We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors...with a soldier

[simplestgift]

Who: Norrington (abidinglaw ), Hornblower (captainhornblower ), Sharpe (greenjacketed ), Bush (wouldntbetonit ), Kennedy (simplestgift ), and Wellard (bravelad ).
What: Officers' dinner.
When: The 23rd at four o'clock
Where: The captain's cabin of the Britannia
Summary: Archie's feeling like recapturing some of the magic officer dinners used to have when Aubrey and Maturin were here.
Rating: A is for Awkward, B is for Bonaparte, C is for Cinnamon, D is for.../shuts up

So Archie isn't Aubrey, but he's tried to make things warm and have lots of good food.  He's done pretty well, but his attempts to replace the captain of which he was so fond aren't perfect.  The beef is, perhaps, just a tad drier, the pudding a teensy bit too moist, and other such nitpicks, but hey.  One of you try it.

Comments

[simplestgift]

"Good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder; they’ll fill a pit as well as better," Archie quotes grimly.

[greenjacketed]

"What's that, Lieutenant?"

Because it was something, but Sharpe's knowledge of the Bard was...well. Limited.

[simplestgift]

"Er--Henry IV."

[greenjacketed]

"Who? The bloody ki--" A pause. Sharpe took a gulp of wine. No wonder Kennedy had made the comment before about Sparrow not caring to join this sort of thing. The Major now found himself pining for simpler conversations by a stealthy fire. Tea and roast catfish. The mission had been easier, in one way, than living in this damn village.

"He's long dead, ain't he?"

[simplestgift]

"The Shakespeare play." What, not every kid sneaked away from their parents and sabotaged the ushers with a winning smile to gain entry into the current (or classic) sensation?

[greenjacketed]

"...Oh."

Sorry, Kennedy. Some of us were too busy picking oakum all day. Or, later, picking picking pockets. Anything to gain some coin. "...'fraid I don't know that one, lad."

Lad. It was painfully obvious that Sharpe slipped into the diminutive only in a vaguely hoarse attempt to protect his own rusty dignity.

[simplestgift]

He's immune. He's been friends with Jack Sparrow for over a year. Lad is nothing compared to whelp.

"I'm sorry to hear it." And he means it. A life without Shakespeare is no life at all. "I do wish for a proper theatre here. Last time there was a play, it was such a quiet affair I wasn't even certain I was permitted to laugh."

[greenjacketed]

He'd last been to a theatre while in London, playing tin soldier for Prinny's court. But the stage had held a battle re-enactment -- of a battle he'd legitimately been in -- and the whole experience had been strange. Very strange.

"Perhaps if they mount another, I'll think about going..." As hesitant as he sounded, it was still an honest enough answer.

[simplestgift]

"I think the man who did the mounting is gone now, or at least I might have heard something to such an effect. My only talent for such things lies in the watching, or I'd do less griping and more..." Mounting is not a great word for this. Or maybe it is, considering the reputations actors have. He is not going to giggle. "You take my meaning."

[greenjacketed]

He smiled.

"Aye, son. I take it. Your meaning. It's no matter."

[simplestgift]

He supposes it isn't. But the smile is encouraging. "You must've been very accomplished to win yourself a commission."

He pauses, wondering if his compliment made him put his foot in his mouth again in implying Sharpe could not possibly have purchased his own.

[greenjacketed]

The moment of camaraderie seemed to have made a slight difference. This time, Sharpe did not flinch.

"Accomplished enough," he nodded. "Though the truth is simply that I was in a fortunate place at a fortunate time."

[simplestgift]

Whew. That's a relief.

"That counts for everyone, I believe. Some merely come across more fortunate times and places than others."

Such as the household they were born into.

[greenjacketed]

He reconsidered his modesty; after all, it had been Nelson who had told him not to be modest. You're modest, Mister Sharpe, and that is not good. But in the end, it was certainly easier to maintain. Anything else felt like clawing for respect he didn't feel the need to claw for. Not when it had already been achieved back home.

"Though there are those who'd think it wasn't so fortunate at all -- the man who granted me this commission called it a bad turn."

[simplestgift]

"Some men pray for bad turns so they might gain renown." This is spoken somewhat dryly.

[greenjacketed]

A snort. There was a fine line, of course, between respect and renown. Sharpe couldn't deny that he'd pursued promotion for the sake of gaining the first and that the second was inevitable. Join enough Forlorn Hopes and take enough eagles and save enough Generals and your name would hit the papers, wouldn't it? Others would stand a little straighter when they heard a man's name. And boys and would-be soldiers would flock to the South Essex's recruiting parties, keen to join the regiment which also held Major Richard Sharpe, Sergeant Major Patrick Harper the rest of the Chosen Men.

But Sharpe had never cared for the renown. Occasionally, he used it to get what he wanted but those wants revolved around the regiment and its continued success. For they were scheduled to go into France and he needed the South Essex to be at strength.

"We all make our beds, Lieutenant. And then we lie in them without complaint. But if a man did complain, he'd point out that other officers don't trust you because you're not one of them; your men don't follow your orders because you are one of them. And so the common soldier's better off praying for some other sort of turn. Battlefield commissions bring little joy and less stability."

At first. Sharpe, gratefully, had fewer problems with that sort of thing in recent years. Respect and renown had something to do with that, most likely. But it certainly didn't solve everything.

[simplestgift]

Even more "common" than Horatio, sounds like. Horatio, the son of a doctor, at least had some stance over most of the ratings. Even without a farthing to his name, he was still somewhere in the middle class. Sharpe might have more in common with Styles than with anyone else sitting at this table, with regard to background. I've had worse beatings at the 'ands of me father. If he was me father.

Still, Archie knows the feeling of scraping the last traces of respect out of an empty jar. Hunter's sneering voice still asks him, What kind of a midshipman is that? in bad moments. And now the fits are back.

But how much of that respect had been regained because of his class? Because his father is Sir Finley and not merely another Mr. Kennedy? It's very possible that, as bad as things were, he had no idea how bad they could have been.

But there's no response to an insight like that. He nods, feeling like a boy at his father's knee getting a bit of sagely wisdom to carry for the rest of his life.

[greenjacketed]

It was possible that there was a slight flush on his face and Sharpe glanced away. He didn't have the Spanish sun, here, to tan his cheeks and keep such signs of discomfort hidden. It was all well and good to talk to the men of the South Essex like that. Or to friends. But...

"So, Kennedy. How long have you been here?"

[simplestgift]

"Why, a little over one month!" Teasing.

[greenjacketed]

[simplestgift]

"...A little over one year. January last."

[greenjacketed]

"Not so new at all, then."

[simplestgift]

"There are other reasons for people to turn up in new feather trousers."

[greenjacketed]

"Now, that? That is something I didn't know. They certainly do not seem efficient for anything except, perhaps, a hot day in India."

[simplestgift]

"Is India as bad as the Indies?" Archie's never been.