'Aye, aye, sir.'

'And Mr Q…'

'Sir?'

'Do you also direct Mr Appleby to have a tankard of blackstrap ready for me when I come below at eight bells.'

Drinkwater watched the excited Quilhampton race below. Like the midshipman he was curious about Nelson, a man whose name was known to every schoolboy in England since his daring manoeuvre at the battle of Cape St Vincent. Not that his conduct had been put at risk by the enemy so much as by those in high places at the Admiralty. Drinkwater knew there were those who considered he would be shot for disobedience before long, just as there were those who complained he was no seaman. Certainly he did not possess the abilities of a Pellew or a Keats, and although he enjoyed the confidence of St Vincent he had been involved in the fiasco at Santa Cruz. Perhaps, thought Drinkwater, he was a man like the restless Smith, with whom he had served briefly in the Channel, a man of dynamic force whose deficiencies could be forgiven in a kind of emulative love. But, he concluded, pacing the deck in the gathering darkness, whatever White said on the subject, it did not alter the fact that Hellebore was but a brig and fitted for little more than her present duties.

Chapter Two 

Nelson

 July 1798

'She hasn't acknowledged, sir. Shall I fire a gun to loo'ard?'

Griffiths stared astern to where Hecuba, her jury rigged foremast a mute testimony to the violence of the weather, was struggling into the bay.

'No, Mr Drinkwater. Don't forget she's a merchantman with a quarter of our complement and right now, bach, every man-jack aboard her will be busy.'