"Aye aye, sir. Mister Porter, Mister Cony!"

"Won't be elegant, but…" Lewrie shrugged to his sailing master, Mister Edward Buchanon, a swart and laconic-looking soul come down from the Medway to be appointed into Jester, fresh from years aboard other ships as a master's mate, and fresh from his Trinity House examination at Tower Hill. So far, Lewrie had found him slow in speech, dull as dishwater in conversation. But that, he suspected, was the man's innate caution, as an experienced seaman first, and as a "newly" with his first senior warrant, in a strange ship, second.

"Aye, Cap'um." Buchanon nodded solemnly, with only a glint of delight in his eyes to betray him. " 'Tis better t'be safe'n sorry, I says. Sloop o' war's meant t' dash, now an' agin. But, 'tis many a dashin' cap'um laid himself ail-aback b'cause o' it. You'll be tackin', soon's we have steerage-way, I suggest? Larboard tack'll take us too far t'loo'rd, toward the island."

"I most certainly will, Mister Buchanon, and thankee kindly for your wise suggestion," Lewrie happily agreed.

"Heave, and in sight!" The call came from the forecastle, as the best bower arose from the depths, trailing a storm cloud of mud and sand, and the stench of weed. Pawls clacked in the capstans, now rumbling as the hands trotted around them, bare feet drumming. Sails rustled and blocks cried as canvas sprouted on standing stays and on the tops'l yards high aloft. Jester heeled slightly to the pressure, stirring and shuffling side-wise, crabbing to the wind, with her tall rudder hard-over to windward, two quartermasters, Spenser and Brauer, maintaining their full weight on the double wheel. A gust, and she heeled a bit more, but a gust that backed more abeam this time, and Lewrie saw the quartermasters ease the helm a spoke or two, smiling.

"Der rutter, ve haff, Kapitan," Brauer, the pale-blond Hamburg German informed him. "Genug, aber.. . she bites, zir."