The Captain's Quarters

Peter looked dubiously at the pastry on his plate. The masts had toppled, breaking the yards, and there was a very serious gash on its starboard bow, so the bowsprit sagged to the side. But that had happened as it was being served, not in battle. He studied it and ginned as he replied to Dunnock: "I don't know, but I do hope it's French. I should hate to do this to an English ship!" He sliced off the bow and scooped it up with some of the sticky sponge. It was excellent, and he was licking his lips, and feeling sorry for de Guarde, who missed this treat. But at least it had restored the good humour among the remaining midshipmen.

Leat noted with satisfaction that Hardy had managed to remove Brandeson unscathed, and happily returned to his pudding. It really was rather good - treacle being a favourite of his - and saw the midshipmen further down were enjoying themselves; if rather stickily. However, the dessert did not seem to have sweetened Bush's demeanour at all, and perhaps Bolitho's pleasant conversation was a little strained?

Edrington looked from the wreckage of the two great fleets, now reduced to crumbs and broken candied spars, and returned to his conversation with Lieutenant Leat. "Army fare is as variable as Navy fare. We have our feasts and famines too. There is an advantage in being able to carry your food with you."

"I would have thought that being on land would mean more frequent access to fresh meat and vegetables - things we alas cannot take with us - save in winter."

"Oh, certainly! Should we even have those eaten?.. it would be a strange thing to dismast our own.. even if they are but a dessert." Dunnock took a mouthful and closed his eyes to fully enjoy the taste.

"I wonder, who gets Mr. De Guarde's piece, now that he isn't here. Think it will be one of us or our guests?" Nods in their direction. Another slash at the poor wreckage which hardly resembles a ship any more.

"There is more access, of course, but we are terribly reliant on our own commissariat. Someone must buy the fresh vegetables and deliver them to the men, drive the cattle and slaughter them, bring the flour and the potatoes - or whatever they decide to provide. Once you are on the march, you have no time to shop, even if a shop could be found to sell you enough for one thousand, two thousand men. Every day. And there are the horses. They eat like a - like a midshipman."

That made a smile quirk at the lieutenant's lips.

"I thoroughly understand and sympathize with the army's predicament, sir."

Bolitho was immensely glad that Brandeson's departure had been as quietly unassuming as De Guarde's had been loudly chaotic. The distraction of the pudding helped a bit as well. Despite the cook's spectacular edible recreation of the Battle of the Nile, Bolitho feared he did not have much of an appetite anymore. The evening's events had not gone done very well with him. So he contented himself to nibble at his dessert, half-listening to Leat and Edrington's conversation, while hoping that he did not look as much of a fool as he felt.

"A foot regiment has a few dozen horses - on its books, I mean. There are usually many more in practice. But a cavalry regiment consumes a ridiculous amount of fodder - which of course must be brought to it, using even more horses or oxen, which in turn need to be fed." If they get through, if the army and the supply are not separated by the enemy. Edrington continued: "Of course, horses can be the solution as well as part of the problem - if there is no food at all for man or horse, you can eat the horse. You cannot do that with midshipmen."

"I daresay we couldtry, my lord, should the situation prove dire."

Leat glanced to his captain, and saw his suspicions of earlier confirmed. This would never do - the captain was supposed to keep the conversation flowing at table.

"Is that not right, sir," he said to Bolitho in an artless attempt to bring him into the conversation. "That were we to half our complement of midshipmen we would probably gain three months extra stores?"

"Though I would hope we would never be in such a dire situation, you do have a point, Mr. Leat," Bolitho said, looking up from his half-eaten dessert. He resisted the urge to add And I know who would be the first midshipman to go...

"Perhaps, sir." The lieutenant smiled. "I suppose we do need to leave the service some future officers."

Thompson kept his gaze firmly on the bulkhead opposite. It was like tying a starving man to a tree and serving a banquet in front of him, so he thought, serving a dessert like this in front of him and the others who lived below decks.

But who had ever said life was fair? He just hoped his charge was enjoying the meal.

And with De Guarde gone, and Brandeson capably escorted out by Private Hardy, perhaps the meal could finish better than it had begun.

The tray on which the pudding had been served was removed, although the midshipmen looked as if they would happily have licked it clean, rather than see the last drop or crumb wasted. There was a smell of coffee, signalling that the meal was indeed drawing to a close. There was still some wine in his glass and Edrington drank it, to allow the glass to be cleared away with the plates and other debris from the meal. There was a general shifting of chairs as the Captain's steward came round, and the guests moved to settle themselves more comfortably. Except of course for the servants, still behind every chair, as Thompson was behind his. They must have a strangely intimate picture of their officers from such a duty - and the officers must live forever aware of being scrutinized by their own crew.

Thompson could smell coffee, which always reminded him of Surprise. At least the meal, disaster that it had been, was nearly over, and he would be able to head back down to the messdeck soon.

He felt ashamed that a man of Colonel Edrington's standing had had to witness a middy make a fool of himself, not to mention an officer of the Marines get drunk. Still, that was over and the officers would be able to have a dignified conclusion to their meal.

Now Catchpole was pouring the coffee into their little cups and the evening was nearly over. Crozier was relieved, and he sensed relief through the rest of the cabin. His mind was already drifting away to the little portable garden in the sick bay. Perhaps the captain would allow him to transfer some of the plants to the great cabin here so they could receive more sunlight without the blasting salt spray. Or perhaps it would be possible to grow things in the mizzen top?

The coffee was good, but brought another thought to mind. He leaned back, rather than interrupt the Lieutenant in his renewed conversation with Captain Bolitho. Anyway, Leat would probably give him a politic rather tnan a truthful answer, deferring to his status as a guest.

"Tell me," he said softly, "is it usual to finish the meal by smoking, or must one go on deck to indulge?"

Mr. Fletcher was feeling rather sleepy, as his day has been eventful and there was much that Mr. Leat required him to do. Dunnock faring a bit better, his eyes well open and attentive, though his conversation with the rest had been turned less animated than a little while ago. Kinsella and Chandos both engaged in a conversation, based much of the actions to be taken at rough sea of a storm, each imagining a damage that could befall a ship and how in that case they could solve it.

The conversation between the two was rather hushed as not to disturb the other guests, interrupted solely with a sip of coffee, from time to time, to moisten their lips. While Chandos looked more patient in his suggestions , Kinsella's own ideas were followed with great detail and animation of his hands, as if he were indeed in the centre of the storm.

Both had had their share of wine, but only as much as is proper in the good company, and neither showed signs of any effect of drink. Clearly they've known their limit and have desired to even so, stay a rather good deal beneath it.

Mr Fletcher covered his mouth politely, fighting a yawn that no less, appeared, blinking sleepily at Mr. Yates and then to Dunnock smiling.

And Edrington was leaning back to ask him a question.

"They prefer you to smoke on deck, sir. It's safer, in case of sparks and suchlike."

Edrington slid the packet of cheroots back into his pocket. "I shall wait then. It is quite pleasant on deck, at night." Although it was also very relaxing to smoke with the coffee and port, rather than to know that it was a pleasure deferred.

"Do you smoke?"

"Me, sir? Yes."

This could get interesting, he thought.

Having been upset and worried for much of the dinner, Peter was beginning to feel far happier. Without de Guarde, the midshipmen around him seemed to have regained that family atmosphere that he had tried to tell de Guarde about. Kinsella, acting out as much as discussing a storm, and Chandos listening with that thoughtful air, although he too could be animated at times - usually when putting one of the youngers straight on some point of discipline or tidiness. Talk at the head of the table, round the empty chair of Lieutenant Brandeson, was general, but the army man opposite was talking softly to the Marine acting as his servant - probably because Lieutenant Bush was still seething over de Guarde's improper behaviour. It would be a good thing for all the midshipmen to avoid him in the morning.

The steward went round with the coffee pot again, but from the look of it, the dinner would soon be ending. Chandos held up a hand to Kinsella and looked warningly at his juniors.

Thompson smiled at Mister Yates, sitting across the table from Colonel Edrington. He liked the midshipman, who seemed to have recovered from the afternoon's punishment of Chase, and De Guarde's seeming boorishness. Yates had regained his natural cheerfulness readily enough and seemed to join in the conversation with the other middies quite happily.

The younger middies quietened down at Chandos's signal, peering curiously towards him. Most were now more eager to sink into their hammocks and turn in for the night, 'cept ofcourse for those that were still needed. Sleepy faces looked on across the table, from their senior middie to the captain and the guests. They sat upright, with empty cups gently nudged out of the way, waiting patiently. The dinner had turned out better than they expected, when their new arrival had come to wreck their reputation. The dessert was delicious and would remain long in their minds, hearts and memories.

It was always a spectacle if they were invited to dine with the captain, never disappointed with what was at offer, and with foreign guests, the food could only get better at such an event. For today, their bellies were full and not a single one of them felt the discomfort of hunger nagging at the back of their mind.

Seeing that both the conversation and the coffee were winding down, Bolitho cleared his throat and addressed the table.

"I must thank you all for joining me this evening," he said. He did not want to make any more of a fuss out of the De Guarde affair than the midshipman had already made himself, so he simply settled on adding, "I wish we could have had a more refined meal, but one must always be ready for the unexpected while in the service of the King, even during dinners."

Glancing down the table, he noticed that the midshipmen were looking rather tired and relaxed, as could only be expected after such a filling meal.

"I trust the meal was satisfactory," Bolitho said to the table at large, but with a slight smile directed at the young men, "But I would remind Mr. Fletcher not to get too comfortable, as he is on the next watch."

He noticed Fletcher immediately draw himself up to attention and nod fervently. Bolitho gestured to Catchpole, who promptly pulled his chair out for him.

"Gentlemen, I shall bid you all good evening," he said as he got to his feet, "Once again, I thank you for giving me the pleasure of your company."