[for his_majestys_navy ] L'Allemande - Pecour ["1801"]

[midship]

By and large, things have been going surprisingly well. The rhythm of the fort is becoming natural. The new names and faces are morphing into men he trusts with his life. The land is beginning to feel like half a home, punctuated with the odd reassuring touch of a stretch at sea. Best of all, the chain of command feels solid in his chest again--proper, solid; absolutely worth throwing his life down for.

Then comes the first invitation.

At sea, it had been easier to ignore the fact that most of his brother officers had come from a much higher rung on the social ladder. Out in the brine, after all, everyone's uniform began to grow threadbare. Everyone's diet was eventually forced to the same hard meal and cheap liquor. Everyone bled and screamed and died on the same planks of wood.

On land, it's easier to see who sends their uniforms away and who mends things themselves. It's easier to see who's spent their lives eating on fine china and who feels the delicacy of even sitting in a comfortable chair. Worst of all by far, on such a small island, it's impossible to avoid the slowly closing noose of high society.

Horatio is still reeling as he wanders along the now-familiar halls of the fort. The young women had been painfully insistent, like an irrepressible gale which threatened to swamp him where he stood. The other officers had handled the encounter manfully, cheerful and gracious and just a the right touch of suggestive to have the women tittering with glee. It should have been enough that the actual lords among them had agreed, but the women insisted--and the fact he had fumbled through an agreement sits now like a stone in his stomach.

The Commodore will know what to do. With any luck, 'what to do' will be to immediately send him off to sea.