The pawls of the capstan were moving, clicking into place as more men added their weight to the bars. Someone slipped and fell sprawling; the deck was still treacherous with rain.

But he heard a voice trying to raise a cheer as a fiddle scraped, and squealed into a familiar sailor’s shanty.There was a lass in Bristol town-heave, me bullies, heave!

It was Lynch, the senior cook, eyes shut and one foot beating time to every clink of the capstan.

Adam stared up at the yards, the topmen strung out like puppets against the hurrying clouds. The long masthead pendant gave some hint of the wind’s strength, and he could picture Onward‘s outline like a lithe shadow edging slowly toward the embedded anchor.

“Heave, me bullies, heave!”

He heard Julyan, the sailing master, speaking to the quartermaster and his extra helmsman. Calm, unhurried, just loud enough to carry above the chorus of wind and rigging. One eye on the compass, another on his captain, whose ultimate responsibility this was.

Adam remained by the quarterdeck rail, the ship and her company moving around him, but as if he were quite alone. Did you ever become so accustomed to this moment, or so confident, that it became merely routine?

The capstan was moving more slowly, but steadily, and no more hands were called to add their weight to the bars. He could see their breath like steam blown away on the wind, and feel the air on his spraywet cheek like ice rime.

He glanced forward again, and across the larboard bow. The two-decker was anchored apart from the other ships, her sealed gunports a chequered pattern shining in the strengthening light. There were lighters moored alongside, empty, like undertakers waiting for the last rites. How did the ship feel? How would I feel?