"Aye, that'd be handsome," Lewrie quickly rejoined with a faint smile of pleasure, holding out his empty mug.

"A right nippy mornin', sir, fer certain," Aspinall said, with a long- established and casual familiarity. There were no secrets 'twixt employer and servant, master or slave, mighty captain or the fellow who quietly managed his life belowdecks, and any brusque, stand-offish, and aloof "dignity" on Lewrie's part would have been pointless, by then, and pretentiously cruel, to boot.

"Mmm, good and hot!" Lewrie happily exclaimed after one sip.

It was a continual disappointment to go ashore, even to the best establishments in London where the coffee-house had been king for years on end, and get a tepid (tiny but expensive!) cup of semi-opaque gnat's piss. Aboard ship, it came from the galley stove still half-boiling, as stout and black as the strongest Irish brew.

Captain's second but to God at sea, Lewrie wryly told himself as he took another welcome sip; and I ordain coffee fit t'wake the dead!

"Nothin' yet, sir?" Aspinall felt fit to ask, casting a glance at the activity on the starboard gangway.

"No, not yet," Lewrie told him, grinning once more a trifle. "I assure you, when it happens, you can't miss hearing it. I see Mister Catterall licking his chops. Best top up the others, too, lad."

"Aye, sir," Aspinall cheerfully replied, then turned and walked forward to the others gathered near the cross-deck hammock nettings by the break of the quarterdeck overlooking the ship's waist, forward of the helm, and the compass binnacle cabinet and traverse board. He held out the pot in silent offering, gaining glad looks from the rest; the First Officer, Lt. Anthony Langlie, a handsome young man with what women said was romantically dark and curly hair. With a month or more between shearings, or washings, though, and with a week's worth of whiskers, those ladies might not exactly swoon over him, any longer.