Captain Drinkwater eased his shoulders slightly and settled the heavy broadcloth coat more comfortably. The enlarged shoulder pad which he had had the tailor insert to support the strained and wasted muscles of his neck did not entirely disguise the misalignment of his shoulders nor the cock of his head. The heavy epaulette only emphasised his disfigurement but he nodded his satisfaction at the reflection in the mirror and pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. It wanted fifteen minutes before six in the morning. Earl St Vincent, First Lord of the Admiralty, had already been at his desk for forty-five minutes. Drinkwater swallowed the last of his coffee hitched his sword and threw his cloak round his shoulders. Picking up his hat from its box, he blew out the candle and lifted the door latch.

Three minutes later he turned west into the Strand and walked quickly through the filth towards Whitehall. He dismissed any last minute additions he should have made to the shopping list he had left with Tregembo and composed his mind for his coming interview with the First Lord. He paused only to have his shoes blacked by a skinny youth who polished them with an old wig.

As the clock at the Horse Guards, the most accurate timepiece in London, struck the hour of six he turned in through the screen wall that separated the Admiralty from the periodical rioting seamen who besieged it for want of pay. He touched two fingers to his hat brim at the sentry's salute.

Beyond the glass doors he stopped and coughed. The Admiralty messenger woke abruptly from his doze and almost fell as he rose to his feet, extricating them with difficulty from the warming drawer set in the base of his chair. This he contrived to do without too much loss of dignity before leaving the hall to announce Commander Nathaniel Drinkwater.