'Have you seen the twin lights of the Lizard?' Drinkwater shouted, a worm of uncertainty uncoiling itself in his belly.

'Half an hour ago we couldn't see much, sir. Heavy, driving rain…'

'Then it cleared like this?'

'Aye, sir, and the wind veered a point or two…'

It was on Drinkwater's tongue to ask why Quilhampton had not called him, but it was not the moment to remonstrate. He crossed quickly to the binnacle, aware by the grunts of the helmsmen that they were having the devil of a time holding the frigate on course. A glance confirmed his fears. The veering wind had cast the ship's head to the north-west and if that latitude was in error he did not dare contemplate further.

'Thank you, Mr Frey.' He flung the boat-cloak over his shoulder and very nearly lost it in the violence of the wind. The scream of air rushing through the rigging had a diabolical quality that Drinkwater did not ever remember hearing before in a quarter-century of sea-service. He looked aloft. Both the fore and main topsails were hard-reefed and a small triangle of a spitfire staysail strained above the fo'c's'le. Even so the ship was over-canvased, almost on her beam ends as spume tore over her deck stinging the eyes and causing the cheeks to ache painfully.

'Look, sir! Look!'

Quilhampton's arm pointed urgently as he fought to retain his footing on the canting deck. Drinkwater slithered to the lee rail as the look-out took up the cry.

'Land! Land! Land on the lee bow!'

Rogers cannoned into him. 'She'll never stay in this sea, sir!'

Drinkwater smelt the rum on his stale breath, but agreed with him. 'Aye, Sam, and there's no room to wear.' He paused, gathered his breath and shouted his next order so there could be no mistake. 'We must club-haul!'