Farewell Ecru Coastlines

A storm was blowing in, still far enough away so as to be no concern, but closing in fast enough that it was imperative they be away; making use of it's easterly gale to speed to the indies. This port lay south of Africa at the sizable island of Madagascar. Just weeks ago, there was some action at Mauritius...though the need to bring the Indian seas to heel were great long before Admiral Brittany arrived. It was a great shame, the loss of one Captain Martin Clarke and his post ship. The nature of his defeat was embarrassing-- less on his own account and moreso on that of the Empire. 

It was one of many incidents that hence incited the need for greater force in the east.

Lord Brittanicus (though regularly styling himself 'Brittany',) an Admiral by the fleet's doing, was himself a figure of poise. The Admiralty sent men two by two and marching along to India ever since the incident at Mauritius, and Brittany parted ways with his contemporary last evening. Some Admiral that he recalls as Wright or Walker...he forgets. The man was not particularly impressive and was to remain here, in South Africa. While he? Brittany was to take a modest fleet east to India and cooperate with the Company in securing the green coast. He'd been to India once, though from the other side of the beaches and much further north. A beautiful, wet, dirty, humid place full of animals and a thousand different tongues. 

Of somewhat venerable age, it was said that Brittany had the energy of a man half his years but with a demeanor to become him. Of average height; it was also said you were to be forgiven for forgetting it, as his presence was more imposing than his dimension. His uniform was of a fashionable cut, in contrast to his conservative personality- with a double-breast meant to be worn open at the second lapel so as to show off the striking embroidery. Black linen lined with gold ruffled neatly under his chin, plucked at by the stiffening breeze. It was the distant rumble of thunder that drew his attention westward. 

He pauses on the dock, listening to the men below him readying the boat to take he and his belongings aboard. They were busying themselves with the hauling and steadying while he observes Diana in the medium distance. The first thing to notice about His Majesty's Ship Diana was the graceful silhouette she cast while moored out in the bay. With the sun rising just barely several minutes past, her lines and shapes blended into the shadows of the water beneath her, the brightening sky providing a proper canvas over which to regard her. 

Madagascar's westerly lour had been of disquiet since the third bell's chime on morning watch of HMS Diana thus, the prominence of her ire ever growing upon the skyline. A premonition, if her Captain Whitehall was any manner quite as suspicious as some few hands were amongst them- the piteous few, he would have thought, but meant it with a semblance of fondness- as to consider Captain Clarke's defeat an unwell omen. Chagrin certainly struck the fleet through at the news some five weeks earlier, but belaying such loss of life and control had been the squadron's bidding since their leave from England.

She was a portrait of majesty, intended by her makers as an apex and a monarch against adversary. Glory was to be had in the presence of a third-rate, the ship of the line something of a dignitary in the awakening of war; the watch would have reported stout gatherings of natives across the harbour's expanse during the mornings past. They had been moored off Taolagnaro for but a couple of days and with all intent to rendezvous with Diana's new commander, her selection as flagship of the squadron demanding that change take up her post: the news would be well-received by few, a cruelly necessary fate for as long as their new Admiral would be anything of a disagreeable fellow. The wind was a gesture of grace upon them by the voyage south so that they would come upon their fresh dispatch in fair time. With her were the fifth rates Nimble and Ulysses, moored northward at the Bay of Saint-Luce. She stalked only amongst native vessels and three or four sloops about the mouth of the port, and did not so quarrel with them: they had encountered other vessels of French or English design only in small rates, and often with entirely little to say amongst their crews that did not concern Clarke.

The great beast preyed the waters northward from the cape for but a week or two before reaching Taolagnaro thence, seconded towards India at the wakening of defiance against English trade that had long unnerved upon the Admiralty and the Trading Company as to courier the latter a fleet with whom they might better secure India's trade routes for the Empire. A welcome change- or something of that intent- for Whitehall had not been to India himself nor beyond the reaches of the horn more than thrice, contented amongst the throes of piracy that concentrated itself instead within the West Indies- for it was sure that a dwindling population had retained something of a passive presence there whom had sought to dance upon the mischance of the war- and in the Channel against the French and Spanish yet.

"Sir." A voice collects Brittany's attention. A ship's hand touching his brow to salute as Brittany glances down. The boat being ready, he steps closer to the edge of the pier and, carefully, knelt down with one leg to continue over the side and into the boat.

He'd done it a thousand times and presumes to do it a thousand more, but he could never lose the fear that this was the one time he'd spill himself into the water. He would smile to himself later in recollection of the time he had as a teen and sits. The hands nod at each other and they push away from the docks. There were a few smaller rated vessels present, though none of note. It was a fine enough port to stop at-- a demarcation between west and east. Brittany would lose himself to watching the distant storm again. It roiled like a lion's mane in canter. He hoped they could harness its push soon enough. It was closing with the cape quickly.

"Careful, sir-" Someone reaches out to take a grip of his arm as the boat is jostled and several of the men peer over the side.

He glances sidelong at the hand steadying him- an old salt who appeared to be mixed with the local colour. Brittany's quizzical look must have been easily read, as the man didn't hesitate in speaking.

"You'll find the east is full of spirits, Admiral. Your presence awakens them. The seas here feed on blood and they see you providing it."

The concept disturbs him for a moment- but he'd heard plenty of eldritch tales before and, when one of the other men blows air from his lips and tells the other to hush, he settles on the simple explanation that it was simply the undertow, or some debris or some lost river fish India was known for.

"Admiral don't want to hear about your old village's bedtime stories." A blond hand on the oars grumbles.

"Nor do I. Rubbish. We've been up and down this coast for months and I've not seen a single 'spirit.'"

The darker man only nods and draws his lips as the boat approaches the side of Diana.

A glass is exchanged from Lieutenant Grey- a man mocked quite as such, of short stature and a meek stride beside his seniors; he was young beside the other lieutenants at twenty years old, forgiven by his potential and his relation to Whitehall's family, the boy's parents being dear acquaintances- to Tarporley and thence to Whitehall when word is ignited of a boat approaching: it was a modest jollyboat that procured upon its hold the subject of the morning's tension, and the Captain would observe such through the glass. The portrait within held to expectation and he would see the silhouette of the Admiral- not in entirety except by the sun's glare upon the aft of his frock, the lacing and epaulettes bright within it- before handing back the glass and pressing a gloved hand across his cravat.

The main deck livened soon at the song of the fifth bell on Diana- it would be then that the hands would begin to rouse as to be ready for six bells- and some couple of officers intended with the watch rose to its occasion firmly as the storm's nearing would decree anticipation across them. Captain Whitehall was one such intrigued from his cabin by necessity at the news of roil, met by the tempest's resound as he pressed sealed the berth just aft of the mainmast but having heard it from indoors. Whitehall was a man of honest height and frame, though not of forbearance, pressing upon a sharp tongue and an impertinent disposition. He was not afraid as to assert arrogance and trifled lively at contention before noiseless conference, his chain of promotion inspired by the reputation that he had enraptured locally within the English channel. He is contented to admit his intimacy with the Diana as his crew to bay the name across her length.

The officer of the watch would be met atop the quarterdeck, one Lieutenant Tarporley. Tarporley was an ordinary fellow of middle age and red tresses, on him always something of a pout, and whose language set best in strategy.  He was a loyal man yet and eager to share upon the storm's plight, and Whitehall might have ordinarily contented them in heeding faithful to the squall as to better make fine time of themselves, if not to evade any entirely unwanted attention; it would be incautious to regard in Clarke's fate without action. 

And yet, Whitehall's consort would not be returned to her salacity until the morning's conclusion from whence she would be trimmed to leave shortly after. It would have been perhaps something of a danger to send men ashore for entirely long, he had decided, and would collect himself soon on the main deck as he descends the steps again in waiting for his contemporary. 

Whitehall knew not of the Admiral encroaching except by name but would belay himself for formalities, though was not averse to his men's umbrage. It was by the aforementioned tales that he would find himself with these men- of fire and of all their lives unto him with all assurance of prize money- and now quarreled within as far as what was entirely disgraceful. Reassurance laid its roots the day that they encroached upon the port and he heeded aspiration upon their chests from the quarterdeck and quite soon throughout Diana's decks, but did not entirely break the binds of enmity that moored the crew to some semblance of, for the first time in weeks, modest misery.

Brittany raises himself on surprisingly steady sea-legs and reaches for what was the first rung of a long climb aboard. A pity, he thinks, that the bay wasn't another three fathoms deeper so he might not have to endure such a thing.

"Nearly there, sir." Someone says a few feet behind him, though it was redundant. He knew very well they were 'nearly there'. And he could see the decks below were almost entirely deserted, but the blare and peal of the boatswain's whistle rang clearer as he ascended and hoists himself on deck- a pair of hands reaching for his forearms in caution until he was safely aboard. 

The storm overhead was of concern and something of a portrait to admire by its pursuit of the Admiral's boat- and grimly, quite soon of their opportunity- and it would have contented Whitehall enough as to remark upon its acerbity to his subordinates, but he decided against the gesture and pressed himself to ensure that all hands would present by their senior's arrival.

The marines would press to drums on the Admiral's ascent until concluded by the cannon's address, the crew rising to something of an anticipated tension when settled upon the Admiral as he stood. The deck shook under their feet with the cannon's salute thereafter- followed by the ball's crash in the distant water. Brittany would pause, hearing the men ascend behind him and call for the derrick on one of the trucks to help lift their boat back up. He took a deep breath to collect himself from the climb and regards the assembled crew as he adjusts his arms neatly behind him. He knew it would only be moments before the Captain would make himself known in the crowd of officers, but takes a moment to observe the state of Diana's decks and lines. His eyes lid in satisfaction before he turns to regard the line of officers.

Whitehall's presence is amongst his lieutenants when the other settles amongst them, but the traction cannot quite be pulled enough to yield to the occasion until they are to collect the Admiral's chest and the boat moreover. 

"Good morrow, Admiral," he begins- tentatively, and with something of a tight-lipped leer that can't quite place itself enough to trust in being overt beyond a modest grimace- and clasps his hands behind himself thence, pressing upon the fabric and raising himself to Brittany's gaze as to lift his chin and press his chest. When the Admiral regards the group, the officers are poised alongside and attentive to the Admiral's presence. 

Brittany pauses long enough before answering to commit to his superiority, but quickly enough that the Captain should have no quarrel with him. 

Whitehall was not bitterly mannered by any means, he felt, but so too was often unwilling to claim allegiance upon what might have been a hindrance as he felt the Admiral would be, for how dare his command and his heart be restrained from him to effortlessly: he does not yield himself when the Admiral mimics a gesture likewise and poises as the other stands nigh. The pause is indeed questioned, and Whitehall tilts a brow to the notion, but forgiven firstly as musing.

"It is." The Admiral's voice is something of a deep resound as he speaks from his chest. He glances sideways with only his eyes to watch his chest be hauled from the recovered jolly. What he assumed was the steward or somesuch leaning over to quietly direct where it was taken. It was a polite thing, he noted, that the crew deigned to talk beneath their exchange and he would thence regard this...Captain Whitehall, it was? -- As a man who seemed to inspire such manners. Good. Perhaps they may get along. 

His fear was to command over a Captain crude of manner and, upon hearing his Captain was an Irishman, feared he'd be far too choleric for his taste. They'd soon see.

Up close, the design of Whitehall's visage would be better seen and without leer of the sun: his frock runs double-breasted likewise but of simple design, epaulettes to cuffs of a tasteful gold and the lining of his frock the same, the buttons upon the uniform conjoined with similar piping. The design upon the breast is likewise and does not contribute magnificence, and Whitehall himself cared little for overt glory if he remained presentable. The Captain is slim in the face and bears upon him the licking of the sun flecked across his sharp expression that always seemed to drop into a grimace if the man was intertwined so with imagination. His silver locks are short things but neatly kept and not infringed upon; southward beyond his blue glare completes him with a scar that runs the length of his cheek, an unremarkable blemish if observed to any length.

Brittany takes a long step past Whitehall, signalling that he was content with the display and that it was time to move on. But not before offering him a gently quizzical, lidded look as he passed.

"I trust that the swell was of no tarnish to your advance." Whitehall comments, something inspired bitterly so.

"We arrived before the storm, if that's how you mean. Quite timely, in fact, that we may benefit from the oncoming gale." He says conversationally, making for the gangway that lead to the quarter deck. Quite contrary to the outliers with loose tongues, yet, it was certain as to Whitehall's expectations that did not belay to the rest of the crew ordinarily despite their condition: it was his steward indeed who would aid the chest's return to its place in the great cabin, passing the vicinity of the captains in bated quiet. This was satisfactory to Whitehall too and, perhaps in spite of the Admiral's displeasure upon him, looks upon the happening with the gratification that the other seems satisfied if little else. 

"In fact, I'm sure you'll agree we dispense with ceremony and get ourselves underway so as to not miss the approaching front." Brittany expects the man to follow. He'd make time for banyan with him presently, once their modest squadron was shoved off. He has no intention to step on the man's toes, leaving the activity to the Captain. A man of cursory humour, Whitehall observes with something of a short frown; he meets Brittany with undemonstrative chagrin and follows his gaze until he presses forth to follow the Admiral by stride. It isn't of confidence to Whitehall whether or not such was intended to jibe upon him, but he decides that he doesn't quite mind it; if the other's presence aboard his lady is still damning, decidedly uncomfortable with surrendering his seat.

"Aye." Whitehall is to chime agreeably and certainly follows after Brittany's presence, noting behind him the dismissal of crew by his lieutenants, but is modest to maintain distance between them that he would stammer to maintain should the other pause or slow his gait. He is thankful when he is tested abruptly and pauses to the Admiral's left with a skeptical glare. 

Ascending briefly, he pauses upon the deck above then, regarding Whitehall as he ascended thereafter. He was a pretty man, Brittany surmises and would then continue, further starboard before pausing at the rail, forcing the man to stop at his left should he deign otherwise. An Admiral's place was to the right of his Captain. As was proper if such observances had time to be made.

"Captain." He says, gesturing with a slight incline of his head to the fore. Permission to see them off. Ordinarily he should like to get to know the man before ordering him, but they were in no place to tarry. He held no impossible expectations that they be off immediately, of course. The hands had only just been dismissed by the junior officers and needed time to descend the decks and prepare.

Quite likewise, creasing upon Whitehall's habit was of little to trace with the eye except for where it mattered: he acknowledges the gesture and turns upon his heel forward when he exchanges a look with Tarporley- for he had done this many a time, as Whitehall's first lieutenant and one of the many aboard who had followed the man across various commands to his post and wholly did not mind the challenge- whom departs and can be heard below as men are ordered to the capstan and aloft to the rigging in succession.

"I trust you've had time to resupply-" He pauses, seemingly recollecting the name. "Captain Whitehall. Or shall we have to lay up northeast?" He assumed he wouldn't have to explain why that would not be ideal. He is polite in the carriage of his head so as to not be entirely overt in his judgment of the Captain. Brittany loved to judge a book by it's binding. It was the manifestation of an author's love of the contents. And the dignity and refinement of an officer's nature, he thinks. He keeps one hand to the small of his back but takes to a posture with his left that suggested he spends many hours holding a pipe with the gentle cradling of empty space under his curled fingers. Such habits stick.

Brittany's gesture is almost entirely not seen and Whitehall mistakes it firstly for fiddling; it is of intrigue when the thought crosses him properly but would do well to offer it little without Brittany's sanction.

"Tarporley will see her away, I trust," Whitehall hails thence and does not look at Brittany until the remark thence, to which he turns around, but only notably to his address. He isn't sure whether to find offense in the ask and trusts composure of the Admiral but narrows his stare. No composure is lost from himself, he hopes, but does not restrain something of a cocked head of his own until he reprieves himself of the gesture. "We resupplied but a day ago, we are not crossing there but to rendezvous with the squadron." The nature of judgment is understood but of little to Whitehall, preferring quite to judge ability where able on the contrary.

'-but to rendezvous with the squadron.' Brittany, his attention forward to observe the men in the throes of their organized chaos, raises a brow and a quiet ruffle signals his body turning partways to regard the Captain. Apparently, something about the statement had gotten his attention. 

"Should I deign to, we would cross there for another reason and for the reasons I say them. Remember, you received your orders long before mine to facilitate our meeting. Don't take my presence for granted, Captain." He wanted to explain that his orders were more up-to-date, but trusted the implication's reception. Seemingly unruffled for but the moment, he turns forward again. The reflection is cast upon Whitehall with some forbearance, and he holds himself fast before he remarks further. The reception was indeed observed and he knew better than to trifle for the sake of such: he had only known of his orders from some weeks before, that was true, and- clasping his hands tighter behind him- retorts a low hum. The Captain's heel shifts ill at ease upon the wood as he regards more formally the crew for'ard.

"Trust me. I'll take care of everything." A statement that ordinarily might have earned an amicable laugh in agreement from past subordinates, but likely not here. The assurance might have been welcome was the Captain not so timorous to his loosening grasp on command. Trust was fickle, for he knew not of Brittany or the man's notoriety beyond the reaches of the Admiralty's last correspondences with his commission, of which detailed rather little but superficial identity.

He almost chides a gesture as to the nature of his crew at Brittany's presence but deliberates otherwise, deciding it perhaps unproper to state challenge so bold without the results to compare: the poor fellow has only been aboard for but a dozen minutes, and Whitehall could only trust but upon the lining of his ego to assure the accusation.

The Admiral was then contented with silence, allowing Whitehall reign entirely for as long as it might take before they might retreat and feed the crew and themselves. It is soon that the anchor is weighed and met to the Diana anew and her sails loosed- Whitehall observes until the headsails are loosed and thence he turns to Brittany and steps aside. They would both take interest in the proceedings as they squared away, Brittany perhaps more interested for not having seen this particular crew in action before. He would withold any judgment, positive or otherwise, until a few weeks in. 

Who knew what manner was her Captain and in what manner the men were when on their best behaviour.

"I presume you are wanting breakfast." Whitehall pried, something firstly of restraint as if to mask his asking atop something else. It is then that he takes himself aside from formation and steps aft but does not entirely make his leave from Brittany. It is then that the steward is crossed, one able seaman known best as Morecote: he is an older gentleman and might be considered nigh to venerable by unassuming eyes, of an ordinary demeanour but a consciously neatened appearance- as far as seamen could go- in Whitehall's vicinity at the least. Whitehall is glad, decididing that the least of that would be afforded to the Admiral's satisfaction with any expectation; his descent would pause until he knew of his decision. Brittany hears the other's boots carry him a few paces aft and he turns after him, with intention to both address him for the 'offer' and extend their time together now that they were underway and he might ask him about himself. Brittany pauses, hands returning together behind him as the Steward appears. He knew this was the Steward by now, it was fairly obvious to an eye with mild practice. 

"You may presume that I would like breakfast," Brittany enunciates the word with an empathic brow raise directly at the Captain. "And I should imagine that you would also like breakfast. Steward--" Brittany calls to him and takes a step to meet with him. He reaches out to gently demand his attention before returning his hand behind him. He was not so friendly with the staffing to be easy with them yet. 

"Possibly, you presume rightly-" Whitehall is to state sharply as he comes to stand facing forth anew, before Brittany would enrapture upon the steward. He remarks upon the righting inside himself- deciding the remark something of acuity that Whitehall had no intent upon rectifying, for the Admiral would not take speech from him, he thinks- and acknowledges the other's tiff with Morecote, whom he sees to become flustered with little effort as to Brittany's request. Brittany disregards the sharpness of tone quite easily, but turns away from the Captain's attention with just a split-second's hesitation so as to maintain eye contact and discern his intentions. Irishmen had a brusqueness of speech, he knows. It may only be that.

"The Captain and I will take breakfast in the stateroom- Mmm-" He turns to Whitehall with his head, brows furrowing slightly as though deeply in thought. He seemed to be about the ask the Captain some question before altering course, and looks back at the Steward.

"Being where we are, I imagine you took the opportunity to collect some duck for the Captain. If you don't keep duck, hare or venison will do. Do your officers keep goats aboard? If so, milk for the coffee, if you will," He was approaching Whitehall with the Steward, Mister Morecote, obediently keeping with his liesurely pace near him. "You haven't been in the indies long, I take it. I suggest you learn the local chutneys for next time--we'll reconvene then--" 

The man seemed wide-eyed with intent, less out of genuine interest, no doubt, and more out of attempt to not forget what was being said. Brittany, though he didn't notice, seemed at least conscientious enough to repeat himself thence. 

"Ah- so, eggs, if you please, coffee, duck. And you will return after with a Sillary or something crisp and white. Good man." Now having met with Whitehall's position on deck, he glances at him- pausing for but a moment before gesturing slightly with his nose toward the doors to the cabin.

"Duck and venison, sir," the Steward stammers and follows closely as expected. His voice is something frail- a long-time smoker or with some such remnant of disease as asthma that appeared him occasionally insecure as to his pronunciation- and he intakes a sharp breath. It would not be so arduous to encapsulate Morecote's consternation as the man recollected their stores to the pace of Brittany's word. 

"Venison if there is no duck." Brittany corrects the poor man gently and watches him salute and turn to leave. 

He presses the first knuckle of his index to his head in a salute and shifts upon his weight. It is indeed observed that he is a frantic fellow and he is keen to begin the request. "I'll do me best, sir." It is by now that Whitehall's own hands would cross to his front in something of thought if not vexation and, as the Steward turns behind Brittany, he stifles as Whitehall peers through the Admiral's silhouette so to regard the gesture.

"Venison for me, Morecote." The Admiral would not steal that from him. The Captain, stalling his retreat for a moment, asks for venison and Brittany's brows raise as he then turns to clasp Morecote gingerly over the shoulder to pause him. He keeps a look on Whitehall as if to confirm with him the question;

"The Captain prefers venison?" He looks over at Morecote then. "For ease, the venison for us both. Give us a braise, Mister Morecote. Unless you haven't been through the tenderloin yet-- in which case a broil will be preferred, is that understood?" The question is asked more patiently than demandingly, as Brittany had since caught on that he had overwhelmed the man somewhat. He was not so self-absorbed as to not at least try and adapt to the speed of their serving staff. Whitehall was to think little on the exchange and in fact was ready for departure until Brittany reprieved; he feels his gut press tense with a particularly long inhale. 

Offense is not quite what he thinks so much as that perhaps his senior would be of intent to affront seniority upon him as though to make a personal endeavour and Whitehall remarks upon it with a curled lip until he thinks on it through the length of Morecote's answer and thence leave.

"Oh, yes, sir- broiled tenderlion, no duck." Morecote commits uneasily and yet thinks he understands, and is thence swift to make distance down towards the stores and galley thence; the fellow had paused sharp under Brittany's grasp when it had been maintained to him and had regarded the two of them with but the briskest exchange of glances. 

Brittany watches the man totter off below, but does not turn back to the Captain quite yet. He seems rapt to watch the men above and below for at least half a minute. He was in no hurry. They would have a few weeks to speak and discuss their plans. For now, he was eager to enjoy the stiffening breeze. Whitehall himself maintained the grasp of the Admiral's gaze when Morecote's absence was to settle amongst them, but quite likewise was keen to share a glance westward at the coming tempest. Had either been smart to read the other's mind, it could have been debated that they were not entirely at odds as to the observation.

The sun had begun to find itself partly obscured at all times as the storm slowly stretched fingers east. On the contrary, Whitehall ponders Brittany's poise up and down for a moment amidst the momentary solace between them and strikes to his gaze the unfurling sails aloft, perhaps more exasperated at the nature of Brittany's confidence as to claim for his own the beast upon which he walked; one that Whitehall would take great pride in, for he admired the Diana for her guidance with him in the Channel before and trifles as to new command. The thought was not quite yet fathomable without necessity for confidence in his senior. 

It is satisfying that she will be away yet and Whitehall does his best as to not regard Brittany in any such way that might gratify the other for now. 

Ordinary shouts passed from the men; Brittany catching one such that prompted him to turn and regard the west. It was true, you could now see the rain sheeting in the distance and it would be upon them soon. They would have to tack smartly so as to avoid damage and yet, exploit the gale.

Brittany finally turns toward the Captain and makes an expression as though he had forgotten he was present- having expected him to be away already. A look perhaps to the chagrin of a Captain who might intentionally want for his chagrin to be politely known. Brittany was ignorant to the man's difficulties. Whitehall's expression tilts somewhat when the Admiral regards him finally and he notes the startle but does not soften to it. Such does not belay his manners unto Brittany as they cross below and he rather is satiated to bring the other closure in settlement within despite his nerve as to find discomfort in the change of ideals.

He returns to his earlier gesture, waiting for Whitehall to take point within the cabin doors- and he does. 

Whitehall's pace is steady firstly as he gestures to be away himself, following Brittany's signal after a moment's deliberation- but liberally so- and steps forth as to insist on his action upon the door as he presses the threshold open for their entry inside and descended soon for the stateroom; he followed Brittany rather and covered their presences with a modest click as the door was shut behind them. The Admiral follows and, when the other was intent on being the one to close the door- he relents with an assent to the man's eccentricity and descends easily.

The cabin and stateroom both were modest on passing and the steward had ensured as to prepare the table once formerly made aware of the Admiral's soon presence aboard. Whitehall quite fancied himself a creature of tidy habit and admitted something of ire to officers unlike it. He makes a steady gait towards the table and retrieves a seat for himself; Brittany was intended with being seated lengthways opposite and Whitehall regards this with a modest tilt of the head. There is but a sigh as he places a purposive finger upon the knife placed at the Admiral's seat, seeing that the poor thing had tilted itself out as to not quite match the symmetry of the rest of the cutlery.

Upon the expanse of the table was decoration apt for occasion in a pair of candleholders at opposing ends likewise- perhaps intended if the storm was to loom darkness into the cabin despite the sun that erupted through the stern windows now that the day had picked up from the horizon's clutch- but not quite yet the food nor drink to compensate space atop the dark wood.

Both within the stateroom, Brittany circles the table, but his attention is outwards as he observes the state of the place. Clean. He liked that. The windows aft allowed ample light, but it was soon to become grey with the storm. It felt almost sleepy.

"Morecote is a troubled man," Whitehall would say as he returned by his intended place and made a point of such as to step without regard for the Admiral until pausing to speak again- always with habit as to seat himself starboard of the cabin, and often argumentative to otherwise- and casting a glance beyond the glass aft. 

"Is he? I gathered." Brittany answers with a tone understanding. Whitehall frowns a bit and hopes there is no ill will of the remark- though struggles to find such in Brittany's tone for the moment- and makes quick to restore that integrity. "I shall speak more slowly and be patient with him."  Of course, he meant this authentically, but perhaps a man ignorant to the Admiral's nature may take it for impatient jibe. Nevertheless; Brittany takes a breath himself and pauses at a head of the table, hands finally to leave his back and come to poise neatly over it.

"I assure that he is excellent as a cook," he remarks, and reminisces the tone with something firstly jubilant; to the steward, he is quite contented to admit confidence in. He regards Brittany with something of a nod by the end of his own phrasing. The Captain takes no issue as to take the undertaking but peacefully, and though he remains steeled by reluctance upon what might be thought of himself, he relaxes somewhat and lets his shoulders drop. 

"You mentioned new terms, Admiral, for after we left Plymouth. I expect I should have precedence to know, as your captain." He gives Whitehall a stern look for entirely too long a moment.

"You misunderstand me, Captain Whitehall. I sought merely to make a point."  He explains mostly truthfully. "Your orders stand." He confirms idly and reaches sideways to the back of the seat, lifting it to make room for himself to dip down and seat himself. The Captain purses his lips somewhat in muse when Brittany announces testing of the order and not entirely to challenge them, and almost thinks to apologise but decides that the other is better off to waiver the fall; indeed, he was quite assured but nevertheless felt rather silly.

"Just so--" His tone lilts up. "You may trust that you will share in all of my terms. You have no reason to fear being made ignorant." He brings his hands together as he settles then, and is thoughtfully quiet for a time. He was considering Captain Whitehall's erratic energy-- he suspects the man was a touch insecure in regards to either information or was merely of an anxietous nature. He'd dealt with similar men, he decides.

"I see. Very well, then." Brittany's hand is watched through its tactful motions and the Captain himself pauses shortly when he is done speaking as to play with his own gloves. No reason indeed; the ideal was of great concern and to be made a fool to adversary was something that largely unsettled him. Slowly, he removes the articles, parting his gaze from Brittany and not paying any utmost attention to the other's regard as to the environment when he is withdrawn to his own company. 

"Ulysses and Nimble are eight leagues from here." A curious pout and Whitehall is soon to seat himself, assuming that the other should already know the whereabouts of the squadron, but does not wish outward ire upon Brittany and regards him before doing so. 

"Yes." Brittany answers only. And glances about the stateroom as if looking for something in particular. His attention returns when he realizes the other had just posed something of a question by his tone.

"Mm. Perhaps nine-- They have already begun the crossing as the storm had been spotted some days past and, knowing by the time we reached them, might lay up their efforts. Do you keep something to drink here?" He wasn't content to wait for Morecote for such a thing. Whitehall itches somewhat for the answer of Brittany's intent and frowns marginally when it is perpetuated to doubt; the gift that the Admiral held to Whitehall's throat would be discovered by that, as in fault he had not quite known as to the nature of the frigates by their arrival nor by the league that they had already undertaken ahead of Diana.

"Best we catch up with them than delay our expedition entirely by days. Mm? It's not a great change- the result will be the same."

"Ah." Silence for a moment, considering the latter mind of changing course before it seemed worthwhile to settle discussion; most of all while Diana was still coming underway into the wind's impel.

"If you absolutely must drink now," he chides- contentedly to himself, it seems- as he regards his gaze downwards and poises from the chair anew with a pointed gesture. Brittany's brows raise and he purses his lips, rapping a finger lightly on the table as though mocking self-consciousness. "Belay, sir, I have the thing," The Admiral is dismissed seemingly with a small wave as Whitehall retreats from the room's expanse as he manoeuvres the perimeter of the table towards the fore-end of the cabin and bids himself aloft to his own berth.

"I must." He chirps. "It has been a long morning and I am dry."

"Indeed." He had uttered down before his leave. It was not entirely agreeable upon himself but he assumed that having to share one's presence ashore at a castaway quite like Taolagnaro; Whitehall would not bother to voice his dissent of the port. Withal not quite of the temperament as to find such reaches of the world ever tolerable, he was keen as to restrain himself until he knew better of his contemporary. Brittany watches the other retreat and offers a nod at his leave and contents himself with merely turning to watch out the windows aft. It would not be long before drizzle might patter them.

There would be a moment of utterings between the boards when the stairs were ascended whole: out of Brittany's sight, Tarporley encroaches since upon the cabin and passes the door with Whitehall's permission as to inform of their course and intent upon it. Indeed, to tack Northeast on a beam reach to the wind upon them, had it been comprehensive from below. There was trust to be had in Tarporley's direction, and Whitehall would not pause to question it under circumstance: he would be ever gracious to romanticise upon his men, most of them followers from his former commands and his history with the Diana. He listens quietly, thoughtfully, to the deafened exchange. Wondering if a beam was truly as efficient as reaching broad. Surely bearing away in this case was the smoother choice? He considers correcting them, but does not stand.

The decision for their course is not enlightened to the Admiral when Whitehall returns yet, deciding that the other was of competent mind enough to understand or perhaps had not heard of it at all; it did not worry him. 

He is staring quietly at the floor some paces from the table when the Captain returns.

The return is sharp and not emptily in tow after ambience returns to silence except by the crew and Whitehall's own steps dulled upon the wood. Such becomes quite louder so as his heels tap to the wood steps leading to the stateroom again. By his return, he holds to his grip- gloved again, the man meticulous about tarrying treasure with bare touch- a dark wine bottle. It presses closely to his chest until he is beside Brittany again, his gaze something sterner in the rush so to deliver. Only as the bottle is set does Brittany turn back, clasping his hands together. He first looks to Whitehall, handsome creature that he was now that he didn't seem to be glowering so-- and then the bottle, which he observes with a slight narrow of the eyes. Whitehall pauses to admire Brittany's observation but does not meet his eyes entirely, better concentrated as to the stasis of his jewel in-hand. Not so in judgement, but moreso in attempting to read the worn label- clearly spilled with salt and handled onshore.

The observation is acknowledged with a nod and, priding himself in the fact, he adjusts the bottle's poise as to better present its label to his subject, but retains a grip of it until Brittany's reassurance.

"I am rather predictable in taste, but-" and, as he paces forth to place the bottle upon the table by Brittany's place but not invasively so, the Captain lifts a gloved hand dismissively. "You are a special occasion." It is not quite sore to admit as much as a thorn within his throat. 

It is madeira, to be sure- a dry wine that he expected Brittany would find mutuality within- and Whitehall retrieves the glasses across the table so to procure Brittany his ration when the bottle is opened. He presses two fingers down on either side of the glass meant to be his to keep it in place until such a time as the man deigns to open it. He would allow his host to do the honours and waits patiently, his attention continuously drawn astern to the storm.

"I had a personal stock fetched on our crossing here from the homeland island itself- a wonderful intrigue. I hope that you are fond of the make." 

"I see. It's travelled such a long way." Brittany smiles, utterly unaware of the poor man's emotional disquiet. 

The Captain trifles to remove the gloves but does not forsake what had been asked of him earlier and breathes low a sigh, collecting for himself a ration and placing the glass to the central point of the table. He concerns himself for a moment as to its safety but decides that the swell will not yet be enough to disturb it. He seats himself thus where intended and presses his back against the chair as to slouch fractionally sideward. Noticing the Captain's hesitance to leave the glass for a moment, Brittany nods at it. 

"We'll have your steward wet the cloth under them when he returns. Until then we shall simply hold fast to your treasure, here."

"I appreciate the gesture." He admits, perhaps bashfully so, speaking low until he is sat with his own glass. For a moment, his eyes are withdrawn to the bottle as if with the thought that the thing might topple were he to dare in looking away from it.

"I suppose your purpose was not only to usurp but of aid as well, then," Whitehall does not sip for himself any portion of the drink and swills it gently instead; something of a breather for him when he finds himself without the release of making any particular gestures or notions by his frame. "I had only heard of the storm by our arrival- how typical." 

A short scoff and, finally, a sip.

"Usurp?" Brittany chuckles then, taking it for humour and smiles lightly. Brittany's disposition that follows pulls surprise of Whitehall's attention when he hears the chuckle and for a moment he is brought to attention with a wider lid than what was thus far granted on his expressions. He follows Brittany's gaze behind himself thence, able to see more of the port and of the storm slowly as they begin northward.

Still deliberating upon the chortle- and rather endearing in the gesture, having not so expected it- Whitehall would offer a tight-lipped expression that did not raze to anger, rather finding humour to Brittany's attention. He would fixate upon the Admiral then and correct his posture to accommodate an answer.

"It'll be welcome. The gale is merciful for it and Tarporley has suited us to the best course." He thinks to pry upon the Admiral's prior question, until Morecote's arrival, preferring to disregard the man graced with entry by the marines and coming upon them with coffee and milk as intended. Their wine is not regarded so much as the space about them as he retrieves for them a cup each, the rations themselves designed of the steward's own hand and not of the officers. He is keen to stand back then and to regard them both of rigid poise.

"Has he?" Brittany asks, suddenly intent on the man with a look askance. A genuine question, likely to be taken as quite direct- the Admiral knows. He hasn't the chance to elaborate his earlier concerns before the Steward arrives with the coffee and milk. Brittany looks fixedly at Morecote rather than the offerings as they are placed. He has something of a curiosity rather than a judgmental peering.

"Will be with you soon, sirs," he stammers, and then regards Brittany with something of a nod but it was not quite direct enough as to be construed so easily as such. "Er, the venison. Eggs and all, sir." Morecote's entry is almost something of inconvenience as he draws himself over the portrait before him and leers that way despite the steward, regarding the poor fellow with a modest nod but allowing the moment's solace free as to observe Brittany for what he was before him: a personage of meticulous decorum, and though he knew of his Lordship through correspondence, did not stray himself from observing it in the other's gesture. 

"Thank you, Mister Morecote." He says finally and nods at the coffee and then glances back at the stuttering creature.  He smiles lightly, but it was not entirely warm. A signal that he may go. Morecote indeed departs to the smile when he catches it but is momentary to depart, and Whitehall regards Brittany with a peer immediately upon the closing of the door fore. Brittany watches Morecote thence until they were alone once more. And is quiet again. With a hand carefully about the Madeira, he reaches to retrieved his own cup and saucer as gracefully as he might muster. The milk is to follow until it is tipped equally carefully into the coffee- lightening it immediately until it was ecru. Whitehall pursues the motions when the Admiral's hand nears the wine but learns tolerance of it and settles for watching his attention to the cup until he is regarded.

When satisfied, Brittany's eyes flicker up to regard the Captain briefly before he sets the milk back upon the platter. Whitehall persues to retort on their course only after Morecote's leave. He did rather endear to Brittany's thoughts yet as well and, beneath a softened brow, was careful as to trace the other's frame; not so careful as to welcome entirely Brittany's company amongst him, decidedly yet, for it was worthwhile to him that he should remain wary. He thinks that Morecote must have been almost quite done with the tenderloin now, and he hoped soon the rest of both dishes.

"For now- it is grim but I'm sure you know of the news," Whitehall chimes but becomes marginally more pointed at the intrigue and at what he felt indeed was direct, but the intent would not be pondered upon. He does not elaborate, for he would assume that the Admiral had known such, and cast a glance towards the windows. "Such is the matter of our circumstance, you understand, Admiral." An implication towards the design of their world rather than anything of petty, and it is spilled loose from his tongue in a tone remarkably soft for his visage.

Brittany seems satisfied with the answer, though doesn't entirely agree with it. But he decides there's currently no reason to belay the trim. They'd get there regardless with likely only a difference of hours, he thinks. They might reconsider once the nature of the storm is more greatly understood.

"I imagine the beam trim is in some fear of straying too close to Mauritius." He observes then, a polite mutter and invitation for Whitehall to offer his thoughts.

"Yes," he drawls, allowing the word's end to stammer across his tongue for but a second before he continues and clears his throat. "We have something of an easterly wind picking upon us and to reach broad might come to be a decision of detriment for now if we end with delaying ourselves of time or reaching Mauritius and attracting worse." A sip of the wine is taken thence to clear his throat and to suggest best that he was satisfied with defending himself for that moment, preferring it to the coffee but peering into the mousy drink as he replaced the glass upon the table. Whitehall leans back contentedly thence and delights in making use of their peace, allowing Brittany the space to regard the decision; if with some ire, but he was not a man entirely of indiscipline yet notwithstanding a difficult temperament at a first glance or two. Whitehall did not feel himself acquainted to deliberate likewise and was contented with leaving that only upon the Admiral unless his Lordship felt it entirely necessary; it was difficult to estimate the storm if not for its cover upon the sky, and Whitehall would notice the landscape darkening astern on their leave.

"I've heard," Brittany answers under a hardened brow. "Strange to think the locality so savage. I certainly don't recall it being problematic in the past, although;" He seems to deliberate on his own statement.

"I rescind. I suppose it's only because we've not had a formidable presence in the east but until recently. It only makes sense the devils would leap up to bite us now."

"Perhaps so," Whitehall comments- a thought aloud that is met with a quiet gaze towards the cup censoring Brittany's mouth for that moment- and is careful to ensure of his opinion without entirely missing the mark of disciplinary respect; he deliberates on it somewhat less, finding the matter a precious thing if he were to reprieve himself over the plague that indeed swept the east of pirates and the French both. "They don't know what's best for them, I'm sure. Black blood that has spent its time roaming and breeding like maggots without anything to teach them quite better."

Brittany brings up his coffee finally, now that it has cooled somewhat.

And is quiet for a long time.

Though not his intention to test at first, he liked men who could be comfortable in silence. Perhaps Whitehall would take to it with dignity. Such silence was a welcome and effortless thing that followed even in spite of the topic's nature and Whitehall is not disagreeable to such. Contented at his seating adjacent, he was not so unsettled as perhaps conceived by his image, and was often not averse to the peace that was so scarcely found already; he felt that it was a foreign thing to find unrest in the blessing. Rather, such gave him time to recollect the nerves he had mustered abovedeck in his tiff and to take solace first in his drink and in simply the Admiral's company. 

Perhaps another five minutes pass, signaled by several strikes of the bell in crossing over a half-hour mark. Whitehall presses to his lips the glass for a sip and surprises himself to hear the chime of six or seven bells; the Captain had become entrenched into himself as to not entirely anoint his mind to the noise. Morecot's entry was swift then, tailed by one of the cook's mates. Enlisted to help him deliver a meal for two. Brittany, again, keeps his eyes on Morecot himself, rather than the food. Withal Morecote's enclosure upon the room, the scent and company enlightens him to wakefulness again and he presses himself to poise likewise.

"Thank you, Mister Morecote." He nods as he slides his coffee out of the man's way as the platter was set and dishes were relocated to places in front of the two. He appreciated that Morecot seemed to understood without being told that to make a meal, you had to balance it- and there was a fine enough mix of fruit and vegetable to compliment the choice of meat.

Eliciting an impressed raise of the Admiral's brows, having expected to have to explain the concept for next time. He could see there was no need. The lift of brow is followed with contentment on Whitehall's part and his lip curls into some semblance of a short smile. It does not last long before he is returned to ordinary. He sees Brittany's gratification- pleasant surprise was what prepared such, he had seen- and rather delighted in it. Morecote, though eccentric and possibly unnatural amongst their company by his foundation, was a particular gift graced upon Whitehall whom had been easy to train to otherwise. 

"Oh, Morecot. Wet the napkins for the Captain's dessert here." He gestures to the bottle and it's accompanying glasses. He trusted he wouldn't need to explain. Morecot, with his attentively large eyes, nods tersely and retrieves some extra linens from the tray, pouring from a pitcher through his hands to the centers and laying them out on the table amidst the foods.

Not against admitting pride unto particular men, Whitehall acknowledges the steward with a thanks not dissimilar of modesty when the bottle is wrapped so; that will quite do, he thinks, and mimics Brittany's gesture likewise to retain upon his own lap another dry example of the fabric. It was neat- lifted upon the table in a stout but ironed pile that Morecote had been particular to assemble well for the Captains- as was his design. 

"You may serve it, if you please." Brittany says from over a sip of coffee as he tugs a linen down and over his lap and smooths it. And the man does, his assistant waiting patiently and somewhat nervously behind. Britanny could tell the man had never seen one of his rank before. Funny, somewhat. The assistant not so much, and Whitehall certainly noticed within his peripheral as well. He would regard Brittany with a sidelong glance but did not outwardly regard the mate's anxiety, rather entertaining himself with it.

The glasses are filled appropriately halfway where they sat on the linen before the steward steps back to regard them both, somewhat expectantly. He liked to be thorough. Brittany could appreciate it but wonders just how far the poor man's difficulty stretched that he could not simply be easy after however many years he must have served this Captain.

"That will be well, Mister Morecote, thank you." The Captain chimes, noting Morecote's demeanour before the man would turn to go. He was certainly a thorough individual- a creature of fickle habit that Whitehall had come to appreciate but to pity; the steward fought with occasions in which his skillset was more succinctly needed, for it had become something of its own fatal flaw that the man should stew over the frailties of the fabrics' dress or the cutlery's placement entirely. His glass is raised to the chime of Brittany's as the other's chalice is lifted from the table.

Brittany reaches for the glass casually and extends it half-heartedly in Whitehall's direction. 

"To an unmolested crossing?" He asks, before drinking. And would wait for Morecote to take their leave.

"To an unmolested crossing, sir." Whitehall is content to meet their glasses by a delicate brush before retrieving his own for a drink likewise, and breathes a sigh when he hears the door close fore of them. 

"Where did you find the man?" Brittany asks, not elaborating on the wonder over how the man knew his cuts and manners. Brittany speaks up then as the threshold is sealed in a topical regard and Whitehall did not entirely find surprise in the gesture. The question is rather warranted, he decides, and is not averse to answer. To their toast, Brittany nods once, before finally regarding the food. Which he seems to take under consideration in tandem with Whitehall's answer. It's not at all that he expected the story of Morecote to be eccentric. But he was curious and curiosity begged for a story.

"In England, actually," he begins, extraordinarily, and takes opportunity to glance over the food now that he had grown something more satiated by the drink. There was never the concern as to worry upon Morecote's dignity nor adequacy as a cook and so Whitehall did not linger on it as much as he did upon the Admiral. "He was an ordinary man- rather a landsman, actually- who had lost his business presently when he came aboard. I don't know much for his family." Whitehall pauses to think, rolling his tongue from cheek to cheek but once.

"Ah, he was a baker- or tailor, or some such thing. It has been some years." Perhaps not the closest to each other, he does not linger on it; the poor man had been forgiven of his disposition for but six years now for his talents.

"Poor man." Brittany titters gently but says no more on it. He was satisfied with the answer. Whitehall does not properly acquaint an answer to Brittany's simper- and does so agree without but a small hum that turns bittered when he feels himself challenged, though the Captain was under anticipation that Morecote had endeared himself to the squall well even despite shortcomings.

Brittany would await his answer before asking of him;  "Mm. And where were you previous to these orders?"

A brow raises thence as Whitehall's cutlery is retrieved to his grasp and, for a moment, he understands insult lacing the question if not for its delivery. His gaze narrows and he is keen to meet Brittany's, if with something of contention or startle. As they both reach to begin carving, Brittany takes note of the glance his way, and he quickly looks up to meet it. Noting the Captain's expression, his own softens and his brows raise.

"Oh- Sir, don't take me for having made some assumption of you." He chuckles, pausing his cutting only to make known his authenticity. He had only meant it in curiosity. 

"Plymouth, I had been ashore," he does not elaborate further and reaches forth to slit one fillet astray in half. It is a delicate motion that he quickly becomes conscious of and slows himself as to avoid the chime of the knife upon the plate when it would pass the meat whole. "How was it that you become hostage at Taolagnaro?"

"Ashore." He echoes. Whitehall hums agreeably and remarks upon his chortle's ebb from the space between them.

"Unremarkably so. I was on leave for a dozen days for necessity of wellbeing." So to refit for the journey south, he would neglect fondly to specify; it was of unimportance as he gathered Brittany's thoughts both by the man's experiences beside the Captain himself and by the nod understanding. 

Brittany, rapt despite his level demeanor, only hums. Getting to understand the nature of one's shipmates was part of the stimulation, he thinks. Every man being far more intriguing than he might otherwise consider himself. At times, he would even deign to ask a Leftenant if he'd heard any stories worth repeating from the hands. 

He heard the damnedest things that way.

Quite on the contrary, Whitehall was not so himself adept upon stories that did not concern him: he knew of his own hands by ability or by slander which entirely dictated upon which would find him first on his commands. It was true without effort that there laid intrigue to be had in gossip, however.

A polite nod to both comprehension and invitation to tell another story, should Whitehall wish to. And only should he wish, as Brittany was thence invited to talk about Madagascar. It is then that the Admiral is to indulge his own tale, and Whitehall takes attention as to gather his cutlery and seal the sliced meat upon the fork. 

"You would not believe me, in fact," He is as quiet and careful with his own cutlery, setting the knife to place away and passing the fork to his dominant hand.  Indeed, in silence the Captain raises a brow, and lists his head delicately as he enraptures himself full in Brittany's intention. The solace is kind unto them, Whitehall debates, and he is quickly swept into the story even by the nature of its triviality. It is something of a warmful thing; that which makes the Captain soften considerably in the face. "I was assisting a naturalist in Africa. Some Professor Meuric. Friend once, to my father." 

He pauses to eat, reaching up to cover his mouth for a moment before the coffee is brought up again. Whitehall sets the knife and gathers some modest ration of vegetable beneath the meat- likewise, himself grateful for an equally composed company though not surprised by Brittany's manners; it was at least a restoring notion contrast to his crew, away from whom he preferred to dine- and concealing himself as to eat it. He restrains to speak up until his portion is finished entirely but nods in perception of what was said. Certainly, he is curious as to those details, but does not wish to pry so eagerly; if to avoid arrogance unto what was away of his own audience and rightly not his to encroach upon.

"He insisted on Madagascar next, claiming the island to be full of unique forms of life found nowhere else. The Admiralty, seeing opportunity perhaps, called me away from Mister Meuric-- God bless them-- to collect with your ship." Brittany failed to mention several details, with and over which correspondences were traded for months, in fact. 

"How was it that they had come to pick one such as you?" The Captain challenges, but not entirely maliciously; he thinks he manages something of a small smile as if to reiterate intrigue. Manages it only just, but it does not last so long. "I suppose trifling with a botanist's hobby is not so endearing as the northward jewels. What was poor Meuric expecting to find?" He corrects quickly but does not recall on it with so much as a mellow timbre- he takes no effort to accentuate himself and is not ignorant that he might be taken for a bit candid, if not ignorant. He understands of Meuric's mention in the correspondences he received and of the man's intention upon Madagascar's nature, but truthfully was not so a man of science or environment and so regarded very little any such topics offered.

Brittany contented in their exchange, inflicting upon his own plate at much the same pace as the Captain, finally taking to finishing off the remaining wine. He takes just a moment to appreciate Whitehall's taste and choice of selection with a furrowed brow at the last swig. Madeira was doubly suited for pre and post-meal enjoyment. A realization which dawns upon him with the chime that he recalls Captain Whitehall to be of good breeding. 

It makes sense.

The Captain thinks himself satisfied in quiet when the last of Brittany's ration is spent from the glass, hoping that the other was fond of the choice- and unwilling to admit that, for his bias, such was the sole option if the Admiral should not fancy to send Morecote below to track more- and pressing a lifted brow in the other's direction, firstly upon his lips to eyes. Grasping the moment's silence- and on what Brittany had to say about the matter- Whitehall fetches for another fork of only vegetable: a small sample of sweet potato and a sliced carrot. Two such tastes that favoured well to venison, he thought, joying in it in silence as the other is to speak.

"Don't mistake me, of course. I am a bit of an enthusiast myself. 'Twas not at all the activity that imposed upon my patience--" Brittany's words fray slighty in his attempts not to laugh at Meuric's oncoming expense. "It was Mister Meuric himself, you see. He's gone a bit mad in his age, bless the devil." He pauses then, thoughtfully eyeing the table with recollective distance.

"No, he was expecting to find some kind of bromeliad. A dish-like plant, you see, which collects water in the center-" He makes a cup with his hand, his other pinching his fingers so as to demonstrate as he pitched them into the center. Brittany, to his credit perhaps, explains without any judgment to the man's ignorance. Exotic naturalism this far east was still fairly a niche wisdom.

"Supposedly, small creatures will come to lay their young within." He then shakes his head and intakes a heavy sigh to pause with his rambling.

"Ah- you'll forgive my front, sir." Whitehall imposed when the pause would grasp, unkeen to interrupt but not so that he should forsake the first apology he had felt owed in proper to his senior: he returns to an attitude marginally unyielding as he fixates to rectify himself and would be soon to clasp his hands when the cutlery was forlorn to the plate. Something to do while he would mull, perhaps. And so he did over Meuric for but a moment, understanding of his circumstance and almost jibing to wish him the best on his return should he find the normality to make for England anew; it seemed something quite too presumptuous and he refrains with a hum.

"Not at all." He'd quickly answered to the apology- Of course, to mean that he took no offense whatsoever.

Whitehall's gaze would fix to the Admiral's exhibition as he spoke and he drew his observation from wrist to fingertip in taking Brittany's portrait to memory; he thinks he understands and hums agreeably. 

Perhaps less so as he follows Brittany's fist quite so until it is to ball and return to his person. 

Perhaps instead he makes something of a piteus judgment thence and grimaces. Another sip takes into his mouth as he raises the coffee so; that is well. The taste is cooler now that it has stewed upon the table for long, and he thinks it better than something so balmy as a fresh cup. 

In explaining the nature of Meuric's offending flora, Brittany's brows raise to the question to follow.

"Rather like a deception in plain sight?" He asks- without thought firstly, for he was not so wise of such a thing that was not deadly and so liked to think it something like deception of one's own crew under French wraps shortly before a fray (and for so he struggled similarly to liken nature to its own devices, seeming it reasonable that conflict was reason enough for a creature's design)- and if not for Diana's regard, might have perpetuated for something more of Brittany's knowledge. Contemplation lingered still when he would become interested but remarkably less so when he would find an endeavour worth in fixating to the other's wisdom.

"Not at all, in fact." He adjusts his seating for a moment so as to better face the Captain as he begins to elaborate.

"It's for the purpose of safe-keeping as not many creatures possess the litheness of frame to stick a snout within, you see. It's quite clever." He concludes, thinking to perhaps liken it to the Captain as a safe inlet, invisible from the sea. Reaching for to bring his coffee to cradle near his chest then. The storm had begun to reach them, the front beginning to inspire unruliness in the waves. 

"I see." Clever indeed, when he is regarded mercy of Brittany's explanation. It was not quite close to what Whitehall had thought of the idea but likened it similarly to such as rather hiding plainly nonetheless. For to stalk those guileful upon the roil, he quite fancies. At first, he did not regard Brittany but as a demure quarrel upon nature's way, but supposes he can agree if for to twist to what came more naturally to himself. 

As they moved on to discuss the Diana, Brittany settled once again against his seat-back, without meaning to mirror the other. Whitehall retracts his thought and is to nod quite plainly when the two are to indulge in the apple of his own desires instead; he does not notice his gesture repeated and rather joys in the mellowing of the air, if until he voices vexation. It is of relief that the Admiral is not so phased by the notion and such relaxes him further to the chair. He thinks he finds himself marginally intrigued by nature, but it was something hopeful that recommended a specific muse unto Whitehall as to tolerate such. Brittany, yet, was entirely new.

"Of the many available, we thought the Diana best. She is one of the fastest of her class, I'm told?" Brittany asks.

Whitehall seems to take to enlightenment despite Brittany's modesty upon the mention of his prize shortly thereafter and he sits up to regard him properly; rather, he seems marginally more attentive all of one sudden. The Admiral would then take note of the Captain's sudden interest. Polite, but overtly more wakeful. He could assume then, that he has been Diana's Captain for some time. 

In fact, he didn't have to assume, as he recalls one little detail he'd heard back from a friend in having mentioned the man to be his forthcoming Flag Captain in a letter. 

"Yes, she's quite contemporary," Whitehall drawls and taps his cutlery gently to the ceramic; it was not quite enough to chime but enough to draw away from silence as he clears his throat. "First aboard, I was jibed that she is something of a behemoth by design. I suppose that the architect fancied himself another step above the Indien, or some such thing." He pauses to retrieve for himself a sip for his own coffee finally, regarding Brittany's earlier drink with a small raise of the cup before he takes it to himself.

"I don't well recall the poor devil's name...perhaps a Mister Thompson," off-topic, Whitehall thinks. "Diana is rather a nimble lady, if she feels rightly to her handler." He is then to incline himself marginally towards Brittany as to ask:

"I am curious, what had you to say upon her?"

Brittany looks back up, having found himself lost in thought.

"Apologies, I was far away for a moment." He mutters, setting down his drink and directing his attention at the other in apology. "You mentioned the Indien just now-- Yes-" He pieces the context together. A hum sounds unto Brittany's apology- Whitehall does not mind truthfully and makes no effort towards it, deciding that to declare mercy may have been unnecessary- and his head nods once, but with intent, to the Indien's mention. It was most apt but perhaps ironic, for her own lines were something of word to those inspired enough to observe them, he had heard from others more succinct on the matter: he expected Diana of resolve that was above the sorry frigate if with the same intrigue for a modern design- for she was not yet hogged and rather was something of a success beside the former- and almost corrects in the hope that the Admiral would not think insult of the Diana for the comparison should he look far into the matter.

"What I had to say? Just so. That her scantling afforded some assurity of protection as we have yet to assuage the East of its mystery and danger. Her lines..." He leans back then, politely arching his back with a wince, perhaps owing to some injury past. Whitehall is assured yet when Brittany poises otherwise and, sitting up to the notion of the Admiral's lean, swells his chest marginally to listen. He thinks himself knowing of her construction but struggles to restrain something of a modest leer, the corners of his lips upturning marginally. His eyes are lidded somewhat by now though intent upon Brittany no less.

"Afford us with a means to take advantage of the region's frequent monsoon upwellings. Yes.. She was the perfect thing for the job." 

And he settles again, one arm holding him stiffly away from the table, though was altogether a motion indicating his relaxation.

"I was informed of you and thought there to be no wisdom found in parting you from her and so I, instead, parted with Captain Dempsey, my former flag Captain." He purses his lips and proceeds to rap his fingers rhythmetically on the table. It was thoughtful, not so much anxietous.

Whitehall's intent of attention lasts for but a second when the other settles, and in turn Whitehall considers the implications of the afterthought. He does not tense himself but thinks to press astern upon his chair's spine.

"Very well," It is not so assuring nor belligerent, indeed pinching from it the insult that might have pieced between them had the circumstances been of some such other variable as another vessel. He was not so inexperienced upon ships so much as pretentious as to his attachments: something quite contentious, Whitehall did not so quarrel in adapting to the language of a third-rate's challenge as perhaps the better ease of a frigate, generally. To be replaced in any such scenario tenses the Captain and is something that he pauses to consider. His tone thence reaches dry but clasps to the hopes of genuity in Brittany's observation. "I assure you that your judgment will be met well." He does not drink to that nor seek Brittany's affirmation to raise his glass again, and takes momentary solace to take to himself the other half of the loin and vegetable. 

Brittany sensed, at first, some sharpness in the terse 'very well' but it did not bother him. He only nods once at him, a quiet sound of assent in his throat as he allows them both to fall back into silence once more. He enjoyed this. That Captain Whitehall could adapt so easily with him to accommodate for both action and inaction. His ease was welcome.

Whitehall is not entirely the nimblest diner and chides against a rush, should the behaviour inspire moderation of him or of his surroundings: something that his parents had been keen to demonstrate was patience. 

When the mouthful is returned to modesty as he finishes it, the Captain's lips purse thus in thought. It is a fresh sear to consider the idea of the Diana's loss for but a crossing, deciding not to trifle but insisting justice in his mind that she would do them rather better than anything else upon the Admiralty's decision.

"I must indulge you, sir," the request is passive firstly but the ire remaining not concealed with something of a blunter observation. It is not conveyed with deliberation unto Brittany and Whitehall firstly does not notice. He stills himself to relax into his seat and clasps his glass; that was perhaps a better choice to coffee, as to ensure trust was better than to brood over a statement proven soon wrong by his own heed- he hoped. The silence is next broken with another question. Brittany thinks it is aimed with mere reciprocal politeness-- and that Whitehall was not genuinely so interested in naturalism. So he should give him a more interesting story, somewhat related. "What of your delight with the natural world?"

"Ah." He presses his plate an inch away with a middle finger. Before he could think to begin, wine is offered anew and he purses his lips for a moment.

It is in the same sentence that he inhales and nods towards Brittany's chalice.

"A glass anew?" The Captain belays his grasp and presses his hands to his chair as if ready to stand at the other's request.

"Yes, I should think so. Thank you."

He would await its refilling before bringing it near, having finished the coffee some minutes ago. Very well, the Captain thence thinks when Brittany adheres to the request of wine. One hand retrieves the napkin to fold it back upon the table before Whitehall is to stand, and he is slow until he reaches the other's side. With some deliberation, he is conscious of the space as the glass is refilled and quite soon retracts himself from the Admiral's space as to provide room to retrieve the chalice.

"You had asked me previously why I was selected to lead this squadron and I should think to enlighten you that I was well-chosen meanwhile answering both questions. You see, I have family with holdings in India." He drinks gingerly.

"My interest in creatures and growing things came from a visit as a child- to their home. I'd never seen such delightful majesty as a tiger in my life. A massive creature; Brilliant colour; One wonders how in the world its prey doesn't see it through the greenery." His eyes were briefly wide, staring distantly as if recalling the image in his mind. 

"And trees taller than imagining-- growing over cities in the forest that have been so long dead, even the locals couldn't tell you who lived there." 

Sighing, he brings his attention back to the present and regards the Captain with a look. And a thoughtful pause. 

Interesting that he is connected with the country in such a way, Whitehall is to ponder as he hums contentedly and replaces himself within his chair. His eyes draw to the bottle and he ensures of its health before he is to consider what was said. To find safety in the fog of trees as a tiger is of curiosity to Whitehall but something that isn't voiced comes his reverie of the matter, and he wonders the same of themselves by Mauritius; he had heard of it on use by smaller vessels. When he thinks he can hear thunder- rather the roil as it thrashes upon the sides, and quite inherently he reaches up a hand as to gesture to retrieve his wine. He wondered the decision to tack thence with a look back, to come to a broader reach than what had been lent to them, but he opts so not to voice that with the suspicion that Brittany might pry for the same. He remains attentive despite it.

"You must be lucky to have seen through to the tiger's stripes, the futile things," it is a moment before he commits himself from gazing astern. He is to fetch a small mouthful- only something quick as to savour- of his plate. He covers his hand and thence mouth rather with the napkin, deciding it more modest a cloak than a bare hand. 

Brittany, were he learn more about his Captain's nature thence, might agree that nature's aggressive side suited him far better than it's coyer aspects.

"Lucky? Oh, not so-- And yet, perhaps. It was a pet, you see. Trained by my uncle's attendant." 

"Of course, it was still dangerous. The land is filled with stories of men attempting to tame nature and failing. Hopefully you and I will succeed, hm?"

"Ah. Well- it is said that to tame nature is to adjoin to the Gods, or something like that," he utters under a breath that counters itself with something of a soft chuckle; a passing exhale that comes nasally as a sigh. "Indeed, I should hope so." They should expect so, he muses as his eyes draw to the other's inaction upon his lap.

"Maybe we should recall to us a tiger's prowess if the monsoons are bad." The implication to hide amongst the trees was not so literal as perhaps suggested but Whitehall restrains to correct the notion, in fact curious as to Diana's handling of particularly large attentions. He was sure that she would settle for any gauge and recalls briefly her talent in the rain and likewise.

Brittany was now quite comfortable in their company and brushes a hand neatly over his linen, before bringing it up to fold it half-way upon the table.

Whitehall mentions the monsoons and Brittany's brows furrow.

"Hm." He hums ponderously. "You suggest using the rain sheets to hide ourselves, I think." Risky, in so many ways. More than he can count.

"That would require, not only a fair touch of luck, but dare I say some foolhardiness. You speak as though you've either done it before or would consider it worth the risk," He regards Whitehall with surprise, but of a gentle sort. "If we must, it's not an overzealous idea. But we mustn't go out of our way. We'll simply sail around it." 

He knows Whitehall knew this ship and her abilities, but sometimes a Captain romanticized such things. Let it not be the time his confidence in her fails, he should think...

Discontentment was not unexpected by the idea and he hopes himself justification of the idea despite its perils. Whitehall raises his chin but does not yet retort as Brittany is to consider it, a lidded look upon the Admiral that is- momentarily- to become something more overt. 

"You have not seen her, Admiral," it is indeed the risk that draws success so if it is to work, but he expects that Brittany knows as well and refrains the jibe. Perhaps the idea is something of foolishness to that who had not borne the sight, or perhaps to a man with no demonstration upon which to judge another quite well enough. Whitehall was not entirely arrogant yet as, indeed, romantic; he would permit himself to lament upon what may well be simply chance or lust. "It is obtuse but not impossible, if we are enclosed to the challenge. There are uses yet for these great hulks."

Satisfied with self-absorption for his vessel's silhouette, he clears his throat and follows the curvature of Brittany's brow with something of a short smile; in the same breath he is to raise his own glass, not replenished but not yet satiated, as to proffer a modest salute before drinking. 

"Though not fluent, I understand some of the northern tongue. However, I'm afraid that will not help us in the bay of Bengal entirely as much as the Admiralty thinks. On the other hand- it makes me-- us-- of use to the East India Company. Whom we will be assisting soon enough." He raises his brows knowingly at Whitehall as he drinks, then.

"I should be interested to hear more of your childhood," he admits, rather finding the concept an exotic thing and quite better understanding opportunity. Perhaps, were the holdings still in his grasp on arrival, they might later find the time as to exploit poor Brittany for some sort of comeuppance. "But there will be time to learn of your languages and your ways, sir, if we are to be captured with the Company or until we are refocused to idling at port if they will tolerate us there." 

Brittany tilts his glass in the man's direction in reply.

"Are you really?" He smiles, then, giving him a sardonic upturn of the head, brow to follow. Coy, as if to tell him he doubted very much.

Whitehall exchanges a leer with Brittany's cynicism that parallels obversely with the other's beam. He is glad that it is not lingered upon and has nothing to say thus, for he firstly shared little desire in trifling with the Admiral to such depth unless his knowledge would become of good rapport to them both; he understands Brittany's meaning thence and hums agreeably, thinking quite likewise.

"I believe they will. In fact, I gather the Director intends to keep us laid up until his own ships are prepared to leave with us. By then, we'll have followed this storm nigh eight-hundred leagues. It would be wise to wait for it to pass when we do arrive." As by then, they'd be in the thick of it. No use shoving off in the middle of a monsoon.

The rain begins to pick up in the silence, a growing pitter upon the window that unsettled Whitehall as to regard the windows aft. He frowns, for the cabin is remarkably darker now, and indeed stands only for a moment to retrieve the Madeira. It is proffered closer to himself across the table, the wet cloth its sole support. His plate is pushed aside, the rest of its contents slowly eaten throughout the conversation's course. He denies wrongdoing the first time and clutches on to the bottle without self-reasoning, at first casually, but it is of no ill will thus to hide his either treasure.  Brittany follows the man's gaze idly, taking note, likely similarily, on the storm approaching.

"Here is the storm, God bless us." Whitehall admits with some semblance of unsureity; an offer for Brittany to make do with their course or to proffer the adjustment of tack himself. It would not be so much of scandal to change if they are to make proper of themselves, Whitehall decides; the Diana was rather adept at handling such conditions despite her size and of the stories of these poor devils. She was not yet to yield into the current and did not seem so fussed by the squall, preferring herself to slice it effortlessly. 

Brittany, content with their mutual conclusions, stands himself with a heave and a breath, a forearm extending across his spine as he arches. Not seeking to make a show of it, he quickly circles the table to the fore, setting down his emptied glass onto a wet linen for Morecote to collect and clean.

"Indeed. We'll be fine. But I do think we might attempt to bear further away of the gale; Reach further out to sea. We'll meet with the others along the way and if not? They know where to be." Further out was safer, as the storm caused a pitch in the waves the closer one might get to the coast. The further, in fact, the better.

Whitehall retrieves his glass and swills it delicately before fetching a sip, deciding to savour the last fill of his coffee before he is to place the cup aside. He leaves the plate for the steward to come, expecting him soon- Morecote knew of modesty to leave them but not so much as to abandon them entirely- and admiring upon Brittany. 

"I haven't been to India myself." It is something of better inspiration as to hear tell of what the Admiral might have to say, the truth of his admission being so as he had often found himself of intimacy with the West and not so much the East, but finds himself somewhat less relaxed as he expects any such comment on the soon earlier observation made that might oblige him to take leave from the cabin for but a moment.

"No? Come, let us drench ourselves. You'll find that the rain there is hotter than the air. Now, go on and leave that. Your Steward knows where to stow it, I'm sure." He gestures for Whitehall to leave things and follow. Out of some will to spite, the Captain does not entirely commit sight unto Brittany's ascent and finishes away his coffee. The notion for direction is met without debate and is not so to deliberate upon; it was their best course with the gale's relent upon them and he would not fancy to counter it now that the wind's encroachment had led to its shift. 

Care is taken to organising his mess for the steward on his dismissal and takes but a moment long before he stands thence; Whitehall was still insistent on not yet being but entirely malleable to their operation and would endear to play upon it. 

"I'm eager for our first--" 

There's a whoop and a hollering from above deck- following a deep sound nearly imperceptible. And yet you could feel it vibrate in your chest for just a moment. On the contrary, Whitehall does follow, and in fact is only relented from pursuit by the great bay that sang through the planking and over them. He meets with a lifted brow to the Admiral's gaze likewise before following closely. 

Brittany glances wide-eyed at Whitehall before turning and climbing up the steps. 

The Captain meets with a lifted brow to the Admiral's gaze likewise before following closely.  Through the cabin he is to reach for and clasp upon his bicorne, fixing it to himself as the two would push the threshold; he did not quite care entirely to soak in it. As they passed through so, the steward Morecote- wide-eyed not unlike the hands and upon his gesture something of a polite jitter- pressed past with something of a panicked salute to collect their table. 

Brittany first assumed that it might merely be the crew's reaction to the rain's arrival; Their malcontent or perhaps whimsical amusement. Instead, pressing the door open with his forearm, finds almost the entirely of the ship's main deck crew on the starboard rail. A sight of over a hundred men pointing and chattering amidst the onset of a storm dumbstruck him for a moment- What was this?

The sight was certainly of trepidation to Whitehall and he looks their way first over Brittany's shoulder and to the water. A sight of remarkable discomfort, as to belay his notice of a second lieutenant who had been awoken from the wardroom at the rattle. Tarporley stood fore amidst the squall of hands, in part lingering upon the sight and otherwise doing his best to quell them.

He looks to larboard in hopes of finding an officer to-- Ah. A lieutenant salutes. 

"Sir." This coming officer would quail but not entirely impolitely. He speaks hurriedly, as in reading Brittany's face the man knew he wanted an explanation. "The men say they saw a creature."

"A creature?"

The lieutenant, one he doesn't recognize yet, opens his mouth but stops. He didn't seem to have the answers either and appeared almost similarly struck.

"A whale?" Brittany snaps.

"No sir, they say it was not--" The man indeed pauses himself, the words vacant upon his tongue quite like the myth that had seemed before them, and would part ways upon the dismissal of the tarry; he did not entirely depart, awaiting what the Admiral had to say, but exchanged glances fore to the Lieutenant Tarporley.

"Nonsense. Get them back to work immediately." Brittany bites with a wrinkle of his nose. He swings around to look for Whitehall. 

"Have your men never seen a whale before, Captain?" He glowers, the rain now beginning to wet his uniform, leaving quickly lightening spots on his cream lapels as he paused in place. "Turn us broad and roll us northeast by east. I want us off the coast."

Brittany, agog at the concept of an entire ship's crew finding a sea mammal to be worthy of such gander, still held his brow hard.

"I resent your accusation, sir." Whitehall is to state under a breath but has since clasped towards his cravat: a nervous gesture, reprieving himself of his dampening fabrics as he quarrels to try and make sense of such. The men were not dubious nor of unsound mind- many of them he had known for years and others nigh quite as well, he hoped, if with some few outliers as to be expected- and so Whitehall was momentarily addled to the racket. As he is to meet Brittany's gaze- but evades it so to regard his lieutenant finally- he huffs lowly.

Brittany had given Captain Whitehall a leer of disappointment. Of course, later, it would likely be forgotten. It was merely a matter of discipline and even the tightest ship could experience a missed step or two. It was alright.

"You resent it, sir." He growls back, stalking past him and turning to stand to the starboard. The leer upon Whitehall was quite enough as to still him under Brittany's word and he, though without voicing any such resentment indeed beyond what he would accuse, curls his lip to something of a sneer that would not go hidden to the air. He does so resent it, and heaves to a short sigh. as he deliberates upon crossing the Admiral again.

"Hmh. A creature." He thence mutters to himself with a downcast glower. Of course, he knew such a thing must now be noted in the logs.

"Mister Hartford, we will tack northeast by east and follow the gale past Mauritius." Indeed the lieutenant- Hartford- gathers himself towards the men, and behind the captains can be heard so as to clew up the mainsail and ready about; the bosun's whistle intercepts this to draw the crew to themselves from the sea. And thence, Whitehall is to regard Brittany with one passing glance as he makes towards Tarporley, the other meeting him at the quarterdeck's steps. 

Brittany listens, then, to his command being passed down appropriately. At least the Captain could do that correctly, he notes. Exchanging looks with Whitehall, he furrows his brow slightly when the man turns away to go speak to Tarporley. No doubt to ask about the sighting. He clenches his jaw for a moment and rolls his eyes away. He stays where he is as he listens through the rain beginning to come down harder on the deck.

"What did you see, Mister Tarporley?" Whitehall interjects, expecting the Admiral's presence to follow him to his pace. He thinks to perpetuate himself but does not and instead would concentrate himself to Tarporley. It is not worth the quarrel so if they are in danger or to be ambushed by anything. Whitehall himself had not been so keen to heed the myths or tales of monsters and the like and himself had bore no witness to anything that might have come about in his crossings of the Atlantic or indeed the Channel- though he fancied the challenge of a beast somewhere so hollow as the North sea- but equally did not fancy to be ambushed on open water with a crew not prepared for the engagement.

"I'm not sure, sir," Tarporley stammers and offers something of a panicked glance towards Brittany. "It submerged before I was present- the men say that it was a big black thing that blended with the waters like rock." 

Near enough to hear, Brittany tightens his lips. 

"Sounds rather familiar in description, doesn't it." He squeezes his hands in front of him. He wouldn't entertain the idea of a monster that might threaten them. Such things were myth and in his many years over the Atlantic--

Well...Perhaps he'd chosen not to see. 

"You should give the opportunity chance should there be more witnesses." Whitehall proffers at the idea of the creature in fact simply being a whale, considering the idea to Tarporley as a follow-up. He does not regard Mister Lyons until he is to turn and meet the exchange ahead.

His expression softens as he feels a presence almost dash past before stopping abruptly and saluting him. 

The demeanour is something of surprise to Whitehall as he watches on the other as to lead the boy forth, the hand indeed meeting Lyons' shoulder with but a gentle brush that endears Whitehall as to the contrary betwixt them just minutes prior. He supposed he would admit some compassion on the Admiral that did not merely concern the likes of plants and biology thus; that did not concern the belay of Whitehall's own respect.

"Sir, apologies. I did not see you for a moment-" A midshipman who spoke well. Young and with blond hair under his cap.

"As you were, boy. A name?" 

"Midshipman Lyons, sir."

"Mister Lyons, were you privy to the disturbance earlier?"

The boy's expression tightens as he makes known his curiosity. 

"I was, sir." He appears thoughtful before meeting Brittany's eyes fairly confidently. "I thought I caught a glimpse of it over the rails at the fore and thought to come tell the Captain. But I can't be sure of my own eyes. The men insist it possessed scuted fins but it could nearly be mistaken for a roller broken at the crest by the wind."

"You're perspicacious, aren't you, Mister Lyons. Good boy. Tell the Captain what you saw." He urges the boy with a hand at his shoulder to usher him larboard to do just so.

He's not sure why he wanted to indulge such a fantasy, really... Though he supposed he would be extremely remiss to entirely dismiss the possibility. More the fool would he be later to discover he was wrong after so much dismissal.

He follows the Midshipman over to the Captain and Lieutenant Tarporley.

"It seems one of your boys got a better look at your mystery whale." He frowns. Lyons echoes similarly to the Captain, knowing well that the man had heard what he'd told Brittany, and he was well underway in deliberating upon the notion with Tarporley.

"Indeed, there must be something about us. It would be unwise to say otherwise," Whitehall jibes, for he agreed wholly with the sentiment as to the state of the men believing in fantasy; Whitehall thought it quite reasonable, for they were not sick upon the food or boredom particularly enough to summon such delusions if most of the men were even so capable. It is certainly of resentment that Brittany should think his men to that liking, he ponders. "A roller broken at the crest." The thought is intriguing.

"Perhaps it was a creature. I don't believe an entire ship to be so foolish as to all believe in the same lie spontaneously.  I suppose we should be cautious."

"We will keep an eye out for the mystery whale indeed," he spits firstly, reminiscing Brittany's speak upon its name. "If it is something that might be of recognition to us, it may be dangerous or seeking to take us for its own." Tarporley salutes modestly and listens for Whitehall's direction; with pity, for there was none. Their course would remain resilient against the squall and it was of no concern to the Diana, whom had retained the most of herself through and into the manoeuvre. It did not worry Whitehall as to her capabilities with weather; perhaps, rather, that the beast was in fact a pod of dolphins curious as to their intent upon the strait.

"Sir." Tarporley acknowledges and retires to his post.

"As you were, Mister Lyons," Whitehall reiterates and offers Brittany something of a look. He calls after the midshipman's departure with something humbling in comparison. "Thank you."

The Diana makes further up the straight until she is close to the vicinity of Mauritius, the mist settling with the monsoon upon her by now and enclosing them neatly in a thin mask amongst the dark. The Ulysses and Nimble are not yet met even after the chimes of the seventh bell as to reach into the morn full; it was difficult to tell now that the storm had encroached upon them, but the great cloud offered them a great deal of protection more than what was perhaps quite recognised.

It would be a while before the ocean toiled again, the swell picking up as to accommodate for the foul turn in weather. At some point, Tarporley would exchange his watch with Grey, but their course would remain as they came upon Mauritius. 

Brittany tightens his expression as they had approached the waters surrounding the place. One of the symptoms of the Empire's lax hold on the east, he surmises. That's all. It would be rectified within years.

"A bitter place now," Whitehall converses, having subtracted himself to remaining atop the deck. He regards this comment to the air but hopes that Brittany might pluck it; it is quickly decided that he feels some semblance better but does not quite press to apologise nor to seek reconcile with the other. 

And so Brittany sought not to remark on it as the Captain had. Though he does nearly turn his head sidelong to give the man an assuring expression, he pauses midway through the motion and deigns instead to pace starboard.

The sky is dark here and does not match their morn's rise, for it is impossible that the sun should cast any shadow or glaze upon them which led them entirely away from the monsoon's fog. Initially, when rained upon, it was uncomfortable. But once you were entirely drenched, it became something of a new normal and you ceased to notice the feeling at all.  "Let us hope we do not become lost here like poor Clarke."

The mist hung low over the water as the hot seas defiantly spat it up in spite of the rain's attempts to pat it down. Brittany directs his attention fore, beyond the moving shapes of the men at work. He'd settled into something rather trance-like as he stood, the sound of the rain on the sea making a din in his awareness that almost willed the cancelling of all else.

Indeed- as intended for Brittany's word and not something that he might care to regard to the officer of the watch. He peers towards the Admiral, noting the solace about them except for the crew. They had remained on course for now and would not quite divert without the command direct.

Whitehall plays with his cuffs in the rain, something that endures him relief. 

The sea is entirely too quiet, he thinks.

Whitehall would settle since their presence nigh to the island back upon the quarterdeck; the mist was well to them and enclosed upon the third-rate until it seemed but only them upon the water. He had forsaken sense of the rain- and Brittany was right, for he felt it through his frock and to his face the warmth that pressed its fingers ghostly across his skin- and rather grew to appreciate it. The hands begin to chide to silence as they encroach deeper into the fog, until the cacophony is but of the rainfall and the squall beneath against Diana's waterline that has not quite yet settled with the wind's pursuit.

"The Squadron is still away. It would be something of a calamity to mislay them here, I'd think," he is to ponder aloud and regards Brittany with but arrogance. "We would be well hidden soon unless we are to be ambushed before the fogbank."

Whitehall's observation captures his attention despite and he finds himself irritated.

He turns in place and casts the man a look to silence him if he could; Approaching through the steadying rainfall so as to reprimand him more privately and therefore not cause him any dishonour in front of his men.

"Captain." He spoke in a way that bared his teeth. A languid aggression laced his tone. "I have noticed that you devote some energy to realizing misfortune." 

It is not difficult to discern the ire that split through the mist thence, and Whitehall makes wary. He is silenced indeed.

Brittany never liked holding his arms behind him when he was soaked and so let them rest at his sides, nearly giving the impression that he was squaring with the Captain.

"If you don't regard failure as an option, you alleviate yourself the time spent pondering it." He gives him a look of raising brows, as if to emphasise the point.

"We will find the squadron and we should have no worry of ambush if we are astute. Observe now." He challenges somewhat, angling his body to the center of the quarterdeck to indicate he should thence do his duty and observe.

It was aggressive. Brittany wasn't sure to what he owed his hackles to raise.

"Sir." He remarks dryly and presses himself proper to align parallel to Brittany's frame. His gaze is drawn to Brittany's jaw and past his shoulder to the men below; the indication of the other's happenstance, if not deliberate, is not so eagerly evaded. He is to lift his chin at command to observe and, for a moment, considers against a retort.

Brittany eyes him with some intent to pursue the issue should the Captain's response displease.

"I think that to disregard the possibility of otherwise is to put us in a dangerous pursuit," perhaps the observation is something of pessimism- of the mind that he perhaps did not trust the object of his affections for past six years or so now- but he declines to comment as to the genuity of its feeling. It had been remarked true on a number of occasions. Nevertheless; "You have nothing to fear from her." 

And it did. Brittany snarls wordlessly at the retort and turns away with a terse sigh. He wanted to explain that voicing the concern was unnecessary, but he might leave that conversation for later and in private. Of course, he had little notion that Whitehall merely intended for the observation to meet his ears alone. He would so soon blame him for affecting the morale on board without knowing the modus operandi of Diana's crew.

He wheels his attention back around and fixes the man with a lidded look.

"It is not from Diana that I expect to encounter disappointment. Captain." And with that his expression softens once again and his chin levels; Assuming a posture less of a tiger of intent to leap and once again seems content. He regards the Captain then with a cooler angle of his brow and sighs, thinking to alleviate the accusation with a word; He opens his mouth to speak before thinking better of it, and turning away to resume his own observations on the starboard quarter.

Perhaps not; Whitehall's lip curls somewhat upon the belligerence but not for long. He didn't quite expect less- Brittany's force would not be quelled, for it against nature itself as to suggest failure- but proffered to himself value in the Admiral's contempt that decided to him something of the other's temperament wherein it he might so ordinarily escape knowing; it was a strength to learn something of the man without necessarily indulging him even if he was to be scorned of it. He would better consider the words; withal arrogant, he was oft quite of mind to take lesson in all possibilities. He opts to carry the insult on him with a leer otherwise but does not disregard the shadows dancing fore nor the pause of the din that better sounded the gunfire upon them. He remained larboard as the Admiral was to part ways and rather indulged the pause. He is to readjust his bicorne on Grey's approach and, contrarily, does not so consider the Admiral until the other crosses beyond him to the larboard rail. He does not quite see from his position but the distant flicker of cloud that comes every half a minute or so as the phantoms exchange their fire.

Whitehall thinks that he had come to understand the layers that designed the Admiral's exterior- unsure of what lay inside but slowly able to better guess, it was hoped- and did not entirely understand criticism of the remark. Perhaps he was of mind sound to belay them harm while they would be caught in the bank, if such was without risk. He notes this offering of Brittany's temperament and would come to recall it.

The exchange is not entirely long and Whitehall cares truthfully little for it before he resumes his command thenceforth, yet. He does not mind what is to be said and still deliberates himself Diana's commander.

Even so.

The rain had since let up somewhat. They must have been under a patch of sky, not that it was visible through the fog. Brittany was almost of a mind to pull off his frock had it even been possible for it to dry in this grasping humidity. Diana prowls low in the bank. Quite for hours, it feels like, her tread unsteady in the waves but the hands hushing idly across the planking as with anticipation. The hands are silent enough as to hear resound encroaching through the mists ahead and such is quite enough to silence the world around. It is not quite like thunder, and some men might have felt themselves shaken deep in the chest by the low racket; it is quite more, and such awakens Lieutenant Grey; he had exchanged watches but twenty five minutes prior with Tarporley whom was now decidedly settled within the wardroom.

Grey exchanges a glass on the port side, stopping to observe the cover some one or two points off the port bow. When the din distant makes itself known to their attention, naturally heads turned on deck to discern its bearing. He watches from the rail opposite as Grey peers through a glass only to hurriedly pace back with his makings of it.

"Cannonfire off the larboard bow, sirs." he explains, already exasperated, and- clutching to his glass with some apprehension- proffers a look fore.

"Belay the first bell, Mister Grey," Whitehall speaks low and- with intent that he was not so fond to conceal- poises himself ahead of Brittany with intent perhaps to obscure the other's view. The Admiral approaches the congregation with a look curious and, with a glance to the fore, he leers into the fog. He almost didn't notice Whitehall's intent to stand ahead of him until he thought back on it some moments after the glass is proffered. He accepts with lips pursed and, while turning his head an inch to give Captain Whitehall a look, steps over to the rail to get an unobscured glance and peers through. Scanning the fog, he sighs quietly to himself, steadying his arm. The first time Whitehall has begged questions of the Admiral's trust that he would not ask to have answered. "Call the hands to quarters and run out the larboard battery as we come upon them, but hold steady- we must be quiet."

Grateful for his own eyes, Brittany thinks he can see cannonfire bursting a light upon the fog about a mile out. Letting his arms fall, he thoughtfully taps the brass with a finger. And turns upon his own heel to approach the Captain from the side.

"Though I will say I agree with your judgement-" He whispers, only to bare his teeth with his next statement. "Henceforth, you would be so kind as to remember the chain of command. It would be improper of me to have my Captain flogged, and so--" He presses the spyglass somewhat hard to the man's midsection, waiting for him to take it.

"You will have to content yourself with my disapproval for now. We'll discuss it later."

He grunts lowly- an exhale that was seldom louder than a sigh- as Brittany proffers him the jibe, and he does not conceal his leer upon the other as he takes it with some reluctance. It is almost of mind to challenge unto him the prospect of daring such an idea and he flushes hot with something of a snarl in his anger; it is perhaps foolhardy as to challenge and so he does not right away.

It takes the Captain a moment to accept the glass, lingering on it until he decides it unwise to pry further and instead snatching it from the Admiral's hand to himself. His brow furrows and remains so as he takes Brittany's former place at the rail and peers through the glass thence. The look that is offered unto the Admiral's command thence, yet, prompts a sharp glower. He is to wait until he is sure of Brittany's direction before biting.

"I should think us efficient with or without your disdain, Admiral."

To this, Brittany only exhales a quick breath from his nose and looks away from his Captain scornfully.

With a modest salute when the two are quite done, Grey proffers Brittany the glass and makes below. 

The Captain peers astern of himself towards Brittany on Grey's leave and gives him something of a look, but does not quite challenge him before inspecting the man's frock. He motions as if to speak but clasps his hands behind himself- slowly and with some rigidity, for he is quickly under discomfort of the wet across the uniform- and turns upon one heel quietly to face fore over the deck. It is quiet when the Steward reaches them as others begin to seep upon the main deck and towards her larboard guns.

"A word for the logs," the Captain warns of Morecote lowly and raises a finger to his lips before he continues, and the steward tenses between the two officers as Whitehall pursues Morecote's attention. "Gunfire across the bank at the first bell of the forenoon, somewhere Southwest of Réunion if we have made well time- mm, I should think that if it's of ours that are beyond fired upon then we're to engage shortly."

They would not yet run up the colours, and regards Morecote with a look as the man hurries into the cabin as to retrieve Diana's log. 

The Admiral would leave the glass with Whitehall and, indeed, thinks to leet the sheets fly so as to speed them beyond any trouble should they have misjudged themselves; says nothing of the tack and goes below. He merely collects his sword and pistol, should such things be needed and, ascending, he pauses at the cabin and shoulders within, expecting to find;

"Ah, Mister Morecote. Where is the Captain's accoutrement?"

The Steward winces when he meets with the Admiral's presence inside and paused himself wordlessly for but a moment. It took the man achingly long seconds to shift his train of thought to peel his eyes from the logbook and gesture with wide-eyes to the side, where Brittany stepped then to collect the man's own belt and saber. 

"Right away, sir." Morecote stammers quiet and, indeed, would gesture sidelong to the adornment in waiting. 

Good man, Brittany thinks to himself, taking it upon himself to attach the fixings as he leaves to return above deck, holding out the Captain's equipment wordlessly to him as he approaches to stand to his right. Whitehall would take hold of it without thanks and, breathing a huff- for he could not yet see the near silhouette's colours nor make and was not so intent to judge it thus- fixes to himself the belt and the sabre thence.

She is an image fit into the dark of the murk and settles, resounding low as her cannons are slowly run out by each crew subsequent of the last upon the awakening of all hands. Not quite enough to be a stir if heard- they were keenly masked by the remnants of baying thunder if they were so desperate as to hide in the weather's wail- and increasingly unmatched by cannonfire as the Diana makes her way. Whitehall might fancy to brag that she is a quiet huntress but regards himself ahead instead. He thinks not to trim the sails, glances upon Brittany and almost hopes that the man expects why.

Nothing lay ahead in the mist except unending grey, until the silhouette of one rating- it would seem a heavy frigate at first glance or some such similar vessel- might appear some twenty or so minutes later if they were lucky; Whitehall was not so worried about this. The fog had grown dense upon them, something that lent to Diana's favour and perhaps to the reputation that she had come to hold in Whitehall's favour. 

The men must ache, the Captain might muse, and peers below from the sight ahead unto the faces of officer and seaman that regarded the two commanders so. It is by now thus that the utterings of below begin to ebb through to the main deck as the marines ascend behind the major, fore of himself Lieutenant Grey who is to report to the two. The divisions at the main deck are by now assembled to the guns, themselves a work of silence amidst the fog. The bosun's whistle and the rattle of a drum were a queer absence in the haze and ordinarily unwelcome; quite more so were the frigates' batteries across the morning's murk.

He regards Brittany dubiously, playing with his gloves behind himself and lifting his chest to poise, not blatant upon himself as to whether he was seeking order or simply permission upon the senior's command. Brittany clears his throat quietly and nods larboard. As they come upon their quarry, Brittany's demeanor becomes far more intent upon the drama.

"Have we her nature? One of ours?"

He lifts his chin as if to peer. He would be surprised if these were their squadron, nevertheless it is possible they thought to cross more central within the strait so as to maximize chances of rendezvous. It might have worked.

"Captain, if this is one of ours, we sail past and be ready to determine what lay beyond so as to give them a rake as we bear," He offers. That would almost certainly tinder-box whatever it was. "I'm beginning to believe, however- No, belay... There, see?"

As they began to coast almost upon them, the fire illuminated the silhouette and cast a glow on the other. It was, in fact, one of their own ahead, with some heavy frigate riding higher in the waves beyond her.

Brittany left Whitehall to appoint himself at the rail and watch.

He regards one Lieutenant Tarporley, whom he now recalled by face.

"Do they see us?" He asks as the man peers through his glass.

"Captain Hastings regards us, sir. They can't bear away in such close quarters." 

"I see her," the Captain stammers low and almost shifts in place as to gesture with his hands. Whitehall clutches the glass tight and plays upon it instead, unwilling to make a show of his thoughts. He indeed set his sights unto the display and pitched himself a step starboard to look aft and towards the helmsman. The deck busies now and so the Captain raises his voice to but a tone short of a call. "Mister Clayton, we'll maintain our heading until we cross the frigate and bring her hard to larboard."

The grunt aft is satisfactory and, looking back, he regards Brittany with a look, before he is to regard the marines of whom poise amidships beside the major. 

Behind the Admiral and Tarporley, the Captain gives the helm their heading and he glances down the rails to be sure the men are prepared. They are, of course. Mister Clayton, the man at the helm, repeats back his orders with a grunt, seemingly as eager to engage as the rest of the men.

Midshipman Lyons comes to the two and betwixt them as they are to poise between the crowd all of one sudden, almost invisible amongst the fray but identified by his stature and hat, and Whitehall thinks to reach towards him but refrains and brushes particularly lightly across the Midshipman's arm instead. Brittany would consider the enthusiasm of Whitehall's men later to the man's credit, after they've cleaned up this mess. And feels a form apparate near him to peer. The precocious Midshipman, Lyons. He thinks to regard him for a moment before catching the Captain's intent for him out of his peripherals and thinking not to interrupt.

"Run up the colours, Mister Lyons." Whitehall is to acknowledge in passing, expecting that to conceal oneself against the shadow of their ally is but an offering of time upon them. Narrowing his eyes, it is of a moment's consideration to decide over her design: he thinks that she is Ulysses but cannot be quite sure, afeared enough against incorrection that he refrains from speaking to Brittany but to remark unto the crew's readiness. Chatter likewise sounded below until the frigate's stern would poise itself parallel to the foremost gunports some two or three hundred yards away.

"Captain Hastings commands the Ulysses." Brittany then says, as if reading the Captain's mind. It was less pertinent, but the look he gives Whitehall as he relays it said something else entirely.

Hopefully he is to carry across his expectations with such a look when he exchanges with the Captain, whom he regards as standing out quite neatly in the cloying grey. Satisfied with the man, he turns back to watch the Ulysses and what appeared to be a bold privateer.

Assertion to fire is not offered upon them until Whitehall regards Brittany before he takes a step forth and inhales to call loud into the grey, the first acknowledgment since their descent to the action that either officer is to speak fore across the deck, a decision that is swift to alight them of the great din that follows the command's rule and soon yet to enlighten them upon the frigate's shattering.

"Fire as she bears."

"The glass, Lieutenant." Brittany asks with a hand offered out. A glass is pressed to his palm and he raises it to look beyond their fore, keeping a look distant even as their nose turns to larboard and he now decides to make for the starboard rail to confirm his suspicions. He pauses only just long enough to observe their rake from over his shoulder, deciding better against missing the view of Diana's first lethal barrage since he came aboard. 

As expected, with precision, they bore into the stern of the frigate, several shots penetrating and - devastatingly, directly through the officer's berths and rudder with the combined roar of fire, oak and glass screaming into one ravaged cry.

Brittany had heard it many times, and crosses the quarter-deck to peer into the fog. Tarporley had taken to being his aide de camp, he notes, and follows in case he was to be needed. And he would be.

He hears the marines fire as they are able over the taffrail of the enemy frigate and, he thinks, the cheers of the Ulysses' crew.

"The Nimble won't be far away. Likely engaged, or she would be here and our opponent wouldn't be so bold."

"Aye, sir." Tarporley answers fervently at the observation, as though in a hurry for Brittany to discern her whereabouts. It didn't take long, in fact. He lowers his glass in a hurry and turns at the same time as he steps back to meet Whitehall closely.

"The Nimble is broad on our starboard bow, Captain." He offers the glass. "She's being pursued, though I can't discern the nature through the fog."

"And they're coming in fast, sirs." Tarporley confirms back to them from his place still at the rails.

"Surely they see us. We outclass her and cannot avoid her easily. She must be the one to alter course." Brittany observes back.

"Aye."

By this point, they had cleared the stern of the heavy frigate and were able to look upon the damage they'd caused throughout her main deck. It was clear some men lay dead or damaged and they'd shot clean through several bunts and clews on her port side. Her mast could come down from the wind alone very soon.

If she was wise, she would surrender after such a surprise. The Diana still had time to fire a broadside before they would clear her.