"Bless my soul! What infernal sound is that?" exclaimed Mr. Churchill, his voice a tremulous whisper against the encroaching darkness. "It is most peculiar."

"Silence!" commanded the admiral with a brusque authority, his gaze fixed intently on the shifting shadows. "Have you never heard such a sound before?"

"Indeed not," Churchill replied, bewildered. "How could I?"

"By heavens," retorted the admiral with a scornful snort, "it is nothing more than a boatswain's call."

"Oh, it is," Churchill murmured, his curiosity piqued. "Is he to sound it again?"

"Damnation! I tell you it's a boatswain's call," the admiral snapped, his patience wearing thin.

"Well, if it comes to that," said Churchill, irritation mingling with his confusion, "why is he calling here?"

The admiral's only response was a disdainful silence. He seized the lantern, its flickering light casting ghostly patterns on the walls, and moved towards the front door of the Hall with deliberate steps. The signal, it seemed, had been prearranged. Without uttering another word, he opened the door, admitting Jack Pringle, who stumbled in with a coarse swagger. The admiral closed and barred the door with the same precision he had previously employed.

"Well, Jack," the admiral asked with a tone of clipped efficiency, "did you see anyone?"

"Aye, aye, sir," Jack replied with a slurred bravado.

"Where? Speak plainly," the admiral demanded, his irritation palpable.

"Where I got the provisions; a woman—" Jack began, but was interrupted.

"Damn it, Jack, you’re a fool," the admiral growled.

"You're another," Jack retorted with an unsteady grin.

"Hold your tongue, you scoundrel! Is this your respect for your betters?" The admiral’s face flushed with anger.

"Ship’s been paid off long ago," Jack declared defiantly. "I’ve no superiors now. I ain’t a marine or a Frenchman."

"You’re drunk," the admiral observed with a mix of frustration and disdain.

"I know it," Jack slurred, swaying slightly. "Put that in your eye."

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"Blast you!" the admiral fumed. "Didn’t I instruct you to exercise caution? Did I not emphasize the need for secrecy? And did I not specifically advise you to avoid drink?"

"Indeed you did," Jack acknowledged.

"And yet you come here as though you were a cask of rum," the admiral raged.

"Yes, now you've had your say, what then?" Jack’s demeanor was one of belligerent disregard.

"Let him be," Mr. Churchill interjected, his voice calm but firm. "There’s no point in arguing with a drunken man."

"Admiral," Jack began, steadying himself as best he could, "I’ve put up with you for long enough. Now you’re so drunk, you’re bobbing about like the mizen gaff in a storm—that’s my view."

"Leave him be," Churchill urged.

"The wretch," the admiral muttered with a scowl, "he’s capable of ruining everything. Who would have thought? But it’s always been his way. When all is calm, and he might have indulged a little, he’s as sober as a judge. Yet, when something requires a modicum of cleverness, he’s afloat on rum fit to drown a ship."

"Are you going to stand something to drink?" Jack piped up, his voice a drunken drawl. "Remember Beyrout? When you took a tumble and tried to recall your church catechism, old brute? I’m ashamed of you. And the brown girl from the Society Islands—sold to a seven-foot nigger for a dollar. You're quite a character to talk of marines and shore-going lubbers."

"Death and the devil!" the admiral roared, his rage nearly out of control.

"Aye," Jack replied, with a drunken grin, "you’ll meet both sooner or later, old cock, that’s for sure."

"I’ll have his life," the admiral bellowed, his eyes blazing with fury.

"Nay, sir," Mr. Churchill interjected, catching the admiral around the waist. "My dear Admiral Bell, if I may suggest, there’s a quantity of that fiery Hollands in the next room. Set him down to that, and he’ll be quiet enough."

"Hollands!" Jack exclaimed, his interest piqued despite his inebriation. "Who’s got any? Next to rum and Elizabeth Baker, if I’ve a fondness, it’s Hollands."

"Jack!" the admiral barked, attempting to maintain some semblance of order.

"Aye, aye, sir!" Jack mumbled, instinctively.

"Come this way," the admiral commanded, leading Jack with a firm hand.

Jack staggered after him, and soon they all arrived in the room where the admiral and Churchill had been seated before the disturbance. The admiral set the lantern on the table, its light casting a wan glow over the surroundings, and pointed to the bottle of Hollands.

"There," the admiral said with a satisfied air, "what do you make of that?"

"I don’t think under such circumstances," Jack declared, lifting the bottle. "Here’s to the wooden walls of old England!"

He seized the bottle and tilted it into his mouth, a gurgling sound filling the room as the liquor flowed down his throat. His head tilted further back with each swig, until, in a final act of drunken abandon, he collapsed, chair and bottle falling in a heap on the floor, a sight of pitiable intoxication.

"So far, so good," the admiral remarked, surveying the scene with a grudging satisfaction. "He’s out of the way, at least."

"I’ll just loosen his neckcloth," Churchill said, bending to adjust Jack’s clothing. "Then we should retreat to another room. I suggest the chamber once belonging to Flora, where the mysterious portrait hangs—the one bearing such a striking resemblance to Lazarus, the vampyre."

"Hush!" the admiral suddenly commanded, his voice dropping to a whisper. "What is that sound?"

They strained their ears, listening intently. A faint, deliberate footstep was discernible on the gravel path outside the window—a tread that seemed neither hurried nor heedless but carried an unsettling, deliberate intent.