"Who won, Mister Peel?" Lewrie asked, rather loudly. Mr. Peel, temporarily stashed somewhat upright against the deal-and-canvas partition to his cabin, didn't answer. He was too busy contemplating his shoes, arms lankly dangling, just about ready to drool. "Them or us?"
"Uhm? Sir?" Peel finally responded, looking up blearily. "Up, the cavalry! Huzzah! Forward, the King's Own Heavy Horse!"
"Why, the damn fool's drunk as a lord!" Lewrie chortled, as he kicked a constricting shoe toward the dining-coach. He stopped circling long enough for Aspinall to start undoing the buttons of his waist-coat; items which were too "scientific" for him, at the moment.
"Aye, sir… so 'e is," Aspinall agreed, smothering a giggle.
"Aspinall…" Lewrie said, peering at him as if imparting some eternal but urgent verity, "the Yankee Doodles're a hopeless, drunken lot. It'll do for 'em, in the end."
"I 'spect so, sir," Aspinall said, peeling the waist-coat off, setting Lewrie to circling, again. Aspinall threw a helpless look at Cox'n Andrews, who was doing for Mr. Peel and his coat and things.
"Damme, I've lost a perfectly good shoe!" Lewrie complained.
" 'Tis here someplace, sir… honest," Aspinall told him. "Do slip t'other off, and I'll mate 'em up. Now fer yer stock an' shirt, sir, and I'll fetch yer dressin' gown. Lean on this, sir, will ye?"
Lewrie kicked the second off; this one skittered underneath the settee, causing Toulon to yowl once more and scuttle off for someplace safer, where people didn't shoot things at him.
"Dry, dry, dry…" Lewrie carped, noting (rather squiffily in point of fact) that he'd been leant against his wine-cabinet. He felt in need of liquid refreshment, but the flimsy latch appeared too elaborate a safeguard for his fingers, too.
"Ginger beer, sah," Cox'n Andrews suggested, plumping Mr. Peel into a chair so he could remove his shoes. "Good fo' settlin' a riled stomach. I'll fetch some from yo' lazarette."
"Capital!" Lewrie crowed, swaying. "We have any?"
"Ten gallon, sir, fetched aboard this mornin'," Aspinall said, coming back to lumber Lewrie into a chair, as well.
"Poor Kershaw… the clown!" Lewrie commented, tittering over what he'd heard aboard the Sumter, once the dinner party had gotten so soaked that gossip had flowed as freely as the liquors.
Capt. Kershaw of the Hancock frigate had made a total muck of his new command, he'd been told. Lewrie had thought she carried too much artillery, and he was right. She'd been caught in a blow windward of Dominica, and with too much end-weight fore and aft had bucked and reared, had hobby-horsed and rolled so precipitously, that her upper masts and spars had nearly carried away, and her lower masts had been strained almost to breaking.
Capt. McGilliveray had intimated (rather slurringly in-his-cups-gleeful) that Kershaw had refused to lower top-masts 'til far too late. Then, without telling anyone at Prince Rupert Bay, he'd sailed off for Havana to make repairs, despite their Secretary of the Navy, Stoddert's, strict caution to avoid entering such a pestilential harbour! Within a week, a fifth of Kershaw's crew had gone down with Yellow Jack. Once repaired, Capt. Kershaw had taken Hancock back to sea, though not back to his assigned cruising ground. No, he'd taken her all the way home, cutting his tour in the Caribbean far too short. And to make matters even worse, whilst on-passage up the Chesapeake to moor Hancock in the pratique, or quarantine, anchorage below Baltimore, had stranded her on a shoal above York River, which grounding had finally sprung her indifferently repaired foremast!
The last stroke had come when the Secretary of the Navy, Mister Benjamin Stoddert, on an inspection trip to Baltimore's dock facilities and new naval construction, had gone aboard her once she had cleared pratique and had come into Baltimore. Irked that a whole vital month of usefulness had been lost whilst quarantined (the result of ignoring his orders regarding Havana!) Stoddert had discovered Capt. Kershaw's… "quirks."
McGilliveray and his officers had jeeringly pointed out how sybaritic and luxurious Kershaw's cabins had been furnished, as grandiose as an Ottoman Pasha's harem, and in complete disregard of the plainer usages of "spare and simple" American virtue… and how Kershaw's own ideas of a fashionable naval uniform (bought from that grandee's purse for himself and his officers once they'd called at Kingston, Jamaica!) was too "Frenchified," as Lewrie had judged them when first he'd seen them.
The unfortunate Kershaw was too well connected in both Senate and House of Representatives, and too bloody rich, to sack. Stoddert could, however, "reward" him with command of a proposed two-decker 74 to be built in New York (some day when pigs could fly, perhaps) sending Kershaw to the chilly, Spartan-souled, "thou shalt not" North, and relieving him (with all due respect and ceremony) with another officer. Kershaw had been welcome to take along those of his officers who were his favourites, which "kind consideration" most-like pulled up several more cack-handed "weeds" by the roots as well.
Well, no wonder Lewrie had been confused by the plainness he'd found aboard Sumter. Suddenly, he supposed he'd have to strip his own great-cabins of half his furnishings, did he return the favour and dine USS Sumter's officers aboard… that, or be taken for an indolent Sybarite!
Lewrie would have put more thought into that, but he was interrupted by the harsh noise of a chair being dragged cross his black-and-white painted canvas deck covering. Mr. Peel-evidently not able to walk, but still of a mind to gab-was hauling up to him by fits and starts, hands clasped on the chair arms attempting Hindoo mystic levitation, bump by hopping bump, whilst employing his heels as oars to drag forward by main force.
"Americans're quite upset, Lewrie," Peel slurringly said, though trying to over-enunciate. He had one eye open, and was obviously having some trouble focussing that'un.
"And who wouldn't be, I ask you," Lewrie replied, without a clue as to what it was that Peel wished to maunder about.
"Kershaw… South Carolinian… one of them. Bad form, bein' relieved, even f'r cause," Peel tried to explain. "Massachu-mmm… a 'Down East' Yankee replacin' 'im hic. Useful… that." Belch/
"Sss-sectional bitterness-ss," Lewrie replied, so liking the sound of it that he tilted his head and hissed like a serpent for a few more moments. "Dear God, but we're foxed." Numb lips… hmmm!
"And who wouldn't be, I ask you," Peel heartily agreed, as their ginger beer came. "Hellish brew, corn-whisky… hic! Hellish stuff! Can't see how… Jonathons stay upright… past dinner. Hic! Worse than… the plague o' gin, back home. Blue Ruin."
"Tasty… Belch!… though," Lewrie commented.
"Oh, ahrr!" Mr. Peel vigourously said, nodding.
"So. We learn anything t'night?" Lewrie thought to enquire.
"Oh, bags, sir!" Peel enthusiastically claimed. He then paused, though, open-mouthed and cock-headed, his silence broken by a few more hiccoughs, and the odd eructation. "It'll come t'me…"
"Spanish Bitters, sah," Cox'n Andrews suggested, presenting them with a smallish, glass-stoppered vial, and a plate of sliced lemons, on which he liberally sprinkled the vial's contents. "Mistah Durant, sah, he say bitters an' lemons be dah grand specific fer 'hiccin's.' Settle yer bile-ish humours good as gingah beer, t'boot. Bite down, Cap'm."
"Whyever'd we come here, I wonder… God damn my eyes!" Lewrie grumbled as he gnawed on a quarter of lemon, then quickly blared his eyes and grimaced at the taste and smell. "Turd water'd be…" Belch!
Quickly followed by Mr. Peel's similar sentiment after he'd bit down on his quarter-lemon. He sucked in great gulps of air and drained his mug of ginger beer to erase the foul taste.