Griffiths eyed Lestock with something approaching distaste.

'Mr Quilhampton can take a working party ashore with the carpenter. I think a couple of those pines would come in useful, eh? What d'you think Mr Drinkwater?'

'A good idea, sir. And the Ragusan?'

'Mr Q's first task will be to desire her master to wait upon me. Now, Mr Drinkwater, you have been up all night, will you take breakfast with me before you turn in?'

Half an hour later, his belly full, Drinkwater stretched luxuriously, too comfortable to make his way to his cabin. Griffiths dabbed his mouth with a stained napkin.

'I think Rogers can take care of that business aboard Hecuba.'

'I hope so sir,' yawned Drinkwater, 'he's not backward in forwarding opinions as to his own merit.'

'Or of criticising others, Nathaniel,' said Griffiths solemnly. Drinkwater nodded. The second lieutenant was a trifle overconfident and it was impossible to pull the wool over the eyes of an officer as experienced and shrewd as Griffiths. 'That's no bad thing,' continued the commander in his deep, mellifluous Welsh voice, 'if there's substance beneath the fagade.' Drinkwater agreed sleepily, his lids closing of their own accord.

'But I'm less happy about Mr Dalziell.'

Drinkwater forced himself awake. 'No sir, it's nothing one can lay one's finger upon but…' he trailed off, his brain refusing to work any further.

'Pass word for my servant,' Griffiths called, and Merrick came into the tiny cubby hole that served the brig's officers for a common mess. 'Assist Mr Drinkwater to his cot, Merrick.'

'I'm all right, sir.' Drinkwater rose slowly to his feet and made for the door of his own cabin, cannoning into the portly figure of the surgeon.

Griffiths smiled to himself as he watched the two manoeuvre round one another, the one sleepily indignant, the other wakefully apologetic.