(no subject)
Sir Edward Cavendish, the newly appointed royal governor of Port Royal, had had a rather rough crossing. Even after several hours of being safely on dry land, he can still feel the ground rocking beneath his feet if he moves too quickly or turns his head too fast. So he is taking great care to stand very still as he surveys his new office, admiring the fine map of the world that one of his predecessors had commissioned on the wall.
'Are you certain that I cannot persuade you to dine with me tonight, Commodore?' he asks, without turning his head. 'One final evening of fresh meat and good wine before you exchange it for ship's biscuit?'
'Quite certain, Sir Edward.' Commodore Lyon is over at the desk that until a few hours before was his desk, making a last-minute study of the paperwork that he has organised into several tidy piles. 'I fully intend to make a start at dawn tomorrow, and there are a few more matters I need to settle before the Pridewin departs.'
'As you will,' Sir Edward replies, with a slight shrug. 'From what you've shown me, I think I should be able to handle things here. All the papers in order, every income and expenditure accounted for down to the last farthing.'
'Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves.' Coming from most any other person, such a phrase would sound as hollow and wooden as the worst cliche, but the commodore somehow makes it sound like the only sensible course of action. 'It is good business to keep orderly records. And in light of the circumstances of my arrival, I wanted to ensure that there would be absolutely no cause to question my actions or decisions.'
'Quite, quite.' Sir Edward steals a sidelong glance at the older man, trying to determine if there are any hidden meanings in that comment. He tries a subtle push for further information. 'A nasty business, I must say.'
The commodore looks up from the papers. His gaze is serious and professional, utterly unreadable even to the new governor's practised diplomatic eye. 'Murder and treason are seldom anything else, Sir Edward.'
Sir Edward blinks, momentarily unable to come up with a suitable reply. 'Er...indeed.'
The commodore nods, as if in agreement. 'I am merely thankful that I was present and able to assume authority here long enough to mitigate as much of the damage as possible. Though I have been told that apart from the recent unfortunate incidents, this part of the Caribbean is normally quite peaceful and free from strife. Now that Port Royal has been restored to the care of His Majesty's appointed officials, I cannot think you will run into much difficulty governing this place.' A beat. 'Provided that you do not start hanging people anytime soon.'
Sir Edward laughs, but when he sees that there is absolutely no trace of humour or wit in Commodore Lyon's expression, he hastily turns the laugh into a sharp cough.
'Yes, er, well...I will not have it come to that.' And he means it. He knows full well that he has been put into this position by the grace of God and His Majesty's favour, and from what he has read of the reports and seen of Commodore Lyon's paperwork he is more than aware that he has been handed the keys to Port Royal on a perfectly polished silver plate. Sir Edward Cavendish intends to keep that silver plate polished -- it certainly would not do to be shown up by an East India Company man, no matter how inhumanly efficient the man happens to be.
'Then by your leave, Sir Edward' -- the commodore moves out from behind the desk, and picks up his hat from a nearby table -- 'I shall take my leave.'