"That seems to ease her, sir," Lt. Farley said at last, sounding as if he'd been holding his breath to see if the sea-anchor and braced bare yards would really work.

"How's her helm?" Lewrie asked Beasley, the Quartermaster of the Watch, and his Mate, Elgie, who stood braced wide-stanced either side of the double-wheel drum and spokes.

"Stiff, with th' relievin' tackle rigged, sir," Beasley replied, shifting his quid of tobacco to leeward, "but she's steadyin', aye."

"Very well, thankee," Lewrie said. "Mister Furlow?" he called for the Midshipman. "Pass word to my steward, Pettus, and Desmond, my Cox'n, and I'll have my deck-chair brought up."

"Aye aye, sir," Midshipman Furlow answered, then stepped to the break of the empty hammock nettings-the ship's people needed their dry bedding for their scant hours belowdecks between calls for All Hands-and bawled the summons to men in the waist.

Lewrie knew he could trust his First Officer, Lt. Dick Farley, his Second Lieutenant, James Fox, as well, to do their best for their ship, but… should things go completely to shambles, he felt he had to be present. Even if he had to engage in one more of his eccentricities. A proper Royal Navy captain should be so stoic a paragon as to stand and pace the windward side of the quarterdeck to set a stout example and inspire confidence… even did he not have the first clue. Lewrie, though, had always been an idle sort. So, after the canvas and wood collapsible deck-chair had been fetched up, spread out, and lashed securely in place, Lewrie sat himself down in it, spread a scrap of oiled canvas like a blanket to keep the sleeting, showering spray off him, and sprawled his booted legs out, as seemingly at ease as a passenger aboard an East Indiaman on a fine morning, and a calmer ocean.