'Very well, gentlemen. We will call it thirty-nine degrees, six and a half minutes.'

They bent over their tablets and a few minutes later Drinkwater called for their computed latitudes. Again only Walmsley disagreed.

'Very well. We shall make it forty-nine degrees, eleven minutes north… Mr Hill, you appear to have an error in your instrument.'

Hill had already come to the same conclusion and was fiddling with his quadrant, blushing with shame and annoyance. Drinkwater stepped towards him.

'There's no harm done, Mr Hill,' he said privately, reassuring the master.

'Thank you, sir. But imagine the consequences… last night, sir… we might have been cast ashore because I failed to check…'

'A great deal might happen if, Mr Hill,' broke in Drinkwater. 'There is too much hazard in the sea-life to worry about what did not happen. Now bend your best endeavours to checking the compass. We have an error there too, or I suspect you would have tumbled yesterday's inaccuracy yourself.'

The thought seemed to brighten Hill, to shift some of the blame and lighten the burden of his culpability. Drinkwater smiled and turned away, fastening his grey eyes on the senior midshipman.

'Mr Walmsley,' he snapped, 'I wish to address a few words to you, sir!'

Chapter Two 

The Antigone

 March 1804

Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater turned his chair and stared astern to where patches of sunlight danced upon the sea, alternating with the shadows of clouds.