A baleful sun broke through the overcast to shed a patch of pale light on the frigate. The fresh westerly wind and the opposing flood tide combined to throw up a vicious sea as the ship, under topsails and staysails, drove east down the Prince's Channel clear of the Thames.

Upon her quarterdeck the sailing master ordered the helm eased to prevent her driving too close to the Pansand, the four helmsmen struggling to hold the ship as the wheelspokes flickered through their fingers.

'Mr Drinkwater!' The old master, his white hair streaming in the wind, addressed a lean youth of medium height with fine, almost feminine features and an unhealthily pallid complexion. The midshipman stepped forward, nervously eager.

'Sir?'

'My compliments to the Captain. Please inform him we are abeam of the Pansand Beacon.'

'Yes, sir.' He turned to go.

'Mr Drinkwater!'

'Sir?'

'Please repeat my message and answer correctly.'

The youth flushed deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing with embarrassment.

'Y… your compliments to the Captain and we're abeam the Pansand Beacon, aye, aye, sir.'

'Very good.'

Drinkwater darted away beneath the quarterdeck to where the red-coated marine sentinel indicated the holy presence of the Captain of His Britannic Majesty's 36-gun frigate Cyclops.

Captain Hope was shaving when the midshipman knocked on the door. He nodded as the message was delivered.

Drinkwater hovered uncertainly, not knowing whether he was dismissed. After what seemed an age the Captain appeared satisfied with his chin, wiped off the lather and began to tie his stock. He fixed the young midshipman with a pair of watery blue eyes set in a deeply lined and cadaverous face.

'And you are…?' He left the question unfinished.

'M… Mister Drinkwater, sir, midshipman…'

'Ah yes, it was the Rector of Monken Hadley requested your place, I recollect it well…' The Captain reached for his coat. 'Do your duty, cully, and you have nothing to fear, but make damned sure you know what your duty is…'