"Delightful creatures," Nicely intoned without even attempting to sound convincing.

"And didn't they take to you, just, sir!" Lewrie couldn't help saying as he led Nicely to the dining-coach and a seat at the table.

"Ummm… yayss," Nicely rejoined, "and aren't you so fortunate?"

High summer in Jamaica, even with wind scoops erected at every hatchway, the awnings rigged tautly over the quarterdeck against direct sunlight, and all the transom or coach-top windows of the great-cabins opened, mitigated against a heavy repast. They'd begun with a thin but spicy chicken broth, which was followed by freshly-caught red snapper with lemon and clarified butter sauce, and boiled carrots. Green salad with shredded bacon and oil-and-vinegar cleansed the palate for a main course of de-boned pork chops served with fried potato wedges and middling dollops of mushy peas, which repast required the opening of some hock with the fish, soup, and salad, and a second bottle of claret with the chops.

Not a single word was said about their coming mission far to the South'rd, of French and Spanish foes sheltered at Aruba or Curacao, at Caracas or Cartagena, nor what dangers lurked in the port of Cayenne, or the marshy inlets of French Giuana, and Lewrie had begun to squirm a bit, waiting for a particularly ugly, but "inspired," shoe to drop.

It was expected, of course, that naval officers never discussed Politics, Religion, Women, or "Work" in the mess, so… perhaps after?

It was only once the tablecloth had been whisked away, the sweet biscuits and mixed nuts, and the port bottle, had been set out, that a nigh-broody Capt. Nicely had appeared to wince, or steel himself for a secret discussion, requesting that Aspinall make himself scarce.