Drinkwater felt irritated by the mild rebuke, but he held his tongue. The week of anxiety must surely soon be over. South of Minorca, beating up for Toulon the northerly mistral had hit the little convoy with unusual violence. Hecuba's foremast had gone by the board and they had been obliged to run off to the eastward and the shelter of Corsica. Drinkwater stared ahead at the looming coastline of the island, the sharp peaked mountains reaching up dark against the glow of dawn. To larboard Cape Morsetta slowly extended its shelter as they limped eastward into Crovani Bay.

'Deck there! Sail dead ahead, sir!'

The cry from the masthead brought the glasses of the two men up simultaneously. In the shadows of the shoreline lay a three-masted vessel, her spars bare of canvas as she lay wind-rode at anchor.

'A polaccra,' muttered Griffiths. 'We'll investigate her when we've brought this lame duck to her anchor,' he jerked his head over his shoulder.

The convoy stood on into the bay. Soon they were able to discern the individual pine trees that grew straight and tall enough to furnish fine masts.

'Bring the ship to the wind Mr Lestock,' Griffiths addressed the master, a small, fussy little man with a permanent air of being put upon. 'You may fire your gun when we let the bower go, Mr Drinkwater.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Lestock was shouting through the speaking trumpet as men ran to the braces, thankful to be in the lee of land where Hellebore's deck approximated the horizontal. The main topsail slapped back against the mast and redistributed its thrust through the standing rigging to the hull below. Hellebore lost forward motion and began to gather sternway.

'Let go!'

The carpenter's topmaul swung once, then the brig's bow kicked slightly as the bower anchor's weight was released. The splash was lost in the bark of the six pounder.