"She signals 'Have Despatches,' sir!" Furlow cried.

"Very well, Mister Furlow!" Lewrie shouted back, then turned to the taffrails. "Mister Pannabaker, send her 'Come Under My Lee.' I'd imagine she'd welcome our shelter if she's been through the same weather we've suffered."

Osprey quickly replied "Acknowledged" by flag hoist, and steered for Thermopylae. One hour later, she had come almost abeam to larboard, came about to starboard tack, and eased into Thermopylae's lee off her larboard quarter, to lower a boat and send her across.

It was sick-making to watch poor HMS Osprey pitch and toss even so, or to watch her rowing boat rise, swoop, and fall amid showers of spray from wave crests and white-caps, 'til the boat was close-aboard, and the very same Midshipman from mid-October came scrambling up the battens and man-ropes to the larboard entry-port, and handed over his canvas bag of mail and orders. With a brief doff of his hat, he was back in his boat in a twinkling, making way back to his wee cutter.

"Mister Furlow, pass word for my clerk, Mister Georges," Lewrie instructed as he took the bag. "We'll sort everything out, then pipe the crew to receive theirs."

"Aye, sir."

He didn't feel all that hopeful, though. The canvas bag was not weighted, first of all, as it would be to prevent secret instructions or orders for future operations from being taken by an enemy. Second, there wasn't much mail to sort out. Lewrie and his clerk piled what contents there were into three quick heaps: officers and warrants in one pile; seamen in the second; and his own in the third, with the official letters the first to be opened and read before anyone else got a peek at theirs.

The one that took Lewrie's attention first off was from Admiralty, this time properly addressed to him and HMS Thermopylae. With a pen-knife, he sliced off the wax wafer seal and unfolded it.