A few more minutes, pray God! he thought fervently. Off and away, then! And if it comes out, I'm a thousand miles alee!

"I'd hoped to be in port longer, as well, love. Get back to Anglesgreen. Let you show me off, hmm?" Lewrie said, essaying his most fetching grin; to tease and dandle his way free. And leave his lovely wife laughing. "Get everything settled before… Damme, sir! Down! Get down, this instant! What the bloody hell you think you're playing at, young sir?"

"Mon Dieu, merde alorsV Sophie gasped.

"Hugh!" Caroline shrieked. "Baby, don't movel"

Lewrie's youngest son had gotten away from his watchers once more, and had scaled the starboard mizzenmast ratlines. Again! This time, he was halfway to the fighting top!

Alan sprang to the bulwarks, getting a foot up on a carronade slide-carriage, then the blunt iron barrel, to swing into the shrouds and go aloft. "Hang on, lad. Don't go an inch higher, hear me?"

Taut as the mizzen stays were set up, as tensioned as they were through the deadeye blocks, the shrouds thrummed and juddered as Alan fearfully climbed, ratlines quivering with each rushed step.

"But, Daddy …!" Hugh protested. Aye, he did have a good grip on stays and ratlines, leaning into them; his pudgy little fists were a pink pair of vises on the tarred ropes, yet…!

Lewrie reached him, came eye level with his son.

"I told you," he panted, fuming. "I told you, you will never do this. It's for seamen, grown men…"

"But, Daddy, t'other boys…!" Hugh whined, gesturing briefly to the clutch of snot-nosed ship's boys, the usual mob of Beau-Nasties carried on ship's books as servants; some of whom were only double the total of Hugh Lewrie's precocious, and terrifying, four years.

"Down, I say!" Lewrie barked. "Now! And, carefully!"

"Aww…" Hugh grumbled, casting one more wistful glance aloft to the topmast truck, which had been his intent. Well, at least the cross-trees, if truth be told.