"It varies with the man, some say, sir. What's sauce for the goose isn't sauce for gander all the time, sir," Alan replied, laid back at complete ease for the first time in two months, his breeches tight about his middle after a splendid repast, and his head light with wine fumes.

"But you never have time to train 'em, one man at a time. Some never'll do, no matter what you do with 'em." Lilycrop frowned. Samson leaped up on the table and arched his hindquarters into the air as Lilycrop stroked his back. "I've seen boys come aboard so starry-eyed for bein' at sea you'd have thought they'd seen Jesus in the riggin'. Some made it, some didn't. Raw landsmen, midshipmen, pressed men, we make sailors of 'em all if we can, or kill some of 'em in the process. When the shot starts to fly, you don't have time to make allowances for a weaklin', you got to have men you can count on. Take yourself."

"Me, sir?" Alan asked, back on his guard again.

"You have brains, Mister Lewrie. You can learn, even if you have to get hurt in the process. Now young Mister Edgar, he's been in the Fleet four years, and God help the poor young ass, he'll never make a Sea Officer 'thout somebody on high parts the waters to let him cross over. I had to depend on you right from the start. No way you can have a first officer you have to spoon-feed. So you got your feelin's hurt, an' had yourself a weep now an' again. Well, this is a hard Service, an' I'm damned if I'll go to my grave seein' the ones that come after me have it easy an' soft, a mewlin' pack of children too weak an' whiny to serve our Navy, when it needs tarry-handed men!"

"This has been the absolute worst two months I have ever spent in the Navy, sir," Alan confessed as the wine crept up on him.

"And twenty years from now, you'll know you learned somethin'." Lilycrop nodded in agreement, all good humor gone from his face as he spoke with absolute conviction. "By God, sir, you'll be grateful someday you had it this hard, 'cause the worst times later'll feel like a stroll in Vauxhall Gardens. Not that I'm through with you, sir."

"Oh?"

"I said you'll do, but you've still a way to go. Everybody does. Don't go smug and satisfied on me. Well, you've the evenin' watch?" Lilycrop snorted, busying himself with Samson up on his chest.

"I exchanged with Webster, sir, so I'll have the morning."

"Heel-taps, then, and I'll let you go to your rest," Lilycrop said, lifting his glass and draining it.

"Goodnight, sir. Thank you for supper. And for… everything."

"Goodnight to you as well, Mister Lewrie."

Alan left the cabin and went out on the quarterdeck, where the night winds soughed and sang in the rigging, bringing a touch of cool dampness to what had been a warm day. Shrike loafed along, speared by the trough of a waxing moon, and the tropic skies were a blue as deep as his officer's coat, littered with stars that burned clear and cold.

He stopped at the wheel long enough to check the binnacle for a peek at the course and the dead reckoning of the day's run on the traverse board, scanned aloft at the set of the sails to see if they needed adjusting, and exchanged a few words with the watch. Then he took himself forward along the larboard gangway, until he was up on the fo'c'sle, where the spray sluiced and showered now and again as the ship's bow rose and fell so gently.

I'll do! he thought, smiling in the darkness. By God, that old bastard! All the worry and fear I've suffered, all the humiliation, and all he says is, you'll do! Well, maybe I shall, at that!

The Leeward Islands Fleet was in when Shrike sailed into English Harbor, and so Shrike had to take a mooring in the outer roads, for the inner harbor was full, for which Alan sincerely thanked God. He got the ship up into the wind and anchored without having to short-tack up that narrow channel through a city of warships. There were a few ships he had not seen before, including a huge three-decked 1st Rate, and he was so intent on them that he realized he had gotten Shrike safely in without his usual qualms. After that supper with Lilycrop, and his grudging acceptance, Lewrie was amazed at how much easier things had gone for him, how much more assured of his abilities he felt.

"A three-decker, sir," Alan said. "Do you think Admiral Rodney has come back? Maybe they're ready to try another pass with this de Grasse."

"Look more closely," Lilycrop suggested, passing him the telescope and uttering one of his semi-stifled titters of amusement.

"My God!" Alan exclaimed as the name on the stern placque leapt into focus. "Ville de Paris!"

"Think they have met," Lilycrop barked, rubbing his round nose in delight. "Now, would you be so good as to have my boat brought round to the entry port so I may go aboard the flag and report?"

"Aye, sir, immediately. Fukes?"

They had met indeed, on April 12, and the French fleet had been scattered to the four winds, some running back to Martinique, some for Cape Francois or Havana. Five line-of-battle ships had been taken at the Battle of The Saintes, including Ville de Paris, and de Grasse was now a British prisoner. Admiral Rodney had returned shortly after Shrike had left on her patrol, had taken Hood and his ships down to St. Lucia, and had dogged the French bases until they sailed. Much like Mr. Clerk's tactics treatise had suggested, Rodney had broken the order of the French line when a God-sent shift of wind had taken the French aback and forced them to luff up helpless while the British squadron still had wind to spare.

From de Grasse and his captured officers, it was learned that the French and Spanish from Havana were to have linked up and invaded the island of Jamaica in a joint expedition. Now that was foiled, for all the siege artillery had been taken at The Saintes in the ships now lying in English Harbor as prizes. Never before had a 1st Rate ship of the line of any nation been taken in battle; never had an admiral other than Rodney taken a French, a Dutch and a Spanish admiral prisoner in his last three actions. There was some carping that breaking the French line was an accident, not planned. There were rumblings that Rodney could have taken a dozen, two dozen prizes if he had released his line in General Chase. Still, it was a magnificent victory, strengthening England's hand after such a long drought.

And for Lewrie, the parties ashore were heaven. Dolly Fenton was still there in his lodgings, having sold her late husband's commission to another officer for twelve hundred pounds, and she had waited for him instead of going home. She did live frugally, as his shore agent could attest, and she was so full of love and passion for him it was all he could do to crawl to the boat landing each morning when Lilycrop allowed him to sleep out of the ship.

And damned if she didn't make a snug and pleasant little home for him, such a nice little abode that he invited Lieutenant Lilycrop to dine with them one night, and Dolly captivated the man from the first sight of her. They dined her aboard Shrike in the captain's quarters, asking the senior people from the wardroom in as guests, and she felt so honored she almost wept in the boat back to shore.

The best night was Sir Admiral Hood's levee for Vice Admiral Paul-Joseph, Comte de Grasse, and Alan squired her to that in a new gown and his gift of a gold necklace and earrings he had made her that day. She floated on air, she laughed shyly, and she trembled with joy to be on his arm, and to be ogled by all the other officers and their wives at the levee. She even captivated Admiral de Grasse in the receiving line.

It was a fairly quick trot down the receiving line among officers more senior to him, but it was worth it. The Frog was huge, well over six feet tall (it was reputed he had lifted the tall Rebel General Washington off his feet and hugged him, calling him "mon petit general") round as a beef cask, and weighed over twenty stone, with a round chubby face and tiny, pursed, almost porcine lips.

"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, of the Shrike brig. And Miss Dolly Fenton," the officer to his side said as he passed them on. "Lewrie was at Yorktown, and the Battle of The Chesapeake. He escaped after the surrender."

"Milord," Alan said. "Nice to meet you at long last."

"Dolly, vot a pretty name, ma cher!" de Grasse said, kissing Dolly's hand and showing no signs of letting go. "Vee dance later, hein? Vee sing songs of eternal joy! Most beautiful of English beauties!"

"Lewrie, of the… oh, the hell with it," Alan sighed.

"Might as well bugger off, Lewrie," the officer who had introduced them said. "Be sure to get her hand back when you leave."

And Dolly was so entranced by meeting such a celebrity, by the music and wine and dancing, and the interest shown in her, that by the time they got back to his lodgings, it was all Alan could do to keep a shirt on before they got out of the hired coach.

Damme for a fool, he thought, late that night as she lay by his side, exhausted at last by their frenzied lovemaking, if I ain't coming to enjoy this maybe a bit too much. Damme if I'd ever marry her, not with Lucy Beauman out there, but this could be pleasant enough for the meantime. Only problem is, Dolly needs a man to cling to, and the way she wants to cling is the permanent anchorage. I'm way too young for that. Ain't I? Yes, yes, I am, I'm sure of it.

And not a week later, they were sent orders to prepare for sea once more. Lieutenant Lilycrop came back aboard from Barfleur with a thick packet of orders under his arm, canvas-wrapped and bound up with official ribbons and sealed, and from the way he carried them, they had been weighted with grape shot to speed their descent into the nether-depths if Shrike were accosted by a foe.

"Despatches for Kingston," Lilycrop told Lewrie after he had stowed them away in a locker in his transom settee. "Hood and Rodney'll be on their way west after us, just in case the Dons and what Frogs escaped still have plans for Jamaica. We'll crack on all the sail she can fly, and I'll be wantin' to warn you again 'bout how Shrike can get away from you in a stiff blow to loo'rd."

"Aye, sir," Alan replied. "Sail on the next tide?"

"Yes. Are we ready to put to sea?"

"Aye, sir," Alan said, proud that he had the ship ready in all respects, in between the riotous celebrations ashore.

"By the way, the flag-captain informs me a terrible mistake was made two month ago, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop went on, tossing off his heavy coat, kicking off his tight shoes, and picking up a cat to stroke. "Seems a midshipman assistin' a flag-lieutenant-which is like a blind man helpin' a cripple cross a busy road-sent a Lieutenant Lyles, a man of no little experience, into the Amphion frigate, and sent you here as my first. Upset their little wardroom order with no end of shit."

"I see, sir. So I am to exchange with this Lieutenant Lyles?"

"Not a bit of it. Told 'em I preferred you, now we were used to each other's ways," Lilycrop growled, busying himself with a bottle of wine. "If they got their books wrong, it's no fault of mine, I told 'em. If Lyles got the wet end of the stick, it's their problem."

"Thank you, sir." Alan beamed, puffing up at the compliment.

"Didn't think an ambitious young fella like yourself would care to be third officer in a thirty-six, when you could be first, even in a little brig like Shrike."

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