Stephen Maturin paused mid-word of his commentary on the foot-bones of the greater yellow grosbeak and how they compared to the feet of the roast goose he and his friend Jack had just disassembled with greasy knives and forks at the dinner table. Although the good ship Surprise was in docks, her timbers creaked as the waves lapped at her bluff sides. The ensuing silence was not perfect, but it was enough to rouse Jack Aubrey, who with his eyes closed considered himself yet passable as awake. Jack turned bodily in his seat to follow Steven's gaze.
Darkening the doorway to the Captain's cabin, effectively blotting it out, was the largest officer Jack and Steven had ever seen. "Awkward Davies in't in it," Steven breathed, sotto voce.
"No he is not," whispered Jack. The mountainous man came to attention, applying his carrot-sized knuckle to an acre of forehead. "By your leave, sirs, I is Squinty McPegleg, reportin' f'r duty."
Jack returned the salute with obvious unease. Was this newcomer an ensign or an admiral? Aubrey admitted that he lived up to his name: as an obvious veteran of the wars, both an eye and a leg were missing from the antipodes of the man's massive frame. Jack privately wondered at the meeting of the cannonball and the man, how much worse the cannonball must have fared.
The greater mystery lay in the McPeglegs's attire. The cocked hat was familiar, with Nelson's sombre mourning ribbon. The coat was cut for a sea-faring officer, yet the broadcloth - not broad enough to be buttoned across Mcpegleg's prodigious belly - was brilliant crimson instead of the subfusc navy blue Jack had grown up with since he was a boy breeches high. No epaulettes and no stripes indicated the rank of a junior lieutenant, but for which armed force? And the breeches: one leg was done up to accommodate the wooden peg, but both legs were black and not starched white as was customary. The one foot was clad in a finely-wrought leather cavalry boot of the improbable colour of pure alabaster. The bottom of the peg stump was similarly splashed with white paint to denote where the other foot had once been.
Squinty McPegleg's remaining eye glinted with ferocity. His hand clutched not his papers, but instead an extremely well-travelled flask. By its scent, what was inside was suitable to thin lacquer.
Jack drew himself to his full authoritarian height, which cased him to stoop somewhat lest his head intercept the low rafters above. McPegleg's posture was much the same. Jack began: "Never in all my years of service to His Majesty the King, have I ever beheld such a uniform as this. Its is a complete disgr-"
"Such a completely divine ensemble!" Steven Maturin arose, applauding and interjecting. "Such marvelous hue, and such attention to detail! Never in life have I beheld such glory, save for the plumage of Pavo cristatus, the inestimable Indian Peacock!"
"Er, just so," finished Jack.
"You are of the McPegleg Clan of Northern Scotland?" Stephen enquired.
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Stephen Maturin paused mid-word of his commentary on the foot-bones of the greater yellow grosbeak and how they compared to the feet of the roast goose he and his friend Jack had just disassembled with greasy knives and forks at the dinner table. Although the good ship Surprise was in docks, her timbers creaked as the waves lapped at her bluff sides. The ensuing silence was not perfect, but it was enough to rouse Jack Aubrey, who with his eyes closed considered himself yet passable as awake. Jack turned bodily in his seat to follow Steven's gaze.
Darkening the doorway to the Captain's cabin, effectively blotting it out, was the largest officer Jack and Steven had ever seen. "Awkward Davies in't in it," Steven breathed, sotto voce.
"No he is not," whispered Jack. The mountainous man came to attention, applying his carrot-sized knuckle to an acre of forehead. "By your leave, sirs, I is Squinty McPegleg, reportin' f'r duty."
Jack returned the salute with obvious unease. Was this newcomer an ensign or an admiral? Aubrey admitted that he lived up to his name: as an obvious veteran of the wars, both an eye and a leg were missing from the antipodes of the man's massive frame. Jack privately wondered at the meeting of the cannonball and the man, how much worse the cannonball must have fared.
The greater mystery lay in the McPeglegs's attire. The cocked hat was familiar, with Nelson's sombre mourning ribbon. The coat was cut for a sea-faring officer, yet the broadcloth - not broad enough to be buttoned across Mcpegleg's prodigious belly - was brilliant crimson instead of the subfusc navy blue Jack had grown up with since he was a boy breeches high. No epaulettes and no stripes indicated the rank of a junior lieutenant, but for which armed force? And the breeches: one leg was done up to accommodate the wooden peg, but both legs were black and not starched white as was customary. The one foot was clad in a finely-wrought leather cavalry boot of the improbable colour of pure alabaster. The bottom of the peg stump was similarly splashed with white paint to denote where the other foot had once been.
Squinty McPegleg's remaining eye glinted with ferocity. His hand clutched not his papers, but instead an extremely well-travelled flask. By its scent, what was inside was suitable to thin lacquer.
Jack drew himself to his full authoritarian height, which cased him to stoop somewhat lest his head intercept the low rafters above. McPegleg's posture was much the same. Jack began: "Never in all my years of service to His Majesty the King, have I ever beheld such a uniform as this. Its is a complete disgr-"
"Such a completely divine ensemble!" Steven Maturin arose, applauding and interjecting. "Such marvelous hue, and such attention to detail! Never in life have I beheld such glory, save for the plumage of Pavo cristatus, the inestimable Indian Peacock!"
"Er, just so," finished Jack.
"You are of the McPegleg Clan of Northern Scotland?" Stephen enquired.
Best critique ever! Ha ha ha.
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