"And I on your man, mistress," Lewrie promised in turn. "Get him back to you, a warranted bosun someday, safe and sound."

That had been a proud and happy moment, to stand up for Cony in a dockside chapel as he took his bride, at last, four-square in his best rig as boatswain's mate, a petty officer, now. Though his swaddled son, born during their last cruise aboard Cockerel, had not taken well to the festivities, and had wailed through half of it.

"Adieu, m'sieur," Sophie said, wan and weepy once again, her green eyes brimming. "Bonne chance."

"Adieu, mademoiselle… adieu, Sophie," Alan replied, giving her a hug, too. "I trust you'll fall in love with little Anglesgreen. And find peace and contentment there. Fall in love with our family, too. As they already have with you," he stressed, hoping to get one last hint driven home.

"Bonne chance," she said again, stepping back and dropping him an aristocratic curtsy in congй. "An', merci beaucoup for aw' you do pour moi, m'sieur."

She rose, and fixed him with a curious, hard stare for a trice, her fine reddish-auburn hair flickering about her face and the shroud of her traveling cloak's hood, her green eyes intent in her slim and gamin face. "Poonish ze Rйpublicains zat tuer… zat keel ma Charles, m'sieur Lewrie. Ah pray fo' you' success."

"Merci." He nodded. "Merci, beaucoup. Caroline…?"

He gave her his arm to walk her to the starboard entry port, and a waiting bosun's chair slung from aloft on the main-course yard.

"Alan, should the wind not serve…" she hinted desperately.

"Beat down to Saint Helen's Road, my dear, a few miles, and lay-to, till one comes fair," he said, a touch of severity in his voice. "Admiral Howe was lucky he had a favorable slant, t'other day. And then, off for Gibraltar, quick as dammit."

Out of long habit, he cast his eyes aloft to the impossibly long and curling coach whip of a commissioning pendant atop the mainmast truck.