She might have been bright-painted, tarred, and oiled at one time, but one year in the sometimes boisterous North Sea had taken the shine off her. Now, shewas a dowdy scow, and even her sails had gone old-parchment brown. She drew alongside of Thermopylae about a cable to windward and sent her jolly-boat over with her despatches, under the command of one of her Midshipmen, and a boat crew of five.

"I will come to your larboard entry-port, sir!" the Midshipman shouted to the quarterdeck, sporting a cheeky, wind-reddened grin on his face. "No need for ceremony for the likes of me!"

Usually, officers-even the lowest sort of petty officers as Midshipmen- were greeted at the starboard entry-port, the port of honour, welcomed with a side-party and bosuns' calls. In this case, though, as soon as the oarsmen in the jolly-boat had hoisted up their dripping oars, and the bow man had hooked onto the main-chains with a gaff pole, the Midshipman was scrambling up the boarding-battens to the temporarily opened port in the larboard bulkwarks, and stayed just long enough to doff his hat to the flag, to the quarterdeck, and to Lewrie, whom he espied waiting impatiently, then handed over a single folded-over letter to Lt. Farley. A second later, and he was clomping down the battens, judging his moment, and dropping back into the row boat to return to Osprey, waving his hat chearly as he put its tiller over and got his oarsmen back to work.

"How odd, sir," Lt. Farley commented as he came to the quarterdeck from the larboard sail-tending gangway, and handing over the lone despatch. "I expected a weighted bag… fresh mail from home… "

What the Devil? Lewrie wondered, for the letter, though sealed with wax where the folds met, was not addressed to him, nor to Thermopylae, but bore a cryptic Number Eleven of Twenty-One. In smaller longhand script was the caution "Captain's Eyes Only."