Fiddles had been fitted round the table—taut cords at the edge to prevent plates tumbling into laps; glasses were never poured more than half full and wetted cloths prevented bottles sliding— all familiar accompaniments to sea service.

The chaplain entered for dinner, passing along hand by hand to steady himself. "Do take a sup of wine," Kydd said solicitously.

"Thank you, perhaps later," Peake murmured, distracted. He reached for the bread-barge, which still contained portions of loaves—soon they would be replaced with hard tack—and selected a crust. "I confess I was ever a martyr to the ocean's billows," he said faintly.

Kydd remembered the times when he had been deprived of Renzi's company while Peake and he had been happily disputing logic, and could not resist saying, "Then is not y'r philosophy comfort enough? Nicholas, conjure some words as will let us see th' right of it."

Renzi winked at him. "Was it not the sainted Traherne who tells us ... let me see ... 'You never enjoy the world aright, till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens and crowned with the stars and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world'?"

Peake lifted dull eyes and said weakly, "I believe the Good Book may be more relied upon in this matter, as you will find in Proverbs, the thirtieth chapter: 'There be three things which are too wonderful for me ... the way of an eagle in the air ... the serpent on a rock—and the way of a ship in the midst of the sea.'"

Bampton's voice cut above the chuckles. "That you can safely leave with us, Mr Peake, but we'll have early need of your services, I fancy." Adams gave the second lieutenant a quizzical look. "You don't really think we'd be cracking on like this unless there's to be some sort of final meeting with the French? It stands to reason," Bampton continued.