A man polishing the ship’s bell noted the gesture and laughed. “Feelin’ sick, me bold farmer? How d’you think you’ll like the sea?”
“Farmer!” Ortho snarled. “Hell’s bells, I was upper yard man of the Elijah Impey, pick of the Indies fleet!”
“Was you, begod?” said the polisher, a note of respect in his voice.
“Aye, that I was. Say, mate, what packet is this?”
“Triton, frigate, Captain Charles Mulholland.”
“Good bully?”
“The best.”
“She seems to handle pretty kind,” said Ortho, glancing aloft.
“Kind!” said the man, with enthusiasm. “She’ll eat out of your hand, she’ll talk to you.”
“Aha! . . . Know where we’re bound?”