argh.thirty-eight out of fifty is close enough or something.

[quigonejinn]

• It was not, in most cases, a hardship for Bush to give up his berth for a guest.
  
  He had his duties aboard the ship, after all; they were certainly enough to keep him busy during the day, and whatever time he had outside of that, there was the wardroom or the captain's cabin, if Hornblower wanted the company. At night, an extra hammock was slung along the side of the wardroom for him, and he drew his shaving ration from the wardroom cask anyways, so the primary hardship was giving up any small naps that he might catch during the course of the day. He could certainly endure that for the time it took to transport someone across the Channel or almost anywhere in the Mediterranean, so no, giving up his berth was not a hardship when required, and while sharing was a little more difficult, it was certinaly not impossible.
  
  Bush had done it perfectly peaceably with Cotard, for example. No complaints despite the fact that Cotard had a habit of singing to himself in French as he shaved. He was neat and tidy and perfectly polite. A reasonable existence, certainly, and the Hotspur's first lieutenant cabin had been half the size of what Bush had now aboard the Lydia.
  
  Two days with Sharpe, on the other hand, and Bush found himself contemplating the possible delights of sharing a berth with Napoleon Bonaparte.
  
  
• Sharpe took such liberties with his uniform that even Gerard was a little taken aback: Bush and Gerard were on the quarterdeck together, discussing the schedule of exercise for the hands that afternoon, and the detachment from the 95th was taking air on the deck when Sharpe came staggering up from below, his coat half-on and his necktie backwards and his hat nowhere in sight. There was at least a half-inch of stubble on his face, and for the love of God, was that his sword jammed under his arm like a loaf of bread?
  
  Bush lost control of himself enough so that he made an involuntary noise, and Gerard looked over with sympathy. True, that was a little bit of amusement on Gerard's face, but even he winced when two of the 95th got to brawling with other while Sharpe put his hands on his hips and roared with laughter and accepted a bet from his sergeant as to who would win.
  
  "Terlaine Bay in a week and a half, sir."
  
  
• "Are there always so many floggings?"
  
  The words came out of Sharpe with a great deal of force, and Bush reminded himself that they were, in the books, the same rank. Sharpe did not have to use sir. He was in the Army; there was no requirement that Sharpe speak respectfully of the Navy and her institutions.
  
  "Only two today. None since last week, and we're only a month out to sea. The hands aren't as settled as they will be."
  
  Bush had, in fact, seen the marks across Sharpe's back. They looked at least five years old and were no doubt closer to ten, but the scars were still raised up off the flesh, twisting, in the way that only the very worst of the floggings produced. Sharpe had not acted as htought hey cauesd him pain; he certainly seemed healthy enough, and yet, Bush watched as Sharpe stripped his coat off and threw it into his hammock with a great deal of force. He could see the scars, in fact, under Sharpe's shirt, and Bush was trying to calculate how many lashes he must have been given.
  
  "So you flog them until they do?"
  
  A hundred? Two hundred? Over a number of days, it must have been, with the way that the scars twisted and branched.
  
  Nevertheless, when Sharpe turned around, eyes and face still angry, Bush was perfectly able to meet his eyes.
  
  "If it's necessary."
  
  
• "So you came up out of the ranks."
  
  "I was a master's mate on the Swiftsure. Captain Lewell made me an acting lieutenant."
  
  The ship was moving, of course, and there were all the sounds of a ship under steady hands and wind: creaking deck, footsteps, the sound of the lower decks filtering up. Bush kept his eyes cloed, but he suspected that Sharpe had not yet blown out the light and drew out the sails as they ought to be lying at the very moment. Tops'ls, heads'ls. He tried, as Hornblower told him to try as an exercise, to plot out what the stars must look like overhead and how their view of them would change as the Lydia continued through the night, but after a moment he gave it up as a hopeless task. The sails were easy enough; he had been doing it for decades now, but the stars were another question.
  
  It was difficult enough when he was completely awake, but it was dark, and he lay comfortably in his swaying cot.
  
  "And y've -- "
  
  Earlier in the evening, Sharpe had come running to talk to Hornblower about something or the other about what he was being set to shore for -- at least he'd had the knowledge to knock before coming in, and Bush had been excused out of the room as soon as Sharpe made clear what he was there for. A confidential mission, it seemed, that only Hornblower and Sharpe knew the details of, but when Sharpe had come into the room, they had been standing at the table together, talking over a question of seamanship.
  
  In the heat of discussion, the captain had used a mug and one of his books to indicate the relative positions of ship and shore, and since he failed to be convinced but could not articulate well why, precisely, he was muttering about how ungainly a ship made of ceramic would be. Horatio was leaning forward a little to manipulate HMS Mug and the westernmost part of Gibbonalia, was smiling in that way he had when he was feeling particularly content.
  
  "You'll never forgive me for making your darling girl the Hotspur gap-toothed, will you, Bu -- "
  
  That was the scene that Sharpe had come onto. The captain, smiling at his lieutenant over the memory of old times together. Bush attempting to contain his exasperation at the fact that he was being teased by his captain over the same hoary old joke for the three hundredth time, their shoulders very close to bumping.
  
  Hornblower spoke French, knew Latin, was known to be a doctor's son, and when he lifted up his sea-chest so they could look again at his orders, there had been more books in there than clothes. He was still young for a captain, it seemed, and Sharpe remembered the words of recommendation that he'd had from Hodgson as to the man's ability. The Admiralty has very high opinion of him. I've met him myself, and he's no fool, Sharpe. Trust him.
  
  Bush, that afternoon, roaring at the midshipman who had a rear admiral for a father but only a halting command of the signal book. The boy redfaced with shame, staggering a little from the back of Bush's hand. Gerard, who had come in as a mate from the merchant marine, and worked his way to second lieutenant.
  
  On the other side of the cabin, Bush began to snore.

Comments

Re: *pats your icon*

[http://users.livejournal.com/_oggy_/]

okay, insane ceramic craziness over at my place.