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decanter. The port glowed richly as he held the glass against the light from the stern windows. Resuming his seat he hitched both feet up on the settee that ran from quarter to quarter across the stern and narrowed his eyes. Damn Lord Walmsley! The young man was a souring influence among a group of reefers who, if they were not exactly brilliant, were not without merit. Midshipman Frey, for instance, just twelve years old, had already seen action off the coast of Greenland, was proving a great asset as a seaman and had also demonstrated his talents as an artist. Drinkwater was not averse to advancing the able, and had already seen both Mr Quilhampton and Mr Gorton get their commissions and placed them on his own quarterdeck as a mark of confidence in them, young though they were. Messrs Wickham and Dutfield were run-of-the-mill youngsters, willing and of a similar age. The Honourable Alexander Glencross was led by Lord Walmsley. The sixth midshipman was even younger than Frey, a freckled Scot named Gillespy forced upon him as a favour to James Quilhampton. In his pursuit of Mistress Catriona MacEwan, poor Quilhampton had sought to press his suit by promising the girl’s aunt to find a place for the child of another sister. Little Gillespy was therefore being turned into a King’s sea-officer to enhance Quilhampton’s prospects as a suitable husband for the lovely Catriona. Drinkwater had had a berth for a midshipman and James had pleaded his own case so well that Drinkwater found himself unable to refuse his request.
    â€˜I believe Miss MacEwan is kindly diposed towards me, sir,’ Quilhampton had said, ‘but her festering aunt regards me as a poor catch . . .’ Drinkwater had seen poor Quilhampton’s eyes fall to his iron hook which he wore in place of a left hand. So, from friendshipand pity, Drinkwater had agreed to the boy joining the ship. As for Gillespy, he had so far borne his part well, despite being constantly sea-sick since
Antigone
left the Thames, and had spent the first half-dozen of his watches on deck lashed to a carronade slide. Drinkwater wondered what effect Walmsley and Glencross might have on such malleable clay.
    â€˜Damn ’em both!’ he muttered; he had more important things to think about and could ill-afford his midshipmen such solicitude. They must take their chance like he had had to. Whatever his misgivings over the reefers, he was well served by his officers, Hill’s error notwithstanding. That had been an unfortunate mistake and principally due to the badly fitted compass that was, in turn, a result of the chaotic state of the dockyards. They had found the error in the lubber’s line small in itself, but enough to confuse their dead-reckoning as they steered down the Channel with a favourable easterly wind. That was an irony in itself after two months of the foulest weather for over a year; gales that had driven the Channel Fleet off station at Brest and into the lee of Torbay.
    â€˜Disaster’, he muttered as he sipped the port, ‘is always a combination of small things going wrong simultaneously . . .’ And, by God, how close they had come to it in Mount’s Bay! He consoled himself with the thought that no great harm had been done. Although he had lost an anchor and cable, the club-haul had not only welded his ship’s company together but shown them what they were themselves capable of. ‘It’s an ill wind,’ he murmured, then stopped, aware that he was talking to himself a great deal too much these days.
    â€˜Now I want a good, steady stroke.’ Tregembo, captain’s coxswain regarded his barge crew with a critical eye. He had hand-picked them himself but since Drinkwater had read himself in at
Antigone
’s entry the captain had not been out of the ship and this was to be the first time they took the big barge away. He knew most of them, the majority had formed the crew