Or, as much at ease as a man could appear as the frigate heaved her bows skyward with showers of salt spray cascading over her, then plunging like a seal with her jib-boom and bowsprit and beakhead rails under, and even larger bursts of white-out clouds of spray bursting to life, and the very fabric of the ship thundering, juddering, and groaning like a tormented ghost at each plunge or rise.

Lewrie tucked his chin down, slanted his hat firmly down atop his eyebrows, and even tried closing his eyes. No, sir! he decided after a minute of that; eyes on the horizon… wherever that is, or I'll go sick as a dog! Which thought made him smile in spite of the circumstances, the well-contained fear, and the danger of wrecking; it would not inspire confidence in the crew if he had to "cast his accounts to Neptune"!

"Some hot broth, sir?" Pettus asked, looking as if the very idea of victuals would empty his stomach, too, but he had to offer.

"I'm fine for now, Pettus, but thankee for asking," Lewrie let on with a forced smile. And damn his eyes for the very mention, Lewrie thought, feeling a brief spate of biliousness that made him belch. "Ah, hmm! Bloody brisk, ain't it, Mister Farley?"

"Amen to that, sir!" Farley shouted back, sounding pleased; as if he was truly one of those odd'uns who relished foul weather. "OfF-watch hands below, now, sir?"

"Aye, make it so, Mister Farley. Let 'em dry out and thaw out for a spell," Lewrie decided. "Hot broth for them, if Sauder thinks he can trust a fire in the galley."

"I will see to it directly, sir," Farley agreed.

Lewrie doubted the roughness of the storm would allow fires to be lit below, but perhaps the offer might mollify Thermopylae's people. With no recall in the offing, they were sullen enough already. For better or worse, this storm, and the risk of drowning in the surf of a Dutch beach, would take their minds off thoughts of de-commissioning and freedom.