The oldest of the women who sat on the round, well-dressed man's knee, was the first to recover. She hove herself upright, shrugged her shoulders in a clearly practised gesture and her bosom subsided from view.

'Who are you gentlemen then?' The other women followed her example, there was a rustling of cotton and the shoe disappeared.

'Lieutenants Drinkwater and Rogers, madam. And you, pray?' Drinkwater's voice was icily polite.

'Mrs Jex,' she said, setting off giggles on either side of her, 'just married to 'Ector Jex, here… my 'usband,' she added to more giggles. 'My 'usband is purser of this ship.' There was a certain proprietary hauteur in her voice. Mr Jex remained silent behind the voluptuous bulk of his wife.

'And these others?'

'Mr Matchett, boatswain and Mr Mason, master's mate.'

'And the ladies?' Drinkwater asked with ironic emphasis, eyeing their professional status.

'Friends of mine,' replied Mrs Jex with the sharp certainty of possession.

'I see. Mr Matchett!'

Matchett pulled himself together. 'Sir?'

'Where are the remainder of the standing warrant officers?'

'H'hm. There is no gunner appointed, nor a master.'

'How many men have we?'

'Not including the warrant officer's mates, who number four men, we have eighteen seamen. All are over sixty years of age. That is all…'

'Well, gentlemen, I shall be in command of the Virago. Mr Rogers will be first lieutenant. I shall return aboard tomorrow morning to take command. I shall expect you to be at your duty.' He swept them with a long stare then turned on his heel and clattered up the ladder. He heard Rogers say something behind him as he regained the cold freshness of the darkened deck.