'Flag's signalling, sir ...'

Drinkwater's attention was diverted by the necessity of obeying the signals of His Royal Highness. As they came up towards Calais, the cannon of the squadron boomed out in yet another round of salutes, impressing upon the fishermen and townsfolk that the dangerous days of republican experiment and alternative, bourgeois monarchy, were dead.

'Sir, may I formally present Captain Drinkwater?'

Blackwood's introduction had an ironic content, since he had met the Duke of Clarence the previous afternoon, but the scene in the great cabin was stiff with formality and Drinkwater made his obeisance with a well-footed bow. Apart from the Jason's captain, he was the last of the allied commanders to be presented. The prince appeared to notice him as an individual for the first time. Drinkwater was some four years the prince's senior, his long grey-brown hair clubbed at the nape of his neck, the scarred cheek and faint blue powder burns on the lean face with its high forehead marking him as a seasoned officer.

This seemed to surprise Prince William Henry, whose genial, full-lipped and rubicund, pop-eyed features broke into an affable grin as he studied the taller post-captain.

'Well Drinkwater,' he almost shouted, 'what d'ye think of Andromeda?'

'She's a fine ship for her class, sir,' Drinkwater remarked.

'She's good enough to have taken the Odin, ain't she, eh what?'

'Indeed, sir ...'

'Drinkwater ... Drinkwater ... Ah-hah! I have it! Ain't you the fellow that took a Russian seventy-four in the Pacific?'

'Captain Drinkwater makes a habit of taking superior ships, sir,' Blackwood put in, bending to the royal ear and lowering his voice, 'but it might be tactless to mention it this evening sir.'

'Of course, of course,' boomed the prince, 'I recall, 'twas the Suvorov, what, what?' Drinkwater caught Blackwood's eye and saw the Impregnable's captain roll his eyes resignedly at the white painted deck-beam over his head.