certainly. Where had he learned, Collins wondered, a trifle distantly?
The silence was broken by Alderbury, again, who cleared his throat quietly and ventured, "If I may be so bold to offer, sir, but perhaps you might care for a story?"
That would be an acceptable distraction, Collins thought as he sipped at his claret. He watched Leaford from the corner of his eye and was relieved to see him nodding. At least he could be agreeable enough when it suited him.
"By all means, sir. Tell it."
Alderbury took a swallow of claret to moisten his throat, then dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. After a pause, he said, "If the master will permit me, of course. It is as much his tale as mine, I think."
The sailing master grunted but he favoured Alderbury with a grin. "S'all yers, sir."
"Very well," Alderbury said, relaxing a little. "It was just after we had taken a prize - a fine Yankee brig - off the coast of..."
Collins tuned him out. It was a tale he had heard before. He tapped the rim of his glass and Hardy refilled it. Before too much longer, the soup would be cleared away and the next course brought in. Let Alderbury take his time with his story, the Yorkshireman thought idly, and offered his glass to Hardy. At least with the second lieutenant preoccupying everyone, Leaford was not likely to spoil the mood any more than he had already. But, he mused as Hardy handed the glass back, again refilled after the steward had drank off its contents, it was certainly going to be a long evening.
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: With the exception of historical figures, all names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: A Royal Navy frigate gains a captain whose ideas about running a ship quickly put him at odds with the crew. West Indies/South Carolina, 1780.
Author's Note: Any factual errors that occur within are my own. The narrators will change from scene to scene, as this story is told primarily by the ship's Marines.
The new captain came aboard that morning.
His arrival was much earlier than expected and none of the crew were prepared to receive him. Not even the officers. Were it not for an alert seaman working on the foc's'le, the captain's longboat would have gone unnoticed until it had hooked on at the main chains. As it was, the officer of the watch was hard pressed to organise a side-party in the fifteen minutes it took from the time the longboat pushed off from the dock to the time the bowman hooked on. It was worse for the ship's Marines, who were still in their hammocks, as they would not be woken for at least another bell. When the word was passed for a quarterguard to be mustered at the double, there was near-panic.
Hammocks spilled out bleary-eyed, half-clothed Marines who immediately began dashing around the crowded deck, creating a fumbling scramble to get dressed and grab up their kit. Up forrard in the arms locker, Sergeant Frederick Devlin was grabbing muskets at random and shoving them into Marines' hands as they came hurrying forward, praying he would get the necessary quarterguard suitably outfitted in time to get them all topside. It was not ideal but it was a quick solution to a potentially nasty problem.
There was, however, another problem that immediately arose. Several Marines had spent parts of the night on sentry around the ship and had not found time enough to shave, never mind look after their kit. Devlin did his best to keep those men from finding their way into the quarterguard, but there was no time to closely inspect every man. He was, however, pleased to see a number of men attempting to scrape off the stubble from their chins before hurrying topside.
Despite the swift response of the officer of the watch, the side-party had barely mustered when the longboat hooked on. It was an embarrassing failure of coordination. The embarrassment was compounded when the captain came up through the entry port faster than anticipated, which put the boatswain and his mates off-beat piping him aboard. Sergeant Devlin fared slightly better in giving the order to present arms, but even he was off his mark. It all resulted in a bare few heartbeats during which the captain stood on deck before he was formally recognised.
The officer of the watch, Lieutenant Simcoe, was visibly beside himself. The newly-arrived captain introduced himself as Captain Leaford in a short, clipped tone, which did nothing to ease Simcoe's distress. He fumbled through the introductions of the ship's officers, nearly managing to mispronounce Lieutenant Alderbury's name, but he recovered when he offered to show the captain directly to his cabin. It was a tactful and perfectly reasonable offer, designed to get Leaford off the deck quickly so the ship could resume its work. Their new captain, however, seemed to be wise to such tricks.
"I would rather you called all hands aft, Mister Simcoe," he said casually. "I shall read myself in and remain on deck a while."
Simcoe managed to hide his dismay, but the slight shiver that went through the junior warrant officers was not so well-concealed. Leaford ignored it and turned toward Jonathan Collins, the ship's Captain of Marines. For a moment, he did not speak, with the clear intention of unnerving Collins. When Collins showed no sign of unease at the scrutiny, Leaford said, "I want the names of every Marine in this detail, delivered to me before the end of the watch."
Collins didn't so much as blink. "Aye, sir."
"Very good. Carry on, Mister Simcoe," Leaford said and, clasping his hands behind his back, walked casually toward the quarterdeck. There was another slight pause before the side-party was dismissed, a sign of how swiftly the captain had managed to unnerve the ship's officers. As the boatswain and his mates piped the crew aft, Collins pulled his sergeant aside for a quick, tense conference about the quarterguard. It annoyed him that his men should be so quickly singled out for anything, by a man who had only been on the ship ten minutes. Whatever the captain intended, it could not be good. Collins' concern, however, was not quite the same as the sea officer's.
"How many men have just come off sentry duty?" Collins asked his sergeant, well aware that some men had been a little less sharp than usual. That tended to happen when they had not gotten the chance to shave and straighten up their kit. The presence of those men in the quarterguard, however, was highly improper. Sergeant Devlin should have known better.
"Four, sir. They was in the rank on the forrard side, 'way from the officers."
Four men with only a mildly rougher appearance than their fellows. It would have stood out despite Devlin's precaution and there was no excuse for it, of course, but the speed with which the sea officer had noticed and addressed it did not sit well with Collins. Had it been the ship's previous captain, he would not have been so affronted. Then again, Captain Somersby had always been fair-minded in his treatment of the crew, even the Marines. If what had happened at the entry-port was any sign, the new captain would not be so easy-going.
"Yet they were seen, Sergeant." Collins sighed. There was nothing to be done about the oversight now. "Take more care when you select men for quarterguards in the future."
It was a dismissal and Devlin knew it. He saluted. "Aye sir." Without another word, he tramped away to take his place amongst the men, while Collins went up the stairs to the quarterdeck. Up forrard, the Marine sentry by the belfry reached for the bellrope. Four bells. The morning watch was half over.
Leaford stood at the quarterdeck rail, looking out over the assembled ship's company. From where he stood, Sergeant Devlin had a clear view of the frigate's new captain and he was not sure he liked what he saw. The sea officer was expressionless, his bearing upright and proud. There seemed an air of stiff authority about him, but that could simply be down to the formality of his reading out his commission aloud, thereby assuming command of the ship.
The actual reading was something Devlin tuned out. He had heard this speech innumerable times before. The only things that ever changed were the names. Instead, he devoted his attention to a casual study of the captain and the officers flanking him. Mister Simcoe, the first luff, was still smarting from the earlier travesty that was the captain's arrival aboard. Poor bastard, Devlin thought. The two junior lieutenants, Alderbury and Carver, seemed to be holding themselves unnaturally straight. The midshipmen, of course, could hardly keep still.
Then there was Devlin's own officer. Captain Collins stood almost directly behind Leaford, his face devoid of expression. But for the tightness at the corners of his mouth, there was no sign at all of his feelings. He would be struggling with his anger, Devlin knew. The Marines had shamed themselves and, as a result, had let Collins down. The failure was Devlin's most of all. He had not taken his usual care inspecting the men who turned up for quarterguard. If there was any man to blame for those lads' sloppiness, it was him.
With a start, he realised that Leaford had finished speaking. There was a heavy, expectant silence, during which the captain surveyed the crew. Devlin hoped he would not be put off by the faults that attended his reception aboard. This was a good company. He would even venture to say he had known none better. Certainly Leaford would give them the chance to prove their worth. How could he not?
"That will be all, Mister Simcoe," Leaford said at length, without so much as a glance at the first luff. "Dismiss, if you please."
The shrieking chorus from the silver calls stirred the gathered crew into dispersing. Devlin dismissed the Marines, resolving to have stern words with every man in the detachment about their own responsibility to ensure they were fit to be seen at all times. While he was charged with overseeing that they were properly turned out when need be, he could not chase after every man individually. The lads had forgotten themselves only once, but it was one time too many!
~
Being released from that uncomfortable ceremony was a relief. Collins wasted no time escaping below to the wardroom. There, at least, he could consider himself largely at liberty. Or, if nothing else, temporarily removed from anything going on topside. His steward was already in the cramped cabin, diligently working to finish repairing a hole in one of Collins' spare shirts. He would have already made sure that his own kit and uniform was in good order, of that Collins was confident. To expect anything less from Alfred Hardy would be doing the man a disservice.
Neither of them spoke as Collins peeled off his coat and draped it over his hanging cot. He had writing to do and Hardy knew it. The list of names that Leaford had demanded took only ten minutes to complete, though Collins took his time waiting for the ink to dry. If he earned his Marines a little extra time to straighten themselves up, so much the better. Leaford would probably want a special inspection of the men from the quarterguard. It was the logical thing, or at least it was what Collins himself would want after such a showing.
Hardy helped him back into his coat and ran a soft brush over the wool, making sure it was free of dirt and dust, then he was on his way topside again. With luck, Leaford would have gone to his cabin to begin the work of looking over the ship's books. To his slight surprise, however, the sentry outside the great cabin told him that the captain was on deck. Still? Collins thought that to be odd but said nothing and went up to the weather deck. This did not bode well for any kind of meeting. The great cabin at least afforded the illusion of privacy. On deck, there was not even that.
He made his way onto the quarterdeck, taking care to keep to the leeward side of the deck until Leaford troubled himself to call him over. That wouldn't happen for some time, as it seemed that Leaford was content to converse with Lieutenant Simcoe about the finer workings of the ship. He knew Collins was on deck, of course, but clearly he would not be rushed to finish his conversation. Fine enough.
"Major."
Collins looked up from his review of the list in his hand. So Captain Leaford was finished with his other conversation, finally. "Sir," the Marine said, crossing over to the windward side of the deck. "The names you asked for."
"Hm." Leaford took the paper and looked it over carefully. There was nothing in his expression to suggest what he was thinking. Collins waited. After several long moments, Leaford lifted his gaze from the list to meet Collins'. "These men are below deck now?"
"Yes sir. They are seeing to their kit, with the rest of the detachment."
"Of course," Leaford said blandly. "I want these men put to the grating for sloppiness and neglect of duty. They disgraced this ship by their shoddy appearance, which means they disgraced me. I don't tolerate sloppiness or disgrace very well, Major. Even from Marines."
The words were like a blow to the nose. He wanted the Marines flogged? Collins understood the need to punish them for their failing, but he would have awarded field punishment instead of lashes. And to the entire quarterguard, no less, when there were only a few who were guilty of any real fault. It was outright madness. He was taking a definite dislike to this captain already. "Flogging, sir?" The Marine asked carefully, well aware that there were other sets of ears on the quarterdeck listening to the conversation. That was probably why Leaford had chosen to remain on deck. Clever sod.
"Flogging, Major," Leaford affirmed. "A dozen each will serve. This will not be a problem, I trust?"
Collins seethed inwardly. It was very much a problem, as sea officers were barred from issuing direct punishments to Marines. That was not taking into account Collins' own preference for managing all things relating to his Marines, including punishment. "It is, actually, sir," he said, striving to hold onto his temper. Lieutenant Simcoe was listening to them with undisguised interest and he had no doubt the midshipmen were doing likewise. "Awarding punishment to Marines is a privilege given only to officers of Marines, sir."
"Precisely," Leaford said easily. "That is why <i>you</i> will be the one ordering these men flogged. A dozen lashes per man. It is only... ten men."
Only ten men. "And if I refuse?"
Leaford's neutral expression slipped, just for a moment. "I would not recommend it. It would be unfortunate if you were to find yourself replaced, but I'm sure it will be easy enough to find another officer who is more willing to follow simple orders."
It was sorely tempting to refuse, but he was not about to leave his Marines at this man's mercy. He would have to pass the word through the detachment about what was coming, though he suspected they would know before he made it down to their messdeck. Leaford had won this initial fight, but there was no way Collins would let him have his victory easily.
"Very well, sir," he forced himself to say. "If there is nothing else?"
"No," Leaford told him, magically all politeness again. He held out the paper. "Carry on, Major."
Fuming, Collins took the paper back and stalked off the quarterdeck. He was able to contain himself until he reached the safety of his cabin, where he startled Hardy into stabbing himself with his sewing needle by knocking his folding chair across the cabin. To be forced into an unnecessary punishment parade by a captain who had only just come aboard... obviously he would have to be far more aware of what he and his Marines did to prevent future re-occurrences. Ten men to receive twelve lashes a man. Collins shook his head angrily and crumpled up the paper with the list of names on it. Just the thought of having to order such a thing made his stomach turn.
"Send for Sergeant Devlin," he snapped. Hardy was up and gone at once, well aware that to question his captain was to invite trouble. Something was up and it wasn't good. It took a lot to get his captain into that sort of temper. The steward returned after only a few minutes, a plainly wary Sergeant Devlin in tow. Once the sergeant was shown into the cabin, Hardy disappeared. He would return after Devlin departed. Collins had managed to calm himself somewhat and he was able to face Devlin's questioning look without expression.
"Every man from the quarterguard this morning is to be separated from the others and confined in irons at once," he said without preamble. "There will be a punishment parade today. The men who were in the quarterguard will each receive twelve lashes for their failure to turn out properly, as Marines are always expected to do."
Devlin rocked back on his heels, visibly surprised. "A dozen strokes for being unshaven, sir?"
"Yes, Sergeant," Collins snapped and was instantly ashamed for his anger at the sergeant's question. He exhaled sharply, unclenching his fists only with an effort, and turned partially away. It was not Devlin's fault that this was happening. Taking his frustrations out on him would do nobody any good. "Ordinarily, I would be content with simple field punishment, but circumstances demand a more firm stance."
There was a light rustle of wool as Devlin folded his arms over his chest. He had caught the meaning in his captain's statement. "Understood, sir," the sergeant said, nodding stiffly. Collins was glad that he didn't have to be more specific that it was not his idea to order his own men flogged needlessly. There was no telling how many ears in and around the wardroom might be listening. Privacy was non-existent down here.
"Good. Be sure to impress on the men the importance of maintaining themselves properly at all times. I don't wish to have any more failures of this nature."
"Aye sir." Devlin straightened to attention and saluted. "I'll pass the word, sir."
The sergeant let himself out, taking care to ease the thin door shut behind him. Collins sighed and picked up his overturned chair. A punishment parade meant drafting orders sentencing the guilty Marines. Hardy slipped back into the cabin, silent in his movement as ever. He set a steaming cup of something down on the little desk and went directly back to work on the spare shirt he'd been sewing.
Collins gulped down the cup's contents without bothering to see what it was, and he gasped at the liquid's scalding bite. It was coffee, fresh and strong. Of course Hardy would know to bring that instead of brandy or tea. How had he managed to get some brewed so quickly?
"Hardy," Collins said, after he had finished the order for punishment. "Pass the word for Sergeant Devlin to - "
There was a knock at the cabin door. The two Marines exchanged glances, then Collins called out, "Come."
One of the midshipmen peeked around the door. "Captain's passed the word for all hands and officers to lay aft, sir. At once."
"Very well." Collins laid his quill down into the ink-stained strip of canvas that protected it and carefully rolled it up. The midshipman had vanished immediately after delivering his message, thankfully. A glance across the small cabin showed that Hardy was already packing away his sewing implements. "Let us see what our new captain intends," he said to his steward, who only quirked a slight grin in reply. There was nothing else to say.
~
"What the bloody hell's this all about?" Albert Ware grumbled as he took his place in the neat ranks lining the midships rails. The rest of the ship's company was assembling in the centre of the weather deck, separating themselves from the Marines almost obviously. Every man aboard knew what was going to happen and nobody wanted to join the unlucky Marines at the grating.
His mate, a boyish-faced Somersetman called Higgins, shot him an irritated look. "Better shurrup, Berty, 'fore the cap'n picks ya fer some scratches from the cat next!"
They were both hushed by Corporal McIntyre, as the sea officers appeared on deck. It was time for the old routine of listening to captains read from their commission and orders. Ware sighed in resigned annoyance. He was already wishing the new captain would be replaced. To order the entire quarterguard flogged, for no better reason than because a few of them had not shaved. The very idea was repulsive. Symon Higgins discreetly drove his elbow into Ware's ribs when the Kentish Marine shuffled his feet fractionally in a silent expression of his disgust. They all had to suffer through this. Better to do it without attracting the officers' attention.
Leaford's voice, when he started speaking, was an ear-numbing drone. He recited the formal wording of the relevant Article of War, without once changing pitch, inflection, or volume. It was almost as if he viewed the whole thing as nothing more than a boring bit of ceremony. There was barely a shiver amongst the assembled ship's company as the men listened, for not a one dared to draw the captain's attention his way. Far better to remain safely anonymous and let the Marines bear the brunt of the captain's notice.
"Bo'sun!" Leaford called out abruptly, startling many men with the unexpected shift away from monotony. "Bring up the men for punishment!"
A slight shiver passed through the Marines' ranks, as Matheson, the boatswain, brought his silver call to his lips. Only a handful of seconds passed before the ten Marines were marched topside, led by a studiously-expressionless Corporal Jones. They had all been stripped of their longtailed red coats. Ware bit firmly down on his tongue to keep from muttering anything and watched silently as the Marines to be flogged were paraded near the rigged-up grating.
"These men," Leaford said, "have been found to be in neglect of duty, being poorly-turned out at their prescribed place of duty. In so doing, they brought disgrace and discredit upon this ship, and therefore upon me. I do not hold with disgrace, lads, and I will not tolerate any man who brings it upon me. It would be wise of all of you to take a lesson from these unfortunates and do not commit any sins that may bring you to the same spot where they now stand."
Leaford's voice had risen to a ringing tone of righteous indignation. "Neglect of duty, lads, is one of the most grievous of offences. Men who shirk their responsibilities become slack, lazy, and careless. They become burdens - more than burdens, they become useless and dangerous, doomed to bring failure and death to their ship. Neglect, lads, spawns defeat, and I have never commanded a ship that knew anything of defeat."
From any other captain, that last remark would have been cause for the men to be hopeful, but they were already wary of Leaford and in that light, the boast simply sounded ominous. None of the men moved or even made a sound, which Leaford apparently expected. He smiled - an unsettling gesture, Ware thought - and said "I have every confidence that you lads will not disgrace me. You are a fine lot, brave men all of you."
That little bit, added no doubt to sprinkle false sweetness to the deal, stirred a few seamen into quiet muttering, though that ended swiftly when Matheson glared out over the gathering from where he stood on the quarterdeck stairs. There was a brief silence, as Leaford glanced at the Marines patiently awaiting their punishments.
The petty bit of encouragement the sea officer had offered stood starkly at odds with the rest of his speech, but some of the seamen were apparently willing to overlook that. Stupid sods, Ware thought. Then, just as quickly as the smile had appeared, it was gone. Leaford's craggy face was again stern and forbidding and he barked, "Mister Matheson! One dozen strokes per man, for neglect of duty!"
Matheson hopped down from the quarterdeck stairs and answered with a firm. "Aye aye, sir!" The boatswain gave no sign of his personal feelings about the whole proceeding, but he was far too canny to let himself be marked out as a possible enemy to the captain. "First man up. Come on, Corporal, no time t'be dawdlin'!"
Jones and Colburn, one of the boatswain's mates, led the first Marine forward and secured his wrists to the grating. It would have to be Carter who'd be there in the first rank too, the unlucky bastard. Poor sod couldn't catch a break at all, could he?
"Lay it on!"
Sergeant Devlin and the two corporals ought to be the ones swinging the cat, Ware thought bitterly. It was no matter for the boatswain and his mates to be involved with. But with the whole crew turned out to witness punishment, Devlin and Matheson had apparently agreed that it was best to leave the flogging to the Tars. Poor Carter. Ware winced as the first blow splashed across the Marine's back. An angry red weal appeared immediately, and Ware knew it would only get worse.
Colburn gave the cat a brisk shake after each swing, giving no sign that he was sparing the poor lad on the grating. He probably wasn't, likely for his own sake. The boatswain's mate got on well enough with the Marines and any other time, he would have probably held back some. With the new captain watching, though, he couldn't risk the appearance of leniency.
The eleventh stroke struck one of the opened furrows on Carter's back just right and the Marine stiffened up sharply against the tight bind of the ropes around his wrists, standing almost on his toes. But he didn't cry out. Bless the lad, but he never uttered a word of pain or protest, all the way through it.
The only noise from him was that of ragged, heavy breathing. Jones and Colburn freed Carter's wrists and were careful to support the Marine when he nearly sagged to the deck. To Ware's surprise, Carter pushed the two men away and straightened up as much as he could. He was a little wobbly on his feet but he didn't pitch over.
The Hampshireman turned slowly toward the silent line of officers at the quarterdeck rail and looked up at Captain Collins. The entire Marine detachment nearly burst out into cheers when Carter lifted a slightly trembling arm to salute before shuffling away toward the ladder.
His bold show served to inspire the other Marines waiting to be flogged and to a man, they all made a point to salute the quarterdeck before going below to have their backs washed. Ware noted the flicker of pride on Captain Collins' face at each gesture of obedience. The whole affair was grossly unnecessary but the Marines were proving that they could take unjust flogging with suitable grace and not forget themselves because of it.
The last man at the grating was one of the newer Marines, a skinny lad called Tomilson. He had been the most vocal of the lot, having cursed aloud when the first blow was given, something which was more amusing than embarrassing. Ware earned himself another quick, sharp jab from Higgins' elbow before Sergeant Devlin gruffly dismissed them from parade. The grating was left to the Tars to unrig, as the Marines had more important matters to look after.
"Ballsy little scamp, you is, Tommy," Nick Frazier called out to Carter as the Marines spread out around their messdeck. Most of the flogged men were back from the sick-berth, except for Jenkins and Tomilson, but they would return shortly enough.
Carter offered a toothy grin and said "Sure it weren't nuffin' but proper, innit? Us lads ain't gonna be knowed as soft, no-how!"
His declaration was met with cheerful calls of agreement. It had been a fine show of brass, where Captain Leaford no doubt meant for the floggings to cow the men's spirits. The Tars might be prone to being affected by such things, but the Marines sure weren't, thought Ware with no small pride.
He grinned as he shucked off his crossbelts and laid them carefully into the sea-chest he shared with Higgins. He was due up on sentry next watch and wanted to get some more sewing done before having to turn out for it. The others were likewise settling down to work on various tasks, though here and there a couple lads were curling up for quick naps while they could.
"You lot are bloody mad." Corporal McIntyre came clattering down the aft ladder, his round freckled face showing an expression of resigned amusement. "Cap'n Leaford's fair hoppin' at that whole show, an' at you 'specially, Carter. Well bloody done!"
The Marines chuckled at the light touch of crimson that crept across Carter's cheeks. They enjoyed the idea that their mates' show of quiet defiance had made the intended impression. Not a bad recovery from their momentary disgrace at quarterguard. McIntyre reached out to playfully ruffle Carter's hair, then the corporal was tramping forrard to the arms locker, where he was to help Sergeant Devlin check over the spare muskets. When he was gone, James Bell cast a mock-scowl toward Vaughan and called out "Damn ye fer not 'owlin' like a wee bairn, y'bold Welsh cow!"
Vaughan smirked and patted the bandage around his torso. "I ain't soft, an' you knows it. But we can't all be carved outta rock like you is."
More chuckles. The newly-flogged Marines were all back from sick-berth now, the white of their bandages matching well with the pale skin of their arms and torsos. They fell in with their mates as if nothing had happened, gathering around sea-chests or one of the lowered mess tables, going to work cleaning their kit and uniforms. Something as passingly insignificant as a flogging wasn't enough to distract them from their routines.
Captain Collins observed the lighthearted bantering for several moments before slipping quietly back into the wardroom, both proud of and amused by his Marines. They wouldn't be intimidated by Cornwall's new captain, if their display earlier was anything to go by. He returned to his cabin, thinking to get back to his own routine of preparing the watch rosters for the next week. Hardy was there already, once again working on his sewing. At the rate he was going, he'd finish repairing the shirt by the end of the watch.
"What do you think of all of this?" Collins asked his steward, as he settled in at his tiny desk. It was not often he asked Hardy for his opinion but neither was it unheard of. Sometimes the Londoner could offer a point of view that was pleasantly unbiassed.
Hardy looked up from his work, his thin face thoughtful. "Powerful way to come 'board, sure," he said. "Firs' impressions is sure 'portant ones y'know, sir. Reckon that's why he come down so heavy."
"Perhaps." Collins thought of Leaford's speech and doubted that the morning's flogging would prove to be a one-off event.
"Ain't convinced, is you?" Hardy sounded amused. "Look at it this way, sir. Them lads took it with all the grace they got, an' they ain't gonna be harf so careless agin. Sure they knew it were all Cap'n Leaford behind that whole parade. Corbett was standin' sentry by the stairs, y'know. Who else woulda passed the word 'long so quick? S'prised you ain't figgered them out thataway by now, sir."
That was a good point. Collins unrolled his writing kit and thought about that. In his lingering temper, he hadn't even considered that his Marines would be alerted so quickly to the truth of the whole affair. They certainly hadn't seemed overly distressed by the ordeal of being flogged. With luck, they could prove their worth well and good on their next patrol, whenever they received fresh orders. He dipped his quill into the inkwell, then paused and looked at his steward.
"I want you to pass the word, quietly, that there will be an extra tot for the lads this evening. We can tap the cask of wine from our last prize."
Hardy grinned. "Aye aye, sir."
~
A heavily-freckled face appeared at the opened door of his cabin, barely visible beneath a hat that was two sizes too large. Collins looked up from his book at the boy's discreet cough and tried not to smile. One of the midshipman, of course. Probably the youngest one aboard. "Yes, Mister Hamilton?"
The boy gulped and saluted, nearly knocking his hat off in the process. "Cap'n's compliments, sur, an' wudd ye join hem innis cabin for dinner, sur."
Well, that was somewhat unexpected, Collins thought. He tucked his bookmark into place and nodded. "Thank you, Mister Hamilton." He waited until the midshipman had saluted and disappeared before setting his book aside and swinging out of his hanging cot. So the captain was inviting officers to dine with him for his first night aboard.
It was a courteous gesture. Many sea captains would wait a day or two before inviting his subordinates to dine. Collins suspected the floggings of that morning had something to do with the invitation being made but he shook that thought away as he opened his sea-chest in search of a fresh shirt. A dinner hosted by the ship's captain required being turned out in his best rig.
"Not that 'un, sir, it's got a tear on the cuff," Hardy admonished, slipping into the cabin in his usual ghost-like way. "This 'un, sir. Just cleaned it two days past, too." He held up another shirt for his captain's inspection, briefly, before laying the shirt over the edge of the hanging cot.
Collins hid a grin as his steward muttered observations to himself about the suitability of officers to dress themselves. He should have known that Hardy would hear of the invitation to dinner and turn up to make sure he was properly turned out. It was probably for the best that Hardy chosen the smallclothes anyway. Collins himself had little to do with the regular upkeep of his clothes. Hardy managed all the washing, mending, and storage; all Collins did was wear them. "My best coat is in good enough repair to be worn, I hope," the captain commented dryly.
"It's passable, sir," Hardy answered with a thoughtful frown as he shook out the coat in question. There was a momentary pause, then the steward nodded. "Aye, it'll do, but I'll have to give it another wash tomorrer."
This time, he didn't bother hiding his grin. He peeled off his shirt and let Hardy quickly rub a towel over him to dry up the semi-permanent patches of sweat. It was impossible to avoid sweating in the Caribbean. Once Hardy judged him to be suitably clean, he held out the fresh shirt for Collins to slip over his head. From there, it was a simple matter of changing his breeches and donning the layers that were part of a Marine officer's uniform.
The whole process lasted roughly ten minutes, with Hardy taking care to use a soft-bristled brush on nearly every article of clothing that his captain was to wear. When at last he was dressed, Collins thought sure he would be suitable for presenting to the King. He could understand Hardy's concern, though. Captain Leaford had made it quite clear that he preferred a smart ship and that included the officers.
"S'pose that'll do," Hardy said grudgingly as he put the brush away. He looked his officer over from head to foot and nodded slowly. "Aye. Ain't perfect but it'll do, sure."
Not perfect. Collins simply shook his head. "Thank you, Hardy. I assume you'll be joining us as mess steward as well?"
"Of course, sir." Hardy was picking at his own coat, grimacing at the light stains that were part and parcel of regular hard use. He had never not attended a dinner, whether in the great cabin or in the wardroom. Collins waited until his steward finished the brief cleaning-off of his coat, then gestured toward the door.
"Shall we, then?"
Hardy nodded and followed him out. Behind them, in the wardroom, somebody cursed loudly and there was a heavy thump of something falling to the deck. One of the sea officers must have been roused by a midshipman - the unfortunate Mister Hamilton, Collins saw, when the boy raced out in complete terror - with the captain's invitation to dinner.
He wondered idly who the midshipman had disturbed, then decided it wasn't important. They were outside the great cabin in only a moment anyway. The sentry quirked a very slight grin at the sight of the captain and his steward, then he was thumping his musket butt on the deck and calling out, "Major Collins, sir!"
The cabin steward appeared an instant later to open the screen door. He seemed more wan-faced than usual but managed a thin smile on seeing Hardy trailing behind Collins. Both Marines returned the brief flickering gesture, which seemed to cheer Hales somewhat. As was his right, Collins entered the cabin first and therefore missed the meaning-laden exchange of glances between the two stewards, and the very slight nod from Hardy.
Had he seen it, however, he would not have been surprised to know the reason for the short, silent conversation. It was old habit between Hales and Hardy to save whatever was left of the dinner and share it out amongst the lower deck as best they could. Cornwall's old captain would not have troubled himself a bit about such an arrangement, but Leaford was not likely to consider it a noble practise. It was better to be as discreet as possible about it.
"Ah, Major," Captain Leaford greeted, rising from his chair at the head of the table. "I am pleased you joined us. Sit, sir, and take some claret. Come, Hales, a glass here."
Collins took his customary place at Simcoe's right, leaving the chair at the captain's left hand open to Alderbury, where he was entitled to sit, being the ship's second lieutenant. There was some quiet shuffling as Hales directed a group of ship's boys where each was to stand.
Hardy was already at his proper place, his hands folded in front of him as he waited for the uncomfortably-scrubbed group of ship's boys to be settled behind the officers they would be serving. It would not do if he was to pour his officer a glass before the others were ready to have their own glasses filled.
"No, this will not do," Leaford said abruptly, surveying the table and the seating arrangement. He was smiling, but there was just a hint of displeasure passing across his face. "Lieutenant Alderbury, shift your chair, if you please. Major, you sit so far down, it is not proper. Sit you here, sir, where Mister Alderbury is."
Alderbury, to his credit, simply nodded and rose at once, winding his way carefully between the other seated officers and the young mess servants behind their chairs. Collins, however, felt a measure of unease. He had no interest in sitting immediately near the captain, not the least because he had wished to converse with Finch, the ship's surgeon. Instead, he was to be tucked between Leaford and Cornwall's third lieutenant, Carver. That change was not the only one, either. Leaford was eyeing the midshipmen who were also present, as might a disapproving parent.
"You young gentlemen will shift as well. Mister Slater, there - yes, across the table. Mister Quinn, beside Mister Barton there. Mister Morse and Mister Hamilton... you may stay as you are. Yes, that'll suit much better."
There was a little more shuffling as the midshipmen moved to their new chairs, with their designated servants following them. Leaford nodded when at last the movement had stilled. Why he had upset the usual arrangement was a mystery, though Collins supposed it was probably better not to think on it too much.
He had enough to concern himself with, as he was now obliged to make conversation with Lieutenant Carver, a man he considered much too passive and submissive for his own good. He would also have to participate in whatever discourse that Captain Leaford introduced, which was something he was even less pleased about. With a sigh, he lifted his glass slightly, the signal to Hardy to fill it. It was going to be a long evening.
"Now," Leaford began, having helped himself to a healthy swallow of his own claret, "I must compliment you gentlemen on a truly fine ship. In reading over the books and observing the crew, I can see that there will be no great difficulty in making Cornwall a tight, smart ship."
Collins glanced briefly at Simcoe, who as first lieutenant was directly responsible for maintaining the frigate, from bowsprit to taffrail. He would've thought that Cornwall was already very much a tight, smart ship. As much as he disliked Simcoe - more so than he disliked Carver, in fact - he thought that the first luff knew his trade remarkably well. There had never been any fault noted in the ship's state or performance before now, certainly. What had made Leaford think there was room for improvement? Maybe the ship's bell hadn't been polished yet?
"Sir?" Simcoe asked. "Cornwall is a fine ship. I have never found cause to fault - "
"Yes, yes, I'm sure your previous captain believed in allowing some little slack in exchange for passable quality, but, gentlemen, I have no time for any slack or passable quality," Leaford interrupted. "I would have thought this morning's display would have made that expressly clear."
Simcoe visibly bit down on his tongue. To have attempted to counter that would have been to risk censure. It was too early in their new captain's tenure to raise such barriers, even though it rankled most horribly to hear their previous captain spoken of in such a manner. The other officers held their own silences, even the midshipmen. There was no inclination toward natural conversation, which was a pity, Collins thought.
The captain seemed willing to overlook the silence, which was something. Though, he probably would have begun speaking again even if there had not been such a pause. "I shall conduct a formal inspection of the ship tomorrow, beginning at four bells in the morning watch. I expect the crew to be turned out at Divisions throughout so there may be no interruptions. Afterwards I will inspect the crew. This will include the Marines."
The remark was a nasty little barb, but Collins kept his outward expression neutral. "Aye, sir," was all he said, his acknowledgment joining that from the other officers. The lack of resistance to his stated intentions seemed to please Leaford, for his next words were directed to Hales.
"Very well. You may begin serving, Hales. And be quick with it."
Hales bobbed his head jerkily and disappeared. He returned presently carrying a pot and ladle, albeit somewhat precariously. The captain's cook, aptly named Peg-foot, thumped after him with a tray laden with a set of fine bone-china bowls. In only a few minutes, the bowls were set out in front of each officer and Hales and Peg-foot were swiftly going around the table serving out the soup.
Collins found himself idly studying the soft red of the wine in his glass as he waited. It was already enlightening, this first dinner with the frigate's new captain. He hoped that the conversation would be allowed to shift to less-businesslike subjects, or he was going to be bored entirely to tears.
"Oh come, gentlemen," Leaford chided, startling many of the officers away from their thoughts or their soup-bowls. "You are far too quiet for King's officers."
There was a brief exchange of glances, then Alderbury set down his spoon and said, "Well, sir, perhaps we might press you for details about your last ship?"
"Hm. Perhaps not, Mister Alderbury. Perhaps not. I dislike to dwell upon the past. It is hardly important when there is the present to worry over." The captain helped himself to some soup, then dabbed lightly at his lips with the edge of the tablecloth. "I think, instead, it will be more helpful to learn about this ship, as it is now our collective present. Do you not agree?"
Wasn't that interesting, Collins thought. A refusal to discuss where he'd come from probably meant some sort of unpleasant circumstances. He wondered if he might make discreet enquiries about it. Or maybe he shouldn't, just yet. Better to get a more sound idea of what sort of captain Leaford was first. Many captains, he knew, had connections in all parts of the service. It wouldn't do to ask questions of the wrong officer, after all.
"Cornwall is a fine ship, sir," Alderbury replied, after a nod from Lieutenant Simcoe. "She handles well in most weathers and has recently been recoppered. We were newly arrived here when Admiral Barrington took Saint Lucia, but we had the good fortune to be present for that action. Since then we have mainly been employed on patrol duties."
Leaford made a noise of acknowledgment, but it was impossible to judge if it signalled approval or disdain. "I see."
Nobody seemed sure what to say next, so silence again crept in. It seemed an appropriate time to indulge in the soup, which was really quite good. Peg-foot Dell knew his business as a cook, certainly. Where had he learned, Collins wondered, a trifle distantly?
The silence was broken by Alderbury, again, who cleared his throat quietly and ventured, "If I may be so bold to offer, sir, but perhaps you might care for a story?"
That would be an acceptable distraction, Collins thought as he sipped at his claret. He watched Leaford from the corner of his eye and was relieved to see him nodding. At least he could be agreeable enough when it suited him.
"By all means, sir. Tell it."
Alderbury took a swallow of claret to moisten his throat, then dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. After a pause, he said, "If the master will permit me, of course. It is as much his tale as mine, I think."
The sailing master grunted but he favoured Alderbury with a grin. "S'all yers, sir."
"Very well," Alderbury said, relaxing a little. "It was just after we had taken a prize - a fine Yankee brig - off the coast of..."
Collins tuned him out. It was a tale he had heard before. He tapped the rim of his glass and Hardy refilled it. Before too much longer, the soup would be cleared away and the next course brought in. Let Alderbury take his time with his story, the Yorkshireman thought idly, and offered his glass to Hardy. At least with the second lieutenant preoccupying everyone, Leaford was not likely to spoil the mood any more than he had already. But, he mused as Hardy handed the glass back, again refilled after the steward had drank off its contents, it was certainly going to be a long evening.