TRWD40B

My Journal
By Harriman Nelson
40B

“It’s hard to believe your crew would behave like hooligans,” Emmie told me after I’d returned to the Wardroom and explained what had just happened in the Crew’s Mess
“Emotions are running high.”
“Still no excuse for what happened,” Jiggs said.
“As I see it,” Joe said, “it’s Ronald’s fault, stirring things up. The press hasn’t helped, letting people who have nothing better to do join his bandwagon to get on TV. Idiots, all of them.”
Winston rushed to the door, our own early warning sign of Lee’s return.
“I’ll prepare your breakfast, Captain,” Will, beside him said, almost pushing Lee into the chair opposite me.
“You don’t look too much the worse for wear,” Emmie said, “I suppose your mother is relieved.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lee, treated and in a clean shirt, sighed as Will placed a mug of coffee in front of him. “I thought you weren’t happy about me having coffee?”
“It’s only a half a mug. You can fill the rest up with cream.”
“Eeeyooo,” he and Joe complained in unison.
“It will reduce the acidity,” Will said, bringing over some of the little creamer containers, opening them and pouring them in and stirring. “And remember, just this one mug.”
Lee sipped some, and made exaggerated gagging noises.
“Very funny,” Will said sarcastically, back at the counter and spooning a small serving of oatmeal into a bowl bringing it and a spoon over to set before Lee.
“I might as well have one of those horrible nutrition drinks of yours.”
“Be glad I’m letting you anything more solid than Jell-O and oatmeal this morning,” he said just as the toast popped out of the toaster. He spread a meager pat of the olive oil butter on it, and then placed the slice on a small plate to serve at the side of the oatmeal. “What’s wrong now?” Will asked, irritated that Lee just stared at it at looked up.
“Oh good grief,” Will said and retrieved the jar of peanut butter and a knife, handing it to Lee. “But no jam or jelly. Way too acidic.”
“I’ll fix it, bro,” Joe said, getting up and retrieving maple syrup and a banana, bringing them over, with a clean knife and fork, and began to cut the banana to place on Lee’s peanut butter toast. Then he smothered it with the syrup, handing Lee the fork.
“Oh, Lord,” Edith said, “Elvis lives again.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Lee said and took an appreciative bite.
“I hope you’ll have some of that oatmeal instead of just that toast,” Will said, then “What’s wrong?”
“I was just wondering. Mom is mad at me but she must have heard about the trip to Sick Bay. She goes ballistic if I get so much as a splinter.... I’d better go check on her.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Finish your breakfast.”
“What on earth is all that racket above us?” Edith asked, “Nothing wrong with the boat, is there?”
“The Royal Navy’s escort,” Joe said. “Then we’ll have our own. Orders from the prime minister and the SecNav. Lee’s precious cargo now.”
“That’s not funny, Joe,” Lee said. “I hate putting everyone through all this.”
“Can’t you change your mind?” Edith asked. “There’s time. Avery can wait to step down after an election, can’t he?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” I said. “I don’t want Lee to have to do this, but it’s something he has to do.”
“Thanks, Harry,” Lee said. “Politics aside, it’s as if something’s pulling me.”
“Skipper,” Will said, “I hate to interrupt this lively discussion, but shouldn’t you be eating your breakfast before it gets cold and soggy?”
With a sheepish grin, Lee reached for a packet of sugar on the table to sprinkle it over the oatmeal.
“Did you know,” Edith said, “that the George Washington ring Gerrard’s is auctioning off at Sotheby’s has created so much interest, that they’re telling phone and email bidders that they might have a hard time getting through. The best bet if anyone has that kind of cash to throw away is to get their tails to London and into the auditorium before there’s no seating room.”
“I’m not sure bidding on it would be throwing cash away,” Lee said in between a mouthful of oatmeal and toast, “it’s a piece of history. And think about the DNA tests they can do with those strands of hair in the locket part. I mean, they can find out about all sorts of genetic stuff. Diseases, blood type, ethnicity, ancestry, kinships….”
“Doubtful it’s his. It’s a masculine ring, He wouldn’t put his own hair in it would he?”
“Not necessarily,” Joe said. “If you look close, the hair’s twisted in a lover’s knot, or so the picture of it looks like to me. Could be his and Martha’s.”
“Whosever hair it is,” Lee said, “I hope the ring will be treated with respect by the new owner.”
“Amen to that,” Jiggs said.
“I wish I could have known old George,” Lee sighed.
“Doesn’t necessarily mean that he had a good heart,” Edith said. “Men could be just as brutal in those days as they are now.”
“By the same token,” I said, “we don’t know that he was brutish. Once the war was won he was offered a monarchy. Turned it down flat knowing that would defeat the entire purpose of breaking away from a monarchy in the first place. He didn’t want a kingship, but he didn’t want to take the presidency either. But he did.”
“Skipper?” Chip called over the PA. “The secretary of state wants a conference call with you. Triple-A security. Joe’s been requested too.”
“Duty calls,” Lee said, as he and Joe got up, Lee taking his toast and mug with him, leaving the bowl of oatmeal. Joe, picked up a jelly filled doughnut and was about to follow when Will popped out of his chair and took it from him.
“If you want it, you’ll come back here to eat it. You’re not going to offer it to Lee.”
“Cheech,” Joe sighed and left.
“Speaking of things to come,” Will said, “Admiral, I’d like a leave of absence, so I can keep an eye on our new president in Washington.”
“Don’t you think the surgeon general will be able to handle him?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to put him to all that trouble. And trouble is the skipper’s middle name.”

I wasn’t hungry anymore, and as I hadn’t been invited to the conference call, I headed to my cabin for a little alone time with my desktop computer to do a little research about Sotheby’s. Indeed, one had to have money to throw away for most everything that was to be auctioned off. Washington’s ring was worth millions, if only for the provenance, the fact that it was his, and he’d worn it.
I wondered just who would be lucky enough to own it. Who indeed.