Disclaimer: If I owned 'em, this wouldn't be on FANfiction.net. I'd be making money off of it.

Reviewers: Bryony first, because you're the only faithful reader I seem to have on this * hugs * Here's some more Quatre for ya. I'm afraid Hilde won't be in most of the rest of this, because all the action is ship-board. She'll be at the end, though, and a plot catalyst :o) The bad guys are more bad-guyish next chapter - you'll like it! Nezumi, Treize wioll be in it (not yet, though). And thanks for the French-help offers, but I'm a Montrealer! French, I can do - one reason why this isn't set during the Talavera campaign - my Spanish is terrible. Schachzug (which I refuse to try to pronounce!), I'd love a copy of that prayer. I seem to have misplaced the book I got it from, and I don't know if you got my email.

Thanks to all of you!

A.N. Just a few nautical concepts - A CPO is a Chief Petty Officer, and basically the highest rank an ordinary man can hold without being an officer, unless they do something really incredible. The gunwhale is the edge of a ship, sort of the top of the wall that goes around the top deck. (You know, the bit you barf over!). Time on board is kept by sounding bells, therefore two bells, six bells, etc are ways of measuring time, like a land o'clock.



Part Four

~ On board the H.M.S. Valiant, a few days after launch ~

"Wotcher think of the new middy?"

"Milksop."

"'Asn't growed oop yet."

Duo couldn't decide whether to be interested or irritated. Lieutenant Rat-Bastard Alex had found fault with everything and had assigned him an extra watch pumping, and he ached abominably and wanted to get his four hours of sleep before six bells sounded abd he was on watch again. On the other hand, having been stuck in the bilges, he'd not had the chance to form his own opinions of Winner yet. He decided on irritation.

"Shut yer 'oles, lads, an' let me get some bloody sleep!" "Ooh, blasphemy, Maxwell, Alex'd have yer 'ead fer that!" "It's straight to Hell yer goin' Maxwell!"

Duo gave up. Sleep clearly wasn't going to be an option this off- watch. He shifted slightly in his hammock to get the badly knotted rope to poke him someplace else, and settled for being interested. He listened as the conversation turned back the new middy. What was his name again?

"Winner's wet behind the ears, mark my words." Ah. Winner. That was it. He could place the name, now that he thought about it. The Winners were a wealthy London family, with a fondness - he grinned - for fine jewelry and wine, very valuable indeed if you knew who to sell them to. He seemed to remember that Mr. Winner had captained his own ship in the Royal Navy before taking over his father's merchant fleet. He returned his attention to the conversation being shouted from various locations in the fo'c'sle, which, having firmly established Winner's youth and inexperience, had moved on to his merit as an officer.

"Better 'n that whoreson Mueller."

"Got - wotsit, fancy word, means he could do something, pot-something."

"Potential?"

" 'At's the one, Chang. All them books must be makin' yer head grow."

"My head's quite big enough. But I agree." There was an almost wondering tone in the cook's voice. "He called me Mister. And said 'please'."

At this statement, there was a general uproar, mainly consisting of assorted curses and shouts of 'Naw!' and 'Never!'. Chang refused to say anything more, turning back to the precious book he'd managed to keep in one piece, despite the jeers directed at something written by a frog. He found Voltaire's ideas fascinating.

Duo mused. The general opinion was that Winner, even if he was a rich brat from London and had no idea how to command, would probably end up being a satisfacory officer. He turned over in his hammock as well as he could (earning a short shower of curses from the man above him, who was not at all happy about being on the receiving end of an elbow in the kidneys) and drifted off, putting the new middy firmly from his mind.



Said midshipmen, at the end of the next watch, was decidedly regeretting having joined His Majesty's Navy at all.

"Should've been a cavalry - blargh - man," he said to the ocean he'd just dumped his half-digested breakfast into. Beside him, Trowa shook his head.

"No, you shouldn't have. Horses rock when you ride them, same as a ship. Up and down and side to side. You can get off them more easily, though. But the ground still feels like it's spinning." Trowa spared a glance at the towheaded figure bent over the gunwhale.

"Sorry."

"You didn't have to add that last bit about the spinning." Quatre glared balefully at his shipmate.

"Sorry."

"No, you aren't."

Trowa said not a word, but didn't look Quatre in the eyes, either, preferring to refold the younger man's jacket over his arm. He'd grabbed it (fortunately it hadn't been buttoned) when Quatre had first turned green - the dark blue wool was near-impossible to keep clean even if the wearer wasn't seasick. Quatre straightened up, but didn't move away from the side. He opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by a mischevious voice from behind him.

"Oh me, oh my, I heard the old man cry Oh me, oh my, I think I'm gonna die! Oh me, oh my, I heard the old man say I wish I hadn't taken this excursion around the bay!

Woss the matter, man? The sky's blue, it's a bloomin' lovely day." Quatre turned to behold a low-ranking seaman with a mocking grin on his face, twirling the end of a long braid.

Duo realised he'd not seen the poor seasick sod before, and the grin fell from his face as he spotted the officer's jacket Trowa was holding. He snapped to attention.

"'Pologies sir! Jus' a bit o' fun, sir! Permission to continue on me way to the bilges, sir!" He stared at the man, who had to be Winner. Winner stared back, dumbstruck. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't recall anything about singing at an officer in the regulations. And the man had apologised, after all. The sailor was almost trembling - what on Earth was he expecting? He was as white as a sheet! Quatre was saved by Trowa's voice from beside him.

"Attend your duties, Maxwell. This once we'll not report it. It won't happen again, will it? Carry on!"

The colour rushed visibly back into the sailor's - Maxwell's, Quatre reminded himself - face.

"Thank ye sir! Won't happen again, sir! Aye, sir!" Maxwell performed an infantry-worthy about-face and walked nimbly off, his braid bouncing behind him as he skillfully balanced his feet against the motion of the ship. Quatre turned.

"Trowa. what. who was that?"

Trowa's lips quirked slightly. "That was Able Seaman Duo Mawell. He's the best sailor on this ship - should be a CPO, if he didn't keep forgetting himself. If there's a storm he'll be in the rigging - he's far too valuable to waste on the pumps. Talented musician, too. You've not met him yet because he's been in the bilges."

Quatre frowned. "I thought they rotated that duty?"

"Usually they do. But for some reason Alex holds a grudge against the man."

They watched thoughtfully as the sailor disappeared belowdecks, just as six bells sounded to indicate the changing of the watch. Trowa turned to leave, off-shift at last, but gave his friend one last word of advice.

"Get his respect, Quatre. His and Yuy's. It's the best thing you can do - you won't find two better sailors to lead anywhere, and they've got the respect of the men. Win over those two, and you've got the crew."