"Er, well, I would—"

"Come, come, sir! An easy enough question—your certificate of service claims sea-time in Artemis, a crack frigate as ever I've seen. You must have seen a flying moor above a dozen times."

It was unfair: here in this august Navy Office board-room he was being asked to describe one of the most risky manoeuvres, dropping anchor at speed and sailing on to the full scope of the cable, then letting go another before falling back on the two anchors. Black Jack Powlett of the Artemis would never have chanced his vessel so, Kydd thought indignantly, then took a deep breath. "Coming boldly up t' the anchorage, I, er, would range both cables out on the gun-deck—veering parties double-banked, o' course—an' at m' furthest on, let go th' best bower. Then—"

"You do not feel it prudent to double bitt your cable first, sir?" the first commissioner interjected.

Then the second came in: "And we have heard nothing of setting this bower a-cockbill in readiness."

"That is, if your ship has not yet a trick stopper or similar," the first added smugly.

Kydd forced his mind to an icy resolve. "Aye, sir—I may have omitted t' say that in getting the anchor off the bows it is first necessary . . ."

It seemed to satisfy. He dared a glance at the third member of the board, who sat hard-faced and silent, Captain Essington, the captain of Triumph in which he had served at the bloody battle of Camperdown.

"Passing to navigation," the first commissioner said flatly.

Kydd's anxieties returned: he had learned his skills at the hands of a merchant-service sailing master who had taught him a plain yet solid understanding of his craft, but Kydd knew that the Navy liked arcane descriptions and definitions.

"We'll begin with basic understanding, Mr Kydd. What is your conceiving of a great circle?"