STOB 17

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Early the next morning, Philip finally had time to attend to the personal possessions of the officers killed on the Chasseur. The possessions of the dead French sailors (and some of the living, Philip suspected) had already been dealt with in the usual fashion by the lower deck, with a little bit of fighting but not much, the pecking order being well established before Philip ever stepped on board.

But the officers' possessions had to go through the Captain, and they had been stashed in a corner of his cabin until he could deal with them. He did so now. Finally. Greedily.

Little of the clothing fitted him, though there were a good pair of boots, some shirts, and a torn jacket. He gave the jacket to his steward (a small, wiry man with an abundance of gold jewelry) to mend, tossed the boots and shirts on the chair he'd inherited from the Badger's previous commander, and sent everything else to the wardroom.

From the jumbled pile of furniture Philip pulled a cylinder top desk, complete except for a broken leg. Once the carpenter was able to fix it, it would enable him to finally clear his cot of the papers that had shared his sleeping space since the day he moved in. "Well," he said, arranging two sturdy but mismatched chairs around a shabby table, "it isn't Ablenn Hall, but it is better." He pulled his other chair - the one he had inherited from the Badger's previous commander, over to the desk and sat down to consider. Would the cabin look better with the desk over by the stern windows? Perhaps it would. He spent the next several hours moving his new possessions around, finally deciding that the desk was best opposite the door, as that would place him with his back to the light for anyone coming in. "Most imposing," he said. "Excellent."

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