“Now, gentlemen, let me get off this heavy coat and epaulets. There! all right, Domino! put the sword in its case, and give me a white jacket. Choose your own places, my friends. Piron, sit here on my right; Henri, take the foot of the table.”
These last words were said in French; whereupon Piron started and whispered to the commodore, “By George, Cleveland, is that youth’s name Henry, and does he speak French?”
“Hush, Piron, he may hear you. His mother was French, and he speaks the language like a native. She died when he was a baby, and he doesn’t like to allude to it. Come, steward, we are all ready. Serve the gumbo!”
The cabin of the frigate was divided by a light lattice-work bulkhead in two parts, running from quarter to quarter of the vessel. The after part had a large sleeping stateroom on either side, resting on the quarter galleries, and opening on to another gallery which hung over the stern of the frigate. Inside, in the open space, was a round table, cushioned lounges, a few chairs, with a bronze lamp pendent from a beam above, while taking the curve of the stern over the after windows was a range of bookcases, half hidden by the gilt cornice and curtains of the windows. The entire fittings and furniture of cabin and staterooms, including the neat Brussels carpet on the deck, were elegant and useful, though by no means luxurious. The forward cabin, where no carpet graced the floor, was much more spacious. It took in the two after ports of the gun-deck; and the carriages and cannon within the sills of the ports were painted a marble white, as were the ropes, in covered canvas, that held them. In a recess forward was a large mahogany sideboard, or buffet, the top fitted with a framework for glasses and decanters, which were reflected from a large mirror let into the bulkhead. In the middle of 202 this space was the dining-table, lighted by a pair of globe lamps hanging from above, while neat racks for bottles and water-jugs, moving on sliding brass rods, were also suspended from the paneled beams and carlines of the upper deck ceiling. On the right––the starboard side––was a door leading into a roomy pantry, where the steward and Domino, and the servants of the commodore, bestirred themselves at dinner-time.
“So, my friends,” exclaimed the commodore, “you wish to hear what became of me after I last parted with you?”
“By all means, Cleveland! we are all dying to hear, and––” Here Piron’s appeal was interrupted by the heavy report of a bow gun, which gave a slight, though almost imperceptible jar to the frigate.
“Smithereens! Stingo! what noise is that?” exclaimed Burns.
“Only the nine o’clock gun, sir,” replied Darcantel.
“Hech, mon!” said Stewart, “ye needna upset ma glass of auld Madeira in yer mickle fright, for I’ve seen the time when ye ha’ laughed at the music in the report of a peestol and the ping of a bullet! But your nervous seestem seems to be unstrung ever since the sma’ French dancing count untied the string o’ your waistcoat with his rapeer.”
“You don’t think, Paddy, the commodore here is going to bang a forty-two pound shot into our stomachs after all the good prog he’s filled them with?” added Stingo, sotto voce, while the rotund Milesian threw his head back and twinkled careless defiance at them all.