He threw back his head and opened his mouth, so that one of the watching midshipmen gasped with awe, and then broke into a well-tried shanty.

Bolitho looked up to watch the men spreading out along the massive yards, black and puny against the sky like so many monkeys.

Then he took a glass from Gascoigne, the signal midshipman, and trained it towards the shore. He felt a lump in his throat as he saw her green cloak framed in the distant window, a patch of white as she waved towards the ship. In his mind's eye he could picture what she was seeing. The two-decker, swinging already on- her shortening cable, the figures clinging to the yards, the activity around the forecastle where already more men were standing by the headsails.

"Anchor's hove short, sir!"

Bolitho met Inch's eye and nodded. Inch lifted his trumpet. "Loose heads'ls!"

A quick glance at Gossett, but there was no need to worry there. The master stood by the big double wheel, his eyes moving between the helmsmen and the first strips of canvas which even now were flapping and cracking in the wind.

"Lay a course to weather the headland, Mr. Gossett. We will lie as close to the wind as we can in case it backs again directly."

"Up an' down, sir!" The cry almost lost in the wind. Inch was nodding and muttering to himself as he moved restlessly across the quarterdeck.

He yelled, "Loose tops'ls!"

The great sails billowed and thundered wildly as the cry came from forward, "Anchor's aweigh, sir!"

Bolitho gripped a swivel gun for support as freed from the land the Hyperion swung dizzily into a deep trough. There were a few nervous cries from a lot, but nobody fell.

"Lee braces there!" That was Stepkyne's voice carrying without effort above the din of wind and canvas. "Jump to it, that man!" He was pointing angrily. "Take his name!"