It was a cruel sense of irony that the time when one most wanted to do nothing but return to the warm welcoming comforts of home, that was the time when it was the least viable option. Not that one joined the Navy in the expectation that they would be coddled and mothered, or that things would be, God forbid it ever be such, easy. However…there were times when easy would be good, appreciated, and a damn bit more useful to the rest of the crew.
It was the mark of a good commander that he could keep his crew in line, and having the crew in line was essential to a warship if it were to ever see action and wish to meet it prepared and worthy of their military lineage. However, it was becoming increasingly apparent to many of the crew that something was going on with the officers. The marine officers were on edge, excepting Collins, whom very little had been seen of lately by anyone, and the sea officers were almost…jumpy. The midshipmen, often too interested in the gossip and goings-ons of the officers for their own good, had at least the decency to remove themselves from the current matter somewhat, at least now they weren't caught dawdling by when running errands on the slim hope that they would overhear something, when all they ended up hearing was a sharp word and being pushed off to continue their tasks.
The fidgetiness of the officers was starting to transfer over into fidgety crewmembers…most definitely not a welcome nor permitted occurrence. As he had gone below decks on his own matters, he had been greeted by the unusual silence of the idlers…unusual because they were usually gossiping about something, and unusual because of how quickly they quieted down when he, or probably any officer, was near them. He could only guess what they were talking about, he thought rather darkly. If this whole bloody mess didn't get sorted out sooner or later, then this would only get worse.
Since they were nearing land, and preparations had to be made for the disembarkation of certain individuals in Port Royal, Gillette sent for one of the midshipmen to inform the Commodore of their situation. The commodore was in his cabin, as he had been secluded there for most of the duration of their journey…not unusual given their trying and rather saddening circumstances at being out of port in the first place to begin with.
"Sir!" The midshipman said, brushing his hand by his tricorne quickly, "Commodore Norrington sends his compliments, and says that he trusts you to bring us into port and make all necessary preparations."
Sighing, Gillette gave a curt nod and the young midshipman was gone. Any other time, he would be pleased at such a demonstration of faith but this time it felt more like being placed in charge of a funeral detail. Still, it was a task expected of him and he had to see it done. Thankfully Captain Somersby was below decks, attempting to get the recalcitrant Collins to tidy himself up. That left Gillette with unfettered control over Dauntless.
"Off-watch aloft to trim topgallants," the lieutenant called out and the boatswain's mate gave a trill on his pipe. Sailors began climbing the shrouds to carry out the command, as efficient a crew as any officer could hope for. Gillette lifted a telescope to his eye and studied the harbour that was their final destination. In barely half an hour, they'd be safely within the bay. As before, the notion was unsettling when it crossed his mind. Struggling to cast aside his doubt, the lieutenant lowered the telescope abruptly. This was no time to entertain wayward thoughts anyway. He had a job to do and by God he would see it done.Sailing wasn't typically a taxing enterprise. Norrington always found it refreshing and invigorating to be at sea, however Collins' inexcusably slovenly behaviour and all the associated difficulties that came with hunting one of your own, nay, one who had been of your own, tested even the most hale of spirit. He thought of himself as more than able to withstand hardship and trial, but the current mess was causing him to doubt. That was most unbecoming and unwelcome, but facing the reality that there might be criminals that he could not bring to justice was exceptionally difficult. Nigh on impossible, really.
A soft knock at the door of his cabin disturbed his thoughts and a grimace flitted across his face. "Come," he called, striving to keep irritation from his voice. What now, he thought as the acting-Captain of Marines peered warily around the door. "Stop skulking about and come in."
Forsythe entered quickly then, a slight pink tinge colouring his face at the sharp rebuke. The marine corporal standing watchful guard outside the cabin tugged the door shut with a forceful thump and the lieutenant gave a start. Norrington lifted an eyebrow at the marine officer's unusual jitteriness, waiting for the man to speak and reveal the reason for his presence. At length, the Irishman stammered, "I was wondering, sir, when you would like me to have the men muster on deck, for going back ashore?"
"Straightaway, Lieutenant. We shall be back in the harbour in less than half an hour." Silently, Norrington cursed the man who was supposed to be making those decisions. Part of him was sympathetic to Forsythe. However quick-witted and confident the man was, he was not yet fit for the level of command that had been thrust upon him. Major Collins had neglected his duties just a little too much for Norrington's liking and he would make sure the marine officer was suitably punished. "Your companies will be the first ashore. I will be holding a brief meeting with my officers after you and your marines are gone.""What about Major - "
The Commdore lifted a hand, interrupting Forsythe's question before he could finish. "Major Collins will be remaining aboard Dauntless
to oversee the taking on of fresh provisions. You are in temporary command of the marine battalion, Lieutenant. Attend to whatever affairs you must, and make sure that the necessary number of volunteers for that Tortuga plan of yours. I'd like a meeting with your two lieutenants, the Colour-Sergeant, and the marine who will be in charge when I arrive at the fort. A runner will be sent round to fetch you. That is all, Lieutenant." Norrington deliberately turned his attention back to the papers spread out on the table before, signalling the end of the conversation. It was just as well that Forsythe had come to see him. He would have sent a sailor to fetch him before long, to give him those same orders.
The door clicked faintly as it closed behind the departing marine and Norrington looked up again, his expression a curious mixture of regret and disgust. There was more than enough on his mind without adding the unwanted stress of dealing with the moody Collins. He had to reprimand the man, however much he didn't want to. It was one more unpleasant task that fell only to the most senior officer, and it was unfortunate that he was that officer.
"Corporal Hancock," the Commodore called out abruptly. There was no better time to deliver a harsh rebuke to Collins than the present, before he took it into his head to re-assume command of the companies aboard. The marine corporal who had taken it upon himself to guard the door of his cabin entered, stamping his heels smartly. There was a noticeable lump under the man's scarlet coat, the bandages that covered his shoulder where he had been shot. How did he stand it? "My compliments to Major Collins, and would he join me here at once."
"Aye sir." The corporal saluted, the movement somewhat awkward due to his injury, and was quick to exit. Norrington heard him call out roughly to some other marine and pass the word along. How could those marines conduct themselves so well when their captain was neglecting them so badly? He had never encountered a crew of sailors who tolerated ill-treatment from a Post-Captain with any sort of grace. The difference in uniform and loyalty? Or simply a long-held immunity to poor treatment? It was hard to say with any certainty. Perhaps it didn't matter. A sigh hummed past his lips and he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples wearily. At least he count rely on his own officers without reservation.
Footsteps outside the door announced Collins' arrival. Another meeting with the Captain of Marines, another discussion that could only end in raised voices and heated words. The Commodore straightened his back as the marine officer entered, striving to conceal his surprise at Collins' orderly appearance. Had he had enough of wallowing in self-pity? Norrington certainly hoped so, if only for the sake of his own nerves. Taking a moment to compose his words, he studied the Yorkshireman. His face was clean-shaven, his queue was neatly tied, and his scarlet coatee bore the marks of a fresh scrubbing. Even the silver gorget around his neck was polished. Good.
Of course, if the man had snapped himself out of his funk, what Norrington was about to say would be all that much harder to take. Damn. "Take a chair, Major." Might as well get it over with.
Outside the door, Corporal Hancock suppressed a sigh.
The column of marines marching up the hill to the fort under Sergeant Devlin's gruff cadence were greeted by a sombre-faced Colour-Sergeant Crawford. Surprised at the unusual reception, Devlin halted the column and turned it over to the Colour-Sergeant. In an uncharacteristically thick voice, Crawford guided the column to the crest of the hill and through the gates, past the watchful gazes of the marines and sailors on the walltops. At the head of the column, Lieutenant Forsythe felt a cold shiver course down his spine. Something felt wrong. Colour-Sergeant Crawford had barely saluted him when he'd taken command of the returning companies. It wasn't like the man at all. Glancing at Cartwright, riding beside him, he saw a confused expression on the Londoner's face that matched his own.
"Take charge, Lieutenant," Forsythe said briskly, spurring his mount into a canter. The Navy officers had remained behind while the marines were ferried ashore, leaving the red-coats to return in defeat, in their own way. Whether a gesture of respect or arrogance, Forsythe didn't know. Or care to. Captain Collins had been ordered to remain aboard Dauntless to oversee the taking on of fresh provisions with the boatswain and his mate. Given his odd behaviour during the short hunt, it was little wonder that the Commodore wanted to keep him contained. Forsythe drew rein as he reached the main building, dismounting easily and handing the reins to a sailor who appeared from the shaded archway.
"Where is Lieutenant Forster?"
The marine standing outside the large doorway blinked slowly. "At th' church, sah."
The church? Forsythe nodded curtly and strode off toward the small stone building. He had never figured Forster as the church-going sort. But then, he hardly knew the fellow, new to the battalion as Forster was. Something had to have happened. There were more marines milling about in front of the hospital than he could ever recall seeing, some with bandages as a sign of their involvement in the failed efforts to catch Blackburn while the bastard had been loose in town. The men saluted him as he passed, but there was a hollowness in their movements, a shadow of deep emotion flickering behind their blank expressions. Forsythe hurried past them, unable to bear the feeling of unease he got from the men.
His shoes sent echoes of noise through the small church as he entered and for a moment he froze, briefly afraid that he was intruding upon some silent conversation. Forster was sitting on one of the pews at the very front of the room and Forsythe took care to step quietly as he approached.
"You're back already, sir?" Forster asked without moving. The acting-captain stopped, blinking in surprise. How had the man known who was coming up behind him?
"Yes. Commodore's orders."
"Don't suppose you've heard already, then."
"Heard what?"
Forster gave a deep sigh and glanced over at the other lieutenant, as Forsythe joined him on the pew. "We lost another. Sergeant Myles died six days after you left. Fighting that infection the whole way."
God. Forsythe stared down at his hands. No wonder Crawford had looked so out of sorts. He and Myles had been good mates. Them and Branning. Christ, the poor bastard had almost nobody left now, except for Devlin. "I hadn't heard. Bloody shame, he was a good sergeant."
"Aye." Forster replied, his normally cheerful voice a mere whisper. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, each entertaining their own thoughts and memories of the fallen sergeant. Outside the church, the dull, ordered stamp of feet marked the arrival of the marines from Dauntless. Colour-Sergeant Crawford's work. The soft murmur of voices began outside as the one hundred and twenty-something marines dispersed to file past Myles' grave and offer brief tokens of respect.
"How are the other lads faring?"
"Well enough. I doubt you've caught that bastard so soon!" Forster's voice dripped bitterness and he stood abruptly. "It was too much to hope in the first place, eh?"
"Lieutenant."
The other lieutenant halted, halfway to the door. Forsythe rose slowly. "I shall need your input on a matter, in approximately an hour's time. My office. Lieutenant Cartwright and Colour-Sergeant Crawford are to attend as well. Pass the word."
"Aye sir." Forster's eyes were downcast as he turned back toward the door.
"And Thomas. My sympathies. I know Sergeant Myles was one of your lads."
"Sir." The stamp of Forster's heels against the flagstone echoed within the church long after he had gone. It was nearly half an hour before Forsythe felt steady enough to move from the spot he had been standing and he avoided the graveyard adjacent to the church, with its grim, white-painted crosses. Names and dates of death of men he had known, too many in far too short a time.
All the officers were assembled when he finally arrived at Forsythe's office. Bloody marvellous. Colour-Sergeant Crawford paused after closing the door to stifle a belch. He felt like rubbish, and probably looked like rubbish as well. In the days after Myles' death, he had hardly mustered enough motivation to see to his marines, let alone himself. Two days without shaving gave his cheeks a slightly darker hue than normal, and there were dark circles hanging under his eyes from lack of sleep. All the brandy didn't help that. Sod it all. It wasn't as if any of those bloody officers knew half of what it was like to lose a close mate anyway.
"Sorry I'm late, sir," Crawford grunted, tossing up a half-hearted salute at Forsythe. Bloody Irishman. How he'd managed to make second-in-command over a solid sort like the previous first lieutenant was beyond him.
Forsythe lifted an eyebrow as he took in the slightly dishevelled state of Crawford's uniform. Thankfully he chose not to address it and said instead, "Take a chair, Colour-Sergeant."
Crawford sat, taking care to give his coat-tails a flick. At least he would give the impression of a proper gentleman, even if he didn't feel anything like one. "Wot's this about, sir?"
"A hunting party, of sorts. An entire squad's worth strong. Preferably a mixture of marines and sailors. We need your input on which marines would be best suited for the mission."
"Wot sorta huntin' party d'you mean, sir?"
At this, Forsythe glanced over at the single Navy lieutenant present. For guidance? Crawford suppressed a snort as the marine officer replied "To wander the docks of Tortuga, waiting for Blackburn and his companions to turn up."
"They'd all be fit fer it, sir. Every bloody last one of them," Crawford said without hesitation. "Hell I'll go meself, if there's a chance of layin' hands on Blackburn."
"Unfortunately, only marines from Interceptor would not be recognised on the spot by Blackburn and his companions. Only men from that detachment can be permitted to go." Cartwright interjected, and Crawford couldn't keep his lip from curling slightly. What did that fool Londoner know about that? He and Forsythe were probably sucking each other's arses anyway. That would explain the glances the two officers were exchanging. Crawford swallowed another belch and wished he could scratch the sudden itch on his shoulder.
"And wot d'you need from me then?"
"Advice. Suggestions. Your thoughts on who would be best suited for this task."
Crawford scowled. He got the feeling that he was being played by that goat-faced Irishman and he didn't like it. "I hardly know the lads assigned to Interceptor, sir. They're - were - Sarn't Myles' detachment." The Colour-Sergeant couldn't resist a sneer. "Reckon he'd be the one to ask, sir!"
"Mind your tongue, Colour-Sergeant, or I'll have you removed!" Forster burst out, coming to his feet. "You're already out of - "
"Sit down, Lieutenant," Forsythe said quietly, keeping his gaze on Crawford. The Colour-Sergeant shifted uncomfortably under the steady scrutiny and looked down at his hands. What else was going on here, other than this supposed interrogation? Had the officers been bickering amongst themselves before his arrival?
" 'Pologies sir."
"What men do you recommend for this task, Colour-Sergeant? Certainly you have at least a couple candidates in mind."
Here Crawford looked up again, feeling defeated. That bastard was relentless. How was he supposed to suggest men for a mission that he himself would not be permitted to participate in? It felt wrong, somehow. But, what choice did he have? "Corporal Johnson to lead 'em, sir. Wicklow, Higgins, and Springfield with him. The others..." he gave a half-hearted shrug. "You'd have to ask them fer others, I din't know the Interceptor's lads that well."
"Forster?"
The willowy lieutenant nodded stiffly and got back to his feet. "I'll send a man round to fetch them."
Crawford resumed staring at his hands, wishing they didn't tremble so. Thus far, the Navy lieutenant had held his silence, but as Forster strode toward the door, he said, "Are you sure of these men, Colour-Sergeant? We need only the most reliable for this."
"I'd not suggest 'em if they weren't, sir. Any one of the lads'd be fer it if they was asked." He felt his skin begin to prickle, the first hint that he was going to be ill very soon. "I've got to see after Myles' personal effects, sir. The lads're havin' an auction fer 'em in the barrack. Be there fer the rest of the day if I'm needed agin." The Colour-Sergeant was quick to salute as he hurried for the door, nearly bowling over Forster as the lieutenant was returning. He ignored the officer's calls after him, walking as quickly as he dared toward the courtyard outside.
A marine passing by only shook his head sadly as he saw his Colour-Sergeant fall to his knees outside the large building and empty the contents of his stomach onto the ground. The garrison's marines knew enough to let the man have his space. At length, Crawford mustered enough strength to lurch to his feet. He looked and felt like death but he owed it to Myles to look after the coins that would be gained from the sale of his effects. He had a shilling or two to add to the prize himself. For whatever family he left back in England. Sighing, Crawford pushed all thoughts of the cock-and-bull plot those officers had concocted. It wouldn't catch Blackburn. The bastard was too slippery, he knew too many of the marines.
" 'Ey, Colour-Sarn't. Got a shillin' to spare fer Sarn't Myles' coffer?"
Crawford fished three coins from the small pouch he kept tucked in his breeches and handed them to the round-faced marine. "The lads takin' it well?"
"Well as they did Sarn't Branning's," the marine replied, and carried on toward the guardhouse. Crawford suppressed a shudder. Truth be told, he despised the idea of sending any marines to Tortuga, in guise or not. Blackburn wasn't worth foolishly risking men's lives. Not when he's cost so many already. His stomach folded over and he wretched, emptying what little was left in his stomach a second time. This time a marine saw him and sprinted toward him, succeeding in catching the light-headed Colour-Sergeant before he could collapse. Other red-coats were quick to pound over the sun-baked ground to help and as they half-carried, half-dragged him toward the hospital, Crawford recalled distantly that he had not taken a proper meal since Myles had died.
Maybe that was why he had just openly disgraced himself. And why he did not care.