When one was summoned by a senior officer, it was a given that it would be “With All Despatch,” with no time frittered in shaving, sponging off, or primping. Pettus had come up from his great-cabins with Lewrie’s everyday sword belt and hanger, and a clean uniform coat to replace a cotton one long ago gone bad, a sorry experiment in tropical clothing that had faded and bled dark-blue dye to the point that it had gone a spotty sky blue, the gilt lace trim verdisgris green and sick-making.

But, it was comfortable, was so bleached it could ruin no more shirts, waist-coats, or breeches, and it was cool, unlike the requisite broadcloth wool coat.

Liam Desmond, his Coxswain, stroke-oar Patrick Furfy, Desmond’s long-time mate, and the rest of the boat crew had been ready below the entry-port by the time Lewrie had taken Reliant’s ritualist departure honours, and within minutes, they were off for a long mile row out to the two-decker flagship.

Plenty of time for Lewrie to fret, that. On the one hand, he and the other officers of their wee four-ship squadron had won fame and a pot of prize-money back in September when they had succeeded in chasing down a French squadron that had sailed from French-occupied Holland for Saint Domingue, then New Orleans. They had met them off the Chandeleur Islands, east of the Passes into the Mississippi, and had fought a spirited hour’s action resulting in the capture of one two-decker 74, a frigate and two corvettes, and an East Indiaman that had been reputed to carry a battalion of troops and government officials for the ceremonial handover of New Orleans and all the Louisiana Territory to the United States, after recovering them by treaty from Spain.