He stood back in his place as the gig ran alongside and a moment later, as the shrilling of the pipes pierced the peaceful stillness, Frey touched the fore-cock of his hat and Captain Drinkwater hove himself to the deck.

For a moment, as the pipes completed their ritual shrieking, Drinkwater stood at the salute, his eyes swiftly taking in the details of the deck. At last the tremulous echoes waned and faded.

'Evenin', Mr Frey.'

'Evening, sir.'

Drinkwater stood aside and put out a hand.

'Come, sir,' he called back to the civilian in the boat who stared apprehensively upwards. 'Clasp the ropes and walk up the ship's side. 'Tis quite simple.'

Frey suppressed a smile as Drinkwater raised his left eyebrow a trifle. The side party waited patiently while the man-ropes jerked and a young man, elegantly dressed in grey, finally hauled himself breathlessly on to the deck. Frey regarded the stranger with interest and a little wonder. The cut of the coat was so obviously fashionable that it was difficult not to assume the newcomer was a fop. Aware of the curiosity aroused by the contrast between the somewhat grubby informality of Frey's undress uniform coat and the attire of his companion, Drinkwater gave his guest a moment to recover his wind and gape about. Turning to the third lieutenant, Drinkwater asked, 'First Lieutenant aboard, Mr Frey?'

'Here, sir.'

Metcalfe materialized by magic, as if he had been there all along but chose that precise moment to forsake invisibility.

'We'll get under weigh the moment the wind serves.'

Metcalfe cast his eyes aloft and turned nonchalantly on his heels, his whole demeanour indicating the fact that it was a flat calm. 'Aye, aye, sir ... when the wind serves.'

Frey, already irritated by the first lieutenant's idiosyncratic detachment, watched Captain Drinkwater's reaction to this piece of studied insolence with interest and anxiety.