In contrast to the stifling air below, the deck was already touched with the chill of the coming night and Frey paused a moment, drinking in the pure tranquillity of the evening.

'Boat 'hoy!'

The bellow of the quarterdeck sentry recalled him to his duty. He settled his hat on his head and walked to the ship's side.

'Patrician!'

The answering hail brought some measure of satisfaction to Mr Frey. The stark, shouted syllables of the ship's name meant the captain was aboard the gig and, in Frey's opinion, the captain's presence could not occur soon enough.

More marines, the side-boys and duty bosun's mates were running aft to take their stations. Tweaking the sennit-covered man-ropes so they hung handily down the frigate's ample tumble-home on either side of the steps, Belchambers raised two fingers to his hat-brim.

'Ship's side manned, sir; Cap'n coming aboard.'

'Very well, Mr Belchambers.'

Frey watched the distinctive blue and white paintwork of the gig; the oars rose and fell in perfect unison. As the oarsmen leaned back, the bow of the boat lifted a trifle and Frey caught sight of Captain Drinkwater alongside the coxswain. There was another figure too, a civilian by the look of his garb. Was this the mysterious passenger for whom, it had been intimated, they were waiting?

A second boat crabbed out in the gig's wake. She was larger, with an untidy clutter of gear in her waist and a consequently less synchronous movement of her oars. Midshipman Porter had a less sure hand upon the tiller of the overloaded launch as it visibly struggled towards them. Frey rightly concluded it had left Dock Town hard well in advance of the gig and had been overtaken.