Secret doings? Lewrie had wondered; Or… look out, here comes another of his brain storms, with me up t'my neck in the quag, again.

"So… what is it to be, sir?" Lewrie had prompted, scooting up closer to the table, expecting to hear Capt. Nicely whisper revelations about secret sailing times, sealed orders for rendezvous out at sea, so the French, who still had informers on Jamaica despite efforts to root them out, would hear nothing of the squadron's destination, or its formation, 'til it was much too late.

That, or another miserable spell of dirty-work for Lewrie.

"These… walnuts?" Nicely had grumpily asked, instead, with his face screwed up like a hanged spaniel as he nibbled on one.

"Uh… no, sir," Lewrie said, topping off his glass of port and passing it down-table. "American pecans," he informed Nicely, saying it the way he'd heard it from Capt. Randolph of the USS Oglethorpe from whom he'd obtained them. "Pee-cans… Georgia pee-cans."

"Hmmpf," Nicely had muttered, clearing his palate with the port, and pouring himself another rather quickly, too, tossing that one back uncharacteristically quickly. He poured himself a third, but let that one sit 'twixt his hoary hands, and gave it a long glare before looking at his host.

"Uhm… bad news, I fear, Lewrie," Nicely had begun, at last. "A matter's arisen which, ah… may preclude your participation in my squadron's mission, d'ye see."

"Some other duty, then, sir?" Lewrie had asked, feeling, in the following order: disappointment to miss a straightforward adventure; some relief that he'd not be handy, did Nicely get a wild hair up his nose, and need some derring-do done; who the Devil had requested him for something else, and how much worse might that be?

"Not, ah… quite," Nicely had struggled on, obviously loath to bear bad news, but… "I shall be… we shall be, sorry to lose your inestimable services on the West Indies Station."