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of
Melusine
’s gig, but they had never performed before under the eyes of an admiral or the entire Channel Fleet.
    He grunted his satisfaction. ‘Don’t ’ee let me down. No. Nor the cap’n, neither. Don’t forget we owe him a lot, my lads,’ he glowered round them as if to quell contradiction. There was a wry sucking of teeth and winking of eyes that signified recognition of Tregembo’s partiality for the captain. ‘No one but Cap’n Drinkwater ’d’ve got us out o’ Mount’s Bay an’ all three masts still standing . . . just youbuggers think on that. Now up on deck with ’ee all.’ Tregembo followed the boat’s crew up out of the gloom of the gun-deck.
    Above, all was bustle and activity. Tregembo looked aft and grinned to himself. Captain Drinkwater stood where, in Tregembo’s imagination, he always stood, at the windward hance, one foot on the slide of the little brass carronade that was one of a pair brought from the
Melusine
. Ten minutes earlier the whole ship had been stirred by the hail of the masthead look-out who had sighted the topgallants of the main body of the Channel Fleet cruising on Cornwallis’s rendezvous fifty miles west of Ushant. In the cabin below, Mullender was fussing over Drinkwater’s brand new uniform coat with its single gleaming epaulette, transferred now to the right shoulder and denoting a post-captain of less than five years seniority. Mullender at last satisfied himself that no fluff adhered to the blue cloth with a final wipe of the piece of wool flag-bunting, and lifted the stained boat-cloak out of the sea-chest. He shook his head over it, considering its owner would benefit from a new one and cut a better dash before the admiral to boot, but, with a single glance out of the stern windows, considered the weather too fresh to risk a boat journey without it. Gold lace tarnished quickly and the protection of the cloak was essential. Drawing a sleeve over the knap on the cocked hat, Mullender left the cabin. He had been saving the dregs of four bottles to celebrate such a moment and retired to his pantry to indulge in the rare privilege of the captain’s servant.
    Drinkwater lowered his glass for the third time, then impatiently lifted it again. This time he was rewarded by the sight of a small white triangle just above the horizon. In the succeeding minutes others rose over the rim of the earth until it seemed that, for half of the visible circle where sea met sky, the white triangles of sails surrounded them. Beneath each white triangle the dark hulls emerged with their lighter strakes and chequered sides. The gay colours of flag signals and ensigns enlivened the scene and
Antigone
buzzed as officers and men pointed out ships they recognised, old friends or scandalous hulks that were only kept afloat by the prayers of their crews and the diabolical links their commanders enjoyed with the devil himself.
    â€˜ ’Ere, ain’t that the bloody
Himmortalitee
?’ cried an excited seaman, and an equally effusive Hill agreed.
    â€˜Aye, Marston, that is indeed the
Immortalité
, and a damned fine ship she was when I was in her as a master’s mate.’
    â€˜Gorn to the devil, Mister ’Ill, now we oldsters ain’t there to watch. She used to gripe like a stuck porker in anything of a blow . . .’
    â€˜God damn it the
Belleisle
, by all that’s holy . . .’
    â€˜And the
Goliath
 . . .’
    Drinkwater tolerated the excitement as long as it did not mar the efficiency of the
Antigone
. One of the look-out cruisers broke away and hauled her yards to intercept them.
    â€˜Permission to hoist the private signal, sir?’ James Quilhampton crossed the deck, touching his hat.
    â€˜Very well, Mr Q.’ Drinkwater nodded and lifted his glass, watching the frigate close hauled on the wind as she moved to intercept the new arrival.