'You take my meaning, Mr Metcalfe?' There was the hint of an edge to Drinkwater's voice.

Metcalfe completed his slow gyration and met the cool appraisal of his new commander with an inclination of his head.

'Perfectly, sir. May I remind you the ship still wants thirty-seven men to complete her establishment. The watch-bill...'

'Then, sir,' snapped Drinkwater with a false formality, 'you may take a party ashore when the launch is discharged and see what the stews of Dock Town will yield up.'

Frey noted the irritation in Drinkwater's tone as he turned back to the young man in grey.

'Mr Vansittart, please allow me to conduct you below, your dunnage and servants will come aboard from the launch directly ...'

Frey nodded dismissal to the side party and exchanged glances with Midshipman Belchambers. They were, with Mr Comley the boatswain and Mr Maggs the gunner, the only officers remaining from Patrician's last commission. Despite the drafts from the guardships at Plymouth and Portsmouth, the pickings of the Impress Service sent them by the Regulating Officers in the West Country and the sweepings of their own hot-press, they remained short of men.

Patrician had been swinging at a buoy in the Hamoaze when Captain Drinkwater had first come aboard and read his commission to the assembled ship's company. Her officers had regarded with distaste the mixture of hedge-sleeping vagrants, pallid gaolbirds, lumpish yokels and under-nourished quota-men who formed too large a proportion of the people. Afterwards Lieutenant Gordon had spoken for them all: "Tis hands of ability we want, seamen, for God's sake,' Gordon had continued despairingly, 'not mere numbers to fill slots in a watch-bill.'

'That's all you're going to get,' said Pym the surgeon, having inspected them for lice, the lues, ruptures and lesser horrors, adding with some relish, 'a first lieutenant who slept in the ship would be an advantage…'