The richness of the carved decoration on her stern amazed him. It was cracked and bare of paint or gilt, but its presence gave him a pleasurable surprise. The glow of candles flickered through the stern windows. The boat bumped alongside and Drinkwater reached for the manropes and hauled himself on deck.

It was deserted. There were no masts, no guns. The paint on the mortar hatches was flaking; tatty canvas covers flapped over the two companionways. In the autumnal dusk it was a depressing sight. He heard Rogers cluck his tongue behind him as he came over the rail and for a moment the two officers stood staring about them, their boat cloaks flapping in the breeze.

'There's a deal of work to be done, Mr Rogers.'

'Yes, sir.'

Drinkwater strode aft, mounted the low poop and flung back the companion cover. The smell of food and unwashed humanity rose, together with a babble of conversation. Drinkwater descended the steep ladder, turned aft in the Stygian gloom of an unlit lobby and flung open the door of the after cabin. Rogers followed him into the room.

The effect of their entrance was instantaneous. The occupants of the cabin froze with surprise. If Drinkwater had felt a twinge of irritation at the sight of candles burning in his cabin, the scene that now presented itself was a cause for anger. He took in the table with its greasy cloth, the disorder of the plates and pots, the remnants of a meal, the knocked over and empty bottles. His glance rolled over the diners. In the centre lolled a small, rotund fellow in a well-cut coat and ruffled shirt. He had been interrupted in fondling a loosely-stayed woman who lay half across him, her red mouth opened in a grimace as the laughter died on her lips. Two other men also sprawled about the table, their dress in various states of disorder, each with a bare-shouldered woman giggling on his lap. There was a woman's shoe lodged in the cruet and several ankles were visible from yards of grubby petticoats.