Philip Nolan. Chuck Pfarrer

and a pot of table beer.

      “It’s the ration, sir,” the Marine said. “Old Chick says that there ain’t no hash what’s still hot, so it’s cold pork, soft tommy, and small beer. There’s some of that hard Spanish cheese what’s just come aboard, too. Same as the watch has for midrats.” The Marine handed the wooden mess kid over to Nolan. “Will that do, sir?”

      Nolan considered that if this was a joke, it was being played with elaborate and generous hospitality. He said, “Yes, it will do very well.”

      Nolan took the plate, and Curran saw the prisoner’s reserve melt away into astonishment and pleasure.

      “Captain Pelles has directed that you dine once a week with the officers. On each second Sunday, should the captain find himself at leisure, you will be invited for dinner in the great cabin.”

      “Captain Pelles, is it?” Nolan asked. “Well, I am honored. Yes, of course. Thank you again.” Nolan placed the tray onto the folding table and stood beside it, moving his eyes to the loaf—soft baked bread made from white flour—and then he looked at the sentry and then to Curran.

      “I’ll leave you to your supper.”

      Nolan bobbed his head, said something obliging, and pulled the short stool up to the table.

      “Good evening, Mister Nolan.”

      Nolan shifted a mouthful of ham into his cheek and said, “A very good evening it is, Mister Curran.” Swallowing, he added, “Thank you for my supper.”

      Curran walked aft to the ladder as the sentry closed the door and threw home the bolt.