Part Two:

- On Board the H.M.S. Valiant -

It seemed an eternity to Quatre before Trowa indicated they could leave. He wasn't designed for discipline. People listened to him, but that was different. That was charisma. Trowa exuded an air of quiet competence, and stood unruffled throughout the entire watch. He hadn't spoken once. He hadn't needed to.

Quatre, on the other hand, had fidgeted. He'd tried not to, but his hands strayed behind his back and started fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves. He'd curtailed that as soon as he'd noticed, but then he'd started humming, gaining some odd looks from passing seamen. The fiddling had resumed - it was at least quiet! Currently, he'd discovered a loose thread on the inside of his left sleeve, and was engaged in not pulling it. It wrapped nicely around his index, cutting off the circulation, and then wove in a complex pattern through his fingers, but he hadn't pulled it once, mainly because he didn't enjoy sewing very much, and therefore wasn't particularly good at it. He thought it might be attached to a cuff button, which was another reason for not pulling it. If he had to replace the silver, it would come out of his own pay.

Throughout the watch, his thoughts had been in a turmoil. He felt awkward and out of place. His knowledge was better suited to discussion of poetry, or formal dinners, or business, or dancing, not supervising tars who didn't need supervision. The only thing he knew of war was the art of fencing, which wasn't likely to be much use aboard a ship of the line. He had no clue how to fire a ship's gun, let alone one of the six huge carronades possessed by the Valiant. He knew regulations, specifications, everything that could be learned from a book. He hadn't known half of what he'd learned since setting foot on the gangplank. Hadn't known how the ship's speed could be improved by scraping the barnacles off of her copper bottom. Hadn't known how the pumps in the bilges had to be kept manned and working at all times to stop the ship from filling with water. Hadn't realised how those same bilges would be infested with rats and stink of human excrement and unwashed bodies. As a result, he felt even more incompetent and nervous.

Those thoughts belonged to the past now, though. Right now he was too occupied with not bashing his head as he followed Midshipman Barton - Trowa, he reminded himself - through the ship to the stern, where the officer's quarters were located. He had no idea how he'd managed to get so lost.

"This is the wardroom. Lieutenant's cabins on the right, middies sleep on the left. We're junior so we'll be sharing."

As small as the wardroom was, the midshipman's cabins were scarcely larger than kennels. Beyond the door Trowa opened, two cots hung from the ceiling. Each was exactly large enough to accommodate a man, and there was all of two inches between them. Beneath were two chests, presumably containing blankets and spare uniforms. The one on the left also had a rectangular case attached to the deck underneath it, and Quatre smiled. All the personal possessions he loved, he'd brought with him in that case. Only one thing, but it was better than anything else. Trowa's half of the tiny cabin was completely empty except for the neatly made cot and closed chest. Quatre turned around to comment, but Trowa was gone.

"T-trowa?"

"Sorry, middy. Just me." The drawling voice came from the door of another midshipman's cabin. "Stand to attention when addressed by your superior, middy. Name?" A hulking figure detached itself from the darkness and moved towards the lantern's feeble circle of light.

Quatre backed up a step involuntarily.

"Quatre."

"Stand to, I said! And report correctly. You do know how, I suppose?" Spine stiff, chest out, arms ramrod-straight, chin up, and knees shaking, Quatre blurted out:

"Sir, Midshipman Quentin Robert Winner, sir!"

"Very good, Winner. Stay at attention." The huge shadow slowly circled the diminutive midshipman, who was quaking in his boots. Quatre could feel the man's scathing gaze traveling from his toes to the top of his blond head.

"I, Midshipman, am First Midshipman Mueller. I am your direct superior, and responsible for discipline among the middies. If you do anything wrong, I am punished. And if I get punished," he paused for a moment, leering. "You get punished. Is that understood, Winner?"

"Y-yes." A slap landed on Quatre's cheek, snapping his head around.

"I said, is that understood, Middy?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Better. You obey my orders, you address me as sir, you don't bring up matters between midshipmen in front of superior officers, and you keep your nose damn clean, and we should get along just fine, Winner. Now, clean yourself up. We're sailing soon, and Captain Noventa will want all hands. Move!"

Quatre moved. He brushed his jacket and wiped the rat excrement from his boot, shined his buttons and combed his hair, all the while under Mueller's glowering watch. He received a cuff on the back of his head for his troubles. "Make it faster, next time. Now come!" Without a backwards glace, Mueller strode off, not checking to see if Quatre was keeping up or not. As a result, Quatre had to trot along behind him, trying to do up the cuff buttons on his jacket and avoid hitting his head at the same time. By the time they reached the poop deck where the Captain stood next to the wheel and the crew, all six-hundred-odd of them, stood at attention in ranks, he was sporting a new bruise above his left eye. He took his place in ranks next to Trowa, and listened.

"We sail for the French harbour. The blockade there is suffering and needs reinforcements and supplies. We are both. We are to escort the cargo vessels then take up our station. Now bow heads for the Ship's Prayer." There was a slight rustling as hats were doffed, then Noventa continued. "Today is August the Ninth, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Five, on board the H.M.S. _Valiant_. We ask You to bless this ship, bless this voyage, and bless those aboard. Amen."

"Amen," Quatre mouthed. He'd need all the blessing he could get.

A.N. As far as I know, that was the traditional Ship's Prayer, and still is. I got it from 'Midshipman's Hope', by David Feintuch. Thanks to Bryony for reviewing - if you spot any anachronisms or anything, tell me!