As they made for the ladder and the waiting dockyard boat a figure appeared wearing an apron, huge arms in shirtsleeves despite the chill wind. He touched his forehead.

'Beg pardon, sir. Willerton, carpenter. You've seen that pack of whores aft sir? Don't hold with it sir. Tis the wages of sin they have coming to 'em. There's nowt wrong with the ship, sir, she's as fine today as when they built her, she'll take two thirteen inch mortars and not crack a batten… nowt wrong with her at all…'

Slightly taken aback at this encounter Drinkwater thanked the man, reflecting, as he took his seat in the boat, that there were clearly factions at work on the Virago with which he would become better acquainted in the days ahead.

'You are required and directed without delay to take command of His Majesty's Bomb Tender Virago, which vessel you are to prepare for sea with all despatch…'

He read on in the biting wind, the commission flapping in his hands. When he had finished he looked at the small semi-circle of transformed warrant officers standing with their hats off. The sober blue of their coats seemed the only patches of colour against the flaked paintwork and bare timbers of the ship. They had clearly been at some pains to correct the impression their new commander had received the previous evening. They should be given some credit for that, Drinkwater thought.

'Good morning gentlemen. I am glad to see the adventures of the night have not prevented you attending to your duty.' He looked round. Matchett's eighteen seamen, barefoot and shivering in cotton shirts and loose trousers, were standing holding their holystones in one hand, their stockingette hats in the other. Drinkwater addressed them in an old formula. He tried to make it sound as though he meant it though there was a boiling anger welling up in him again.