The Captain's Nephew by Philip K. Allan

Author:Philip K. Allan [Allan, Philip K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: RO:NAV
Publisher: Penmore Press LLC
Published: 2018-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Departure

With the Agrius still awaiting her sailing orders, Captain Follett granted shore leave to the hands considered at low risk of desertion, among them the four messmates. They may have been at low risk of desertion, but like most sailors ashore they were at high risk of inebriation. Once this was achieved, they planned to track down the most willing whores that the town had to offer.

Funchal’s picturesque little harbour had been successfully bypassed. Several historically interesting local sights had been ignored and a bare minimum of charming cobble streets ascended before they found the place that they sought. On a street corner was a low, single story stone building with a pitched terracotta roof. The floor of packed earth had rarely been swept, the rafters overhead were black with grime. The oak tables and benches were roughly hewn, the local wine was rougher still, and the serving wenches comely. With a sigh of contentment, Evans, Rosso, O’Malley and Trevan settled down at a table deep in the gloomy interior.

‘So why is it I ain’t never heard you curse, Rosie?’ asked Evans, well on his way to being drunk. ‘Not so much as a cross word. What I find strange is how you can hold your tongue with all these Portuguesers jabbering to you in foreign on account of your Dago looks. That should have drawn an oath from a saint.’ A thought came to the huge Londoner, and he lent forward, the table protesting as it took his weight.

‘Are you one of them Quakers?’ he accused.

‘That is a grand point, Sammy,’ added O’Malley, who certainly was quite drunk. ‘How long have you been one of them feckers?’

Rosso sighed at his companions, and lifted up his wine cup as evidence.

‘Pray, would I be drinking if I was a Quaker?’ he asked. ‘Or indeed would I be content to serve on a warship?’

His two accusers turned towards each other on their bench for a swaying consultation, before returning to the attack. O’Malley’s face was shrewd, all narrowed eyes and knowing smile.

‘May bees, all of that is just one big sham. You are a fecking Quaker! I think you’re a wicked clergyman on the run having stolen the altar plate,’ he proposed, his knowledge of Protestant sects a little hazy. Rosso ignored the accusation, and waved over one of the maids serving in the wine shop for more drink, partly to cover his alarm at the underlying grain of truth behind O’Malley’s harmless joke.

The girl who served them was much taken by Trevan. Blond-haired, blue-eyed men were obviously a rarity in Madeira, and as she sashayed across to their table her hips swung just a little more freely. The jug of wine she set down was fuller than those going to the other customers, much to the annoyance of the party of American seamen at the next table. To add insult to injury, this time it was accompanied by a dish of green olives. The girl expertly swerved to avoid O’Malley’s

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