By Four Bells, though…

"Sir? Captain, sir? 'Tis Mister Privette, sir," Pettus said. "Mmph? Bugger 'im."

"Mister Fox's duty, sir," Privette piped up as Lewrie pried an eye open, blinking away grit. "He wishes to make a tad more sail, sir."

"Sail," Lewrie said with an uncomprehending grunt, sitting up and rubbing his eyes with both hands.

"Aye, sir," Privette added. "Mister Fox believes we could bare stays'ls, spanker, and inner jibs, and begin to make a way, full and by."

Lewrie was woozy with exhaustion and lack of sleep, despite his brief nap, so it took him a long moment to listen to his senses. The ship was no longer rising and plunging like a manic child on a hobbyhorse, and the sickening roll was less. The hiss and roar of the sea down the hull, and the thunder of her bows meeting hard, steep waves, no longer made it hard to hear, or speak.

"Aye," Lewrie allowed at last, staggering to his feet. "Tell Mister Fox I'll come up. May take a moment, but…," he added, wincing as muscles and joints too-long tensioned against the motions of the frigate complained loudly, making him wonder if he had caught the long-time sailor's plaints of arthritis and rheumatism, both.

"Very well, sir," Privette replied.

It was still cold, and icy spray still sheeted cross the deck as Lewrie attained the quarterdeck. The sea and sky were ink-black, and the only lights came from the two taffrail lanthorns, another by the foc's'le belfry, and the binnacle cabinet to illuminate the compass. Only now and then did the taffrail lanthorns glint off fleeting white-caps and sea-horses, mostly abeam the mizen mast or astern.