Thermopylae paid off an laid up in-ordinary, Lewrie silently gloomed, still squirming with sullen anger; me, all of us, paid off, too, on half-pay, with nothin' t'do but… go home? Oh, fuck me!

Lewrie had a mental picture of the village of Anglesgreen and North Surrey in mid-winter, at Christmastide; of him sipping ale at the Olde Ploughman (for he still would be as unwelcome at the fashionable Red Swan as a whore in church, just as he would be goggled at did he attend the Divine Services at mossy, nose-high old St. George's parish church).

He fantasised just how long this peace might hold, and if he thought that dull blockade duty was boresome, it didn't have a patch on farming, animal husbandry… or even pretending to know what he was about at civilian pursuits. At home… in Anglesgreen… with his wife, Caroline… forever-bloody-more, by God?

It wasn't just the chill of a mid-October rainy day that made him shiver! He scooped up his boat-cloak and hat, and headed out for the quarterdeck once more.

"Mister Farley,… pipe All Hands,' do ye please," he ordered.

And as he waited for the ship's people off-watch to thunder up to join the on-watch hands, Lewrie gazed off the larboard bows to wee HMS Osprey, already more than a league away and making a pretty way on up the Dutch coast for the next warship in the close blockade, to relay her supposedly glad tidings.

It was cold, it was nippy, the sea was cross-patch, and dollops of cold water showered down to plop on his hat and shoulders with each roll or shudder of tops'ls and t'gallants, but, of a sudden, it was a joy. One he feared he'd lose, and never recover.

"Ship's comp'ny, off hats and face aft to hark to the captain," Lt. Farley directed.

At least they'll be glad enough, Lewrie told himself as he began to speak; they've something t'go home to!