'The boats see hard service, then?'

Jessup gave a short laugh. 'Aye, sir. That they do.'

Abaft the hatch were the galley funnel, the cabin skylight and the companionway surmounted by a brass binnacle. Finally the huge curved tiller dominated the after-deck, its heel secured in the brass-bound top of the rudder stock, its end terminating in the carved head of the falcon from which the cutter took her name.

Jessup ran his hand possessively over the proud curve of the beak and nodded to a small padlocked hatch let into the stem cant and surrounded by gratings.

'Magazine 'atch.' He turned forward pointing at the guns. 'Mounts twelve guns, sir. Ten three-pounders and two long brass fours forrard, throws a broadside of nineteen pounds. She's seventy-two feet on the gun deck, nigh on one 'undred and twenty-five tons…' he trailed off, still suspicious, weighing up the newcomer.

'You been in cutters before, sir?'

Drinkwater looked at him. It did not do to give too much away, he thought. Jessup would know soon enough. He thought of the buoy-yacht Argus. It was his turn to look enigmatic.

'Good heavens yes, Mr Jessup. I've served extensively in cutters. You'll not find me wanting there.'

Jessup sniffed. Somehow that indrawn air allowed him the last word, as if it indicated a secret knowledge that Drinkwater could not be a party to. Yet.

'Here's the boat, sir, with your traps.' Jessup walked over to the side to hail it. To seal the advantage he had over the newcomer he spat forcefully into the gliding waters of the Thames.

Shortly before noon the following day the captain had come on board. Lieutenant Griffiths removed his hat, ran a searching eye over the ship and sniffed the wind. He acknowledged Drinkwater's salute with a nod. The lieutenant was tall and stoop-shouldered, his sad features crowned by a mane of white hair that lent his sixty-odd years a patriarchal quality.