'Good mornin', Vansittart. How d'you fare today?'

Vansittart drew a dank lock of hair back from his forehead, looked upwards and caught sight of the swaying mastheads. Frey saw him swallow and seize the rail with white knuckles.

'Stare at the horizon, man,' Drinkwater snapped sharply, catching hold of him. 'Come, sir, walk to the rail. There, 'tis easy once you have the knack of it.'

Beneath their feet the deck bucked as Patrician slammed into a wave. Vansittart staggered, but kept his balance and reached the bulwark. Sweat stood in beads upon his face and he slowly shook his distressed head. 'Dear God, Captain, if I had known ...' 'The horizon, sir, keep your eyes on the horizon.' The four men at the frigate's double wheel wore broad grins. Two of them, landsmen manning the after wheel, had been in a similar condition a few days earlier. They chuckled with the relish of the relieved.

'Mind your steering there,' Frey growled, suppressing his own amusement. He regarded Vansittart's stained and unbuckled knee breeches, the rumpled stockings, loose stock and revolting shirt. The contrast with his first dandified appearance aboard Patrician was most marked, the more so since his ensemble was the same. Such disregard for his person indicated the extremity of his illness.

'You will become accustomed to the motion, I promise you,' Drinkwater was saying, 'but you must have some breakfast.'

'Zounds, sir, no breakfast, I beg you ...' Drinkwater turned, his eyes twinkling. 'Pass word for my steward,' he ordered, and when the man made his appearance, said, 'Mullender, bring some cushions on deck.'

Solicitous for his guest, Drinkwater had them placed on the inboard end of a quarterdeck gun-truck and helped Vansittart ease himself down on to them.