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| A Rash Action {Mutiny}; Intrepid, Marines/Navy | |
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| Topic Started: 4 Jan 2008, 03:20 AM (334 Views) | |
| Royal Navy & Marines | 4 Jan 2008, 03:20 AM Post #1 |
Master of Puppets
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Post rated Mature for language.   Aboard Intrepid, the fighting had begun even before the signal cannon fired. Shouting mutineers clashed with their loyalist counterparts and seamen without hesitation. Corporal Johnson sprinted toward the unprotected screen door, having seen the sentry who was supposed to be guarding Captain Gillette's cabin go dashing toward the fight on the weather deck. He was able to intercept a wild-eyed mutineer before the man could slam open the door and wasted little time bashing the marine over the head with his musket butt. What the bloody hell had brought all of this about? "Repel boarders, boys!" It was the boatswain, Burns. There were seamen charging up from below, brandishing cutlasses and boarding axes. Good lads! Another marine, this one with his coat turned wrong-side out, came running toward Johnson and the corporal sidestepped, levelling the man with a sharp blow to the side of his head. This was madness. Pure, unaltered madness. Johnson grabbed the half-conscious mutineer and heaved him bodily toward a pair of approaching seamen, snapping "Put that in irons!" It seemed that the fight was over, as the clang of steel on steel had subsided. But why had there even been such combat? Johnson forced himself to walk slowly toward the small group of captured mutineers, unable to keep his expression neutral. There were a few bodies lying about on deck and that was more than enough for him. "Bell! I want every worthless mutinyin' piece of shit lined up on the larboard midships rail, right bloody now!" The corporal bellowed. His face half-covered with blood from a glancing cutlass blow, Martin Bell did as he was told, shoving, kicking, and cursing the prisoners into an uneven line. Several of the loyalist marines, some sporting similar injuries as Bell, drifted closer to the single rank of prisoners, alrady suspecting what their corporal was up to. Johnson saw their movement and pointed at them with the barrel of his musket. "You lads, cock an' prime yer muskets. Firin' party! Present!" "Cap'n on deck!" Burns rasped, and Johnson was forced to delay, at least temporarily, passing out the requisite sentence for mutiny. Judging by the ugly expression on the sea officer's face as he stamped out from his cabin, Gillette was in an even worse mood than Johnson. "I should like," the captain began, eyeing the marines standing with their muskets aimed at the line of prisoners, "to know very much what the hell is going on here." "It was a bloody mutiny, sar," Johnson snarled, turning a hate-filled glare toward the prisoners. "Dunno what brought it 'bout, but them bastards is 'bout to get shot fer it." Gillette said nothing for a long moment as he surveyed the many men crowded on the weather deck. His gaze lingered on the rank of prisoners, then he scowled. "How am I to know that you, Corporal, are not in fact a mutineer yourself?" Johnson's round face flushed and he shivered, looking fit to burst at the question. He crossed the deck to the rank of prisoners and grabbed one man by the scruff of his neck, dragging the fellow forward without ceremony or consideration. "I ain't no fella who'd stoop to mutiny, sar," the corporal replied stiffly. "This here scum-suckin' coward was all bent on breakin' inta yer cabin, bayonet fixed an' all, fit t' do fer you whilst you was sleepin', like the spineless jack's arse he is." Johnson shook the mutineer roughly. "Ain't that right, Burke?" The terrified man nodded jerkily. Johnson shoved him away and snorted when Burke's feet tangled together and sent him crashing to the deck. "Look there, the poor lass has gone an' pissed herself! Get the girl up an' back inta line. Firin' party - " Shaking his head, Gillette lifted a hand to interrupt the corporal. "It's terribly unfortunate, but we can't simply execute them now. There are rules and guidelines to follow. Boatswain! See to it that these... men... are all put in irons and taken below. I want them all alive." He turned back to Johnson, as Burns knuckled his brow and hurried off. "As for you, Corporal. Gather your men and go to the foc's'le. And stay there." Johnson slapped the swell of his musket in salute and spun sharply on his heel, his face stiff with resentment. By the sound of it, even he was being considered suspect. The very idea was disgusting to him. Hadn't he managed to keep those bastards from getting into the captain's cabin? It was beyond ungrateful. It was downright insulting. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 1 Feb 2008, 07:51 AM Post #2 |
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Master of Puppets
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It was almost uncomfortably crowded on the foc's'le, with part of Jacob Southerland's section mixed in with his own lads. Johnson leaned against the deck rail and crossed his arms, scowling darkly at his shoes. He resented being thought no better than a mutineer, when he was as loyal the sky was blue. Just because Gillette bore a long-standing grudge against the marines... Johnson clenched his jaw. Somebody would have to deal with the captured traitors eventually. It really was too bad that the captain had interrupted Johnson's administering of the requisite punishment. A firing squad was worth the waste of powder and ball, in his estimation. Hadn't those bastards fired on them with the intent to kill? Why not return the favour? Never mind that the marines he had been about to order executed were men in his own squad. Treason was treason and he had seen those bastards turn on their mates in the blink of an eye. What good was mercy to them? A subdued sort of chatter faded into existence, but faded out again without rising past a murmur in volume. For a moment, Johnson wished that Jacob Southerland was aboard, that he could foist off the burden of dealing with the junior marines onto the other corporal. But nooo, Southerland was ashore some-place, probably wasting time playing cards with his half-brother in the stables. Well, maybe not playing cards, Johnson amended. He was probably captured by now, since the barks of musket fire from the fort had largely subsided. Captured or dead. Either one. Johnson didn't much care. He didn't like either Southerland much anyway. In fact, Johnson's concern was largely limited to the well-being of Doctor Finch. The sawbones was perhaps the only man in the fort with whom Johnson could have a mostly-civil conversation. Both of them being Hampshiremen helped somewhat. There were other Hampshiremen in the garrison, of course, but none of them were on the same level as Finch in Johnson's regard. Somebody's musket hammer clicked and Johnson looked up when Martin Bell barked, "Boat ahoay!" Other musket hammers were drawn back and several men climbed up onto the bulwark and the marines' walk to get a better line of sight on the jolly-boat drawing toward them. Johnson pushed himself away from the rail as Bell shouted the challenge a second time, not having been given a response. One of the men in the approaching jolly-boat waved at them, calling out "Passing!" There was something odd about this. Johnson pulled himself up onto the marines' walk and narrowed his eyes as he studied the men in the jolly-boat. They had come from Proserpina, clearly, but why were they pulling across the harbour, considering the circumstances? Certainly their officers had more sense than that. The corporal pointed at the boat. "Stand away there, an' 'vast rowin'. What's yer purpose?" Another silence. The boat's oars slowed their stroke, but did not still. Several of the men in the boat seemed engaged in earnest discussion. That was another strike against them. Johnson curled his lip back in a snarl. Too suspicious, too soon. "Marines! Pre-sent!" Muskets clattered against hands as his men presented. Now there was a stir in the boat! The oar blades lifted from the water and the red-coat in the sternsheets hollered, "We're bound fer Dauntless!" Johnson glanced over his shoulder toward the second-rate. There was faint shouting and the occasional musket shot ringing out from aboard, but nothing worth leaving one's ship for. Besides which, what good could six marines and five sailors do? The corporal turned toward one of his marines. "Rouse the cap'n. He'll want to know what those blackguards down there is up to." The marine uncocked his musket and hopped off the bulwark to dash aft. Johnson looked down at the jolly-boat, which was drifting closer to them. "Hold water there, since you don't understand what "stand away" means!" "I don't likes this, Corp'ral," Martin Bell muttered, appearing at Johnson's elbow as if by magic. "Them Tars ain't restin' easy at their looms, lookit 'em." It was true. The seamen were fidgeting, just enough to look uneasy. Johnson's frown deepened. "They do anythin' stoopid, put a volley right into 'em. I don't care if they're loyal or not." The Hampshireman looked aft and he grunted when he saw the marine runner disappear below-decks. Captain Gillette must've gone to bandy words with the traitors. "Sure if they're loyal, they'd be cooperatin' easy-like." A musket barked as he turned back around and one of his marines snarled a curse. The man's musket rattled to the deck, then there was a splash as the gut-shot marine pitched head-first into the water. Two volleys flashed between jolly-boat and sloop and there were two more splashes as another marine and his musket went overboard. Johnson felt a tug against his leg and the limb wilted underneath him. He hit the grating of the marines' walk with a half-smothered groan of pain, enraged that those bastards had managed to hit him. Bell grabbed his collar and started dragging him off the exposed walk. A fresh burst of musket fire rang out from the line of marines at the bulwark, which was answered almost at once by the men in the jolly-boat. Another marine tumbled to the deck and Johnson decided then and there that he was going to tear every one of those mutinous bastards apart bone by bone. He heaved himself up onto his knees and flailed for the dead marine's discarded musket. This fight had gone on long enough. Johnson used his borrowed musket to lever himself to his feet and staggered to the deck-rail. There were still a few men left alive in the boat, enough to both man the oars and maintain fire. He settled his aim on the red-coat who seemed to be in charge and squeezed the trigger. His shot carried off the mutineer's hat, but did him no other harm. The jolly-boat was being pulled at a respectable pace, but it wasn't out of musket-range yet. "What in the seven hells is going on here?" Captain Gillette had arrived, staring at the pair of marines lying sprawled on the deck. Johnson finished reloading his musket before replying, unreasonably annoyed at the sea officer's bad timing. That he had sent for the man in the first place didn't matter. It rankled that the captain had chosen now to turn up. "Havin' a bit of sport, sir," the corporal answered curtly, pointedly neglecting to salute. "Figured there was nothin' else worth doin', so we're practisin' musket drill, like." Gillette's glare could have warped solid oak. "Cease fire." The order was, to Johnson's surprise, not shouted or even spoken in a raised voice. Rather, the sea officer's tone was almost unsettlingly calm and controlled. The marines heard it plainly regardless. Musket hammers clicked down from full cock and shod feet thudded to the deck as men hopped down from the grated walk and bulwark. "My cabin. Now." Seething, Johnson flung his musket at the nearest marine and limped aft, his round face contorting in pain with each step. Martin Bell made to support him, but the corporal shoved him away with a sharp curse. It was bad enough to have been told to stand down by a bleedin' Navy man. He didn't need somebody to carry him nowhere on top of it! Johnson looked down at his leg and grimaced. His white breeches were now half-scarlet, from the blood running freely down his leg. It'd a week to get them clean again, if ever. He might've known the captain would play the saint like that! It wouldn't have hurt him any to ask who they'd been shooting at. Stupid, ill-mannered Irish sod. Small wonder he was so unpopular. |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 16 Feb 2008, 01:02 AM Post #3 |
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Master of Puppets
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  After Johnson had gone aft, the other marines returned to the bulwark, looking for the jolly-boat, that they might attempt to capture it. In that hope they were disappointed, when a mail packet came gliding up along their larboard side. A group of seamen idling near the midships rail were waving down at the packet, which suggested that the little vessel was not a hostile one. That was a relief, Martin Bell thought. The Newcastle native watched as the mail packet hooked onto the jolly-boat and swayed it aboard, glad that the bastards had been intercepted and prevented from reaching their destination. "Hope they string those blackguards up," Bartlett grumbled from nearby. A murmur of agreement came from the loosely-gathered marines. Bell only shook his head, more interested in the fates of the traitors who were currently being held below-decks. Stringing those blackguards up would suit him far better. He turned away and sighed. The two marines who'd pitched overboard were still in the water, one floating face-down and motionless and the other feebly trying to swim toward the side-ladder. "C'mon lads. Let's 'elp out the wounded." The other loyalists stirred into motion, some tramping toward the waist, where they could retrieve boat hooks, while others hefted up the wounded men lying on the deck in preparation to carry them below. Then a cannon fired and every man stopped what they were doing. Bell flung an arm toward Proserpina, having been facing toward the frigate. "They're firin' at us!" Sailors were moving about in earnest, as the boatswain and his mates trilled All Hands on their pipes. The marines carrying wounded hurried to get their mates below-decks, while the one wounded fellow in the water was hauled quickly aboard. Bell picked up a musket and crossed to the starboard rail, joining a handful of his mates were watching the semi-distant frigate warily. Where was Johnson? Captain Gillette couldn't be so oblivious to the surroundings that he carried on yelling at Johnson for his own actions. If nothing else, the marines needed Johnson to give them some sort of direction, because Bell knew he couldn't take charge without consequence. If only those mutinous bastards hadn't done for Sergeant Foster. Bell sucked at his lower lip. Even though Foster hadn't been part of the original Intrepid detachment, he had been the only sergeant aboard, since Myles was ashore. Thinking of Myles brought his brother to mind, and he wondered if James was all right. He damned well had better be, or those mutinying sons of trollops would never live to see another day. "Cap'n on deck!" Dunning muttered and the group of marines stiffened. All other activity ceased as the crew turned toward their captain. At least no other cannon shots had been fired, but Bell had an idea that they were shortly to see more action. The sea officer glanced toward the boatswain and his mates, who were standing near the quarterdeck stairs. Of Johnson there was no sign. "Boarding parties, Mister Burns. Volunteers only." Bell felt his lip curl. No marines? Good bloody luck to the Tars, takin' that frigate without marine support! Especially not against Proserpina's marines. Hancock and Morse both had some dirty fighters in their sections. Besides which, the only ones who ought to be fighting the marines were marines themselves. "Martin Bell!" The Newcastle native almost jumped, so surprised was he to have been singled out. "Sar," the private answered, advancing a few paces toward the quarterdeck. To his unending disbelief, Captain Gillette tossed something loopy and white at him before he'd even made it halfway aft. "Organise your men and sort them into the boarding parties, Corporal. That frigate needs to be retaken." "Aye sar," Bell replied. He stared at the white cord in his hands, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Corporal. Hands slapped against his back and shoulders, as his mates offered words of praise, but Bell was all too aware of the cost of his unexpected promotion. Small wonder Johnson hadn't come back on deck. He would be far too ashamed to be seen without his prized shoulder knot. "Five men to a boat," he said at last, while the seamen were busily preparing the sloop's boats for swaying out. "You lads knows the usual order. Dunning," the newly-named corporal waved the Irishman over, "go an' find the corp'ral. 'E oughta be up 'ere with 'is mates." Dunning dashed off immediately, leaving Bell to oversee the marines who were suddenly his responsibility. God. What had he ever done to deserve this? |
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| Royal Navy & Marines | 17 Feb 2008, 07:31 AM Post #4 |
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Master of Puppets
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 True to his suspicion, Johnson had been almost impossible to convince to come up from below-deck. By the time that Dunning and Littlefield had been able to drag the corporal topside, the boarding parties were formed and ready to go. Bell had shoved the shoulder knot into his coat, resenting the fact that he had it at all. Even before Johnson hauled himself up the companion ladder, Bell had made up his mind. When Johnson finally did appear, he crossed the deck toward his corporal, who'd gone to join the group of marines closest to the starboard rail. "You're outta uniform, Corp'ral," Bell said quietly, holding the white cord out. Johnson stared at him and Bell felt the curious gazes of the other marines on his back. Taking care to avoid looking toward the quarterdeck, Bell unfastened the right epaulette on Johnson's coat and slid the smallest loop around the loose flap of red wool. Rebuttoning the epaulette took only a moment and once the task was finished, the Newcastle native tugged at his hat brim and turned away. He felt better now that he'd returned the knot to its proper owner. "Boat crews away!" Burns, the boatswain, had waited until the strange ceremony had finished before giving the order. He wasn't always overly fond of the marines, but he had a feeling that perhaps the truest gesture of brotherhood he'd ever born witness to had just occurred before him. He'd seen marines and seamen alike fight and die for each other, but that, in his mind, was easy. Bucking a lawful promotion, in plain view of almost every officer aboard no less, took some real stones. Burns grinned slightly and swung one leg over the rail. Then again, Martin Bell had long since proven to be just the sort of bloke who'd do something like that. "The deck is yours, Mister Pritchard," Gillette said to his first lieutenant, who touched his hat in response. That the captain would follow the boarding parties had been a foregone conclusion. He was more than welcome to it. Pritchard stood back and watched the last of the selected crew go over the side into the waiting boats, silently glad that he was staying aboard. He wasn't as full of fire and steel as some others and taking on the mutinous crew of a frigate didn't rate anywhere on his list of things to do before he died. For his part, Gillette was finding it difficult to contain his disgust - and his nervousness. He knew very well what sort of officer St Montgomery was, and it was a very safe assumption that his crew would be more than keen to make sure that he stayed locked up, so he couldn't wreak any sort of vengeance upon them. It would not be an easy fight to retake the frigate and he knew it. Every man in the small flotilla knew it, or they very soon would. He tried to keep his fingers from tapping an anxious tattoo on the hilt of his sword, painfully aware that any sign of unease in him as the captain would have adverse effects on morale. He had to at least seem as though he was perfectly calm, even if his insides felt like they were twisted up into impossible knots. Shouts were ringing out from the frigate as the mutineers prepared to welcome the Intrepids. Corporal Johnson, once again wearing his prized shoulder knot, checked his flint before priming his musket. The other marines in the longboat were making similar, last-minute checks. Bayonets were already fixed, which meant that reloading after their initial volley would be impossible. Once they were on the frigate's deck, there wouldn't be time to even pull a cartridge out from their boxes. "Put 'em all to steel," Johnson said to the men in the boat. "Ain't nothin' but traitors, that lot." A cannon boomed and a waterspout burst up just off the jolly-boat's bow. The swivel gun in the longboat's bow coughed a return shot, then another of the frigate's larboard guns fired. Intrepid's launch took the ball almost directly amidships, sending water, splinters, and bodies flying everywhere. "Pull for it!" Somebody roared. There was no time to even glance back at the handful of survivors in the water, for their objective was just ahead. The longboat was the first to hook on and the men wasted little time scrambling up the frigate's side. Joseph Markham was the first marine to make it aboard and almost immediately earned the dubious distinction of being the first marine to fall. Others were climbing up toward the deck and his body was pushed aside, to be worried over later, after victory was fully assured. |
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