“Old Redshirt, he’s a proud man, and a powerful man and, well, Captain, he might just as well cut your ears off and feed ‘em to his hogs.”

“Well, Captain,” Francis scratched his chin. He could not think of a diplomatic way of saying it. “You, Captain, well, you could piss off the Pope in Rome. I mean, you could piss off Jesus Christ himself, just with a look.”

They all laughed and then thought better of it and looked down at their plates as Francis continued. “Old Redshirt, he’s a proud man, and a powerful man and, well, Captain, he might just as well cut your ears off and feed ‘em to his hogs.”

Allingham was amused but he wouldn’t show it. “Are you going to get to the point, Francis? Or will we be here, listening to you blathering on until midnight?”

“Yes, yes, Captain. Captain, I don’t think you’ve got it in you to convince Redshirt to come in to court, get this thing cleared up. I don’t think you’re the man for the job.” He looked around at the others. Everyone knew he was right. Allingham was good, in his own way, but he was no ambassador, no negotiator in any sense of the word. “Let me go. I’ll talk to him. I’ll get him to Flagstaff. We’ll get it sorted, I swear, Captain, and I’ll be back in no time at all, all good. What ya say, Captain?” Allingham