Lobscouse

‘Two pounds of corned beef and smoked ham each, stick’em in a pot with a bay leaf and cover it all with water.’

He’d never wanted to be a cook. 

He’d joined the Royal Navy in the hopes of making his father proud, his mother happy, his brother inspired. He’d enlisted as soon as he’d passed for a sixteen year old and set off as a seaman on an old, rickety cow of a merchant ship.

He’d felt mighty proud of himself. 

By the time he’d made it back to the port town he’d once called home, two years had passed. 

‘Simmer the pot for a little over two hours until the meat be tender as yer father’s smile when he’s squiffy.’

His father had died to a storm at sea, his mother to disease, and to the day he didn’t know what’d become of his little brother. The last time they’d seen each other, the lad had been only nine years old. 

He’d searched high and low… but couldn’t find hide nor hair. Not a single clue as to where his brother may be or what had happened to him.

He’d boarded another merchant tub not a month after he’d gotten back. 

Got into a drunken tiff not two months later that ended with a nasty cut on his leg that festered. It lost him his leg. 

They’d made him a cook after he’d healed up to keep him out of trouble and out of the way.

He’d been seventeen years old.

‘Fish out the leaf and toss it, then skim off the fat but don’t you dare toss that! Keep the slush and three cups o’the cooking water, you’ll need’em for later.’

Now, some thirty or forty years later, he stumped his way through the galley with weary familiarity. With deft hands he snagged the bay leaf and tossed it over his shoulder, skimming the slush into a pile to set aside with some of the still steaming meat-water.

As he was draining the rest of the water and putting all the meat on the chopping block, the stairs creaked behind him.

“You- You’re cooking? Now? At a time like this?”

The cook turned silently, not bothering to answer as the sailmaker stood staring, mouth agape. 

‘Now, keep yer head on straight, cos we got some chopping to do. Cut up the meat first, and put it aside.’

The carpenter-turned-surgeon shuffled behind the sailmaker, expression blank and tired, eyes hooded and bruised. Both men looked ragged, pale, sporting their share of bruises and memories of the past few hours. 

“Aye.” The cook grunted. “Don’t see a reason not to. S’not like there’s gonna be a better time for it.” He hefted his now empty pot into the washing tub. He limped back over to the chopping block, reaching for his knife when the soft spoken surgeon asked, “Can I help?”

‘Take out yer veggies. Four big old onions and six fat potatoes ought to do nicely, eh? Chop everythin’ up and keep yer fingers to yerself, else you’ll lose ’em!’ 

His knife cut smoothly through the boiled meat, piecing them into chewable chunks. The surgeon was methodically peeling and chopping the potatoes next to him, each piece as perfectly shaped as the next. The sailmaker had taken up a little space behind them both, silently weeping as he roughly sliced through the onions. Putting the meat aside, the cook went to fetch his skillet, only to stop at the creak of the galley stairs once again. 

‘Take this spoon here, and lob six spoonsful o’ the slurry into the skillet as it warms up. Chuck all the meat in and brown it nice ‘n slow. Take the meat out once it’s done, but make sure to keep it close by and leave all the fat and juices in the pan.’

The lad was angry. Bitter and resigned, long dried tear tracks cutting through the blood and grime on his face. 

With hands fisted and teeth clenched the lad glared at the ground. 

“Can I… Is there…”

This voyage had been the young cabin boy’s very first, if the cook remembered right. The boy didn’t look a day over thirteen, if that. 

“Lookin’ for somethin’ to do lad?”

The cabin boy’s eyes rose, hollow and grieving. The cook felt like he was looking in a mirror through time itself. 

“Yes sir.”

“C’mon then, I have just the thing.”

‘Now toss in yer onions, and cook’em up in the fat until they be sweet and soft, then add in yer potatoes as well and keep cookin’ it all for five minutes.’

With the meat browned and ready on the side, the cook breathed in deep as the sweet, toffee colored onions popped and danced with the potatoes in the pan. In all his time as cook, never had his galley been as full and lively as it was now. 

The surgeon and the sailmaker were on the stairs, draining a barrel of grog and well on their way to being loaded to the gunwalls. The cabin boy had taken to his task with fervor, viciously swinging a spare frying pan down onto slabs of hardtack, smashing the tough ship’s bread into nothin’ but crumbs. 

And finally, the shantyman sat tucked into the farthest corner. No one had seen him come in, and he’d not spoken a single word, but they’d heard him softly tune his concertina, and listened as the man began to play a slow, quiet melody. 

‘Almost done now! Add all that meat back in, along with half o’ the cooking water we put aside before. That’s it, and now we cook it all up fer about ten minutes, till the potatoes are just starting to go soft.’

The ship tilted steadily, back and forth, getting just a bit steeper with each pass. The cook checked the pot once more, the potatoes just beginning to give beneath the back of his spoon. 

The sailmaker was singing along with the shantyman’s song, a slow mournful thing. 

The surgeon was draining another flagon of grog, tears trailing down his cheeks and making no effort to wipe them away. 

The cook grabbed the last of the meat-water before it slid off the bench onto the gently heaving floor. The cabin boy was at his other elbow, peering into the pot and breathing in deep, savoring every breath. 

“We making lobby stew?”

“Aye, that we are lad.”

‘Finally, dump in half a pound of crushed up ship’s biscuits, along with a buncha spices. Here now, toss in a thumbnail’s worth each of allspice, nutmeg and crushed clove. And a bit o’ pepper and salt to top it all off!’

The groaning of the ship was now only just being drowned out by the shantyman’s song. The increased pitching and swaying nearly sent the cook to the ground as he grabbed for his spice jars. He was lucky to even have them still; spices were expensive after all. 

His stump ached something fierce as he limped back to the pot to stir in the seasonings. The rest of his galley company were gathered near the stairs, watching the sheets of rain beat down onto the deck, blossoming red as it pooled. Watching as it drenched the prone forms of their once fellow crew mates.

Watching. 

Waiting.

‘Now we just let it all cook for a few mo’ minutes, and add more o’ the cooking water to make it just right.’

The stew simmered gently, steam spiraling in an enticing dance. The cook ladled the stew into five chipped bowls.

Just enough to feed them all one good, hot meal. 

They, the lucky few to escape the pirate raid, were left with nothing but a ship they didn’t know how to run, and a roiling mass of storm clouds that was now tearing their ship apart. 

The cook thought of the sleek ship’s shrinking stern railing, making a steady clip away from the storm, leaving them to their fate as the jolly roger looked down at them with a rictus grin.

“C’mere lad, help me with these.”

The cabin boy looked at him, expression hidden and silhouette cast in sharp relief with every flash of lightning through the galley windows. 

The lad stumbled over and juggled three of the bowls, handing two of them off to the surgeon and sailmaker, all three trying a spoonful immediately.

The cook took the last two servings and handed the now silent shantyman his share.

They all huddled close at the top of the galley stairs, braced against the walls and steps as the ship heaved over another wave, eating together they watched.

They watched as the sails and rigging whipped and snapped in the gale force winds.

Watched as the fallen forms of the crew slipped from the deck, swallowed one by one by the churning waves licking the deck. 

Watched as the ship twisted about in the storm without direction or hope of escape. 

‘Here now, give it a try. Well? Not too bad, eh?’

After years and years of making lobby stew, it still wasn’t as good as when his mother made it with him. 

He savored every bite.