'That's it, my lad, up you go, up you go!'

He caught a glimpse of a sheepish grin that was instantly lost as more men caught him up, swinging outwards into the futtock shrouds with the agility of monkeys. Captains aloft were such a rare event that even the most discontented topman would be put on his mettle to outdo the intrusion.

Midshipman Frey struggled up.

'Good morning, Mr Frey' Frey's eyes widened and Drinkwater nodded upwards. 'Have the goodness to pass ahead of me.'

The boy gulped and swung himself outboard, his back hanging downwards as Patrician's hull rolled them out over the sea, then his kicking heels disappeared and Drinkwater took advantage of the return roll and followed him into the top.

Pausing for breath, Drinkwater took stock of the situation. The foretopsail yard, loosed by its halliards, lay roughly over the top of the foreyard, the huge flapping bunt of sail thundered in wild billows only partially restrained by the weight of the yard and the buntlines and clewlines. Drinkwater waved the topmen aloft and out along the yard. He could see Frey already at the extremity of the windward yardarm, his pea-jacket blown over his back and his sparse shirt-tail flapping madly.

'Come on, lads, lay out and furl that tops'l!'

He clung to the topgallantmast heel-rope downhaul and looked aloft. The fore-topgallantmast had been struck, sent down and lashed parallel to its corresponding topmast to reduce the windage of unneeded tophamper. Now, as he stared upwards, his eyes watering and the wind tugging at him, he saw that the housed topgallantmast was acting like a splint to the fractured mast.