By the end of the day, at Eight Bells of the Day Watch and the start of the usually idle First Dog, the holds had been filled. Water butts stowed and firmly wedged in, then filled with fresh water pumped from the ungainly hoys; great casks of salt-meats treated much in the same manner. Chests and bags of fresh-baked biscuit, a vast array of Bosun's stores and spare timbers, miles of spare cordage and replacement blocks all had gone below, settling HMS Savage a few inches lower in the harbour waters. The day after, and kegs of gunpowder, flannel cartridge bagging, gun-carriages, and the frigate's artillery would come aboard.

Last into the ship, late in the day, had come a load of fresh loaves, a bellowing bullock whose hooves had barely touched the deck before he was slaughtered for supper, and a cage of live chickens for the officers' mess. Lt. Urquhart had mopped his brow, nodded to his new fellows, and had gone below to his deal-and-canvas partitioned cabin (rather grand in size after the ones he had bunked in whilst a junior officer!) and had finally had a chance to unpack and sponge himself down before dressing for a proper meal in the wardroom. One where he must begin to enforce his own stamp upon the others. "Firm but fair," sober and nearly humourless, relentless in the pursuit of duty no matter his private nature. He had it all planned out.

Unfortunately, his curiosity got the better of him, for there was too much to learn about his new captain from the ones who'd been with him so long.

CHAPTER THREE

Mr. Maurice Durant, the ship's Surgeon, a rather laconic French emigre finally promoted from Surgeon's Mate (it helped to be a Protestant Huguenot), had made a guarded comment about Capt.