"If the battle line crowds us much more, we'll be winded. sir."' Alan observed, noting the strip of azure waters that was shoaling and shallows close aboard to starboard. "Even if we don't ran her aground we'll end up in the island's lee under those bluffs. Last in line of the repeating frigates. Last in line for pretty much everything since Yorktown, too."

"Can't go spoilin' the admiral's dinner with our stink, Lewrie," Monk spat-literally and figuratively, for he wandered over to the binnacle to fire a dollop of tobacco juice at the spit kid. How the man could eat and swallow fruit, and reserve his quid in the other cheek, almost made Alan ill just contemplating the feat.

"Wasn't our fault we escaped, Mister Monk," Alan said, going to the wheel to join him and peer into the compass bowl.

"Lord Cornwallis give us verbal orders we could try sailin' outa York River, nothin' in writin', see, Mister Lewrie?" Monk smiled with a weary expression. "Whole army goes inta the sack, titled gentlemen imprisoned'r on their parole for the duration. America lost, and us come out with a whole skin. A damn fine feat o' seamanship gettin' down river an' outa the Chesapeake under Cape Charles, even on a fine day'd be cause fer praise, if you'll allow me t'boast a mite. Night as black as a boot, a whole gale blowin', it'd get most young captains a bloody knighthood. But them dominee-do-littles up in New York sat on their hands an' swore what a damn shame it was losin' the army an' all our other ships, well… it'll take a piece o' time, er somethin' ta rub the shite off'n our boots fer their likes."