(no subject)
Title: Celebrations
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Tom Oxley is the property of sharpiefan.
Original pen-date: 12 August 2010
Summary: StC-verse. Tom Oxley helps with a prank aboard ship. February 1815.
Author's Note: More fun fluff, this time with a former drummer boy.
It was good luck he was well-used to standing on deck. His years as a drummer had stood him in good stead for such duties as he was now assigned to. For this watch, it was quarterdeck sentry. Nothing could change the drudgery of standing motionless for hours, of course, but he was used to it. At least, Tom Oxley thought, the watch would soon be over. One more bell before the relief was brought around. Then he could retreat below and take a nap. It had been a long night, since he and two other Marines had stayed up and worked studiously on an old jacket, which they planned to slip into their sergeant's sea-chest when the alterations were finished. Sergeant Hayes was going to be completely beside himself when he found it. Serve him right, wouldn't it? He was for ever badgering the lads for the slightest imperfection in their uniforms and kit. The jacket was their way of getting a little of their own back.
Oxley stretched his shoulders as much as he dared and stifled a yawn. Not long now, he told himself again. A short nap then back to work on his part of the jacket. Just thinking of it made him want to grin. It was going to be brilliant. Hayes would probably know who was responsible for it, but it was worth the field punishment they'd get for it. It was a shame there weren't more men from his last ship aboard. The joke would be a lot better with their input. Oh well. Perhaps next time they could play a prank on Corporal Ware. Not that it was all that easy to prank a prankster. Oxley nearly grinned again. That was one Marine he hadn't thought to see again, never mind with stripes on his sleeve. Maybe there was some truth to Hayes' constant exclamations that the Corps was going mad.
"Deck!" The masthead lookout thundered. "Sail ho! Starboard beam!"
A midshipman moved immediately for the shrouds, a glass slung across his back. Distracted from his thoughts, Oxley kept his eyes forward but his ears were alert for any scrap of conversation between officers. Not that there was much hope of that. The first luff was not one for idle chatter. He paced irritably, unable as ever to contain his lack of patience. The report from the midshipman, made with admirable volume for a boy his size, came soon, but of course not soon enough to relieve Mister Greenaway's anxiety.
"Deck yon! She's one of ours. Flyin' the private signal and asks, 'What ship?' "
Well, Oxley thought. It was a rather extreme range to make such a signal, wasn't it? He heard the signals midshipman working quickly with his flags to answer the distant ship's query. The other ship must have some important news - were there American frigates cruising anywhere near? There had been some rumours to that effect recently. Oxley half-hoped the rumours were true. It would good to fight one of those damned ships, even as formidable as they were.
"Deck yon! She answers as the Antelope. Signalling, 'Have despatches on board!' "
Mister Greenaway cupped his hands to his mouth. "Hands to braces, prepare to tack ship!"
The bell pealed from up forrard, coinciding with the rush of men to carry out the shouted orders. The oncoming watch took care to keep out of the way as the work of tacking ship went on. Oxley saw Corporal Ware as the relief came up the aft ladder and wished suddenly that he could remain on deck. Knowing what was going on was more important than sneaking a nap or working on Hayes' jacket.
"All's well, Corporal," he reported upon Ware's approach.
"Good. Fall in. Phillips, that's you for this post."
The exchange of duty was made briskly, then the file of Marines moved on to the next sentry post. Oxley found himself glancing away to starboard, where the Antelope was bearing down on them as fast as she could sail. Those despatches must really be important. Mister Greenaway's voice boomed out over the deck again and the Marine behind Oxley muttered something uncomplimentary. A grin quirked quickly across the former drummer's face. The first luff was notorious amongst the Marines. His was a forceful, dominant personality. Captain Beaufort could seldom stand up to him, shameful as it was.
"Duckett," Corporal Ware called, once the newly-relieved men were back on the messdeck. "Make sure your boy knows what he's gotta do."
The balding Marine smirked and moved toward the ladder. Oxley stripped out of his jacket with a chuckle. You could find all manner of oddities in the Corps. The Ducketts were one of them. George, the elder, was a Marine while Davey, his son, was newly-rated as an able seaman. How such an arrangement had come to pass, neither of them cared to say. It simply was the way things were.
"What d'you lads reckon those despatches are about?" Somebody asked.
"Maybe it's about our last prize," Mulcahy offered.
"A warnin' 'bout that damned Constitution, more like," Boothe countered.
Oxley waved one of his gaiters and said, "New orders, gettin' us rid of old Mister Greenaway."
The others laughed. Mulcahy shook his head. "Wouldn't mind bein' rid of 'Tenant Hills too, in that bargain."
Several men made noises of agreement, though Oxley just shrugged. Lieutenant Hills wasn't so bad. There were certainly worse out there. Better, too, on the other side of it, but Hills wasn't bad.
"Davey knows his bit," Duckett reported, returning to his sea-chest.
"Good lad." Ware picked boredly at his jacket, then signed and headed for the ladder. He had to report to Sergeant Hayes that the sentries were relieved. The usual buzz of chatter descended over the messdeck as the men settled down to their various chores. Oxley fell to whistling quietly while he worked on repairing a torn seam in his spare trousers. They all had faith in Davey Duckett's alertness. He would get word to them if there was anything of interest to be known.
It was two bells into the watch when Turkey, one of the ship's boys, all but fell down the aft ladder. "Hoi, you lads!" He burst out, picking himself up nimbly despite his display of imbalance an instant before. "Word from ol' Davey, like. Antelope's sendin' a boat. Word's that they got new orders!"
Speculation burst out in a nearly-unified wave. New orders? Many men were convinced the orders would be to send them home, while just as many were sure they were bound for blockade off the Yankee coast. Others suggested, naturally, that their last prize had finally been sold and they were going to receive their due bounty. It almost didn't matter what their new orders were, somebody argued, if they meant a change from the drudgery of patrol. Oxley listened to the discussions with interest, his hands moving automatically with the needle. He had learned to sew out of necessity, though he was no good hand at it. Just good enough to avoid sticking himself with the needle too much, anyway.
"Peace!" Turkey was back, making his usual clumsy entrance. "New orders, lads, an' there's peace wi' the Yanks!"
Peace. The messdeck was silent this time, struck into speechless bewilderment. The hosilities with those upstarts were over? None of them could believe it. When had this all happened? A Marine near Oxley's hammock snorted and said, "Ain't that some rubbish. No more prize money!"
This seemed to sum up the general feeling. Marines shook their heads and bemoaned the end of the war with the usual regret of men who had newly lost a source of income. Where were they going to end up now? Peace... the bane of fighting men the world over. There were cheers from the weather deck as the duty watch received the news with all the joviality typical of seamen. They would be glad for it, really. How long had it been since those Tars had seen their homes?
"Tom, boyo," Mulcahy hissed, sidling up from his hammock space. "Where's our ol' mate's jacket at? Might's well celebrate with it, like."
Hayes' jacket. Right. Oxley set his half-finished trousers aside. "I got it here," he said. digging in his sea-chest. His part of the jacket only needed one more piece added before it could be considered complete. A short royal-blue cape, to be added to the collar of the jacket itself by Mulcahy.
"Good lad." The other Marine examined the piece of blue fabric with approval. "Just needin' the pipin'?"
Oxley nodded. "Aye. Shouldn't take long. Coupla bells, I think."
"Good! Good lad. Carry on."
Grinning, Oxley fished the thin white piping from his sea-chest and went to work pinning it down around the edges of the rectangular cape. He'd distracted himself from this task when he'd realised his spare trousers needed repairing but now he was focused. His needle, removed from his trousers and put to this more important work, flicked in and out steadily, securing the piping to the heavier wool of the cape. This was going to be perfect. Topside, the bell pealed four times, its paired rings providing a handy reminder of the time. Nearly done. One more side to go, then he could hand the cape off to Mulcahy for adding to the jacket itself.
The Irishman was back, watching Oxley work with smiling interest. This prank had been his idea and he was enjoying every moment of its preparation. "Fine work. Just perfect, aye. I'll finish it for you, boyo. Much obliged!"
It wouldn't take Mulcahy long to get the cape added to the jacket. He had been a tailor before taking the Shilling. They would see their prank played out by the end of the watch. Oxley grinned to himself and stretched, giving his fingers a rest from needle-work for a minute. "Brooks. C'mere lad."
The young drummer scampered over, his gangly limbs trailing almost awkwardly. He reminded Oxley briefly of himself when he had been a drummer. "Whatcha need?"
"You know about the sarn't's jacket?"
"Course."
Good. "Right. It's near to finished. What I need's for you to distract the sarn't topside so's we can slip into his sea-chest."
"Round'bout the end of the watch?"
Oxley glanced toward Mulcahy's hammock space, where the Irishman was hard at work sewing on the cape he'd made. "Sounds right."
"Done." Brooks fairly beamed at the prospect of being included in something undertaken by the older Marines and scurried away again. Shaking his head, Oxley leaned back against his sea-chest and laced his fingers behind his head. A nap was in order, he thought, before the excitement started. Several men were still discussing the likely consequences of the peace that had been declared. His eyes drooped closed. Peace. Such a strange word...
He was awakened abruptly by a loud shout and an outbreak of laughter. Oh bloody hell. Mulcahy had set off their prank without rousing him. Oxley sat up quickly, in time to see Sergeant Hayes slam the lid of his sea-chest closed. The altered jacket was being worn by Boothe, who was grinning fit to bust. He saw Mulcahy leaning heavily on Duckett, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.
"You filthy scheming... bastards! Tampering with a man's effects! No honour 'mongst any of you... I've half a mind... arms drill til you all drop... disgraceful..."
Hayes' indignant bellows were half drowned out by the helpless gales of laughter from the detachment. The state of merriment was not helped by Boothe's breaking out into a hornpipe, which caused the short cape on the back of the jacket to flap cheerfully. The smirking Marine lifted his arms as high as he could and waved them to mimic Hayes' angry flailing. It was just the sort of impudence that would land men at the grating, but Hayes was not thinking clearly enough even for that. Corporal Ware was of no mind to help him, either, being doubled over with laughter as he was.
"What is all this nonsense?" Lieutenant Hills demanded, emerging from the wardroom to see what was disturbing his drinking.
"Celebration, sir," gasped Duckett, his face wreathed in smiles. "For the peace!"
"Ah. The peace." Hills nodded and looked absently at the reddened faces clustered close together. "Carry on then. To the peace!"
"To the peace!" The Marines chorused, many of them thrusting their fists into the air to emphasise their particular feelings on the matter. A fresh roar of laughter broke out when Sergeant Hayes stormed up the ladder, too incensed to remain on the messdeck with men who had embarrassed him so thoroughly. Boothe held out his hands to Mulcahy and the pair stamped into a jig, accompanied by the hoots, whistles, and cheers from their mates. There was no honest hope of dissuading them, since their own lieutenant had given his permission for the celebration. Oxley clapped in time to the stamp and scrape of the two Marines' shoes over the deck. Now this beat even the original prank, by a lot. Trust the Marines to find a way to have such rollicking good fun!
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Tom Oxley is the property of sharpiefan.
Original pen-date: 12 August 2010
Summary: StC-verse. Tom Oxley helps with a prank aboard ship. February 1815.
Author's Note: More fun fluff, this time with a former drummer boy.
It was good luck he was well-used to standing on deck. His years as a drummer had stood him in good stead for such duties as he was now assigned to. For this watch, it was quarterdeck sentry. Nothing could change the drudgery of standing motionless for hours, of course, but he was used to it. At least, Tom Oxley thought, the watch would soon be over. One more bell before the relief was brought around. Then he could retreat below and take a nap. It had been a long night, since he and two other Marines had stayed up and worked studiously on an old jacket, which they planned to slip into their sergeant's sea-chest when the alterations were finished. Sergeant Hayes was going to be completely beside himself when he found it. Serve him right, wouldn't it? He was for ever badgering the lads for the slightest imperfection in their uniforms and kit. The jacket was their way of getting a little of their own back.
Oxley stretched his shoulders as much as he dared and stifled a yawn. Not long now, he told himself again. A short nap then back to work on his part of the jacket. Just thinking of it made him want to grin. It was going to be brilliant. Hayes would probably know who was responsible for it, but it was worth the field punishment they'd get for it. It was a shame there weren't more men from his last ship aboard. The joke would be a lot better with their input. Oh well. Perhaps next time they could play a prank on Corporal Ware. Not that it was all that easy to prank a prankster. Oxley nearly grinned again. That was one Marine he hadn't thought to see again, never mind with stripes on his sleeve. Maybe there was some truth to Hayes' constant exclamations that the Corps was going mad.
"Deck!" The masthead lookout thundered. "Sail ho! Starboard beam!"
A midshipman moved immediately for the shrouds, a glass slung across his back. Distracted from his thoughts, Oxley kept his eyes forward but his ears were alert for any scrap of conversation between officers. Not that there was much hope of that. The first luff was not one for idle chatter. He paced irritably, unable as ever to contain his lack of patience. The report from the midshipman, made with admirable volume for a boy his size, came soon, but of course not soon enough to relieve Mister Greenaway's anxiety.
"Deck yon! She's one of ours. Flyin' the private signal and asks, 'What ship?' "
Well, Oxley thought. It was a rather extreme range to make such a signal, wasn't it? He heard the signals midshipman working quickly with his flags to answer the distant ship's query. The other ship must have some important news - were there American frigates cruising anywhere near? There had been some rumours to that effect recently. Oxley half-hoped the rumours were true. It would good to fight one of those damned ships, even as formidable as they were.
"Deck yon! She answers as the Antelope. Signalling, 'Have despatches on board!' "
Mister Greenaway cupped his hands to his mouth. "Hands to braces, prepare to tack ship!"
The bell pealed from up forrard, coinciding with the rush of men to carry out the shouted orders. The oncoming watch took care to keep out of the way as the work of tacking ship went on. Oxley saw Corporal Ware as the relief came up the aft ladder and wished suddenly that he could remain on deck. Knowing what was going on was more important than sneaking a nap or working on Hayes' jacket.
"All's well, Corporal," he reported upon Ware's approach.
"Good. Fall in. Phillips, that's you for this post."
The exchange of duty was made briskly, then the file of Marines moved on to the next sentry post. Oxley found himself glancing away to starboard, where the Antelope was bearing down on them as fast as she could sail. Those despatches must really be important. Mister Greenaway's voice boomed out over the deck again and the Marine behind Oxley muttered something uncomplimentary. A grin quirked quickly across the former drummer's face. The first luff was notorious amongst the Marines. His was a forceful, dominant personality. Captain Beaufort could seldom stand up to him, shameful as it was.
"Duckett," Corporal Ware called, once the newly-relieved men were back on the messdeck. "Make sure your boy knows what he's gotta do."
The balding Marine smirked and moved toward the ladder. Oxley stripped out of his jacket with a chuckle. You could find all manner of oddities in the Corps. The Ducketts were one of them. George, the elder, was a Marine while Davey, his son, was newly-rated as an able seaman. How such an arrangement had come to pass, neither of them cared to say. It simply was the way things were.
"What d'you lads reckon those despatches are about?" Somebody asked.
"Maybe it's about our last prize," Mulcahy offered.
"A warnin' 'bout that damned Constitution, more like," Boothe countered.
Oxley waved one of his gaiters and said, "New orders, gettin' us rid of old Mister Greenaway."
The others laughed. Mulcahy shook his head. "Wouldn't mind bein' rid of 'Tenant Hills too, in that bargain."
Several men made noises of agreement, though Oxley just shrugged. Lieutenant Hills wasn't so bad. There were certainly worse out there. Better, too, on the other side of it, but Hills wasn't bad.
"Davey knows his bit," Duckett reported, returning to his sea-chest.
"Good lad." Ware picked boredly at his jacket, then signed and headed for the ladder. He had to report to Sergeant Hayes that the sentries were relieved. The usual buzz of chatter descended over the messdeck as the men settled down to their various chores. Oxley fell to whistling quietly while he worked on repairing a torn seam in his spare trousers. They all had faith in Davey Duckett's alertness. He would get word to them if there was anything of interest to be known.
It was two bells into the watch when Turkey, one of the ship's boys, all but fell down the aft ladder. "Hoi, you lads!" He burst out, picking himself up nimbly despite his display of imbalance an instant before. "Word from ol' Davey, like. Antelope's sendin' a boat. Word's that they got new orders!"
Speculation burst out in a nearly-unified wave. New orders? Many men were convinced the orders would be to send them home, while just as many were sure they were bound for blockade off the Yankee coast. Others suggested, naturally, that their last prize had finally been sold and they were going to receive their due bounty. It almost didn't matter what their new orders were, somebody argued, if they meant a change from the drudgery of patrol. Oxley listened to the discussions with interest, his hands moving automatically with the needle. He had learned to sew out of necessity, though he was no good hand at it. Just good enough to avoid sticking himself with the needle too much, anyway.
"Peace!" Turkey was back, making his usual clumsy entrance. "New orders, lads, an' there's peace wi' the Yanks!"
Peace. The messdeck was silent this time, struck into speechless bewilderment. The hosilities with those upstarts were over? None of them could believe it. When had this all happened? A Marine near Oxley's hammock snorted and said, "Ain't that some rubbish. No more prize money!"
This seemed to sum up the general feeling. Marines shook their heads and bemoaned the end of the war with the usual regret of men who had newly lost a source of income. Where were they going to end up now? Peace... the bane of fighting men the world over. There were cheers from the weather deck as the duty watch received the news with all the joviality typical of seamen. They would be glad for it, really. How long had it been since those Tars had seen their homes?
"Tom, boyo," Mulcahy hissed, sidling up from his hammock space. "Where's our ol' mate's jacket at? Might's well celebrate with it, like."
Hayes' jacket. Right. Oxley set his half-finished trousers aside. "I got it here," he said. digging in his sea-chest. His part of the jacket only needed one more piece added before it could be considered complete. A short royal-blue cape, to be added to the collar of the jacket itself by Mulcahy.
"Good lad." The other Marine examined the piece of blue fabric with approval. "Just needin' the pipin'?"
Oxley nodded. "Aye. Shouldn't take long. Coupla bells, I think."
"Good! Good lad. Carry on."
Grinning, Oxley fished the thin white piping from his sea-chest and went to work pinning it down around the edges of the rectangular cape. He'd distracted himself from this task when he'd realised his spare trousers needed repairing but now he was focused. His needle, removed from his trousers and put to this more important work, flicked in and out steadily, securing the piping to the heavier wool of the cape. This was going to be perfect. Topside, the bell pealed four times, its paired rings providing a handy reminder of the time. Nearly done. One more side to go, then he could hand the cape off to Mulcahy for adding to the jacket itself.
The Irishman was back, watching Oxley work with smiling interest. This prank had been his idea and he was enjoying every moment of its preparation. "Fine work. Just perfect, aye. I'll finish it for you, boyo. Much obliged!"
It wouldn't take Mulcahy long to get the cape added to the jacket. He had been a tailor before taking the Shilling. They would see their prank played out by the end of the watch. Oxley grinned to himself and stretched, giving his fingers a rest from needle-work for a minute. "Brooks. C'mere lad."
The young drummer scampered over, his gangly limbs trailing almost awkwardly. He reminded Oxley briefly of himself when he had been a drummer. "Whatcha need?"
"You know about the sarn't's jacket?"
"Course."
Good. "Right. It's near to finished. What I need's for you to distract the sarn't topside so's we can slip into his sea-chest."
"Round'bout the end of the watch?"
Oxley glanced toward Mulcahy's hammock space, where the Irishman was hard at work sewing on the cape he'd made. "Sounds right."
"Done." Brooks fairly beamed at the prospect of being included in something undertaken by the older Marines and scurried away again. Shaking his head, Oxley leaned back against his sea-chest and laced his fingers behind his head. A nap was in order, he thought, before the excitement started. Several men were still discussing the likely consequences of the peace that had been declared. His eyes drooped closed. Peace. Such a strange word...
He was awakened abruptly by a loud shout and an outbreak of laughter. Oh bloody hell. Mulcahy had set off their prank without rousing him. Oxley sat up quickly, in time to see Sergeant Hayes slam the lid of his sea-chest closed. The altered jacket was being worn by Boothe, who was grinning fit to bust. He saw Mulcahy leaning heavily on Duckett, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.
"You filthy scheming... bastards! Tampering with a man's effects! No honour 'mongst any of you... I've half a mind... arms drill til you all drop... disgraceful..."
Hayes' indignant bellows were half drowned out by the helpless gales of laughter from the detachment. The state of merriment was not helped by Boothe's breaking out into a hornpipe, which caused the short cape on the back of the jacket to flap cheerfully. The smirking Marine lifted his arms as high as he could and waved them to mimic Hayes' angry flailing. It was just the sort of impudence that would land men at the grating, but Hayes was not thinking clearly enough even for that. Corporal Ware was of no mind to help him, either, being doubled over with laughter as he was.
"What is all this nonsense?" Lieutenant Hills demanded, emerging from the wardroom to see what was disturbing his drinking.
"Celebration, sir," gasped Duckett, his face wreathed in smiles. "For the peace!"
"Ah. The peace." Hills nodded and looked absently at the reddened faces clustered close together. "Carry on then. To the peace!"
"To the peace!" The Marines chorused, many of them thrusting their fists into the air to emphasise their particular feelings on the matter. A fresh roar of laughter broke out when Sergeant Hayes stormed up the ladder, too incensed to remain on the messdeck with men who had embarrassed him so thoroughly. Boothe held out his hands to Mulcahy and the pair stamped into a jig, accompanied by the hoots, whistles, and cheers from their mates. There was no honest hope of dissuading them, since their own lieutenant had given his permission for the celebration. Oxley clapped in time to the stamp and scrape of the two Marines' shoes over the deck. Now this beat even the original prank, by a lot. Trust the Marines to find a way to have such rollicking good fun!