Lt James Spencer, Royal Navy, technically on half-pay, and current First officer, examined the stunsail lashing with a critical eye. The big old galleon was a new experience to him. They seemed over sparred for their masts, even with the old lateen style rigs. Fortunately he had seen such ships plying the country trade in the East Indies, ancient Portuguese vessels with heavy teak hulls working out over the Hoolie Bar to make runs to the Malaccas and to Canton.

A little theoretical knowledge gleaned from talking with old salts and rigging small coastal craft was little enough to go on, but in truth the task was progressing well. Dutifully he inspected each lashing and tested the tension of each line. From time to time he paused to yell at the topmen, nibble sailors who scampered around the top most reaches of the nest of ropes which comprised the rig. They tensioned and loosened lines and rigged cut out pulleys. The ship was an older style but the running rigging was in fine trim. James idly wondered if they could get spars to extend the top gallants so they could run out royals in a high wind.

That would be the captains decision of course. It wasn't James' experience that civilian captains were willing to stress the rig that was their lively hood, until it was too late. It seemed to him that the ship was sea worthy in all respects. He had been trying very hard not to think of where exactly they were. He needed a drink. James never had trouble when he was at sea, it was always the land where the problems lay.

"Square away! I'm going ashore to speak to the captain!" he yelled through cupped hands. The topmen immediately began scrambling down rigging. Turning to make sure the petty officer had heard him he scrubbed at the tar staining his hands and headed down the gang plank and off towards the tavern.