'A Russian battle-ship! Good God, this matter has more complications than a witch's brew!'

'She is destroyed, sir. I have her commander and her survivors aboard Patrician.'

"You took a line-of-battle ship with your forty?'

'Her people were much debilitated by scurvy, sir.'

'By heaven, sir, your report will make more interesting reading than most of the paper on my desk!' Drury waved his hand over the litter of correspondence before him. 'I see you brought in a brig.'

'Yes, sir. The Musquito; Captain Ballantyne master. She's a Country ship, damaged in the recent typhoon.'

'It missed us here. You'd better get her up the Bocca Tigris and into shelter ...'

'Very well, sir.'

'Send your written report as soon as possible.'

Aye, aye, sir. My ship is in want of repairs ...'

'Is she fit for service, sir? If not you may have a week. No more.'

A week will be ample, sir.'

'Very well. Thank you, Captain.'

It was rather an inconclusive dismissal, thought Drinkwater as he regained Russell's quarterdeck. Despite his assurance to

Drury, a week seemed quite inadequate for what needed to be done. The continuing rain only added to his depression. Later he was to regard the interview as fateful. For the time being he wanted only to sleep.

Rear-Admiral Drury regarded the arrival of an additional frigate as providential. The fact was that the East Indies command was like no other in the long list of the Royal Navy's responsibilities. It had already been the victim of intrigue, formerly being divided between two officers who, admirable individually, reacted like poison when requested to cooperate. Pellew had won the contest and Troubridge had been recalled, to die when the Blenheim foundered through old age, rot and the use of 'devil-bolts' in her hull.