There was no doubt in Drinkwater's mind that he had discovered the squadron under Rear-Admiral Drury.

He had his barge called away as soon as he had saluted Drury's flag, leaving Fraser to anchor Patrician and Musquito. He could only clearly identify one of the two frigates, the Dedaigneuse, for a fine rain had begun to fall and a damp chill filled the air so that the oarsmen bent to their task over a smooth sea, blowing the trickling rain from their mouths. Drinkwater sat wrapped in his thoughts. He watched the big two-decker loom over them as they approached, remembering her on a grey, gun-concussed October afternoon off Camperdown eleven years earlier. Eleven years! Where had the time gone? He wondered if Tregembo, sitting beside him at the tiller, entertained himself with such gloomy thoughts. Eleven years! They were both worn out in the King's Service, grown grey in the harness of duty like their ships.

'Boat ahoy!'

'Patrician !' Tregembo's quick response gave no indication of such day-dreaming. On board Russell they were already aware of Patrician's identity, for they had exchanged the private signal as they approached, but Tregembo's short reply to the challenge indicated that Patrician's captain sat in the boat. A few minutes later Drinkwater stood on the deck of the line-of-battle ship listening to the apologies of Russell's first lieutenant who was excusing the absence of her captain.

'He is in conference with the Admiral and the other captains of the squadron, sir,' the lieutenant explained, 'and they have been joined by the Select Committee.'

'And what precisely is that, sir?' asked Drinkwater, feigning a deliberate obtuseness.