(no subject)
Title: The Dogwatches
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 22 September 2008
Summary: Discontent and mutiny aboard a Royal Navy frigate. American Revolution, 1780.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical/ship goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.
Alfred Hardy ducked his head to avoid cracking it on the lintle as he trotted down the aft ladder and did his best not to look up on his way past the motionless wardroom sentry. There was a lot about the flagship's Marines that he disliked and he avoided interaction with them whenever he could. He found them an utterly boorish lot, concerned more with pipeclaying and polishing than attending the necessary drills of war. Worse was the fact that, with only two or three exceptions, they all viewed him with undisguised suspicion. To them, he was an outsider, an unwelcome intruder to their neat and ordered world.
That was true enough, he thought, nudging open the door to his captain's cabin. This lot had recently received an issue of new clothing, right down to fresh shoes. They all looked smart enough to pass a sergeant-major's inspection. Hardy's own uniform had seen him through a year's active service, including combat. Set next to one of these overpolished bastards, he looked positively shabby. Then again, he considered his many-times repaired coat, with its worn facings and red that had faded to a dull shade of orange, to be a point of pride. It marked him out at as a fighting Marine, not a puppet.
His captain's uniform was on its way to a similar fate. He had bought new shirts and another pair of breeches during his banishment ashore, but his sea-going coat was beginning to show the signs of irreparable wear. Hardy draped the newly-dried washing over his captain's cot and grimaced when he saw the line of careful stitching on the top-most shirt. That was the one the captain had been wearing when he'd nearly been cut in two by a Yankee with a well-sharpened hanger. Now there was the sort of action these empty-headed fools needed to break them out of their ridiculous sense of lofty superiority.
Then again, Hardy amended, maybe it was better for everyone if this lot stayed far away from an earnest fight. The morning's musket drill had shown him how unfit the flagship's Marines were for such a thing. He hated to admit it, but even the soldiers who had drilled alongside them had a chance to stand up better. The soldiers were the only point on which he and the ship's Marines were agreed, ironically enough. But that was more to do with the difference in the colour of their facings than not, Hardy suspected.
"Have you finally returned with the contents of my sea-chest?" Captain Collins enquired, appearing through the door with what had become his customary silent step.
Hardy didn't glance up from carefully folding each piece of clothing. "Didn't know you'd see anythin' was missin', sir."
His officer chuckled. "Perhaps I am more inclined to take note of my surroundings today. Ah, you have already prepared my desk. Good lad."
At that, Hardy simply smiled. As ever, his captain affected surprise at his efficiency. As if Hardy could ever be slack in his duties! He laid the last pair of breeches aside, having folded them neatly, and picked up the entire stack of clothes for sorting into the sea-chest. "Where'd you be without me, sir?"
"In a hopeless muddle, I shouldn't wonder."
There was no doubt about that, Hardy thought. What officer could keep himself in order without a steward to do it for him? He took care to pat each article of clothing so it lay flat before placing another atop it. Wrinkles were his worst nightmare.
"Hardy," Collins said abruptly. "I wonder. May I press you to do me a favour?"
The steward looked up from his work, an eyebrow arched just slightly. "Sir?"
"Keep hold of this letter," his captain told him, his voice lowered. "It contains an account of all that has transpired aboard our former ship up to my leaving it. I don't trust a happy resolution to affairs, despite our charging away to the rescue."
Hardy's cheerful expression faded as he took the folded and sealed letter. It was several pages thick, no doubt the result of many nights' work. He tucked it into the pocket inside his coat. "It'll not leave my reach, sir."
"Good lad." There was a pause, then Collins cracked a grin. "Now. Dare I ask for them, but your opinions on this morning's musket drill?"
The morning's musket drill. Hardy snorted. "Give us a moment, sir," he said, turning away to quickly finish repacking the sea-chest. Once this was done, he closed the lid and sat down on it. It was almost sad that his captain should ask that question, really. There was little about the morning's drill that Hardy didn't have an opinion on.
"Well, sir," the steward began. "It were a fine idea bringin' them soldier lads up to drill, really. But God help me if they ain't half a mess. Whoever's been leadin' their drill don't know his business. Or maybe he don't reckon they'll see another scrap. It's the latter I'll put my money on, sir."
His captain nodded slowly. "Perhaps that's so. What of the Marines?"
"Them, sir." Hardy snorted. "If I can speak plain, sir. I've not seen a worse bunch since I were a recruit at Chatham. No sense of left or right in this lot. Takin' their time with every movement too. I'd be s'prised if any of those poor beggars've ever seen the wrong side of a musket, sir. Cleanin' kit and standin' sentry is their only use. They just ain't fit for the fightin' life - hell, sir, I'd take them soldiers over these what say they're Marines any day."
"Indeed. With such a view, I daresay you have a thought or two about how to improve them."
"Do I! First thing, sir, is to stop this laggardly Manual Exercise nonsense. It ain't doin' them a bit of good. Give 'em some marksmanship drills, or even a bit of timed loadin' and firin'. I'll lay you odds, sir, there's not one of them in that lot can put more'n two shots out in a minute."
There was a pause, during which his captain seemed to consider Hardy's words. Then, "Timed firings?"
"That's it, sir. It's about time these beggars learned somethin' about bein' a fightin' Marine."
"And the soldiers?"
Hardy scoffed. "Them, sir? Well aye, they need some trainin' too. You remember how they stood up outside Fort Moultrie. It were a wonder they didn't lose us that fight."
This drew a frown to Collins' brow. "That might be, but we are meant to work with Mister Pettiton and his men, not create divisions between groups. Now. I expect there will be another joint drill this same afternoon. Are you truly an advocate of timed firings and marksmanship exercises?"
"I am, sir."
"Good. Then you shouldn't object to providing the necessary instruction and guidance. Sergeant Myles will help you as needed."
Hardy stared at his captain, wide-eyed and speechless. He was what? It wasn't possible! He was only a private, not able to tell anyone to do anything, but the captain wanted him to lead musket drill? How could he even begin to undertake such a thing? After what felt an eternity, he found his voice to protest, even though he knew the battle was already lost. "But sir! I ain't no hand at teachin'. That's a sergeant's job."
"Perhaps, but you seem quite keen to see that this detachment learn how to conduct themselves properly when it comes to musketry. Bearing in mind that Lieutenant Pettiton's men have been in action before, I might even say you are being unfairly harsh on them."
Again, all Hardy could do was stare. Was his captain all right in his head? This didn't sound like him at all. He was the last person Hardy would have expected to speak in support of Mister Pettiton. It defied all reason. With an effort, the steward collected himself enough to ask, "Are you feelin' all right, sir?"
Collins regarded him levelly. "Perfectly."
"Only it's just..." Hardy faltered, picking over his words carefully. "Only you're sayin' I gotta make nice to those soldiers?"
"I'm saying you must be professional, Hardy. God knows there has been enough of a lack of that lately!" Collins glanced at the papers on his tiny desk and sighed. "Give them no reason to complain about poor treatment and life shall be that much more bearable. Train them as you would expect Sergeant Devlin to train you. But not," he added quickly, "with quite the same choice of language."
Despite himself, Hardy chuckled. If it was Sergeant Devlin here instead of him, this lot would have no idea what had hit them. "Of course, sir. Do I got only one chance to smarten these fellows up?"
"No. That is, not if they respond well. I shouldn't think they would resent a chance to exercise properly, but one never knows."
That was true enough. Hardy himself didn't know how well the flagship's Marines would take to be given instruction by a scruffy outsider. The prospect of being snubbed by them didn't appeal to him. He was less sure about Mister Pettiton's company. Their conduct under fire was deplorable and from what he'd seen that morning, they had not improved any. How could he be expected to better their performance in a single morning? And he not even being a corporal!
"What does Mister Pettiton think of it, sir?"
A slight grin teased at the corner of Collins' mouth. "Considering that he has shown no objection to drilling jointly, I see no reason for him to protest now. Now. Send for Sergeant Myles, as he will need to be consulted on the finer details."
He waited until Hardy had gone before rising from the chair and venturing out into the wardroom proper. The junior Marine officer, Kelly, lounged at the table, keeping company over cards with Saddler, the surgeon. At his approach, both looked up.
"Is it on, sir?" Kelly asked casually.
"It is. A damnable business, perhaps, but it will go." Collins pulled out a chair and settled himself into it. He felt no different about this matter than when he had discussed it with Kelly earlier in the day. "I do dislike the idea of training your lads to kill my own, however."
Kelly shook his greying head. "I should prefer to avoid that end, sir."
"We should look upon it as a much-needed piece of training," Saddler interjected. "In the name of being ready to meet the enemy."
The two Marine officers nodded. Kelly called for the wardroom steward, who appeared with a fresh glass of brandy for Collins. It was received gratefully and the steward withdrew to his pantry again.
"To being ready to meet the enemy," Kelly said, no trace of his earlier uncertainty in his voice.
The other two men raised their glasses and echoed him. "Hear hear," Saddler added and tossed back his brandy in a single swallow. Collins examined his now-empty glass thoughtfully, wishing it was not necessary to deceive his own steward in this fashion. Were Hardy to know the true reason behind the arrangements, he would not be nearly so accepting of it. The poor lad.
"Come now, sir," Saddler chided, glancing at the cards on the table. "Do you wish to declare game or not?"
There was a short grunt from Kelly, who was studying his hand intently. Despite himself, Collins smiled. In some ways, deceit was preferable to facing down the sawbones over a game of whist.
~
As they had done every afternoon since leaving Antigua, Major Brent and Lieutenant Pettiton were on the poop deck, Brent with his pipe and Pettiton with a cheroot. That the pair had struck up a sort of friendship was clear. Equally, it was clear that both were only too willing to delegate responsibility for their men to subordinates in favour of smoking on deck or playing cards below. No doubt Pettiton hoped it would prove advantageous to have Brent for a patron, despite the difference in their chosen services.
In Sergeant Myles' view, both officers were scarcely worth the dye in the coats they wore. He was much too career-minded to give voice to such a thought but felt it nothing more than the truth. When Brent had assumed command of the flagship's Marines two years ago, there had been a gradual, noticeable shift in the detachment's state. Smart appearances and sharp-looking drill became the norm, though the men only saw Brent when there was field punishment to be awarded or a parade held.
The real work of command was left to the two lieutenants, for whom Myles had always found it impossible not to pity. The poor beggars couldn't hope to avoid obeying every order they were given, even when, as often happened, those orders left them in precarious positions. It was only luck that Defiant seldom left English Harbour. She would be in a bad way if she did and ran afoul of a French man-o'-war. The seamen would hold up well enough but the Marines would find themselves in real trouble.
Myles passed his critical gaze over the men arrayed before him and was annoyed that he could not detect any fault with them. Each Marine was turned out flawlessly, down to his queue. One would think, he mused wryly, that the men had nothing better to do with their time but clean their kit. Likewise, the company of soldiers paraded alongside them looked smart enough to be painted.
The only one amongst them who was in dire need of a new uniform was Private Hardy. He was woefully easy to spot, owing to his worn, faded coat and salt-stained hat. The other Marines regarded him as a lower form of creature owing to his shabby clothes and apparent lack of discipline. Their lofty sense of superiority aggravated Myles and he knew they hated him for his constant admonitions that they were no better than Marines in other ships. His refusal to tolerate such an attitude made him unpopular but he didn't care.
What he was about to do would make him even more unpopular and not just with the men. Major Brent had no idea of the scheme his two junior officers had concocted. He was about to find out, however. They were all about to find out. Myles allowed himself to wonder who would be most livid - Major Brent or Lieutenant Pettiton - then he saw the slight nod from Lieutenant Kelly. It was time.
"You lads are in for a treat," Myles began, pacing slowly along the starboard midships rail. "This afternoon drill's going to be a bit different from the usual. You'll not be conducting the Sixty-four. Instead, you'll be training as every other detachment of Marines in the West Indies trains. To fight." He halted and faced the paraded men. "Private Hardy!"
There was not even the barest shiver of movement from the Marines' ranks, but Myles knew them well enough to be aware of their surprise and, perhaps, their dismay. No doubt they'd prefer another mindless session of dry-firing. They were good at that, anyway. He also knew without looking that the officers on the poop deck were shifting uncertainly at this abrupt change of routine.
Hardy appeared before him, presenting arms with his musket. The motion was as smooth as silk. "Sarn't."
"This drill is yours," Myles told him. Have fun with it. He made a smart left-turn and marched aft, going just far enough to make it clear he would have no part in the drill. It was all down to Hardy.
"Right!" Hardy waited until Myles had departed before leaping feet-first into the lesson the two of them had carefully prepared. "This is a musket." He held up his musket over his head with one hand. "Every lad on deck here has one. You Army lads got the India Pattern, us Marines have the Sea Service." Now he held up a lead ball in his other hand. "This is a solid mold-cast lead ball. This is fired out of the musket an' goes into the enemy."
The musket came back down to rest against the inside of Hardy's elbow, while the lead ball vanished into the bag-pocket inside his coat. Myles noted a very slight twitch of confusion from the Marines. They thought Hardy was daft for telling them what they thought they already knew.
Hardy was just warming up. "The only lads on this deck who've faced the enemy are wearing green. They've fired solid mold-cast lead balls out of their muskets an' into the enemy." He paused to let this sink in. "That means they're better'n you Marines, but we're goin' to change that. This afternoon, we're gonna be havin' a bit of timed firin'. One minute to fire as many times as possible."
There was a definite air of confusion amongst the men now, Myles thought. Good! He dragged out the watch he'd borrowed from the sawbones and waited. The men would have seen this movement and, he hoped, it was striking home that this drill was going to be a test, rather than just one more rehearsal of the Manual Exercise.
"I'll show you lot how it's done, then it'll be down to you. One minute, Sarn't?"
"One minute," Myles confirmed. He watched as Hardy turned his back on the paraded men and settled his musket to Order Arms. This was definitely going to be good. Then he looked down at the watch face. One minute... "Begin!"
The Marine's motions were brisk and controlled. He brought the musket up to the Charge position, then dropped his right hand down to his cartridge box and plucked out a paper cartridge. Pan open, bite, spit, prime, shut pan. The musket butt dropped down to the deck and the rest of the cartridge went down the barrel. The ramrod was drawn, turned, and slid down the barrel, then it was out again and turned a second time, for returning to its tubes. The musket came up again, with Hardy's right hand pulling the cock back, then the musket butt was settled into the pocket of his shoulder. Within a heartbeat he had fired and the process began again.
That had taken him just less than seventeen seconds, Myles noted. Neatly done. Then again, Hardy had performed these same movements under fire. He had not said as much, but he knew his business well enough. Watching him made Myles long for the days when he too had been part of a campaign-seasoned detachment. Maybe some day he would be lucky enough to find himself amongst proper Marines again. Who knew?
Another shot. Thirty-six seconds. Hardy was going along at a steady pace, neither rushing or lagging. He was doing precisely what he needed to in order to maintain a regular rate of fire. Were the officers watching this? Major Brent in particular? Myles hoped so. Even though the best part was yet to come. A third shot. Fifty-two seconds. He didn't need the watch now, for he could count the remaining time down in his head.
"Time!"
Hardy froze, having just shut the musket pan. There was just the hint of a smirk playing about his powder-stained lips. He turned to face the parade again. "Three shots in a minute. It's somethin' a fightin' man needs to manage if he wants to keep himself alive. It's worth an extra tot for the first man can match that, with a guinea more to the first man who beats it."
If that did not get their attention, nothing would. Myles tucked the watch away and watched as Hardy went along the line of men, dividing the parade up into smaller sections. There was no question that the lad knew his business or, perhaps more accurately, was used to thinking on his feet. Why he wasn't a corporal yet, Myles couldn't imagine. He glanced aft toward the officers and amended that thought. He could guess very well why Hardy had no shoulder knot.
"Four sections here, four sections over to larboard," Hardy was saying. "Three ranks apiece. Front rank'll do the firin', then retire to let the next rank have a go. It's one minute to fire off as many shots as you can. Corporal Morse's got charge of you larboard lads. By sections, take your positions!"
This was certainly going to be good. The men were shifting themselves, half of them moving to the opposite rail. Myles noted that Hardy had mixed soldiers and Marines together and nodded in approval. It was a good move. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for the two lines to still themselves again. Whether or not this experiment would succeed depended now on the men who were about to fire.
"Ready!" Corporal Morse called in his flat voice. He would be hating every moment of this. The useless bugger. He was the cause of many of Myles' difficulties, after Major Brent. At times he wondered if Morse was no better than a copy of the major. The bastard certainly parroted Brent enough!
"One minute, Sarn't." Hardy had taken up position facing the foc's'le, so he could see the men in the starboard line as they fired. His eye would be unbiassed, at least. The same could hardly be said for Corporal Morse. Not that it mattered in the broader picture. They would shortly see how much hope there was for bringing this lot up to scratch.
Finding it difficult to contain his sudden eagerness, Myles pulled the watch out again and checked the time. "Begin!"
The first rank on either side of the ship began the process of loading with a will. An extra tot and a guinea made for a very enticing prize. Already, however, Myles could see mistakes being made. He was hard-pressed to keep his face expressionless. Mistakes in action were often fatal, but they would, hopefully, have time to sort things out before having to face a lethal-minded enemy.
A glance at the watch told him that eighteen seconds had passed and not a shot yet - no, that was a lie. One of the soldiers had just fired. His shot was followed closely by a flurry of others. Suddenly it seemed like the entire deck was shrouded in powder smoke. Thirty seconds, according to the watch, and the crackle of musketry was now constant. This was, Myles thought happily, much more like it.
~
"What in the name of God made you think you had the right to circumvent my authority?"
Collins stood stiffly beside the wardroom table, his gaze fixed on a point well behind Major Brent's head. The major was angry - no, it was better to say he was furious. His normally florid face was white and his eyes hard as flint. This was a reaction he had expected but he was quite aware that provoking his superior would have consequences.
"It was time for the men to begin training properly, sir. They are meant to be fighting fit and until this afternoon, I think there was hardly a man amongst them who understood the importance of being so."
"And this was something you saw fit to remedy on your own, without consulting me or Lieutenant Pettiton first?"
"Would you have approved of it, sir?"
The question seemed to catch Brent by surprise. He stared for a long moment and Collins wondered idly if the major had ever faced dedicated opposition to his preference for spit and polish over actual training. If he thought Collins would be content to simply remain following such a ridiculous doctrine, he was gravely mistaken.
"The way I see it, sir," he said, pressing on in the absence of a reply from Brent, "the men will stand no chance against the French, should we meet them, if matters persist as they are. Devoting all their time to pipeclaying crossbelts and blacking shoes is well and good in garrison, but it's not doing them any favours at sea."
"And you consider it a prudent course of action to make me look like a fool in front of this ship's officers?" There was an obvious sneer in Brent's voice now. "You may have done as you pleased in your last ship, sir, but you are under my command now. Here, there are limitations on what you may and may not do. I daresay you have been permitted to go your own way for much too long. Well I shall tell you, sir, that is going to change!"
Was it, now. "If I may say, sir. You are of course entitled to restrict my involvement in the running of this detachment, but I believe it to be a mistake to ignore the fact that the men's skill at musketry is woefully lacking. Lieutenant Pettition's men have been sharing their experiences in action with the lads and I have little doubt the emphasis of their stories is on how the Yankees were able to stand and fire volley upon volley with remarkable steadiness. The French will be no less firm, I have no doubt."
Brent's eyes flashed. "Are you such an expert in such matters that you think you can - "
"With respect, sir, I should not have to mention such things to you, if you took more of an interest in your own men. There is a great deal more to commanding Marines than simply requiring them to look smart enough to be part of a King's guard. If you came out from behind your cards once in a while, sir, you might realise the importance of proper drilling for yourself!"
The instant the words were spoken, Collins knew it was the wrong thing to say. He could have gotten away with simply arguing his point, but he had practically just accused his superior of intentional neglect. It was an unforgivable error and one he had not at all intended to make. Damn his own inability to check his temper!
"You, sir, are out of order!" Brent's face flushed dark with renewed anger. "I had heard you tended to impertinence but I was not aware you preferred outright insubordination. You may consider yourself relieved of duty, sir, and I shall be glad to deliver you to court-martial when we complete this foolish errand. Now get the hell out of my sight and be glad I cannot have you cashiered directly!"
Deliberately biting down hard on his tongue, Collins saluted and faced about. A retreat to the weather deck was the best thing to do. There, he hoped, he might find something - anything - to relieve the surge of anger that boiled inside him. This was the second time he had badly crossed a superior officer. Where in God's name was his good sense? Never before had he shown such a complete lack of restraint. Was he coming undone? He hoped not.
Once topside he pointedly avoided the poop and made his way forrard. He was in no mood to share company with the second-rate's officers. As far as he was concerned, they were all of similar view as Major Brent. The afternoon's unconventional had been a success with the men but there was not to be a repeat of it. Of that Collins was sure. Brent would have his way and the lads would suffer for it.
It was strange that he should begin to feel any sense of responsibility for these men when his own were somewhere out there in the broad sea, most likely divided and fighting against each other. Equally strange was his attempt to begin preparing these men for facing down Cornwall's Marines. It was his duty, he knew, but at the same time he felt like it was an admittance that there was no other option to consider his own Marines as the enemy. And yet he and Kelly had planned it out and put the plan into action.
He clasped his hands behind his back and wondered when things had become so damnably complicated. A frigate that might very well be lost to mutiny, a flagship roaming half-blind in search of it, and more than enough discord amongst officers to satisfy the worst gossips in London. Collins squashed the grimace that threatened to blossom into expression and gazed at the light ruffling waves. He had nothing to do now but worry, since he no longer had any duties with which to occupy himself. It was a damned shame but it was, of course, all of his own making.
"Brought you a tot, sir," Hardy said, appearing at his elbow with a tin mug. Like as not it was Hardy's own. He would have heard everything that passed in the wardroom. Or, if he hadn't, he would have guessed the outcome easily enough. Naturally.
"Thank you."
His steward nodded and looked away toward the distant horizon. "Funny piece of business, ain't it, sir. Bein' out here an' all. Sorta like what was done wrong 'fore now's about to be made up, like."
"What are you on about, Hardy?" Collins asked, glancing sidelong at his steward with the tankard frozen midway to his lips.
"Cornwall, sir. Things would've started goin' amiss bad after we was sent off, wouldn't they? Nothin' 'gainst Mister Forsythe, I mean, but he ain't you. The lads wouldn't have took to him. Not with things bein' what they was." Hardy shrugged. "Maybe he's won 'em over though. I dunno. But I reckon, sir, that things'll go a far sight better once we're back 'board. Makin' it right, like, sir."
We. Hardy would never have thought of it in any other way. There was no denying he was a loyal sort. "Perhaps you're right, Hardy," Collins said and grinned. Even if his steward did not know precisely what had passed between him and Major Brent, he did know how to lift Collins' spirits. "And to think, I almost took my father's advice and went on to university."
"Sir?"
He smiled and took a swallow of the rum he'd been given. "Never mind. Just be glad you're here and not on poor Cornwall, wherever she is.”
“No chance of that, sir,” Hardy told him with a slight grin. “There’s no tellin’ the state you’d be in with one of this lot to look after you.”
This time, Collins laughed. “You’re impertinent. But correct. There’s no replacing you, that’s sure.”
“Of course there ain’t, sir.”
He was correct again. Of course. Collins’ smile shrank a bit and he sipped at the rum thoughtfully. If there was no better outcome to the difficulty he had just put himself in, he could at least be assured of Hardy’s support. That was not even considering the problem of Cornwall. He had no idea how that would play out, if Defiant was ever able to find her. The frigate’s assigned patrol area was one of the few things the flagship’s officers knew. Everything else was a guess. For most, anyway.
“What do you plan to do after this is all over, Hardy?” He asked, striving to get his mind off such dreary, uncertain thoughts.
The Marine glanced at him, seemingly surprised. “After, sir?”
“When the war’s over. It can’t very well go on for ever.”
“Oh. I dunno, sir. Maybe go back to London an’ try my luck in a stable or somethin’. Or maybe do somethin’ with tailorin’. I’m no bad hand at sewin’.”
That was true enough. The answers were not wholly unexpected. Naturally, Hardy would anticipate having to find a trade for himself after discharge. Funny how he took it for granted that he was indispensable to his officer, but at the same time did not expect his loyalty to be returned once the bond of service was broken.
“Have you ever been to the north country?” The question was met with a blank look. He might have expected that much. “Yorkshire, I mean. The moors.”
“Not me, sir. Furthest north I ever gone is Shoreditch.” Hardy eyed him warily. “Why d’you ask, sir?”
“I wonder if you would be open to changing that. When this war is over, that is. I expect I’ll be in need of a capable valet, you see.”
Something like bewilderment spread across Hardy’s face. “Sir?”
“Don’t act so astonished. Certainly I can’t permit anyone who can tolerate my miserable nature to go off and find some other occupation.” He grinned and held the mug out. “Unless of course you would rather make do with chasing horses around at a coaching inn.”
“What... I mean, bloody hell, sir. D’you mean it?”
“If I didn’t, I’d not have made the offer.”
Hardy clutched the mug he’d been given back and seemed unwilling to so much as blink. “Well. I kept you in one piece this long, sir. S’pose it’s only proper I go on doin’ so.” He straightened up then, apparently collecting himself. “Thank you, sir. I’m ‘bliged.”
“Nonsense. It’ll be good to have you. I should hate to have to get used to a new man. It might end in disaster.” Collins smiled. "Besides. I'll admit that I'm rather fond of you. Never mind you're a bit too flippant for your own good. So it is agreed?"
“Part of the job, sir." Hardy shifted the mug and accepted the hand that his captain held out to him. "Agreed an' happily, sir."
Good, Collins thought. The reality was that the end of the war might very well come much sooner for him than for others. This was one of the few things he could sort out in his favour now. Even thinking that saddened him despite the truth of it. Poor Hardy. If he did not know of the troubles that lay ahead for his captain, he would inevitably find out. But in respect to him, Collins was determined to do right, if he could not do the same for the rest of his Marines.
Everything was a damned mess, and they had not yet found the unfortunate Cornwall. God willing, the frigate would not have need of their assistance. Collins thought of the letter he had received after his duel with Lieutenant Pettiton and suppressed a sigh. Somehow, he thought, there was nothing for it but to expect the worst. What a hell of a way to end one's career.
"Come now," he said abruptly. "I know you've a pipe stowed away there somewhere. Let's have it. What's a bit of good rum without a pipe to help it down?"
Hardy was grinning as he pulled his pipe out from under the cords at the back of his hat. He, at least, was the one fellow Collins could count on without reservation. For now, that was enough for him.
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 22 September 2008
Summary: Discontent and mutiny aboard a Royal Navy frigate. American Revolution, 1780.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical/ship goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.
Alfred Hardy ducked his head to avoid cracking it on the lintle as he trotted down the aft ladder and did his best not to look up on his way past the motionless wardroom sentry. There was a lot about the flagship's Marines that he disliked and he avoided interaction with them whenever he could. He found them an utterly boorish lot, concerned more with pipeclaying and polishing than attending the necessary drills of war. Worse was the fact that, with only two or three exceptions, they all viewed him with undisguised suspicion. To them, he was an outsider, an unwelcome intruder to their neat and ordered world.
That was true enough, he thought, nudging open the door to his captain's cabin. This lot had recently received an issue of new clothing, right down to fresh shoes. They all looked smart enough to pass a sergeant-major's inspection. Hardy's own uniform had seen him through a year's active service, including combat. Set next to one of these overpolished bastards, he looked positively shabby. Then again, he considered his many-times repaired coat, with its worn facings and red that had faded to a dull shade of orange, to be a point of pride. It marked him out at as a fighting Marine, not a puppet.
His captain's uniform was on its way to a similar fate. He had bought new shirts and another pair of breeches during his banishment ashore, but his sea-going coat was beginning to show the signs of irreparable wear. Hardy draped the newly-dried washing over his captain's cot and grimaced when he saw the line of careful stitching on the top-most shirt. That was the one the captain had been wearing when he'd nearly been cut in two by a Yankee with a well-sharpened hanger. Now there was the sort of action these empty-headed fools needed to break them out of their ridiculous sense of lofty superiority.
Then again, Hardy amended, maybe it was better for everyone if this lot stayed far away from an earnest fight. The morning's musket drill had shown him how unfit the flagship's Marines were for such a thing. He hated to admit it, but even the soldiers who had drilled alongside them had a chance to stand up better. The soldiers were the only point on which he and the ship's Marines were agreed, ironically enough. But that was more to do with the difference in the colour of their facings than not, Hardy suspected.
"Have you finally returned with the contents of my sea-chest?" Captain Collins enquired, appearing through the door with what had become his customary silent step.
Hardy didn't glance up from carefully folding each piece of clothing. "Didn't know you'd see anythin' was missin', sir."
His officer chuckled. "Perhaps I am more inclined to take note of my surroundings today. Ah, you have already prepared my desk. Good lad."
At that, Hardy simply smiled. As ever, his captain affected surprise at his efficiency. As if Hardy could ever be slack in his duties! He laid the last pair of breeches aside, having folded them neatly, and picked up the entire stack of clothes for sorting into the sea-chest. "Where'd you be without me, sir?"
"In a hopeless muddle, I shouldn't wonder."
There was no doubt about that, Hardy thought. What officer could keep himself in order without a steward to do it for him? He took care to pat each article of clothing so it lay flat before placing another atop it. Wrinkles were his worst nightmare.
"Hardy," Collins said abruptly. "I wonder. May I press you to do me a favour?"
The steward looked up from his work, an eyebrow arched just slightly. "Sir?"
"Keep hold of this letter," his captain told him, his voice lowered. "It contains an account of all that has transpired aboard our former ship up to my leaving it. I don't trust a happy resolution to affairs, despite our charging away to the rescue."
Hardy's cheerful expression faded as he took the folded and sealed letter. It was several pages thick, no doubt the result of many nights' work. He tucked it into the pocket inside his coat. "It'll not leave my reach, sir."
"Good lad." There was a pause, then Collins cracked a grin. "Now. Dare I ask for them, but your opinions on this morning's musket drill?"
The morning's musket drill. Hardy snorted. "Give us a moment, sir," he said, turning away to quickly finish repacking the sea-chest. Once this was done, he closed the lid and sat down on it. It was almost sad that his captain should ask that question, really. There was little about the morning's drill that Hardy didn't have an opinion on.
"Well, sir," the steward began. "It were a fine idea bringin' them soldier lads up to drill, really. But God help me if they ain't half a mess. Whoever's been leadin' their drill don't know his business. Or maybe he don't reckon they'll see another scrap. It's the latter I'll put my money on, sir."
His captain nodded slowly. "Perhaps that's so. What of the Marines?"
"Them, sir." Hardy snorted. "If I can speak plain, sir. I've not seen a worse bunch since I were a recruit at Chatham. No sense of left or right in this lot. Takin' their time with every movement too. I'd be s'prised if any of those poor beggars've ever seen the wrong side of a musket, sir. Cleanin' kit and standin' sentry is their only use. They just ain't fit for the fightin' life - hell, sir, I'd take them soldiers over these what say they're Marines any day."
"Indeed. With such a view, I daresay you have a thought or two about how to improve them."
"Do I! First thing, sir, is to stop this laggardly Manual Exercise nonsense. It ain't doin' them a bit of good. Give 'em some marksmanship drills, or even a bit of timed loadin' and firin'. I'll lay you odds, sir, there's not one of them in that lot can put more'n two shots out in a minute."
There was a pause, during which his captain seemed to consider Hardy's words. Then, "Timed firings?"
"That's it, sir. It's about time these beggars learned somethin' about bein' a fightin' Marine."
"And the soldiers?"
Hardy scoffed. "Them, sir? Well aye, they need some trainin' too. You remember how they stood up outside Fort Moultrie. It were a wonder they didn't lose us that fight."
This drew a frown to Collins' brow. "That might be, but we are meant to work with Mister Pettiton and his men, not create divisions between groups. Now. I expect there will be another joint drill this same afternoon. Are you truly an advocate of timed firings and marksmanship exercises?"
"I am, sir."
"Good. Then you shouldn't object to providing the necessary instruction and guidance. Sergeant Myles will help you as needed."
Hardy stared at his captain, wide-eyed and speechless. He was what? It wasn't possible! He was only a private, not able to tell anyone to do anything, but the captain wanted him to lead musket drill? How could he even begin to undertake such a thing? After what felt an eternity, he found his voice to protest, even though he knew the battle was already lost. "But sir! I ain't no hand at teachin'. That's a sergeant's job."
"Perhaps, but you seem quite keen to see that this detachment learn how to conduct themselves properly when it comes to musketry. Bearing in mind that Lieutenant Pettiton's men have been in action before, I might even say you are being unfairly harsh on them."
Again, all Hardy could do was stare. Was his captain all right in his head? This didn't sound like him at all. He was the last person Hardy would have expected to speak in support of Mister Pettiton. It defied all reason. With an effort, the steward collected himself enough to ask, "Are you feelin' all right, sir?"
Collins regarded him levelly. "Perfectly."
"Only it's just..." Hardy faltered, picking over his words carefully. "Only you're sayin' I gotta make nice to those soldiers?"
"I'm saying you must be professional, Hardy. God knows there has been enough of a lack of that lately!" Collins glanced at the papers on his tiny desk and sighed. "Give them no reason to complain about poor treatment and life shall be that much more bearable. Train them as you would expect Sergeant Devlin to train you. But not," he added quickly, "with quite the same choice of language."
Despite himself, Hardy chuckled. If it was Sergeant Devlin here instead of him, this lot would have no idea what had hit them. "Of course, sir. Do I got only one chance to smarten these fellows up?"
"No. That is, not if they respond well. I shouldn't think they would resent a chance to exercise properly, but one never knows."
That was true enough. Hardy himself didn't know how well the flagship's Marines would take to be given instruction by a scruffy outsider. The prospect of being snubbed by them didn't appeal to him. He was less sure about Mister Pettiton's company. Their conduct under fire was deplorable and from what he'd seen that morning, they had not improved any. How could he be expected to better their performance in a single morning? And he not even being a corporal!
"What does Mister Pettiton think of it, sir?"
A slight grin teased at the corner of Collins' mouth. "Considering that he has shown no objection to drilling jointly, I see no reason for him to protest now. Now. Send for Sergeant Myles, as he will need to be consulted on the finer details."
He waited until Hardy had gone before rising from the chair and venturing out into the wardroom proper. The junior Marine officer, Kelly, lounged at the table, keeping company over cards with Saddler, the surgeon. At his approach, both looked up.
"Is it on, sir?" Kelly asked casually.
"It is. A damnable business, perhaps, but it will go." Collins pulled out a chair and settled himself into it. He felt no different about this matter than when he had discussed it with Kelly earlier in the day. "I do dislike the idea of training your lads to kill my own, however."
Kelly shook his greying head. "I should prefer to avoid that end, sir."
"We should look upon it as a much-needed piece of training," Saddler interjected. "In the name of being ready to meet the enemy."
The two Marine officers nodded. Kelly called for the wardroom steward, who appeared with a fresh glass of brandy for Collins. It was received gratefully and the steward withdrew to his pantry again.
"To being ready to meet the enemy," Kelly said, no trace of his earlier uncertainty in his voice.
The other two men raised their glasses and echoed him. "Hear hear," Saddler added and tossed back his brandy in a single swallow. Collins examined his now-empty glass thoughtfully, wishing it was not necessary to deceive his own steward in this fashion. Were Hardy to know the true reason behind the arrangements, he would not be nearly so accepting of it. The poor lad.
"Come now, sir," Saddler chided, glancing at the cards on the table. "Do you wish to declare game or not?"
There was a short grunt from Kelly, who was studying his hand intently. Despite himself, Collins smiled. In some ways, deceit was preferable to facing down the sawbones over a game of whist.
~
As they had done every afternoon since leaving Antigua, Major Brent and Lieutenant Pettiton were on the poop deck, Brent with his pipe and Pettiton with a cheroot. That the pair had struck up a sort of friendship was clear. Equally, it was clear that both were only too willing to delegate responsibility for their men to subordinates in favour of smoking on deck or playing cards below. No doubt Pettiton hoped it would prove advantageous to have Brent for a patron, despite the difference in their chosen services.
In Sergeant Myles' view, both officers were scarcely worth the dye in the coats they wore. He was much too career-minded to give voice to such a thought but felt it nothing more than the truth. When Brent had assumed command of the flagship's Marines two years ago, there had been a gradual, noticeable shift in the detachment's state. Smart appearances and sharp-looking drill became the norm, though the men only saw Brent when there was field punishment to be awarded or a parade held.
The real work of command was left to the two lieutenants, for whom Myles had always found it impossible not to pity. The poor beggars couldn't hope to avoid obeying every order they were given, even when, as often happened, those orders left them in precarious positions. It was only luck that Defiant seldom left English Harbour. She would be in a bad way if she did and ran afoul of a French man-o'-war. The seamen would hold up well enough but the Marines would find themselves in real trouble.
Myles passed his critical gaze over the men arrayed before him and was annoyed that he could not detect any fault with them. Each Marine was turned out flawlessly, down to his queue. One would think, he mused wryly, that the men had nothing better to do with their time but clean their kit. Likewise, the company of soldiers paraded alongside them looked smart enough to be painted.
The only one amongst them who was in dire need of a new uniform was Private Hardy. He was woefully easy to spot, owing to his worn, faded coat and salt-stained hat. The other Marines regarded him as a lower form of creature owing to his shabby clothes and apparent lack of discipline. Their lofty sense of superiority aggravated Myles and he knew they hated him for his constant admonitions that they were no better than Marines in other ships. His refusal to tolerate such an attitude made him unpopular but he didn't care.
What he was about to do would make him even more unpopular and not just with the men. Major Brent had no idea of the scheme his two junior officers had concocted. He was about to find out, however. They were all about to find out. Myles allowed himself to wonder who would be most livid - Major Brent or Lieutenant Pettiton - then he saw the slight nod from Lieutenant Kelly. It was time.
"You lads are in for a treat," Myles began, pacing slowly along the starboard midships rail. "This afternoon drill's going to be a bit different from the usual. You'll not be conducting the Sixty-four. Instead, you'll be training as every other detachment of Marines in the West Indies trains. To fight." He halted and faced the paraded men. "Private Hardy!"
There was not even the barest shiver of movement from the Marines' ranks, but Myles knew them well enough to be aware of their surprise and, perhaps, their dismay. No doubt they'd prefer another mindless session of dry-firing. They were good at that, anyway. He also knew without looking that the officers on the poop deck were shifting uncertainly at this abrupt change of routine.
Hardy appeared before him, presenting arms with his musket. The motion was as smooth as silk. "Sarn't."
"This drill is yours," Myles told him. Have fun with it. He made a smart left-turn and marched aft, going just far enough to make it clear he would have no part in the drill. It was all down to Hardy.
"Right!" Hardy waited until Myles had departed before leaping feet-first into the lesson the two of them had carefully prepared. "This is a musket." He held up his musket over his head with one hand. "Every lad on deck here has one. You Army lads got the India Pattern, us Marines have the Sea Service." Now he held up a lead ball in his other hand. "This is a solid mold-cast lead ball. This is fired out of the musket an' goes into the enemy."
The musket came back down to rest against the inside of Hardy's elbow, while the lead ball vanished into the bag-pocket inside his coat. Myles noted a very slight twitch of confusion from the Marines. They thought Hardy was daft for telling them what they thought they already knew.
Hardy was just warming up. "The only lads on this deck who've faced the enemy are wearing green. They've fired solid mold-cast lead balls out of their muskets an' into the enemy." He paused to let this sink in. "That means they're better'n you Marines, but we're goin' to change that. This afternoon, we're gonna be havin' a bit of timed firin'. One minute to fire as many times as possible."
There was a definite air of confusion amongst the men now, Myles thought. Good! He dragged out the watch he'd borrowed from the sawbones and waited. The men would have seen this movement and, he hoped, it was striking home that this drill was going to be a test, rather than just one more rehearsal of the Manual Exercise.
"I'll show you lot how it's done, then it'll be down to you. One minute, Sarn't?"
"One minute," Myles confirmed. He watched as Hardy turned his back on the paraded men and settled his musket to Order Arms. This was definitely going to be good. Then he looked down at the watch face. One minute... "Begin!"
The Marine's motions were brisk and controlled. He brought the musket up to the Charge position, then dropped his right hand down to his cartridge box and plucked out a paper cartridge. Pan open, bite, spit, prime, shut pan. The musket butt dropped down to the deck and the rest of the cartridge went down the barrel. The ramrod was drawn, turned, and slid down the barrel, then it was out again and turned a second time, for returning to its tubes. The musket came up again, with Hardy's right hand pulling the cock back, then the musket butt was settled into the pocket of his shoulder. Within a heartbeat he had fired and the process began again.
That had taken him just less than seventeen seconds, Myles noted. Neatly done. Then again, Hardy had performed these same movements under fire. He had not said as much, but he knew his business well enough. Watching him made Myles long for the days when he too had been part of a campaign-seasoned detachment. Maybe some day he would be lucky enough to find himself amongst proper Marines again. Who knew?
Another shot. Thirty-six seconds. Hardy was going along at a steady pace, neither rushing or lagging. He was doing precisely what he needed to in order to maintain a regular rate of fire. Were the officers watching this? Major Brent in particular? Myles hoped so. Even though the best part was yet to come. A third shot. Fifty-two seconds. He didn't need the watch now, for he could count the remaining time down in his head.
"Time!"
Hardy froze, having just shut the musket pan. There was just the hint of a smirk playing about his powder-stained lips. He turned to face the parade again. "Three shots in a minute. It's somethin' a fightin' man needs to manage if he wants to keep himself alive. It's worth an extra tot for the first man can match that, with a guinea more to the first man who beats it."
If that did not get their attention, nothing would. Myles tucked the watch away and watched as Hardy went along the line of men, dividing the parade up into smaller sections. There was no question that the lad knew his business or, perhaps more accurately, was used to thinking on his feet. Why he wasn't a corporal yet, Myles couldn't imagine. He glanced aft toward the officers and amended that thought. He could guess very well why Hardy had no shoulder knot.
"Four sections here, four sections over to larboard," Hardy was saying. "Three ranks apiece. Front rank'll do the firin', then retire to let the next rank have a go. It's one minute to fire off as many shots as you can. Corporal Morse's got charge of you larboard lads. By sections, take your positions!"
This was certainly going to be good. The men were shifting themselves, half of them moving to the opposite rail. Myles noted that Hardy had mixed soldiers and Marines together and nodded in approval. It was a good move. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for the two lines to still themselves again. Whether or not this experiment would succeed depended now on the men who were about to fire.
"Ready!" Corporal Morse called in his flat voice. He would be hating every moment of this. The useless bugger. He was the cause of many of Myles' difficulties, after Major Brent. At times he wondered if Morse was no better than a copy of the major. The bastard certainly parroted Brent enough!
"One minute, Sarn't." Hardy had taken up position facing the foc's'le, so he could see the men in the starboard line as they fired. His eye would be unbiassed, at least. The same could hardly be said for Corporal Morse. Not that it mattered in the broader picture. They would shortly see how much hope there was for bringing this lot up to scratch.
Finding it difficult to contain his sudden eagerness, Myles pulled the watch out again and checked the time. "Begin!"
The first rank on either side of the ship began the process of loading with a will. An extra tot and a guinea made for a very enticing prize. Already, however, Myles could see mistakes being made. He was hard-pressed to keep his face expressionless. Mistakes in action were often fatal, but they would, hopefully, have time to sort things out before having to face a lethal-minded enemy.
A glance at the watch told him that eighteen seconds had passed and not a shot yet - no, that was a lie. One of the soldiers had just fired. His shot was followed closely by a flurry of others. Suddenly it seemed like the entire deck was shrouded in powder smoke. Thirty seconds, according to the watch, and the crackle of musketry was now constant. This was, Myles thought happily, much more like it.
~
"What in the name of God made you think you had the right to circumvent my authority?"
Collins stood stiffly beside the wardroom table, his gaze fixed on a point well behind Major Brent's head. The major was angry - no, it was better to say he was furious. His normally florid face was white and his eyes hard as flint. This was a reaction he had expected but he was quite aware that provoking his superior would have consequences.
"It was time for the men to begin training properly, sir. They are meant to be fighting fit and until this afternoon, I think there was hardly a man amongst them who understood the importance of being so."
"And this was something you saw fit to remedy on your own, without consulting me or Lieutenant Pettiton first?"
"Would you have approved of it, sir?"
The question seemed to catch Brent by surprise. He stared for a long moment and Collins wondered idly if the major had ever faced dedicated opposition to his preference for spit and polish over actual training. If he thought Collins would be content to simply remain following such a ridiculous doctrine, he was gravely mistaken.
"The way I see it, sir," he said, pressing on in the absence of a reply from Brent, "the men will stand no chance against the French, should we meet them, if matters persist as they are. Devoting all their time to pipeclaying crossbelts and blacking shoes is well and good in garrison, but it's not doing them any favours at sea."
"And you consider it a prudent course of action to make me look like a fool in front of this ship's officers?" There was an obvious sneer in Brent's voice now. "You may have done as you pleased in your last ship, sir, but you are under my command now. Here, there are limitations on what you may and may not do. I daresay you have been permitted to go your own way for much too long. Well I shall tell you, sir, that is going to change!"
Was it, now. "If I may say, sir. You are of course entitled to restrict my involvement in the running of this detachment, but I believe it to be a mistake to ignore the fact that the men's skill at musketry is woefully lacking. Lieutenant Pettition's men have been sharing their experiences in action with the lads and I have little doubt the emphasis of their stories is on how the Yankees were able to stand and fire volley upon volley with remarkable steadiness. The French will be no less firm, I have no doubt."
Brent's eyes flashed. "Are you such an expert in such matters that you think you can - "
"With respect, sir, I should not have to mention such things to you, if you took more of an interest in your own men. There is a great deal more to commanding Marines than simply requiring them to look smart enough to be part of a King's guard. If you came out from behind your cards once in a while, sir, you might realise the importance of proper drilling for yourself!"
The instant the words were spoken, Collins knew it was the wrong thing to say. He could have gotten away with simply arguing his point, but he had practically just accused his superior of intentional neglect. It was an unforgivable error and one he had not at all intended to make. Damn his own inability to check his temper!
"You, sir, are out of order!" Brent's face flushed dark with renewed anger. "I had heard you tended to impertinence but I was not aware you preferred outright insubordination. You may consider yourself relieved of duty, sir, and I shall be glad to deliver you to court-martial when we complete this foolish errand. Now get the hell out of my sight and be glad I cannot have you cashiered directly!"
Deliberately biting down hard on his tongue, Collins saluted and faced about. A retreat to the weather deck was the best thing to do. There, he hoped, he might find something - anything - to relieve the surge of anger that boiled inside him. This was the second time he had badly crossed a superior officer. Where in God's name was his good sense? Never before had he shown such a complete lack of restraint. Was he coming undone? He hoped not.
Once topside he pointedly avoided the poop and made his way forrard. He was in no mood to share company with the second-rate's officers. As far as he was concerned, they were all of similar view as Major Brent. The afternoon's unconventional had been a success with the men but there was not to be a repeat of it. Of that Collins was sure. Brent would have his way and the lads would suffer for it.
It was strange that he should begin to feel any sense of responsibility for these men when his own were somewhere out there in the broad sea, most likely divided and fighting against each other. Equally strange was his attempt to begin preparing these men for facing down Cornwall's Marines. It was his duty, he knew, but at the same time he felt like it was an admittance that there was no other option to consider his own Marines as the enemy. And yet he and Kelly had planned it out and put the plan into action.
He clasped his hands behind his back and wondered when things had become so damnably complicated. A frigate that might very well be lost to mutiny, a flagship roaming half-blind in search of it, and more than enough discord amongst officers to satisfy the worst gossips in London. Collins squashed the grimace that threatened to blossom into expression and gazed at the light ruffling waves. He had nothing to do now but worry, since he no longer had any duties with which to occupy himself. It was a damned shame but it was, of course, all of his own making.
"Brought you a tot, sir," Hardy said, appearing at his elbow with a tin mug. Like as not it was Hardy's own. He would have heard everything that passed in the wardroom. Or, if he hadn't, he would have guessed the outcome easily enough. Naturally.
"Thank you."
His steward nodded and looked away toward the distant horizon. "Funny piece of business, ain't it, sir. Bein' out here an' all. Sorta like what was done wrong 'fore now's about to be made up, like."
"What are you on about, Hardy?" Collins asked, glancing sidelong at his steward with the tankard frozen midway to his lips.
"Cornwall, sir. Things would've started goin' amiss bad after we was sent off, wouldn't they? Nothin' 'gainst Mister Forsythe, I mean, but he ain't you. The lads wouldn't have took to him. Not with things bein' what they was." Hardy shrugged. "Maybe he's won 'em over though. I dunno. But I reckon, sir, that things'll go a far sight better once we're back 'board. Makin' it right, like, sir."
We. Hardy would never have thought of it in any other way. There was no denying he was a loyal sort. "Perhaps you're right, Hardy," Collins said and grinned. Even if his steward did not know precisely what had passed between him and Major Brent, he did know how to lift Collins' spirits. "And to think, I almost took my father's advice and went on to university."
"Sir?"
He smiled and took a swallow of the rum he'd been given. "Never mind. Just be glad you're here and not on poor Cornwall, wherever she is.”
“No chance of that, sir,” Hardy told him with a slight grin. “There’s no tellin’ the state you’d be in with one of this lot to look after you.”
This time, Collins laughed. “You’re impertinent. But correct. There’s no replacing you, that’s sure.”
“Of course there ain’t, sir.”
He was correct again. Of course. Collins’ smile shrank a bit and he sipped at the rum thoughtfully. If there was no better outcome to the difficulty he had just put himself in, he could at least be assured of Hardy’s support. That was not even considering the problem of Cornwall. He had no idea how that would play out, if Defiant was ever able to find her. The frigate’s assigned patrol area was one of the few things the flagship’s officers knew. Everything else was a guess. For most, anyway.
“What do you plan to do after this is all over, Hardy?” He asked, striving to get his mind off such dreary, uncertain thoughts.
The Marine glanced at him, seemingly surprised. “After, sir?”
“When the war’s over. It can’t very well go on for ever.”
“Oh. I dunno, sir. Maybe go back to London an’ try my luck in a stable or somethin’. Or maybe do somethin’ with tailorin’. I’m no bad hand at sewin’.”
That was true enough. The answers were not wholly unexpected. Naturally, Hardy would anticipate having to find a trade for himself after discharge. Funny how he took it for granted that he was indispensable to his officer, but at the same time did not expect his loyalty to be returned once the bond of service was broken.
“Have you ever been to the north country?” The question was met with a blank look. He might have expected that much. “Yorkshire, I mean. The moors.”
“Not me, sir. Furthest north I ever gone is Shoreditch.” Hardy eyed him warily. “Why d’you ask, sir?”
“I wonder if you would be open to changing that. When this war is over, that is. I expect I’ll be in need of a capable valet, you see.”
Something like bewilderment spread across Hardy’s face. “Sir?”
“Don’t act so astonished. Certainly I can’t permit anyone who can tolerate my miserable nature to go off and find some other occupation.” He grinned and held the mug out. “Unless of course you would rather make do with chasing horses around at a coaching inn.”
“What... I mean, bloody hell, sir. D’you mean it?”
“If I didn’t, I’d not have made the offer.”
Hardy clutched the mug he’d been given back and seemed unwilling to so much as blink. “Well. I kept you in one piece this long, sir. S’pose it’s only proper I go on doin’ so.” He straightened up then, apparently collecting himself. “Thank you, sir. I’m ‘bliged.”
“Nonsense. It’ll be good to have you. I should hate to have to get used to a new man. It might end in disaster.” Collins smiled. "Besides. I'll admit that I'm rather fond of you. Never mind you're a bit too flippant for your own good. So it is agreed?"
“Part of the job, sir." Hardy shifted the mug and accepted the hand that his captain held out to him. "Agreed an' happily, sir."
Good, Collins thought. The reality was that the end of the war might very well come much sooner for him than for others. This was one of the few things he could sort out in his favour now. Even thinking that saddened him despite the truth of it. Poor Hardy. If he did not know of the troubles that lay ahead for his captain, he would inevitably find out. But in respect to him, Collins was determined to do right, if he could not do the same for the rest of his Marines.
Everything was a damned mess, and they had not yet found the unfortunate Cornwall. God willing, the frigate would not have need of their assistance. Collins thought of the letter he had received after his duel with Lieutenant Pettiton and suppressed a sigh. Somehow, he thought, there was nothing for it but to expect the worst. What a hell of a way to end one's career.
"Come now," he said abruptly. "I know you've a pipe stowed away there somewhere. Let's have it. What's a bit of good rum without a pipe to help it down?"
Hardy was grinning as he pulled his pipe out from under the cords at the back of his hat. He, at least, was the one fellow Collins could count on without reservation. For now, that was enough for him.