Guests for Dinner

A Capital Ship story

© 2018 by Walter Reimer



Francois studied his look in the polished steel mirror and huffed, feeling vaguely ridiculous and trying to ignore the smirks of the other petty officers. Crewmembers rarely had to dress formally for dinner, but Mr. Villiers had told him that the Captain expected his presence at his table that night. “Bosun, the Captain’s told me that he’s asked you to look after the Prince,” the greyhound said, “but you won’t be expected to dine with us every night.”

“Merci, Soor,” the red-ruffed lemur had said, trying to keep a grudging tone out of his answer.

His best uniform tunic had been taken from his sea chest and carefully brushed, and two luckless ratings had been told off to get his trousers pressed and boots shined. They’d done a fair job of both tasks, particularly because of the dire threats Francois had shouted at them. There were few jobs on the Temeraire more fur-raising than painting the hull while the ship was airborne.

“You look right handsome, Francois,” the Gunner laughed. He laughed louder as the other lemur gave him a grumpy look and asked, “How long’s the Captain going to have you nursemaiding that kitten around?” One rating sniggered at that, then yelped as Francois’ furbrush caromed off the side of his head.

“Not long, Saint Joan willing,” and the lemur crossed himself. “At least until we get his stripey bum to the nearest base. Let that lot deal with him.” Ears perked as the ship’s bell chimed the hour and the lemur’s tail sagged. “Right. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, my friend,” the Gunner said. “Just look on the bright side – I’m not having dinner with the Captain.”

“How is that the bright side?”

“I didn’t say it was a bright side for you,” and Francois merely ground his teeth and stamped off as the other lemur laughed raucously.

Francois paused at the door to the captain’s cabin and took a deep breath before knocking. “Boatswain Ntsay, Soor,” he said, carefully enunciating his title. He felt a bit naked without his goggles and other equipment.

“Enter, Mr. Ntsay,” he heard Mr. Villiers say, and he entered to find the chart table set with the ship’s silver service on a spotless white linen tablecloth. Captain de Ville and the other officers were in their formal uniforms, and the young Prince Jahan was wearing the clothes he had come aboard in.

The cabin was more spacious than any of the other quarters on the Temeraire, and much better furnished. Between the aft windows hung a crucifix and below that, a paw-tinted photograph of His Catholic Majesty, Henri V. The elderly elk was photographed in formal uniform, but there was a certain weariness about his expression. Francois rarely read the newspapers when they were in port, but he’d heard that the Dauphin Henri was doing more and more of the old bull’s work for him, so things were well in paw in the heart of the Empire.

“Bosun,” Captain de Ville said, “is all well with the ship?”

The lemur stood up straight and touched two fingers to his brow. “Ready for your orders, Soor.”

“Excellent. Your Highness, gentlemen, shall we take our seats and eat?” The bulldog ushered the young tiger to a seat to the right of his own chair, Prince Jahan looking very ill-at-ease. Francois was the next to last one to sit, prompted by a nod from de Ville, and the captain gestured to the mess steward as he sank into his chair. “I have had the cook prepare dishes that might meet your tastes, Your Highness.”

The tiger seemed to brighten a bit. “Thank you, Captain, that is very gracious of you. I had feared – “ His voice faltered and he blushed clear to his ear-tips. “My faith forbids certain things.”

De Ville smiled. “I’m aware of the Muslim aversion to pork, Your Highness. I gave the cook strict instructions. We do have some restrictions of our own, of course. We’ve been away from a port for several weeks, so there’s a few things we have to do without. Ah, the first course.” Heads turned as the steward entered the cabin with two assistants bearing a soup tureen and a tray of bread. The Prince was served first, followed by the Captain and the officers in descending order of seniority until the soup course reached Francois.

The soup was clear chicken broth with vegetables, and the mess steward glared at the lemur as Francois suppressed a smile. The steward was actually the ship’s sailmaker and tailor, along with being the captain’s valet. He was dressed in snowy white cotton and looked even more uncomfortable than Prince Jahan. Swallowing back any jibe he might have been tempted to use, the lemur merely smiled and nodded as he sampled the soup.

It needed a bit of salt.

The second course was fish, soaked in water to take as much of the salt out of it before being cooked. The tiger made a bit of a face at the taste, but ate it all. Nostrils twitched as the third course was brought in, a trio of roast dodo from the farms on Mauritius. Seasoned with herbs, the smell of the roast birds caused more than one diner to dab at their muzzles.

The officers had wine, and made small talk while the Prince drank water. The First Officer cleared his throat quietly and said, “Your Highness, I must commend you on your appetite.” The tiger was assiduously eating everything set before him.

“I h-haven’t had much to eat lately,” the tiger said in a subdued tone. “We had been fleeing from Delhi for the past three days.”

“Are you feeling well, Your Highness?” The ship’s surgeon, Doctor Mirabeau, asked.

“I’m just hungry, and tired,” Prince Jahan replied.

The buck nodded and said, “Then a good meal and a good night’s sleep are all the medicine you need, Your Highness. Will you have a little wine? It’ll help your digestion, and help you to sleep.”

The tiger thought about the offer. “Yes, please. Just a small amount,” and the mess steward poured about a finger’s worth of red wine into a clean glass and set it before the Prince. He sniffed at it cautiously before bringing the glass up and taking a tiny sip. “That’s quite good!” he exclaimed as he set the glass down.

“I’m very pleased that you like it, Your Highness,” de Ville said with a genuine smile. “It’s not French, I’m very sorry to say, but this is quite passable. I had a supply laid in of the local vintage when we last put in at Kaapstad.” He looked down the length of the table. “How are you enjoying the meal, Bosun?”

Francois’ ears perked up. His glass contained the standard watered rum drink that all noncommissioned crewmen drank with their meals. “Everything’s very good, Captain,” the lemur said, avoiding saying anything about the company. The food was better than what got served below decks, and not even the royal refugee was spoiling it for him. “Cook’s done very well.”

“Splendid,” de Ville said, signaling to the steward to clear away the dishes.

After a short interval, the steward and his two assistants came back into the cabin with the coffee service and dessert. The dessert consisted of a sweet compote made of dried fruits, honey, and wine, and a pot that looked like it could hold two liters. “One of the ship’s artificers had an idea,” Captain de Ville said. “We really don’t have the energy available to run a Gorrie refrigeration engine – a first-rate could manage it, of course – but he managed it somehow.” He grinned and gestured at the steward to open the pot, and a scent of vanilla wafted into the cabin.

Francois’ ears went back and his tail twitched excitedly. He’d heard of iced cream, but had never tried it before, and he tried not to look like an eager kit as the confection was portioned into bowls. Once the compote was ladled over it, the bowls were distributed. The lemur tried to restrain himself as coffee was served, and spooned up a bit of the cream.

It was cold, so cold, but sweet and creamy and delicious. The fruit was tart and there was a slight tang from the wine. The lemur tried to savor each bite, but too soon the bowl was quite empty, and he tried (mainly succeeding) to keep the doleful expression to himself.

As soon as the dessert was done, the officers and Francois were all given small glasses of the Captain’s personal brandy, and everyone with the exception of the Prince stood.

Captain de Ville turned to face the portrait of the Emperor. “Sa Majesté Impériale.”

“His Imperial Majesty,” the others intoned, and drank. The Bosun felt his tongue squirming in his mouth as the brandy stormed past the sweet flavors lingering on his palate. He set his glass down. “Begging your pardon, Captain,” he said.

De Ville nodded. “Check on the night watch, Bosun. If anything needs doing, let Mr. Blanc know, and then you can turn in.”

“Thank you, Soor,” and the lemur left the cabin, giving a sigh of relief and tugging his cravat loose as soon as the cabin door closed.

After reporting to the otter who was the current Officer of the Deck, he made his way around the darkened ship. His inspection was punctuated by the occasional jaw-cracking yawn as the rich food and the late hour conspired against him.

Two artificer’s mates were rigging safety lines, preparing to scale the foremast. “What’s going on?” Francois asked one of them quietly.

The rat tugged at his forelock. “Chief Artificer wants us to check the St. Elmo field lines.” He gave a toothy grin, revealing the gold tooth he’d had put in after a memorable bar fight. “Won’t do to have a round get through because the field’s got a hole in it, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t. All right, up you get.” He watched the pair head up the mast and went aft again to report to Mr. Blanc. That done, he headed below to the petty officer’s quarters.

Working in the dark from memory, he shed his uniform and swung into his hammock. One ear twitched as the ship’s bell rang, and he swiftly drifted off to sleep.




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