Whew! Fic finally done - and it's a long one...!
A certain scene in M&C from the point of view of the Marine sentry. Slightly spoilery for FSOTW (book), chapter three. Word count: 2244. Rating: U (Suitable for all). No slash 'ere, sir. Sorry.
An Outside Perspective
Thompson sweated in his red coat, standing on sentry outside the Captain's cabin. The Doctor had gone in not five minutes ago, a look of consternation on his face. And now they were in the full flow of a heated argument. He couldn't hear the words, didn't need to, but he could hear the Captain shouting and the quieter, yet no less forceful, voice of the Doctor. Then the Captain, near shouting: “...your damned hobbies, sir!” He braced himself for the inevitable as the door flew open and the Doctor stormed out, heading below to his own quarters next to the sickbay.
He watched as the hands silently parted to let the Doctor through. Each of them knew that he had set his heart on going ashore here and to have that denied him... Well, it wasn't as though the rest of the crew hadn't wanted to go ashore themselves. Even the Marines had, despite the fact that it would mean more work for them, standing guard to make sure none of the pressed men deserted. Though there would be precious few of the crew of the Surprise who'd want to desert after this long at sea. Most of the crew were volunteers anyway. But that wouldn't stop Captain Aubrey asking for a Marine guard, just in case.
He sighed again as the Captain's steward came aft. Killick might be a grumpy cove, but he was good for the Captain, and the crew knew it. No need to announce him either, being as he was the Captain's personal steward.. Thompson just glanced at the crusty old sailor and shrugged. If Killick wanted to risk his neck going in after that quarrel, Thompson wasn't going to stand in his way. Killick muttered his way into the cabin, closing the door with a click. Thompson sighed. Another two bells before he was relieved and could get out of his thick woollen jacket and into something a bit cooler. As if there was anything cooler around here...
Abruptly the cabin door opened and the Captain looked out. “Pass the word for Mister Pullings,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Thompson replied as the door closed again, then called for'ard: “Mister Pullings to the Great Cabin!”
Mister Pullings came aft, and Thompson knocked on the cabin door. “First Lieutenant, sir!” he called, and waited for an answering hail before allowing the officer through into the Captain's private cabin.
He returned to the 'at ease' position, trying to ignore the excitement on deck in front of him, seamen jostling each other for a look at the islands before them. Sailors fighting over the few telescopes, his fellow Marines craning their heads. Even Captain Howard was sharing a telescope with Mister Mowett, the two of them passing the instrument back and forth. The Doctor came back on deck, in his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat and there was a sudden hush. He made his way up to the hallowed area of the quarterdeck. Nobody stopped him; they could probably tell from the look on his face that he'd throw them overboard if they tried.
The bell sounded from for'ard, and Thompson tried to relax a little. Even though he was in the shade here, it was still hot as Hell, and that fact wasn't helped by the thick woollen uniform jacket he was wearing. All the duty officers were wearing their coats, as was Mister Howard, so there was no reason to suspect that any of the Marines would be allowed to come on duty in their drill jackets any time soon. Well, apart from whoever was on duty at the scuttlebutt, of course. Even Captain Howard didn't expect him to show up in full uniform, as the scuttlebutt was open to the elements, with no shade apart from that provided by the mainsail, if it was set. And if the ship was in the right position relative to the sun, of course.
Lost in his thoughts, Thompson jumped when Lieutenant Pullings came out of the cabin and called for Lloyd to have one of the boats lowered into the water. Killick came out too, carrying the coffee pot and a mug. Mumbling under his breath, he took his burden up onto the quarterdeck, returning moments later shaking his head. He was still carrying both coffee pot and mug. Thompson raised an eyebrow when he saw that; Killick's coffee was legendary below-decks. That was the only time that afternoon that anybody dared disturb the Doctor, until just before four bells rang to announce the second dog-watch (and the end of Thompson's sentry duty). Young Mister Blakeney came aft, holding something in his hand.
And then four bells rang and here was Combes to take over sentry. Thompson got away as quickly as he decently could, practically running down the companionway to rid himself of his jacket. His shirt was sticking to his back, and it'd be Quarters before you knew it, and he really could do with some water before then. He also wanted to have a look at the islands himself. It was what, nine months? a year? since he'd last actually set foot on dry land. And he was lucky - as a Marine, he was one of those who supposedly wouldn't desert (at least, according to the Admiralty, who'd never met any of the Surprises), and was therefore one of those entrusted to see that the sailors wouldn't desert whenever they were at anchor, or in harbour.
He came back on deck, having replaced his thick red woollen uniform jacket with the much lighter drill jacket, and placed his musket back in the rack with the others, to find the Doctor being helped into the cutter, with much advice of the “Clap onto that line there, sir!” and “Don't let him get wet, whatever you do, Barret!” sort.
“Here's your net, sir,” Slade said, leaning out from the main chains and handing it down to him.
“Much obliged to you,” the Doctor said, carefully seating himself in the boat's stern as they began passing the boat back along the ship's side before making its painter fast.
“Whatever you do, don't fall in,” Bonden said. “I'd never hear the end of it.”
“Your concern gratifies me, Barret Bonden, but I fear there's little chance the Captain would miss me.”
Everyone looked shocked, and pretended not to have heard him, though Thompson's mates, realising he'd been on duty outside the Captain's cabin during the argument that had so put the Doctor out of sorts, soon wrung from him all that he knew about it. Thankfully, Oxley began to beat to quarters before he could say much against either the Captain or the Doctor.
It seemed the Captain, rather than leaving the First Luff to run things, had decided to take part himself, probably to work off his own bad temper. Not that Lucky Jack Aubrey could be in a bad temper for long, but there was something about the look on the Doctor's face when he'd left the cabin, and the words Thompson had heard the Captain say (say? He'd shouted; the Marine had heard the insult through the bulkhead, clear as anything) that said something had happened and neither of them knew quite how to put things to rights. Also, there was the fact that the Doctor was towing along behind Surprise in the cutter, about as far away from the Captain as it was possible to get.
He tried to forget about the Captain and the Doctor and their quarrel and concentrate on the task at hand. Lucky Jack (being Lucky Jack) had decided to pit the Marines against the sailors, taking advantage of the natural (albeit friendly) rivalry between the two groups, and Thompson was a vital member of the crew of Number Seven gun on the larboard battery. Of course, it was more fondly known as Spitfire than Number Seven gun, but the officers could hardly be expected to remember all the names of all the guns in the heat of battle.
Serving a gun was hard, hot, noisy work, and even the Captain seemed to be feeling the heat somewhat. His temper had improved, though he wasn't exactly back to his usual cheerful self. Though that maybe had something to do with the rate of fire and not the argument earlier.
“Two minutes and one second, sir,” Mister Mowett called from by the aft companionway, looking at his watch.
“Lads! That's not good enough!” The Captain was used to making himself heard above the sounds of gunfire, but Thompson thought his voice sounded a little hoarse. Not, of course, that he could hear very well above the ringing in his ears from all the noise, but it didn't sound quite right... “We need to fire two broadsides to her one! D'you want to see a guillotine in Piccadilly?”
“No!” Thompson's yell was just as loud - and as hoarse - as everyone else's, and he'd never even been anywhere near Piccadilly, nor was he likely to be.
“D'you want to call that raggedy arse Napoleon your king?”
“No!”
“D'you want your children to sing the Marseillaise?”
“No!” Not that Thompson was ever likely to have any childer, of course.
“Mister Pullings, Mister Mowett, starboard battery!”
Thompson never knew, afterwards, how they were able to beat the previous timing by nearly a minute. They were all done in and practically deaf from the sounds of cannon going off to either side, and they had actually beaten the crew of Number Six gun (Sudden Death) in getting the all-important first shot off.
At least Goldilocks looked happier. Thompson could only hope that he would make it up with the Doctor, and soon. It was unnatural to have the Doctor - a proper physician he was too, not just a common surgeon - moping round and getting in everyone's way. In fact, Goldilocks' temper had improved so much that he ordered an extra tot of rum all round, which went down a treat.
They were less than a week's sail away from the islands (Thompson heard some of the officers call them the Galapagos, but he never really concerned himself with the names of places that weren't in England) when the wind failed.
It was during the second day of being becalmed that Captain Howard gave permission for the Marines to do their duties in their white drill jackets and forage caps, rather than red coats and round hats. Thompson was profoundly grateful for this decision, especially when standing guard over the scuttlebutt, to make sure nobody had more than their fair share of water.
He was a little disconcerted when the Doctor appeared in front of him, apparently bent on taking rather more water than was allowed. “One cup per man. I'm sorry, sir,” he said, wondering how on earth he could make the Doctor restrict himself to the allowance if he decided he didn't want just one cup.
“It's only for scientific purposes, I assure you,” the Doctor said, taking some sort of vial from his pocket and carefully filling. He turned to go below and before Thompson could say anything, he'd cracked his head on a beam. No, he had absolutely no sense when it came to things nautical. Thompson let the next man take his share, wondering when - if! - the Doctor and the Captain would make it up.
As things turned out, it happened the very next day. The Doctor decided that it was high time everyone was bled, being as how they were pretty much sitting on the Line and it hadn't yet been done this commission. Man after man was sat down, his forearm exposed and eight ounces of blood taken before being dragged away and revived with vinegar or seawater, as he chose. Thompson would rather keep all his blood right where it was, but there was no gain-saying the Doctor, who was still in a sulk (he really couldn't call it anything else) and he had to submit to having his blood drawn, before being bandaged up and sent to relieve Combes on sentry at the Captain's cabin. The Captain himself came back from his own encounter with the Doctor's fleam looking rather pale. He acknowledged Thompson's salute with a nod as he strode past, calling for Killick to bring him some brandy, and be quick about it.
There was a crash from the deck and the Doctor's voice rose above the sudden stillness, sounding furious. Combes and Dawkins escorted Oxley - a pale yet bloody figure - down below, whispering to Thompson as they did, “Poor cove couldn't stand the smell. Fainted right into one of the buckets. Doctor's furious with 'im.”
The Doctor came below half a glass later. He paused, something that he'd never done before to Thompson's knowledge and seemed to be waiting for something. Thompson gave a start when he realised the Doctor was waiting to be announced. Gathering his wits together, he rapped on the door. “The Doctor, sir!” he said, and held his breath.
“Come in,” the Captain called, and Thompson pushed open the door to admit the Doctor to the Captain's inner sanctum. He closed the door carefully and sighed. Surely this must be the end of it... He caught the sound of voices, then the tuning of the Captain's fiddle and the Doctor's cello, followed by a grumbling complaint from the direction of Killick's pantry. There was music again, and all was right with the world.
An Outside Perspective
Thompson sweated in his red coat, standing on sentry outside the Captain's cabin. The Doctor had gone in not five minutes ago, a look of consternation on his face. And now they were in the full flow of a heated argument. He couldn't hear the words, didn't need to, but he could hear the Captain shouting and the quieter, yet no less forceful, voice of the Doctor. Then the Captain, near shouting: “...your damned hobbies, sir!” He braced himself for the inevitable as the door flew open and the Doctor stormed out, heading below to his own quarters next to the sickbay.
He watched as the hands silently parted to let the Doctor through. Each of them knew that he had set his heart on going ashore here and to have that denied him... Well, it wasn't as though the rest of the crew hadn't wanted to go ashore themselves. Even the Marines had, despite the fact that it would mean more work for them, standing guard to make sure none of the pressed men deserted. Though there would be precious few of the crew of the Surprise who'd want to desert after this long at sea. Most of the crew were volunteers anyway. But that wouldn't stop Captain Aubrey asking for a Marine guard, just in case.
He sighed again as the Captain's steward came aft. Killick might be a grumpy cove, but he was good for the Captain, and the crew knew it. No need to announce him either, being as he was the Captain's personal steward.. Thompson just glanced at the crusty old sailor and shrugged. If Killick wanted to risk his neck going in after that quarrel, Thompson wasn't going to stand in his way. Killick muttered his way into the cabin, closing the door with a click. Thompson sighed. Another two bells before he was relieved and could get out of his thick woollen jacket and into something a bit cooler. As if there was anything cooler around here...
Abruptly the cabin door opened and the Captain looked out. “Pass the word for Mister Pullings,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Thompson replied as the door closed again, then called for'ard: “Mister Pullings to the Great Cabin!”
Mister Pullings came aft, and Thompson knocked on the cabin door. “First Lieutenant, sir!” he called, and waited for an answering hail before allowing the officer through into the Captain's private cabin.
He returned to the 'at ease' position, trying to ignore the excitement on deck in front of him, seamen jostling each other for a look at the islands before them. Sailors fighting over the few telescopes, his fellow Marines craning their heads. Even Captain Howard was sharing a telescope with Mister Mowett, the two of them passing the instrument back and forth. The Doctor came back on deck, in his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat and there was a sudden hush. He made his way up to the hallowed area of the quarterdeck. Nobody stopped him; they could probably tell from the look on his face that he'd throw them overboard if they tried.
The bell sounded from for'ard, and Thompson tried to relax a little. Even though he was in the shade here, it was still hot as Hell, and that fact wasn't helped by the thick woollen uniform jacket he was wearing. All the duty officers were wearing their coats, as was Mister Howard, so there was no reason to suspect that any of the Marines would be allowed to come on duty in their drill jackets any time soon. Well, apart from whoever was on duty at the scuttlebutt, of course. Even Captain Howard didn't expect him to show up in full uniform, as the scuttlebutt was open to the elements, with no shade apart from that provided by the mainsail, if it was set. And if the ship was in the right position relative to the sun, of course.
Lost in his thoughts, Thompson jumped when Lieutenant Pullings came out of the cabin and called for Lloyd to have one of the boats lowered into the water. Killick came out too, carrying the coffee pot and a mug. Mumbling under his breath, he took his burden up onto the quarterdeck, returning moments later shaking his head. He was still carrying both coffee pot and mug. Thompson raised an eyebrow when he saw that; Killick's coffee was legendary below-decks. That was the only time that afternoon that anybody dared disturb the Doctor, until just before four bells rang to announce the second dog-watch (and the end of Thompson's sentry duty). Young Mister Blakeney came aft, holding something in his hand.
And then four bells rang and here was Combes to take over sentry. Thompson got away as quickly as he decently could, practically running down the companionway to rid himself of his jacket. His shirt was sticking to his back, and it'd be Quarters before you knew it, and he really could do with some water before then. He also wanted to have a look at the islands himself. It was what, nine months? a year? since he'd last actually set foot on dry land. And he was lucky - as a Marine, he was one of those who supposedly wouldn't desert (at least, according to the Admiralty, who'd never met any of the Surprises), and was therefore one of those entrusted to see that the sailors wouldn't desert whenever they were at anchor, or in harbour.
He came back on deck, having replaced his thick red woollen uniform jacket with the much lighter drill jacket, and placed his musket back in the rack with the others, to find the Doctor being helped into the cutter, with much advice of the “Clap onto that line there, sir!” and “Don't let him get wet, whatever you do, Barret!” sort.
“Here's your net, sir,” Slade said, leaning out from the main chains and handing it down to him.
“Much obliged to you,” the Doctor said, carefully seating himself in the boat's stern as they began passing the boat back along the ship's side before making its painter fast.
“Whatever you do, don't fall in,” Bonden said. “I'd never hear the end of it.”
“Your concern gratifies me, Barret Bonden, but I fear there's little chance the Captain would miss me.”
Everyone looked shocked, and pretended not to have heard him, though Thompson's mates, realising he'd been on duty outside the Captain's cabin during the argument that had so put the Doctor out of sorts, soon wrung from him all that he knew about it. Thankfully, Oxley began to beat to quarters before he could say much against either the Captain or the Doctor.
It seemed the Captain, rather than leaving the First Luff to run things, had decided to take part himself, probably to work off his own bad temper. Not that Lucky Jack Aubrey could be in a bad temper for long, but there was something about the look on the Doctor's face when he'd left the cabin, and the words Thompson had heard the Captain say (say? He'd shouted; the Marine had heard the insult through the bulkhead, clear as anything) that said something had happened and neither of them knew quite how to put things to rights. Also, there was the fact that the Doctor was towing along behind Surprise in the cutter, about as far away from the Captain as it was possible to get.
He tried to forget about the Captain and the Doctor and their quarrel and concentrate on the task at hand. Lucky Jack (being Lucky Jack) had decided to pit the Marines against the sailors, taking advantage of the natural (albeit friendly) rivalry between the two groups, and Thompson was a vital member of the crew of Number Seven gun on the larboard battery. Of course, it was more fondly known as Spitfire than Number Seven gun, but the officers could hardly be expected to remember all the names of all the guns in the heat of battle.
Serving a gun was hard, hot, noisy work, and even the Captain seemed to be feeling the heat somewhat. His temper had improved, though he wasn't exactly back to his usual cheerful self. Though that maybe had something to do with the rate of fire and not the argument earlier.
“Two minutes and one second, sir,” Mister Mowett called from by the aft companionway, looking at his watch.
“Lads! That's not good enough!” The Captain was used to making himself heard above the sounds of gunfire, but Thompson thought his voice sounded a little hoarse. Not, of course, that he could hear very well above the ringing in his ears from all the noise, but it didn't sound quite right... “We need to fire two broadsides to her one! D'you want to see a guillotine in Piccadilly?”
“No!” Thompson's yell was just as loud - and as hoarse - as everyone else's, and he'd never even been anywhere near Piccadilly, nor was he likely to be.
“D'you want to call that raggedy arse Napoleon your king?”
“No!”
“D'you want your children to sing the Marseillaise?”
“No!” Not that Thompson was ever likely to have any childer, of course.
“Mister Pullings, Mister Mowett, starboard battery!”
Thompson never knew, afterwards, how they were able to beat the previous timing by nearly a minute. They were all done in and practically deaf from the sounds of cannon going off to either side, and they had actually beaten the crew of Number Six gun (Sudden Death) in getting the all-important first shot off.
At least Goldilocks looked happier. Thompson could only hope that he would make it up with the Doctor, and soon. It was unnatural to have the Doctor - a proper physician he was too, not just a common surgeon - moping round and getting in everyone's way. In fact, Goldilocks' temper had improved so much that he ordered an extra tot of rum all round, which went down a treat.
They were less than a week's sail away from the islands (Thompson heard some of the officers call them the Galapagos, but he never really concerned himself with the names of places that weren't in England) when the wind failed.
It was during the second day of being becalmed that Captain Howard gave permission for the Marines to do their duties in their white drill jackets and forage caps, rather than red coats and round hats. Thompson was profoundly grateful for this decision, especially when standing guard over the scuttlebutt, to make sure nobody had more than their fair share of water.
He was a little disconcerted when the Doctor appeared in front of him, apparently bent on taking rather more water than was allowed. “One cup per man. I'm sorry, sir,” he said, wondering how on earth he could make the Doctor restrict himself to the allowance if he decided he didn't want just one cup.
“It's only for scientific purposes, I assure you,” the Doctor said, taking some sort of vial from his pocket and carefully filling. He turned to go below and before Thompson could say anything, he'd cracked his head on a beam. No, he had absolutely no sense when it came to things nautical. Thompson let the next man take his share, wondering when - if! - the Doctor and the Captain would make it up.
As things turned out, it happened the very next day. The Doctor decided that it was high time everyone was bled, being as how they were pretty much sitting on the Line and it hadn't yet been done this commission. Man after man was sat down, his forearm exposed and eight ounces of blood taken before being dragged away and revived with vinegar or seawater, as he chose. Thompson would rather keep all his blood right where it was, but there was no gain-saying the Doctor, who was still in a sulk (he really couldn't call it anything else) and he had to submit to having his blood drawn, before being bandaged up and sent to relieve Combes on sentry at the Captain's cabin. The Captain himself came back from his own encounter with the Doctor's fleam looking rather pale. He acknowledged Thompson's salute with a nod as he strode past, calling for Killick to bring him some brandy, and be quick about it.
There was a crash from the deck and the Doctor's voice rose above the sudden stillness, sounding furious. Combes and Dawkins escorted Oxley - a pale yet bloody figure - down below, whispering to Thompson as they did, “Poor cove couldn't stand the smell. Fainted right into one of the buckets. Doctor's furious with 'im.”
The Doctor came below half a glass later. He paused, something that he'd never done before to Thompson's knowledge and seemed to be waiting for something. Thompson gave a start when he realised the Doctor was waiting to be announced. Gathering his wits together, he rapped on the door. “The Doctor, sir!” he said, and held his breath.
“Come in,” the Captain called, and Thompson pushed open the door to admit the Doctor to the Captain's inner sanctum. He closed the door carefully and sighed. Surely this must be the end of it... He caught the sound of voices, then the tuning of the Captain's fiddle and the Doctor's cello, followed by a grumbling complaint from the direction of Killick's pantry. There was music again, and all was right with the world.