Beat to Quarters

Pipsqueak’s cabin on the Jenny was cramped at the best of times. She was a brig, after all, and out of necessity, little space was spared to comfort. Therefore, with Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and an exceptionally angry privateer captain all currently residing in it, the room felt downright claustrophobic.

Pip tapped his hooves idly under his desk, staring at the fillies with a volatile mixture of impotent rage and more than a little pride. It wasn’t every day, after all, that somepony could infiltrate his ship so completely, and avoid detection so thoroughly.

I’d like to think a bit of my derring-do rubbed off on them.

“It’s not fair, Pip. You can’t take us back after all this, you just can’t!”

Sweetie Belle’s voice broke into his thoughts, which quickly changed his mood from quietly impressed to loudly angry once more.

“You’ve hit the bloody nail on the head there, Sweetie! I can’t afford to take you back to Newcolt. Every hour I delay means less chance of taking a prize, which as this scrap of paper clearly states,” he motioned to the letter of marque on his desk, the Royal seal glittering in the light, “is my one and only source of income. Your thoughtless action could very well ruin me.”

Apple Bloom fixed him with a hard glare.

“We didn’t hide in a darned barrel for a day jus’ so you could take us back to Newcolt. We’re joinin’ yer crew, and that’s that.”

Sweetie Belle blanched at her friend’s declaration, but sighed and did her best to give Pip the same defiant gaze.

Pipsqueak was somewhat surprised by their determination. He knew better than any pony alive the trials of a life at sea, and he knew that no matter how bad they thought they wanted to join his crew, they were not truly prepared for it. He sighed and tried once more to reason with the stubborn fillies.

“Girls, I know you think you’re doing the right thing by going after Scootaloo, but you need to realize something. If you join my crew, you’re resigning yourself to at least several months under sail. More likely a year. Give up this foolishness and I’ll take you back to Newcolt, regardless of how costly it may be. Scootaloo didn’t have a choice, but you do.”

Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle gave each other a sidelong glance, and it seemed as though a silent conversation occurred between them. Apple Bloom raised her eyebrow, and Sweetie Belle set her jaw and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. They turned back to desk, and Apple Bloom took a step forward.

“We’re not going back, so you might as well find a place fer us on yer crew.”

Pip held their gaze for a long moment, then sighed and shrugged.

“Fair enough, though I think you’ll come to regret your decision. Sweetie Belle, report to the foredeck and find Scratch. She’s the one with the eyepatch who tried to drink your hiding place earlier. She’ll be teaching you about the ship’s weapons and one of our rather… interesting devices. Apple Bloom, you’ll be under the tutelage of Wave Breaker. You’ll find him on the maindeck, by the cannons.

“Aye, aye, captain,” said Apple Bloom with a mock salute, and both girls made to leave the cabin. Sweetie Belle hesitated for a moment before turning back to Pip, her cheeks reddening.

“Uh, Pip, one question…”

“Yes?”

Sweetie Belle shuffled in place and idly drew circles on the deck with her hoof before replying.

“Umm… Where’s the foredeck?”

***

“See those cannons amidships?” Scratch motioned with a sweep of her foreleg to the stubby black guns poking out at intervals on the deck. Apple Bloom was attempting to wrestle a cannonball into the nearest one under the watchful gaze of Wave Breaker. Sweetie Belle stifled a giggle and turned her attention back to Scratch, who continued the lesson.

“They’re five pounders.  Nothing to sneeze at, I guess, but they’re popguns compared to the long twelves of any navy ship or galleon. This, though…” She motioned to the strange bronze contraption on the foredeck. “This is how the Jenny punches above her weight in a brawl.”

She ran her hoof along the barrel of the device, and rapped on the drum-shaped object affixed to the rear.

“It’s called the Buckle Automatic Spinning-cylinder Smoothbore cannon. Named after its inventor, a watchmaker named Buckle, and way too buckin’ long, so I just call it a bass cannon. Anyway, he figured that if you put a bunch of loaded cannon breeches together, you could rotate ‘em with clockwork, and fire as fast as you could cock the hammer.”

Scratch swung the gun around so it faced the horizon, and pantomimed fanning her hoof rapidly over the lock of the weapon.

“An earth pony can fire this thing pretty fast, but reloading it’s a pain with hooves. Me and you on the other hand…”

She fired up her horn, popping the drum out sideways and inserting a new one from the crate next to the weapon in mere seconds. She gave Sweetie Belle a wicked grin.

“Wanna try it out?”

***

Scootaloo stood at the rail of the Manticore, gazing into the dark Neightlantic. She ran her hoof over the scarred wood before lifting a hoof to her face, examining it closely. The stains had disappeared with the first washing, freezing seawater chilling her to the bone, running off her in rivulets of brown. She’d kept scrubbing long after the water ran clear, long after her comrades were finished. Every time a breeze tickled her coat, she felt the warm spray of gore, the terrible need to go wash. She wasn’t clean. She could still feel it, still smell it, still taste it. Blood wormed its way into her nostrils while she slept, crawling down her throat and waking her, hacking and vomiting onto the wooden deck. She didn’t think she’d ever get clean.

The Manticore was clean, though. What crew that was left, as well as the Prench prisoners under careful supervision, had scrubbed the gore from the decks, a process that had taken the better part of two days. Octavia had overseen the funerals. An endless parade of sailors and Marines, sewn into sailcloth and weighed down with cannonballs. Prench and Equestrian alike, one after the other. White splashes in a black sea, and then they were gone.

“Scootaloo?”

Octavia’s voice came from behind her, and she turned slowly from the rail, raising her forehoof to her brow automatically. Octavia tipped her hat in response, and Scootaloo dropped the halfhearted salute.

The older mare looked exhausted. Dark circles rimmed her lilac eyes. With the death of Captain Shoals, she’d assumed command of the vessel, and Scootaloo hadn’t seen her sleep since the battle. When she spoke, her voice was soft, but still held the iron of command that Scootaloo had come to expect from the lieutenant.

“Miss Scootaloo, I’ll not mince words with you. Our situation is dire. Although we were victorious against the Prench, our deck crew suffered grievously. The captain, the ship’s master, several young midshipmares…”

Octavia drew in a ragged breath, steadying herself before she continued.

“In order to get back to Equestria safely, I need to make some decisions that will not be popular with the remaining crew. I need officers I can trust standing beside me. Celestia knows, this is not proper naval procedure, but I’m promoting you to midshipmare. You’ll be in command of the new deck crew.”

Scootaloo tried to protest.

“But, I don’t know how to be an officer! I’ve only been on the ship a week!”

“Yet you rushed to defend the captain when no one else did. A captain, I might add, who’d had you flogged not two days before. You saved the ship, Scootaloo. You have the makings of a fine sailor in you. I see it, even if you don’t.”

Scootaloo gulped and tried to make sense of the emotions roiling in her gut. She wanted to be angry, to scream at Octavia, ‘No, I didn’t even want to be here! I didn’t want to kill for you!’ She wanted to rage, to throw a tantrum and petulantly refuse. But another part of her wanted to accept. Truth be told, she was proud. She had always wanted to be a sailor. And now a Royal Navy lieutenant was telling her, Scootaloo, that she believed in her. She drew herself up to full height before giving Octavia another salute, this one parade-ground crisp.

“I’ll do it.”

Octavia gave a soft chuckle and drew a white strip of cloth from her navy greatcoat. Leaning down, she tied it quickly around Scootaloo’s neck, in a rough approximation of a midshipmare’s cravat.

“That’ll have to do until you get a proper uniform. Now, I’ve assembled what’s left of the deck crew on the aftcastle. I’ll need you to relay your new position, as well as one of the rather unpopular orders I mentioned. You’ll need to be firm with them, impress upon them how important it is to our safe return.”

The new captain gave the even newer midshipmare a wink and a clap on the shoulder. Hopefully the crew would take it well.

***

As soon as the words left her mouth, Scootaloo knew it wouldn’t go well. The incredulity of the sailors on the aftcastle had soon given way to anger, then to pure frothing rage when Scootaloo had told her of Octavia’s plan. Her attempt to regain calm was lost in the sea of angry shouts.

“Ain’t no feckin way she ordered that!”

“Who are you ta’ be bossin’ us around like the bloody queen, new tar?”

“Oi, ‘ow do we even know yer tellin’ the truth?”

The owner of the last voice, a well-muscled brown earth pony with a fresh bandage wrapped around his head, advanced on her, slowly pulling a dirk from his belt. Scootaloo backed away from the enraged crewman, tripping in her haste and landing heavily on her haunches. The stallion loomed over her, filling her vision and slowly bringing the dirk down to the cravat around her neck. He slipped it between the fabric and her throat, and she felt the cold metal.

"Maybe you'll be a bit more honest wiv'out this rag 'round yer neck, eh?

Click-click.

The stallion froze, and looked up to see Octavia standing at the top of the stairway to the aftcastle, a cocked pistol in her hoof and leveled at his head. Two scarlet-coated marines flanked her, muskets at the ready. Octavia’s voice was ice.

“Drop the knife, or you’ll not have a chance to hang.”

As soon as the blade clattered to the deck, Scootaloo quickly retreated to the safety of the stairs. Octavia regarded the men with a look most would reserve for particularly foul chamber-pots.

“I’d hoped, as sailors of the Royal Navy, you’d have enough discipline to follow the orders of an officer, no matter how new she was or how much you disagreed with said orders. Obviously I was mistaken, so I shall tell you myself, and by force. Yes, young Scootaloo is indeed a midshipmare. I promoted her myself, as is my right as captain of a vessel under Royal decree…”

A sailor tried to speak up, and Octavia silenced him with a fiery glare.

“Furthermore, the order she attempted to give you was mine, again as captain of this ship. The Prench prisoners will be impressed into Royal service until such time as we reach Newcolt. They will supplement our deck crew, under close watch, so we may continue our duties as a frigate of the Royal Navy. Mister Backstay!”

The bosun made his way out of the tangle of sailors and presented himself before Octavia.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She motioned to the now-disarmed sailor.

“Tradewind will be given thirty lashes for disrespecting a superior officer. I expect this punishment to be carried out faithfully and immediately. Do you understand?”

Backstay swallowed hard before responding.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see it done.”

Octavia gave the bosun a curt nod and tucked her pistol into her belt. The marines took up positions on either side of Tradewind and led him down to the quarterdeck, with Backstay following behind. Octavia gave the crew one final, scathing look.

“Carry on. I expect every pony to do their duty.”

The crack of a lash drifted up from the quarterdeck, followed shortly by an agonized cry, and the crew hurried to their stations.