Lieutenant Richard Bolitho crossed to the weather side of the quarterdeck and gripped the hammock nettings to hold his balance. Towering above and ahead of him, Trojan's great pyramids of sails were impressive, even to one accustomed to the sight. Especially after all the frustration and pain in the last four and a half days, he thought.

The wind which had followed them with such promise from Sandy Hook had changed within hours, as if driven or inspired by the devil himself. Backing and veering without warning, with all hands required to reef or reset the sails throughout each watch. It had taken one complete, miserable day just to work round and clear of the dreaded Nantucket shoals, with sea boiling beneath the long bowsprit as if heated by some force from hell.

Then after raising their progress to four and even five knots the wind would alter yet again, bellowing with savage triumph while the breathless seamen fought to reef the hard canvas, fisting and grappling while their pitching world high above the decks went mad about them.

But this was different. Trojan was standing almost due north, her yards braced round as far as they would to take and hold the wind, and along her lee side the water was creaming past as evidence of real progress.

Bolitho ran his eyes over the upper gundeck. Below the quarterdeck rail he could see the hands resting and chatting, as was the custom while awaiting to see what the cook had produced for the midday meal. By the greasy plume which fell downwind from the galley funnel, Bolitho guessed that it was another concoction of boiled beef hacked from salted casks,

mixed with a soggy assortment of ship's biscuit, oatmeal and scraps saved from yesterday. George Triphook, the senior cook, was hated by almost everyone but his toadies, but unlike some he enjoyed the hatred, and seemed to relish the groans and curses at his efforts.