'Frey?' The peremptory and haughty tone of Metcalfe's voice cut aptly into Frey's train of thought.

'Sir?' He looked round.

'You heard the Captain, Frey. You and Belchambers are to take the launch and scour the town for seamen. Try the village there,' Metcalfe said, in his arch tone, nodding at Cawsand where the first faint lights were beginning to show in the cottage windows.

'Aye, aye, sir.' Frey's acknowledgement was flat, formal and expressionless. There were no seamen to be had in Cawsand, nor within a night's march into Cornwall. They might pick up a few drink-sodden wretches in the dens of Dock Town, but he was not optimistic and was disappointed in Drinkwater's suggestion that anything practical might be achieved. He was about to walk away when Metcalfe spoke again.

'And Frey ...'

'Sir?'

'Let me know', Metcalfe said with a pained and put-upon look, 'when the Captain is coming aboard next time.'

'The midshipman reported the boat's approach to you in the wardroom.'

'Don't be insolent, Frey, you don't have the charm for it and it ill befits you.'

Frey bit off a hot retort and held his tongue, though he was quite unable to stop the colour mounting to his cheeks. Beyond Metcalfe's shoulder he could see Captain Drinkwater had returned to the quarterdeck.

'I know you served in the ship's last commission,' Metcalfe went on, oblivious of the captain's approach, 'but it don't signify with me, d'you see?'

'Mr Frey.' Drinkwater's curt voice came as a relief to Frey.

'Sir?'

Metcalfe swung round and saw Drinkwater. 'Ah, sir, I was just directing Mr Frey to take command of the press…'

I told you to deal with that, Mr Metcalfe. Mr Frey has another duty to perform.'