Free A Sea Unto Itself by Jay Worrall

can be done about that. Pass the word for the ship’s cook and purser to attend to me, if you will.” Charles pushed open the door and entered his cabin. He found it a relatively large room, at least larger than he’d had on Louisa. A desk set against the forward bulkhead and a table with six chairs midships close to the stern windows were the only furnishings. The deck beams were just high enough for him to walk upright beneath them, and there was a raised skylight cut into the quarterdeck above. The canvas-shrouded forms of four cannon projected into the space, two on each side. When cleared for action, the forward bulkhead to the cabin and all his things would be struck below, the guns uncovered, and his quarters would become an indistinguishable part of the gundeck running the length of the ship.
    Charles hung his hat and sword on pegs fastened near the door. The sea chests lay on the deck in the center of the room, which meant that Augustus was still being shown around the ship by Sykes. He crossed to the table and sat; steepled his fingers, and attempted to decide what he should do next. A knock at the door interrupted him. “Mr. Burton and Mr. Wells are here, sir,” he heard the marine private announce. Charles assumed this would be the cook and the purser.
    “Come,” he called back.
    The door swung open; two men entered. One was rather short, wearing a stained apron and a wool cap. He had a cheerful look about him aided by a certain ruddy tint to his cheeks. The other was of average height, somewhat elderly, and more presentably dressed. He carried a ledger tightly under his arm. Charles stood and gestured for them to take chairs opposite him at the table.
    “Which of you is the ship’s cook?” he said as soon as they were seated. He knew which was the cook by his dress, of course, but he didn’t know which name belonged to whom.
    “Peter Burton, sir. Pleased to meet ye,” the pink-cheeked man said affably.
    “What are your intentions for this evening’s dinner, Mr. Burton?” Charles asked directly.
    “Dinner, sir? For the crew?”
    “Yes, Mr. Burton. For the crew. Not, for example, the populace of China.”
    “The usual, sir,” the cook answered, any sarcasm evidently lost on him. “I’ve salt beef, fresh from the cask, ship’s bread, and sauerkraut. The kraut’s good for the scurvy, I hear.”
    “You’ve no vegetables, fresh bread, flour for gravy, anything like that?”
    “I ain’t got stores for provisions like that,” the cook protested.
    “We are in harbor, Mr. Burton. Provisions like that can be obtained from the victualing wharf.”
    “Well, yessir, but . . .”
    Charles cut him short. “These are my orders, Mr. Burton. “It is too late to change tonight’s supper, although you may send someone on shore for fresh bread.”
    “Yes, sir,” the cook said doubtfully.
    “I further require that in future, dinner and supper will include fresh vegetables, soft bread, fresh meat if you can get it, and the like. It is my wish that it be palatably cooked. This will be the rule whenever we come into a port or harbor where local provisions can be obtained. Is that understood?”
    The cook nodded.
    “Good. Don’t forget about the bread, and add some fresh butter while you’re at it.” Mr. Burton pushed back his chair, rose, and started toward the door.
    Charles turned to face the purser who eyed him cautiously. “Do you have a concern, Mr. Wells?” he said.
    The purser laid his ledger book on the table so that it was exactly centered in front of him and precisely squared to its surface. “I am not authorized by the victualing board to expend unlimited sums on independently procured foodstuffs, sir,” he said tightly. “I am required to draw provisions from the yards whenever possible.”
    Charles understood that pursers were at least in part independent contractors who were expected to enhance their minimal salaries by economizing on provisions and through the sale of certain