The table fell silent: the frantic preparations for sea, the storing of powder and shot, and last-minute fitting and repairs had left little time for the contemplation of larger matters.

Renzi steepled his fingers. "Not necessarily. All we have is rumour and hearsay. We have abandoned the Mediterranean with reason, that we can no longer support a fleet there, and therefore every vessel of ours is undefended prey. In this case we have no means of intelligence to tell us what is happening, hence the wild speculation.

"Now, we do know of General Buonaparte and his designs on England—the landing boats in every northern French port, the daily inspections of his Army of England. Do you not feel it the more likely that he will ransack Toulon and Cartagena for ships of force to swell the Brest fleet to an unstoppable power that will overwhelm us? Rather, that is, than retain them in a landlocked sea for some sort of escapade far away."

"Just as I said." Bampton snorted. "A conclusion with Mr Buonaparte, in the chops of the Channel somewheres, I'd wager, and—"

"Except we're being sent south to Cadiz."

"Renzi, old trout, you're not being clear," Adams admonished him.

"Am I not? Then it could be that I am as much in the dark as you. Are we to be part of a grand fleet about to break into the Med again? Or might it be that we being only a sixty-four—a fine one indeed as I am obliged to remark—our purpose is merely that of releasing the more warlike seventy-fours?"

At the head of the table Bryant glowered. As first lieutenant his interest in a future bloody battle and the subsequent custom of promotion to commander for an active officer had been all too apparent on the quiet North American station. The prospect of sitting out his battle far from the action was hard to endure. "There's a reason for it, never fear," he said loudly.