* * *
Divisions, and Badger held her breath for her captain’s inspection, the red-coated marines lined-up on the quarterdeck, her crew toeing their appointed seams along the gangway and foc’cle, every line just so and blacked, her cannon bowsed tight against her side; and all sweltering under the Mediterranean sun. Philip began his inspection aft, begain it alone because his first lieutenant was still on the absent Chasseur. He was out of midshipmen, too, having sent Wilkins over to the Tres Hermanas along with Mister South. And even with the new crewmen form the prize he was running short of men.
He put these thoughts from his mind and slowly inspected the marines. As he expected, they were flawless, or as flawless as conditions would allow: they stood as straight as their ramrods, with brilliantly pipeclayed crossbelts over neat, but faded red coats, their pink, freshly-shaved faces staring straight ahead as though Philip wasn’t there. Except that they swayed slightly as Badger worked in the swell, they might have been wax statues. Part of Philip felt for them as men - Falk looked as if he was approaching cerebral congestion and Philip would have to erect awnings in the future - but as their captain under God and Queen he said no more than “very good, Corporal Quinn. You may set your men at ease,” before turning to the sailors.
Here things were different. No amount of lecture or discipline short of terrorizing the hands would ever convince a sailor to stand at attention like a soldier. Marines were all very well; able to pull on a rope when needed or fire down on an enemy from the tops, and invaluable in boarding and amphibious operations; but the men were only three-quarters joking when they accused each other of ‘topping it the marine:’ better dead than red. They nudged each other and shared private jokes, made grotesque faces at their comrades on the other side of the waist in hopes of provoking laughter, and stared at their captain until he was within three feet, when they would suddenly fall silent and somber until he passed them by. Philip stopped before a particular sailor. “Koslowski, how do you do,” he asked, looking into the man’s sunken eyes.
“Prime, sir, quite prime,” said Koslowski, staring straight ahead, and Philip noted that his breath was foul. He looked the man over, considering. For the Mediterranean Sea, this was strange. He would have to keep a lookout, and consult with Mister Foster.
Paying more attention now, Philip moved along the line of sailors: one or two more showed the same lassitude on the starboard side, none on the foc’cle, but one more along the port gangway.
He dropped down to the gun deck, joining Mister Horrace, who saluted and fell in behind him as he carefully looked over Badger’s teeth. Several of the guns were still in the hold, but Philip saw that the gunner had prepared their tackle for their new carriages to come aboard in Malta. Mister Horrace had also distributed replacement tools for those lost, and every station had its full complement arrayed in the Badger’s sides and overhead framing.
The galley sat between guns eight and ten on the starboard side, manned by Bathby, the one-legged cook. Philip put on the traditional white glove and ran it along the pots, inspecting his fingers with ritual seriousness for signs of grease; Bathby was a conscientious man, a bosun’s mate until he had lost his leg, and he worshipped cleanliness.
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