Work Text:
Sefton scanned the mass of hunched-over seamen, searching for a hint of enthusiasm. Some hearty banter between friends, a jaunty tune being whistled, even something a small as a passing smirk. But no – all there was to see were the typical, dour faces of the crew as they took solemn swigs of their watered-down ale and attempted to grind their hardtack into somewhat-consumable pieces.
This wouldn’t do. He had had enough.
“What’s goin’ on ‘ere, blokes? I’m ‘avin’ flashbacks to me nan’s funeral!”
He chuckled to himself. That was the only response his line got.
“Well, any of you gentlemen care to tell me why I’m not seein’ any smiles?”
The crew hoped that not responding would force the man to leave, but after it became clear that would not be the case, Brennan chose to bite the bullet and speak up.
“Not exactly a party aboard this ship, Sefton. After all, we’re the ones doing the dirty work while you lounge around all day waiting to serve us this rubbish.”
Sefton chose to ignore the accusation of laziness and instead focus on Brennan’s comments about his food. That was the part he had prepared for.
“Well, I’ve got somethin’ special for you today, boys.”
With clearly-practiced speed and theatrics, he whipped out an ale mug, some hardtack, and some dubiously-edible cheese.
“You lot are gonna’ get to see a master at work!”
A few poked their heads up. Most decided against having to watch the cook embarrass himself further.
He clacked two pieces of the hardtack together, perhaps trying to attract more attention, before placing them at the base of the mug. He then took a couple of the less visibly expired pieces of cheddar and placed them on top.
“What in God’s name are you doing, Sefton?” Shirley inquired, with the tone of an exasperated schoolteacher.
“It’s called bein’ cultured. I don’t suppose you’ve ‘eard of it?” Came the man’s smug reply, clearly not realising to whom he was talking.
“That’s not an answer.”
Another layer of cheese and crackers fell into place on top of the previous one.
“I saw – well, I ‘eard about them doin’ this in… Spain. Yeah, Spain. Called it ‘terror mizoo’ or somethin’. Don’t ask me why.”
Shirley was glad Pasqua wasn’t here. The mortification that man would have felt would probably have caused him to combust.
“They didn’t give me this position for nothin’, blokes. I can whip up a masterpiece like the best of ‘em!”
The cook repeated his pattern until the ingredients reached the top of the mug. He had attracted a small crowd by this point, although their interest was more built on confusion than admiration.
“What’s going on here, Sefton? Andersen’s just told me that you haven’t gotten around to preparing our lunch yet.” Third Mate Perrott exclaimed as he marched towards Sefton and his “masterpiece”.
“One tick, sir.” he replied without a hint of concern. “Just got to add the ‘piece der resistance’!”
The assembly stared in awe as Thomas Sefton, the man entrusted to have enough culinary skill to feed an entire ship, revealed his final ingredient – the very last of the ship’s coffee supply.
“Good God, no-” Perrott shrieked, losing all the composure he had been trying to maintain, as he saw this madman start to pour all that was left of the prized commodity into his unholy creation. Walker leapt to his feet and hurdled over a table in a futile attempt to stop Sefton’s insanity, but by the time he got within striking range of the cook, it was too late. It was gone, soaking deep into the layers of the bubbling monstrosity.
Silence. Nikishin put his head in his hands. Shirley left to go above deck. The midshipmen stared in amused disbelief.
Sefton held his construction out to the crowd with both hands like a proud father.
“Well… which one of you boys wants the first slice?”
*********
“Sefton, Witterel’s called ye. There’s bin a mutiny, and he wants to have a meetin’.”
O’Farrell entered the kitchen. He saw the cook scraping at some sort of object in his hands.
“The hell are ye-”
As he approached, the item in his hands came into focus.
“Oh, fer God’s sake, Sefton…”
It was a replica of his creation from a week ago. He must have kept some extra coffee for himself.
“I told ‘em it was good. They didn’t believe me!” Sefton muttered as he scooped another spoonful of his concoction into his mouth.