Title: The Dogwatches
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 22 September 2008
Summary: Adventures aboard a Royal Navy frigate, roughly during the American Revolution.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical/ship goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them. Most of this story will be told from the point of view of the Marines aboard ship.

Cheers to my lovely betas - Shells and DB - who caught a number of things amiss in this chapter. *toasts*



"Hey, Jonesy!"

With a yawn, Corporal Jones stirred himself awake and looked up. "What?" He asked, working his hands free from the shirt he had fallen asleep trying to mend.

"Get up, ya lazy louse," George Durham chided playfully and pointed toward the aft companion ladder. "Lachlan wants ya. An' hurry!"

"What?" Jones asked again even as he moved toward the Scotsman. Of all the Marines aboard, Lachlan was one of the least excitable, which made it odd to see him so eager. As he got closer, however, he realised that Lachlan was crouched just out of sight of the wardroom, where an argument was roaring full flame. He did not need to ask about the cause for the argument, for one of the first bits he overheard answered the question immediately.

" - plainly do not understand the implications of a rebel ship flying French colours. It is hardly a secret that there are French line-of-battle ships roaming about the Caribbean. To send off that sloop with barely - " That was Collins. Jones crouched beside Lachlan and returned the quick, conspiratorial grin flashed at him by Tarwick, the wardroom sentry.

"Stop there, sir." The other voice in the wardroom interrupted. By the sound of it, the second officer was Lieutenant Simcoe. That was no surprise. "Do not for a moment think that the captain is unaware that there are enemy patrols out, the same as ours. To have kept the sloop in company would have been folly. And by God, sir, you know as well as I that our overall mission is vastly more important than a handful of men detailed for a prize crew!"

There was the barest of pauses. "You may play careless with your sailors' lives, sir, but do not presume to do the same with my Marines. I would rather be under-strength in this venture than needlessly risk losing a prize because the prize-crew was insufficiently manned."

"You are entirely too bold, Major," Simcoe snarled. "Do you accuse the captain of not knowing his trade?"

"I was not questioning his knowledge as a seaman," Collins answered, his voice more level than Simcoe's. "Do not presume to charge me with making accusations, when you are making accusations yourself. My concern, sir, is with the lack of care taken while assigning the prize crew given the known presence of French men-o'-war. You would have noted that before now, had you troubled yourself enough to pay attention."

Something slammed hard against the wardroom table and the three eavesdropping Marines started. "I will not be spoken to in that manner, sir."

"Then do not continue this farce of a conversation," Collins shot back.

"You are too forward - "

"If you would excuse me, sir," the Marine captain interrupted, "I have work to do."

"Scram!" The sentry hissed, as footsteps approached, almost too quickly for Jones and Lachlan to react to in time. They scrambled away as silently as they could, throwing themselves down by the closest sea-chest just as the obviously-angry Simcoe stormed out of the wardroom. He was out of sight topside in only a handful of seconds.

"Cor!" Will Sheridan burst out, after Jones accidentally trod on his hand while getting back to his feet. "Dunno what yer doin', Corp'ral, but - "

"Oh shut up," Jones admonished good-naturedly. "No sense in grousin' too loud today, yeh know. The officers are doin' that for us!"

Sheridan stared at him. "What?"

"C'mere an' I'll tell yeh," the Welshman said. Looking sceptical, Sheridan and his mate Matt Cullen scraped their sea-chests over the deck toward Jones. Other Marines, perpetually fond of a good bit of gossip, likewise inched closer.

Grinning, Lachlan laid claim to an unoccupied sea-chest and said, " 'Fore ye starts, Jonesy, lemme tell 'em all the parts ye missed."

All eyes were on Lachlan and the Scotsman clearly relished the attention. He puffed up a bit and blathered about stupid little things for a moment before recounting the argument he'd overheard. Tom Mayden stretched his arms out over the sides of his hammock, shaking his head slightly in resigned acceptance of the inevitable passing-on of gossip. He didn't care much for actively spreading rumours, though he was willing enough to listen to them if they were interesting. This one, however, had no appeal to him. So what if the officers argued? They were officers. Besides which, it had been two days since they'd parted ways with their prize. The only thing worth noting about this apparent disagreement was that it had taken so long to occur.

He didn't even see the sense in it. Sure, the prize crew had been a couple Marines short of the usual complement. What did that matter? It meant there were more Marines to send ashore and fight. And if they were to cross paths with another enemy ship, so much the better. He did have to admit that the tension between officers was spreading to the men, though. There had already been some level of lingering resentment amongst the seamen after Donahue's flogging, but now the Marines were beginning to feel uneasy themselves. There'd been more bickering than usual and one or two scuffles had briefly broken out over stupid little things. For the officers to have moved into open dispute was likely to be a signal to the men that clearly all was not well where it should be. But many of them knew that already.

Yawning, he tipped his hat down over his eyes and chuckled to himself. They would be joining Admiral Arbuthnot's squadron soon enough and there would be more important things to deal with than stupid tiffs between officers or scraps between the men. Things like fighting those damned rebels to a standstill. There was no doubt in Mayden's mind that they were going to drive the rebels out of Charleston without difficulty. It was the only right solution, wasn't it? He folded his hands over his belly with another yawn. Lachlan was still yammering on in his occasionally-incomprehensible broad Scottish accent. Falling asleep listening to him talk was surprisingly easy.

He was just about asleep, when, inevitably, there was a shout from somewhere above and an immediate, accompanying rush of Marines to get topside. Of all the stupid things... Mayden cursed and pushed his hat up off his face. "What the devil's goin' on up there?"

"Git up an' go see fer yerself!" Albert Ware snapped.

"Lookout's spotted a sail, just off to starboard," somebody called down the ladder.

Another sail, was it? Mayden rolled easily out of his hammock and fitted his hat on properly before heading topside. Another sail meant the potential for another fight and another prize. Except the other ship was too far away to be identified and with nightfall drawing on steadily, there would be little chance of catching up. A pity. A twilight battle would have been interesting. The Marines who'd crowded on deck to see what was happening were now laying down bets about the other ship's nationality. No surprise there.

"That's a bloody disappointment," Mayden muttered to himself as he tramped below again. There were shouts echoing topside and the Marines who'd only a moment before been on deck were streaming back down the ladder. The officer of the watch had grown swiftly tired of their babbling presence. Shaking his head, Mayden crawled back into his hammock and pulled his hat back down over his eyes. He hadn't offered anything for the wagers being made, as he limited his gambling to dice-throwing only. The chattering and speculation quickly resumed as the men got settled in their customary places, creating a cheerful buzz of noise that helped lull Mayden to sleep. There was little else to do so late in the evening anyway, even with the temporary excitement caused by the sighting of another sail. Besides, Mayden thought fuzzily as his eyelids slid heavily closed, they'd find out by tomorrow what that other ship was.

"Lazy bugger," Ware grumbled, shaking his head after watching Mayden settle into his hammock.

"He's a bloody colonial," Sam Tate said with open distaste. "Ever' lad knows them colonials ain't worth the shirts on they backs."

" 'Ey, easy now," Higgins warned. "Mebbe Mayden's a colonial, but I ain't seen no colonial what 'ates them rebels more'n 'e does."

Tate curled his lip. "He hates 'em 'cause he wishes he could be 'em, I'll bet. Plain worthless Mayden is, 'specially in a scrap. I ain't never seen him do anythin' useful, 'cept lose money at dice."

"Worthless in a scrap?" Higgins shook his head in disbelief. "Where was you when the rest of us was boardin' that sloop, then? Tom there was the on'y lad what kep' up wi' me an' Bell, an' both of us runnin' through them bastards like we was."

"A blind man coulda kep' up with you two, goin' 'long like demons as you was," Tate countered. "Left a path wide 'nough fer a damned second-rate to pass through, an' all. Don't mean a bloody thing. He din't even go 'board 'til after mosta the fightin' was over. I seen that with me own eyes."

"Yer fulla shite, Tate," Higgins snarled. "Mayden's got more balls'n yer ever gonna 'ave. Takes a brassy sort to go an' 'list while alla Boston-town's roarin' up 'gainst anythin' in a red coat."

"Steady, lads," Ware cautioned, casting a wary glance toward the wardroom. It would be just like Captain Collins to appear when the argument started to get really heated. But, of course, he was ignored by the other two Marines.

"Don't see how that'd take any balls. More like hidin' from all them other stupid rebels," Tate sneered.

With a derisive snort, Higgins shook his head. "Jus' 'cause yer da got done fer by them colonials don't mean they're all bad. Served 'im right fer bein' a sailor anyways, I say!"

"Bite yer vile tongue!" Tate cried, coming sharply to his feet. "You'd not know the first thing 'bout how bad colonials is, anyhow. Might's even be a damned rebel yerself, I think, for all you love 'em so!"

"Oi. Callin' me disloyal, ya filthy Ches're swine?"

"Mebbe I am. If the turned coat fits!"

Higgins heaved a tin of brick-dust at Tate's head and followed it closely with both fists. The lid came off the tin and brick-dust cascaded everywhere, filling the air with an unpleasant haze. Somebody shouted encouragement as Higgins knocked Tate flat onto his back and proceeded to mercilessly rain punches down on him. It was all Tate could do to protect his face, never mind fight back.

"That's enough, Higgins!"

"Gerroff him!"

"Grab his arms!"

"What is this nonsense?"

All movement stopped instantly, even Higgins' wild attempts to throw off the Marines who were pulling him away from Tate. The cold, stern voice belonged to Mister Thurlow, the midshipman. Of all the officers aboard, it would have to be Thurlow to catch two Marines fighting. There was going to be trouble for all of them, for sure.

"You men are fighting, I see. That's against the Articles, you know." Thurlow looked around at the painfully silent gathering, his eyes almost glittering with delight at the prospect of seeing two of them punished. "Stand that man on his feet!"

Tate was heaved unceremoniously off the deck. Blood streamed from his nose and lips, despite his attempts to staunch it. Thurlow curled his lip in disgust. "Where is your sergeant?"

"Here, sir," Sergeant Devlin said, from behind the midshipman. He had quietly come up the ladder from the orlop deck, where he'd been checking the sentries at the magazine and the spirit room. Pity that he hadn't arrived sooner. Devlin's temper, while fearsome, was infinitely preferable to Mister Thurlow's cold enmity.

Thurlow jumped in surprise, then scowled to cover his embarrassment. "About time, Sergeant. Have these men placed in irons below, for the offence of fighting."

A shiver rippled through the watching Marines. It was inevitable that Tate and Higgins would get sent below to the leg-irons, but they resented having a midshipman as the one giving that order.

"Shouldn't Tate go an' see Doctor Finch first, sir?" Devlin asked, not moving an inch away from where he stood. If the circumstances had not been so grave, Higgins might have smirked. Trust Devlin to be so casually confident about questioning orders.

"I see nothing wrong with him," the midshipman answered with a sneer. "Get him below, Sergeant. That is an order."

If Thurlow had not been an officer, or even an officer-to-be, Higgins would have happily flattened his nose too. What gave Mister Thurlow the right to be such a horrid snot? He couldn't keep from curling his lip as he headed for the ladder. That was the second time the midshipman had poked his sharp little nose where it didn't belong. Stupid brat. Tate was following close behind him, his mouth and nose still leaking blood. Where had Captain Collins gone, Higgins found himself wondering. It wasn't like him to fail to be the first one to get wind of trouble and turn up to stop it.

"They may stay there for the night," Thurlow was saying from the top of the ladder. "Perhaps they will learn better to get along that way."

What he meant, Higgins thought bitterly, was that he was not going to inform the captain of the incident until the morning. They were headed for the grating for this, he knew. If they were lucky - odds being strongly against that, given who their captain was - they'd only get a dozen lashes for it. But Donahue the Tar had gotten two dozen for allegedly swearing at a petty officer, which meant they weren't going to get out of this lightly. "Bloody spiteful little bastard, Mister Thurlow is," the Somersetman muttered.

"Shuddub," Tate gurgled, spitting out some blood.

"Both of you shut up," Devlin snapped as he came down the ladder. "Didn't know my lads would be so stupid as to get caught fightin' by a bleedin' midshipman. Sit down there an' keep your fat gobs shut. Sawbones'll be along in a bit to look at your nose, Tate, but it's more'n you bloody deserve!"

The two Marines glared at each other while Devlin secured their ankles in the irons. An annoyed-looking George Durham stood half a pace away, musket in hand. He'd serve out the rest of the watch as prisoner sentry and he obviously hated it.

"Next time you two idiots get to arguin' like that," Durham grumbled after Devlin had gone, "pick a better bloody reason than quibblin' 'bout that slack-brained idiot Mayden!"

Higgins folded his arms across his chest and slumped forward as far as he could comfortably. He hated being confined in the leg-irons. This was the first time he'd been sent down here to wait all night, though. Damned little pig Mister Thurlow was. Tate spat another mouthful of blood out into the shadows and cursed. A slight smirk lifted the corner of Higgins' mouth. He wasn't sorry for giving Tate a drubbing like that, even if it was going to end up costing him two dozen strokes. Mayden was one of Higgins' mates, after all, and Higgins always stuck up for his mates. Wasn't that what good mates were supposed to do? He chuckled when he heard the faint crunch as Tate realigned his own nose. The Cheshireman's nose would never look right again. Hopefully Tate would remember not to spew rubbish about colonials while Higgins was around, after this. It was perhaps the only good outcome to be hoped for.

~

Another day, another flogging. The frigate's Marines were already paraded in their customary places, uncomfortably waiting for Higgins and Tate to be led topside. Corporal McIntyre stood near the larboard quarterdeck stairs, his grip on his musket white-knuckled. He had been summoned to Captain Collins' cabin earlier that morning, after changing the sentries and loitering as much as he dared near the quarterdeck in an attempt to hear the latest about the ship that had again been sighted off the starboard bow. The other vessel had, by now, been determined to be a sloop, which was more than they'd known about her when she'd first been sighted. And of course the whole ship knew by now of what had happened on the Marines' messdeck the night before, including Captain Collins. He was, understandably, furious. And, equally understandably, he wanted to know why the Marines in trouble were, yet again, from McIntyre's section. It was not something that had been easy to explain especially given that McIntyre had no good explanation to offer. Collins had not been pleased at all when he finally dismissed McIntyre, but that had been evident by the way he had given the Irishman a rare roasting for not keeping better control over his Marines. It did not pass unnoticed that Collins had not objected to the order for punishment this time, either. That had made McIntyre even more apprehensive.

The lull of a full watch between that and the piping of Hands Aft to Witness Punishment had been tense and awkward. For the second time, McIntyre had taken pains to speak privately with each of his Marines about the importance of maintaining good behaviour. For all the good it would do, he thought sourly. He'd heard about the reasons for the fight and had no doubt there would probably be repeat occurrences of it the closer they got to South Carolina. All the more reason to watch his lads closely. Mayden in particular needed an eye kept on him. It was almost more than McIntyre wanted to deal with. It would have to be his luck to have a colonial and a bunch of lads who hated colonials in his section. He was beginning to wish he'd sent Mayden off with the prize crew instead of Brownford.

Captain Leaford cleared his throat and stepped closer to the quarterdeck rail after Higgins and Tate had been brought up from below. Apparently he was going to address the crew before the flogging this time. Couldn't he ever make up his mind?

"It seems that my previous warnings against misbehaviour have gone unheeded," the sea officer began. "Though I am not surprised to see it is the Marines who have proved unworthy of their station, yet again. Indiscipline, however, is indiscipline regardless of who possesses it, and it must be punished. You will learn the importance of proper behaviour, gentlemen, even if I must flog it into every last one of you!"

McIntyre suppressed a shiver. He had little doubt that Leaford would see every man aboard flogged just to satisfy his warped belief of how a proper ship's company should conduct itself. Cornwall had once been a happy ship but he could sense the beginnings of discontent amongst the seamen. The Marines were already unhappy, he knew, but they were far more used to ill treatment than the seamen were.

"These men were caught fighting, as I am certain you all know," Leaford went on. "Aggression, gentlemen. is not undesirable, but it is much better saved for the enemy, where it cannot harm and degrade good order and discipline. In only a few days, we will have ample opportunity to relieve our aggression upon the natural enemy, of that I can assure you." The sea officer paused for a moment to allow that little bit of information to sink in. Then he raised his voice and added, "For the crime thus described, two dozen lashes will be given to each man. Carry on, Mister Matheson!"

Christ alive, McIntyre thought. Neither Marine would be fit for duty when they reached South Carolina. How was Tate going to survive this, so soon after his last time at the grating? Was Captain Leaford trying to undercut his own Marines, since he clearly resented their existence aboard ship? The Irishman set his jaw and stared out over the rail at the sea, determined not to look at anything but the light ruffling waves. He hated floggings even in the best of circumstances, which was far from the case here. At least he could distract himself somewhat by passively watching that distant sail, which had been in sight since dawn. The other sail was, it seemed to him, drawing closer, even. Funny how something as important as another ship should be so quickly forgotten in the face of a flogging.

The swish and crack of the cat against Higgins' back was making McIntyre's ears ache. Two dozen for fighting. How many times had the lads gotten a little punchy with each other and not had anything come of it? More to the point, he thought suddenly, why hadn't Corporal Jones seen the trouble brewing and stopped it before it had devolved into a fight? From what McIntyre had heard, Jones had been right there on the messdeck too, within easy sight of Higgins and Tate. And for that matter, where had Captain Collins been? He was even better than Sergeant Devlin at knowing the precise moment to make a timely - or untimely - appearance on the messdeck. It wasn't a heartening sign that their captain had not gotten wind somehow of what was happening until the trouble was over. Mister Thurlow had thoroughly enjoyed reporting the incident to Captain Leaford, McIntyre knew. He'd been standing sentry outside the captain's cabin in Tom Carter's place and had heard almost every word of that particular conversation. It had increased his quiet resentment of the sea officer though of course there was no point in letting any of that show.

"Twenty-four!" Mister Simcoe called out in his customary bland voice. "Sentence is delivered, sir."

"Cut him down," Leaford intoned casually. "Next man up."

Higgins was helped below by two grim-faced seamen while Tate was led forward and secured to the grating. It was interesting, McIntyre thought, that there were seamen instead of Marines assigned to the punishment detail. Another of Leaford's subtle little attempts to slight the Marines? He wouldn't be surprised. The sea officer was undoubtedly clever and his dislike for the Marines gave him ample opportunity to show it. Why couldn't Captain Somersby have stayed with them?

"Don't shirk, Mister Colburn!" Leaford snapped abruptly.

The boatswain's mate didn't even blink, but raked his fingers through the tangled leather tails before drawing his arm back again to deliver another blow. Disgust simmered like hot bubbles in McIntyre's gut. There had been no reason for Leaford's admonition other than a nasty desire to ensure that Tate felt every inch of those hard leather strands. Colburn, like Matheson, was much too canny let himself be caught out for shirking but now that Leaford had addressed him, there was no hope for him to try employing imperceptible leniency.

Tate seemed to be holding up well enough despite the well-conditioned swings from Colburn. He certainly looked as though somebody had beaten his face half in, though. His back was nothing pretty to look at either. McIntyre swallowed a sigh. He was going to be short two men because of this, and he had once again come into Captain Collins' notice for apparent lack of discipline amongst his Marines. It was not a lack of discipline, he knew, but a state of tension created in no small part by the ship's captain. With any luck, the Marines would be sent ashore and thereby get away from Leaford, even if such a respite was only temporary.

Mister Simcoe's voice came again. "Twenty-four! Sentence is delivered, sir."

Finally. Unless Captain Leaford had any more words of glorious encouragement to pass along, the crew would be dismissed below. McIntyre resolved to give both Higgins and Tate a proper blowing up for being so stupid as to get into a fist fight so close to the wardroom. It was only fair given how Captain Collins had blown him up because of those two. A right pair of idiots, but they were excellent Marines all the same.

"Dismiss the hands below," Leaford was saying. "Major Collins. I will see you in my cabin."

Bloody hell, McIntyre thought glumly as Sergeant Devlin dismissed the Marines in his captain's stead. This just got better and better, didn't it?

"Deck there! T' other ship's got our ensign!"

Every head tilted back to look skyward at the lookout's hail. The seaman was pointing out to starboard, where the other sail had been spotted. Having just descended from the quarterdeck, McIntyre turned to look and saw, to his surprise, that the other ship was a sloop and was only a few miles distant now. That was uncomfortably close, especially for a sloop. She did indeed have the familiar red ensign run up, but he knew from recent experience that a nation's flag could mean nothing. The sloop was signalling, however, though of course the bright, coloured flags meant nothing to him.

"She's signallin'!"

The officers still on deck grabbed for telescopes. McIntyre shaded his eyes and tried not to chuckle at the spectacle the officers were making. Those flags couldn't be that important. Mister Slater, the signals midshipman looked up from his telescope and cried, "It's the private signal, sir. And What ship?"

Simcoe glared at him. "Well! Give the recognition and then make our number, Mister Slater!"

Was that all? It seemed like a lot of effort for such a simple question. McIntyre watched the flags dash up the halyard before turning his gaze toward the not-so-distant sloop. She didn't appear to waste any time with sending up flags in response to Cornwall's self-identfication. There was a pause, then Slater reported, "Have despatches on board. Heave to - "

"Yes, thank you, Mister Slater," Captain Leaford interrupted. "Acknowledge that last signal, if you please. Mister Simcoe. Heave us to."

Mister Simcoe touched his hat and leaned over the rail to shout out orders. It was time to go below. McIntyre ducked aside as seamen dashed toward the lee braces, urged on by the shrilling of the boatswain's pipes. He'd never understand the sailor's trade. Probably better not to, lest he end up a seaman himself somehow and under the command of an officer like Leaford.

Once safely below, he headed directly for the sick-berth. He had not forgotten his two punch-happy Marines. Doctor Finch should be done cleaning and oiling their backs by now. They were in for a proper blowing up and they'd get it, of that he was dead sure. He'd had quite enough of his Marines being foolish. They'd all smarten up and quick or McIntyre would happily eat his shoulder knot.

~

The great cabin seemed uncomfortably closed in, crowded as it was with officers. Outside the stern gallery, the sky was only lightly tinged with silver from the cloud-obscured moon. The evening aboard Cornwall had been marked by Captain Leaford inviting all the officers, including the midshipmen, to dine with him. He had not said anything of it, but Collins knew the purpose for the invitations. The despatches that came aboard from the messenger sloop had been brief enough, containing only orders for Cornwall to proceed at once to join Admiral Arbuthnot's squadron, which Captain Leaford had wasted no time in doing. It had taken them the rest of the day and most of the night to catch up to the squadron. At dawn, Captain Leaford had been summoned aboard the flagship and he'd remained there several hours. When he returned aboard at last, he looked almost cheerful. The general invitation to dine had been issued almost immediately upon his return.

It was, Collins thought, as close to a pleasant meal as was possible since Leaford had come aboard. The conversation had been lighthearted and flowed seamlessly, which encouraged some of the more taciturn amongst them to become involved. Collins himself had participated no more than necessary, suspecting that the easy mood would be summarily broken once the plates were cleared away and the brandy decanter brought out. Whatever Leaford had been told aboard the flagship was soon to be made known to them all. He could only hope it would not be distressing news.

Presently, as Hales and Peg-foot quietly cleared the table, the talk died away. The decanter of brandy was passed around, the mess servants dismissed - Hardy would not be pleased by that, though he would drag all the details out of the cabin sentry later - and Captain Leaford rapped his knuckles thoughtfully on the table. It appeared to be a pre-arranged signal, for Simcoe, the first lieutenant, produced and unrolled a chart, using empty glasses to hold the corners down. Collins noticed that one of the midshipmen was swaying in his chair even as he tried to raise himself up enough to peer at the chart and he hoped the boy wouldn't do anything to draw Leaford's notice.

"Now then," Leaford began. "I don't have to tell you that we're within a day's sail of South Carolina, or that the squadron will be delivering soldiers ashore to go lay seige to the harbour city of Charleston. I do. however, have to tell you what our particular role in that will be." The captain tapped the chart and the men around the table craned their necks to see what he was indicating. "Sullivan's Island. It lies roughly fifty yards off the mainland and is home to a rebel fort on the western end of the island. The island itself is largely uninhabited. Admiral Arbuthnot wishes for us to send men ashore to take the fort. An easy enough task for Cornwall, I think!"

Collins glanced up at the captain. Easy enough, with a rebel fort sitting right on the edge of the island, and one that was easily reachable from shore at that? There were already a dozen questions formed in his mind, even though he sensed that Leaford was not finished. Across the table, the swaying midshipman tried to stifle a hiccup and instead gave a tiny squeak. He was, fortunately, ignored.

"According to Lord Cornwallis, there is rebel infantry concentrated here, near Charleston Neck, and in several places on James Island. His Lordship intends to put his forces ashore south of Charleston, at John's Island, here. There are reports of rebel militia and cavalry scattered around the area as well. Thankfully, we will be quite removed from that. The army's movements will help distract the rebels from paying too much mind to our activities away to the north. I intend to put three boats ashore under cover of darkness, to deliver two sections of Marines. The Marines will secure the ground immediately around the landing point, and thence move to take the fort."

A frown touched Collins' brow. Two sections of Marines was more than suitable for a boarding action, but it wouldn't be enough to stand against any concentrated militia force. He studied the markings on the chart and his frowned deepened. There were shoals just off shore, from what he could tell. It would be dangerous simply getting close enough to run up onto the beach. That was not addressing the threat of the rebel fort on either, as there was bound to be lookouts all over the island for just such an expedition. It was time to begin asking questions.

"How accurate are the reports of rebel militia activity, sir?" The Yorkshireman asked, looking up. This was not the most important question in his mind, but it was the one best suited to lead off with. He did not want to put Leaford on his guard too soon.

"It was not stated plainly how recent those reports were," Leaford replied. "His Lordship was confident, however, that the northern approaches to Charleston would not be a significant threat."

Ah. He had probably asked that same question aboard the flagship, but it was impossible to tell if his reply was the same as the one he had received. It probably did not matter. "Will we be reinforced or relieved by the army once we have taken the fort, sir?"

Leaford sipped his brandy and regarded him thoughtfully. "Eventually. His Lordship expects to send an artillery detachment to assume control of the fort once the siege is laid. It is impossible to judge how long that will take."

"Sir," Simcoe broke in, before Collins could put forward another query, "what of the rebel militias?"

"They will not be a danger," the captain answered. "They will have enough to occupy their attention when the army lands. By the time those rebel fools realise there are Marines at their backs, it will be too late."

A warning flare lit off inside Collins' head. It struck him as foolishly unwise to dismiss out of hand the fort and the danger it presented. "I do not think we should be so quick to ignore the militias, sir," he said cautiously. "Perhaps landing a section of Marines on the headland as well might - "

"Are you a strategist, Major?"

"Sir?" Collins lifted an eyebrow in surprise, caught off-guard by the question.

"Apparently not," Leaford went on, not waiting for a more suitable answer. "The fort, Major, is our objective, not any trifling bands of militia. We will worry about them when we have the fort in our possession!"

"With respect, sir, I would feel more comfortable with a section of Marines on the headland to keep any rebels distracted while we secure the fort," Collins persisted, his temper beginning to rise. "It makes greater sense - "

Leaford slammed his hand down on the table, startling the other officers with the sudden noise. The swaying midshipman gave another squeak and toppled out of his chair. The previously cheerful mood was now quite gone. "Are you lacking in nerve, Major? Your involvement in this undertaking is certainly not required, after all."

Collins had not intended to turn the gathering into the scene of an argument, but he felt obligated to protest against such a blatant tactical blunder. And now it was more serious even than that. He had never taken well to suggestions that he was less than willing to lead his men into any situation, especially by men like Leaford. "Do you question my courage, sir?" The Yorkshireman snapped, his pride knocking his good sense aside. "My Marines and I will take the fort, sir, and be damned to all else!"

Surprisingly, sickeningly, his outburst seemed to amuse Leaford. The sea officer had the gall to smile, however, briefly, before turning to his first lieutenant. "Mister Simcoe," he said, "it appears that Major Collins feels sufficiently confident that he can secure the fort without incident. Do you agree?"

Simcoe nodded. "Aye, sir."

"Indeed. Do you also agree that, in the face of such confidence, that sending two sections of Marines seems over-cautious?"

"Aye, sir."

"Hm." Leaford nodded slowly and in that moment, Collins hated him. "One section of Marines, Major, will go ashore to assault the fort. I trust your zeal to succeed will be enough to drive off any extra rebel militia that might be skulking around."

Damn the man! Collins glared at the chart, all but smoking with useless fury. He had been outdone, completely out-manoeuvred, and now his assault party would be under-strength. Simply because he could not master his own damned pride. Now he had put his Marines in needless peril and that, more than his own stupid outburst, was unforgivable. He should have known that Simcoe would remember their argument from the previous day and find a way to use that bit of bad feeling against him. Without a doubt Simcoe would have mentioned the argument to Leaford as well, which could only help heighten Leaford's own animosity. Damn them both! He did not trust himself to speak again and passed the rest of the meeting in stony, seething silence. The time for questions was undeniably over.

~

"All right, you lads," Corporal McIntyre called out, bringing an end to the hum of conversation around the foc's'le. His section watched him with unmasked curiosity, and no small measure of wariness. From where he was leaning against the bulwark, Christopher Davenport folded his arms across his chest and clamped down on his pipe stem. He had a slightly better idea about why McIntyre had called his section topside, but of course he was as interested as the others to know what their corporal's intentions might be.

They all knew about the dinner that Captain Leaford had hosted only a couple of hours before. Captain Collins had emerged from it in a rare temper, and had sent for Sergeant Devlin and the two corporals almost immediately. That had, naturally, spawned an outbreak of speculation around the messdeck. Some lads suggested that Cornwall was going to be ordered back to Antigua, while others were sure that the frigate was to be sent in the vanguard, thereby being one of the first ships into Charleston harbour. The speculation had increased when McIntyre and Jones reappeared on the messdeck for only a few minutes before disappearing topside. Davenport had been fortunate enough to be standing sentry by the bell when the two corporals came onto the weather deck, which was the only reason he knew the barest bit more than the rest of his section.

Now, with his sixteen Marines gathered close around, McIntyre didn't waste any time. "You'll already know that there's gonna be an assault party goin' ashore tomorrow night. It'll be a hard pull to a stretch of open beaches, which have to be crossed without bein' spotted. There's s'posed to be rebel militia crawlin' around the island and nearby on the headland, close to where the assault party goes ashore, which means it'll be a fight to hold onto whatever ground that's gained. There's only gonna be rations and fresh water for three days with 'em too, 'til more boats come out or the army sends a company to reinforce the island."

He paused here and looked at the expressionless Marines around him. Davenport puffed at his pipe and wondered who the Irishman had chosen for the assault party. For, why else would he have explained the whole scheme to only his section unless he already had men marked out for it? It was how he usually managed to fill out such parties when their captain asked for them. With that thought in mind, Davenport was surprised when McIntyre sucked at his teeth and continued with, "Cap'n wants eight lads to go with him for it. I told him that he'd get eight lads from me own section, and I don't reckon I need to explain why. Now... I ain't pickin' these eight lads, 'less I have to. There's gonna be eight volunteers, got it? Volunteers, or I'll pass the honour of havin' the assault party to Corporal Jones."

Davenport felt his pipe stem beginning to slip out from between his lips and had to bite down on it to keep the pipe from falling to the deck. He knew that McIntyre had been called to Captain Collins' cabin twice now for reprimands about his Marines' conduct, so it was not a surprise that the Irishman had promised his own men for the assault party. What was unusual was McIntyre's demanding willing volunteers. The reasons for that were many and Davenport wasn't sure, for once, about his corporal's line of thinking. Certainly he knew his Marines well enough to be confident that there shouldn't be any trouble getting a mere eight volunteers? The half-Spanish Marine put one hand up at once, knowing that he could not in good conscience allow his corporal to go anywhere without him.

"Figured you'd volunteer," McIntyre said, shaking his head. Davenport grinned. Unsurprisingly, the rest of the section had their hands in the air too, including Higgins and Tate. The Irishman looked around at them and sighed. "C'mon, lads. It's eight men for the assault party, an' there's already two marked down. Me an' Dav. I ain't takin' you or Tate neither, Higgins, so save it."

Higgins made a face. "That's bollocks, Corporal. Can't very well 'ave a fight wi'out me or Tate there!"

"No." McIntyre shook his head.

Some of the Marines glanced at each other before lowering their hands. "Ain't much sense in arskin' fer volunteers if ye ain't gonna take any lad wot volunteers," Lachlan pointed out.

Davenport fought back a smirk. He could've told McIntyre that this would happen. The Irishman would have done better to choose the men himself instead of asking for volunteers. The surest downfall of any attempt at being democratic was the natural bullheadedness of the Marines themselves. Even the slightest hint of leniency was dangerous. Especially with these men.

"I'm goin', Corporal," Higgins said firmly. "S'yer own fault, lettin' us git t'choose."

Tate nodded. "Same fer me. Summody's gotta keep that idiot outta trouble."

There were nods and mutters of agreement from the others. McIntyre looked exasperated. "Light duties, boys. Scramblin' around in boats and goin' to fight don't exactly fit as light duties."

"Din't know I was on light duties," Higgins remarked.

"Me either," Tate seconded.

This time, Davenport did grin. He knew his corporal and he knew his fellow Marines. There was no way McIntyre would hold out against this sort of unexpected resistance from his own men. Not if Higgins and Tate were involved.

"All right." McIntyre sighed. "So that's four. Another - "

All hands were up again. It was strange how surprised the Irishman looked. Didn't he know that there wasn't a Marine aboard who wouldn't be willing to go off on this mission, however poor the odds of success were? Part of it was because of their officer, but another part was simply a desire to get the chance at a proper fight. Davenport himself was itching for a good, tidy scrap. The brief exchange of shots with that rebel sloop hadn't been nearly good enough.

"Gonna have to pick 'em after all, Mackie," he observed mildly.

"Aye." Understandably, McIntyre didn't seem to relish that idea. "Mayden. Hanlen. Shaner. Quintin." He pointed at each Marine as he named them, to the obvious disappointment of the men who hadn't been chosen. Given a choice, they'd all go ashore with Captain Collins.

"So," the corporal continued. "There'll be an inspection just before we load into the boats, so start getting your kit ready now. Forget pipeclaying and shining and all that. We don't want to be seen while we're gettin' up to the beaches. Make sure your flints are fresh, get your bayonets sharpened, pack your cartridge boxes. You ain't gonna need your packs either, just an extra canteen and haversack. Coupla lads will be carryin' spades and coils of rope too."

There were grimaces on the faces of the men who'd volunteered now. Davenport puffed at his pipe and tried not to smile too broadly. This was McIntyre's way of getting them back for forcing him into a corner only a few minutes before. The only ones who would honestly suffer for having to carry cumbersome rope coils were Higgins and Tate, though he knew Higgins at least would never utter a word of complaint about it.

"That'll be all. Dismissed." McIntyre seemed relieved as the men dispersed. As might be expected, they went right to grumbling about having to do sailors' work as well as their own. The Irishman scrubbed both hands over his face and looked at Davenport with an expression of weary bemusement. "I dunno what just happened there, but sure I ain't gonna let the lads choose their own way ever again!"

~

There were nine Marines, instead of the originally selected eight, paraded amidships with all their kit, barely half an hour before the boats would be lowered and the long, silent pull toward the island began. McIntyre had noted Hardy’s presence in the parade without comment, but he supposed that he should have expected that the steward would go along as well. Wherever their captain went, so did Hardy. Captain Collins checked over every visible part of their kit and uniforms, more intent with his inspection than usual. It didn't pass unnoticed by the men and his close interest in the task made them uneasy. There was no fault with their equipment or uniforms and surely Captain Collins knew that? To their relief, he said nothing when the inspection was finished, beyond a curt "Fall out and stand by to load boats".

Only too glad to enjoy a last pipe or chat with mates, the Marines dispersed. Corporal McIntyre made his way to the foc's'le. It was quiet up there and he wanted to enjoy a few minutes to himself before piling into the boats that would take them ashore. There was a lot to think about. Nine Marines instead of the originally planned-for sixteen, enough rations or water to last only roughly three days, and no solid idea about what sort resistance, if any, they would face. It was not heartening to realise that the odds were against them once they got onto the island. He was not at all comfortable with the plan, but he took some comfort in the Marines picked for the assault party. Though picked was not necessarily the most fitting term for it.

He looked up at the dark blanket of sky and wished half-heartedly that it was not so cloudy. The lack of moon would help conceal them from being spotted, but it would also make it that much harder to see the cliff face, especially while they were climbing it. There could be no lanterns used either, of course. It was going to be a nightmare just getting to the island anyway. Since coming within the barest sight of land, the wind had risen up marginally. It was enough to bring a noticeable chop to the sea. Worse was the fact that it was going to be a long pull just to get near the island, never mind over the shoals to the beach. McIntyre didn't look forward to the ride in the boats at all.

"Wanna light, Mackie?"

He dropped his gaze from his intent study of the cloud-smeared heavens and grinned. Davenport held out a clay pipe and short bit of slow-match, knowing instinctively that a well-filled pipe was the best thing to enjoy before setting off to unknown ends.

"Cheers," McIntyre said, once the pipe was lit. The sweet clinging aroma of smouldering tobacco certainly did its bit to calm frayed nerves, he had to admit. Of course Davenport would recognise the need for a pipe and bring one to him.

"Nervous 'bout this side-errand too," Davenport commented after a moment. It wasn't a question. But then, it hardly needed to be.

McIntyre shrugged and breathed out a long stream of smoke. "A bit, maybe. All right, more'n a bit. I don't like havin' only eight lads to take ashore. Ain't much of an assault party, only nine Marines, y'know."

"Aye. It ain't right but it's what the cap'n wants. Nothin' else to do 'cept go and take that bloody fort." Davenport shrugged.

"Hmph." All McIntyre could do was grunt in response. In truth, he hated almost everything about this mission but he knew better than to voice any objections about it to Captain Collins. His section's reputation was at stake. He dared not do anything that might tarnish it more. What could a mere nine Marines do against a concerted rebel force, even if it was a militia? Supposedly the army was going to send some men to support them, but the chances of that actually happening were low.

"Dunno if takin' Mayden along is the best idea, though," Davenport added, with a sidelong glance laden with meaning. "He don't like those rebels a bit, but him bein' a colonial hisself is a problem. That's what sparked off the scrap with Higgins and Tate, y'know."

Nodding slowly, McIntyre inhaled deeply and sighed. "So I heard. But I dunno a better way to make 'em get over that wee bit of idiocy than to send 'em all ashore. Even if Higgins and Tate ain't half fit for it," he added with a grimace.

Davenport shrugged. "Maybe. You can bet on trouble with 'em though, if things go badly. 'Specially from Tate."

"Hmph," McIntyre said again. It didn't surprise him that Tate should have such a deep-running grudge against colonists, but there was no place for that aboard ship. Not when several men in the crew were colonials. Though perhaps some time away from the ship would do Tate, and the other Marines, some good. "I s'pose we oughta keep an eye on him, then. At least 'til - "

"Boat crews!" Matheson hollered from the quarterdeck stairs. "Fall in!"

Both Marines rolled their eyes. McIntyre knocked the dottle out of the pipe and into his hand, and flung the lightly smouldering tobacco over the side. The interlude between their inspection and the summons had been all too short. It always was. Davenport took the pipe back and stuck it stem-first underneath the two cords on the back of his hat, where he usually kept the pipe. The other Marines were assembling near the entry point, weapons and kit in hand. At least they were ready.

"C'mon, lads, ain't got all night!"

Despite his pensive mood, McIntyre found himself grinning. It was going to be an interesting time in the boats, if Mister Colburn, one of the boatswain's mates, was going along as well. The Marines lined up at the entry port and four of them clambered down into the waiting jolly-boat, their movements made slightly awkward because of their muskets and loose-hanging canteens. Therew was a lull as the jolly-boat idled clear of the side to let the longboat take its place at the main chains. It took only a few minutes for the remaining Marines to scramble down the side. McIntyre was one of the last to drop down into the longboat, though he was followed closely by Captain Collins. The sea officer in charge of the boats was already embarked, waiting in the jolly-boat for the last of the longboat to shove off so they could be on their way. That was it, the corporal thought as the bowman pushed off from the frigate's side. They couldn't turn back now.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder toward Captain Collins, but the officer's face was difficult to see in the dark. Perhaps it didn't matter. The oar blades, carefully wrapped with old burlap to muffle them, bit into the rolling chop of waves and the two boats began the long, slow pull toward the distant black blot of land. It would be a miracle if they reached that island before dawn. McIntyre braced the butt of his musket against the bottom boards, leaned against the firelock, and closed his eyes. There was nothing else for him to do but attempt to get some sleep. There was likely to be little enough of that once they finally got ashore. He closed his eyes and gradually drifted off, lulled to slumber by the steady, quiet creak of the muffled row-locks and the dull slap of waves against the boat's hull. It wasn't comfortable, but it was good enough for him.