Pipes shrilled again and the decks came alive with stampeding feet as the men ran to their stations, urged on by kicks and curses from harassed petty officers who had not yet had time to memorise the names of their own divisions.

Bolitho touched Inch's arm and drew him aside. "The wind has backed a point." He glanced meaningly at the masthead pendant. "Break out the anchor at once and send the hands aloft." He saw his words causing havoc on Inch's horseface and added quietly, "It will be better to get the new people aloft now and have them spaced on the yards before you pass your orders. We do not want to have half of them dropping to the deck with the port admiral's glass on us, eh?" He smiled and saw Inch nod doubtfully.

He turned his back as Inch hurried to the quarterdeck rail, his speaking trumpet at the ready. He wanted to help him, but knew that if Inch could not take the ship to sea from a wide and comfortable anchorage he might never have the confidence to move alone again.

"Stand by the capstan!"

Gossett crossed to Bolitho's side and said impassively, "We'll have snow afore the week's out, sir." He winced as one of the men at the capstan bars skidded and fell in a welter of arms and legs. A petty officer lashed out with his rattan, and Bolitho saw the lieutenant in charge turn away with embarrassment.

Bolitho cupped his hands. "Mr. Beauclerk! Those men will work together if they have a shanty to bite on!"

Cosset hid a grin. "Poor fellows, they must find it strange, sir."

Bolitho breathed out tightly. Inch should have seen to it earlier. With Hyperion's sixteen-hundred-odd tons tugging on the cable it needed more than brawn to turn the capstan. The fiddle's plaintive notes were almost lost in the wind, but as the first pawl clinked home on the capstan Tomlin roared, "Now, me little sweethearts! Let's give them soft-bellied buggers in Plymouth a sight and sound to remember, eh!"