If he had hoped to bring them from their tongue-tied awkwardness by the question, he was sadly disappointed. He sensed an invisible restraint upon them, a disquieting influence, and looked from one to another for some evidence of its source.

'Come, surely someone has an opinion? I never knew a wardroom where criticism of one sort or another was not lavished upon someone.' His false attempt at levity provoked no wry grins. He tried again. 'Mr Gordon, how did the men at your battery respond?'

'Well, sir,' Gordon faltered, shot a glance at the other end of the table and coloured, coughing. The blond lick of his hair fell forward and he threw it back. 'Well, sir, they were well enough, I believe.' He was oddly nervous. 'Their timing improved. According to the first lieutenant...'

'They did well enough, sir, for our first exercise,' broke in Metcalfe stridently. 'The starbowlines were faster than those on the port side and loosed both their broadsides in seventy-nine seconds…'

Drinkwater was fascinated. The riddle, if he judged aright, was solved by the presence of Metcalfe. Yet these younger men were not intimidated by the first luff, merely silent in his company, as if to speak invited some response. Belittlement perhaps? A mild but persistent humiliation? Did they simply choose not to speak in Metcalfe's presence? Was the man a tyrant in the wardroom? He was clearly a fussy and fossicking individual. It was interesting, too, to hear Metcalfe trot out the word 'port' instead of larboard. True, its usage was gaining ground in the Service, but something in Metcalfe's tone endowed the word with fashionable éclat, and more than a little bombast.

'But did you mark any change in their mood, Mr Gordon?'

'You mean after the exercise as compared with before, sir?'