"Very well," Lewrie replied, turning to call out to his First Officer, "Mister Knolles? Take us down to Victory and lay us under her lee. Mister Cony? Ready my gig and boat crew. Best turnout, Cox'n Andrews."

"Aye, sah… best rig," his Jamaican coxswain answered. "We'll be ready, sah… as hon'some as Sunday Divisions!"

Handsome they were, half an hour later, when they rowed him over to the flagship, tricked out in clean check shirts, slop-trousers, and brass-buttoned, short, blue shell jackets. Ably competent too, hooking onto the starboard main-chains at the first try, oars tossed upright as one, as Lewrie made the long ascent up boarding battens and man-ropes to the upper deck.

A fresh-scrubbed side-party greeted him with twittering bosun's pipes, the slap of stout shoes on oak planking, horny hands on Brown Bess muskets, and a glittery whirl of swords presented in salute, winking in the wan winter sunset.

"This way, Commander Lewrie, if you please," an officer bade.

Up to the broad quarterdeck, where a group of senior officers stood, hats off and chortling like they'd just left a good comedy back home in Drury Lane and were waiting for their coaches to take them to some even more diverting entertainment: Captain Robert Calder and Captain Grey, Fleet Captain and the Flag Captain of HMS Victory; Rear-Admiral Parker off Prince George; Vice-Admiral The Honourable William Waldegrave off Barfleur-Admiral Hood's old flagship during the Revolution-Vice-Admiral Charles Thompson off Britannia; and Lewrie's recent squadron commander during '94-'95, Commodore Horatio Nelson, cheek-by-jowl with the gruffly gracious Admiral Sir John Jervis, K.B., a dour old tar who (there's a wonder, Alan goggled!) seemed almost congenial for a change. 'Twas a wonder what a victory would do.

"Sir John, gentlemen," the lieutenant announced. "Commander Lewrie of the Jester sloop."