'I'm only escorting a convoy in a brig, Richard,' said Drinkwater deprecatingly.

White laughed again and held out his hand. 'Good fortune then Nat, for we're all hostage to it, d'you know.'

They shook hands and Drinkwater descended to the boat where Mr Quilhampton, two years older than Mr Lee, but with a fraction of the latter's experience, overawed by the mass of Victory lumbering alongside his cockleshell cutter, made a hash of getting off the battleship's side.

'Steady now, Mr Q. Bear off forward, put the helm over and then lower your oars. 'Tis the only way, d'you see,' Drinkwater said patiently, looking back at Victory. Already her main topsail was filled and White's grin was clearly visible. Drinkwater looked ahead towards the tiny, fragile Hellebore. The cutter rose over the long, low Atlantic swells, the sea danced blue and gold in the sunshine where the light westerly wind rippled its surface. He felt the warmth in the muscles of his right arm.

'Hecuba and Molly to accompany us into the Med, sir, to Nelson, off Toulon. We're to proceed as soon as possible.' Drinkwater looked at Griffiths who lent heavily against the rail, gazing at the stately line of the British fleet to the eastward. 'Prydferth, bach, beautiful,' he muttered. Drinkwater stared astern at the convoy, their topsails aback in an untidy gaggle as they waited to hear their fate. Boats were bobbing towards the brig. 'I've sent for their masters,' Griffiths explained.

'How's the leg today, sir?' Drinkwater asked while they waited for the boats to arrive. The old, white-haired Welshman looked with disgust at the twisted and puffy limb stretched stiffly out on the gun carriage before him.