The poem reads like a few quick entries from a sailor's log, stripped down to the barest facts. In the first stanza a ship has sailed through the night and arrives at a "fresh gale" and "a good deal," a phrase that feels oddly casual, as if the speaker is shrugging at what lies ahead. Then comes the noise of guns, repeated twice, followed by smoke and the arrival of captains. The poem never explains what happens in the fighting, which makes it feel both sudden and distant.
The most human moment is the last stanza. The speaker writes to his wife and drinks wine to her, a small, tender ritual in the middle of chaos. Then the timing slips: it was morning, and by evening "we parted." Who or what parted is left open, and the poem suggests it could be a farewell, a separation, or something worse. The mood is tense but flat, with feeling kept just below the surface. That restraint is what gives the ending its quiet ache.