Down in one of the berths, Strawberry Joe is lamenting a set of new pots and pans which had been wrecked by the boarding party. He's so loud I can hear him from up on the top decks. Just look at this one. Are you looking? Look at that dent- and that blood will never come off. Ruined.
Someone suggests to the loud mouthed steward that he should be thankful it was his pan and not his skull. Shake my head. Joe, you bastard, if you weren't such a damn fine cook, Captain himself toss your sorry hind parts over the rail. Or maybe send you over to make dinners for old Bones-aparte instead.
Speaking of Captain, he's up on the quarter deck, fighting with the quarter master over a fallen mast. Wrestling with the surgeon who's trying to bandage up a bloodied, epaulet barren shoulder. Trying to get the memory of a soft swinging hammock which he ain't seen in three nights to sit down and shut the hell up. Which it won't. Great seaman. Great man, really. Every man-jack among us proud to sail under such a great man.
A fella's leaning over the rail looking like he's about to be sick. Red hair, blue eyes, and seeming sadder'n'a beat dog. His name is Bran or Breg or some other fucking Irish name which not even great God above remembers. It don't strike me right. Tell him stand tall on deck or go below. He sulks his Irish ass down to lower decks.
Singin' in the sick berth. An American. We took near thirty of 'em on after we killed nearly all the boarding party. Their Captain, first lieutenant, master's mate dead. Rest of the warrant officers dead or in holding down below. Can't tell if the man singin' is dyin' or if it's a friend, but I can hear him over the holystones scrubbing the deck.
“-Going home, my savior smiles and bids me come, and I don't care to stay here long-” Stop listening. Don't care to stay here long, go on and leave then, stop pluggin' up my ears with your racket. Not that I don't sympathize with the poor bastard. It's that fucking accent he's got. And their damn sense of pride. Go thinkin' since they won one war they win 'em all, when it was the God damned French what won the war for 'em.
Start humming Heart of Oak, see if I can't get some good British tune in my head, in place of that George Washington lover. Laugh, as Martin, who's sitting sown in the sick berth tells the American to “shut up, where are his fucking manners?”
Move off to glare at a group of snickering midshipman. Call it a watch.
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