Drinkwater entered his cabin and closed the door. The space was bare of a chair. A small bookshelf was secured to the pine bulkhead. A tiny folding table was fitted beneath the shelf, ingeniously doubling as the lid of a cabinet containing a bucket for night soil. A rack for a carafe and glass, both of which articles were missing, and three pegs behind the door completed the cabin's fittings. He went on deck.

The visibility had improved and he could see the low line of the Kent coast. He walked forward to enquire of Jessup whether the boat had returned.

'Aye, sir, been and gone. I sent it to Tilbury for your dunnage.'

Drinkwater thanked him, ignoring the scrutiny of the hands forward. He coughed and said, 'Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me round the deck.' Jessup nodded and went forward.

The huge bowsprit came inboard through the stemhead gammon iron and was housed in massive timbers that incorporated the windlass barrel. Abaft this was a companionway to the fo'c's'le, a large dark space extending beyond the mast which rose from the deck surrounded by its fiferails, belaying pins, lead blocks and coils of cordage.

'How many men do we bear, Mr Jessup?'

'Forty-eight full complement, forty-two at present… here's the hatch, sir, fitted with a platform, it ain't a proper 'tween deck… used as 'ammock space, sail room an' 'old.' Jessup ran his hand along the gunwale of the larboard gig chocked on the hatch as they continued aft. Drinkwater noted the plank lands were scuffed and worn.