Nathaniel had only one recollection of his father, a dim, shadowy being who had tossed him in the air, smelled of wine and tobacco, and laughed wildly before dashing his own brains out in a riding accident. Ned had all his father's reckless passion and love of horses, while Nathaniel inherited the mother's quieter fortitude.

But upon that miserable night when fatigue, hunger, sickness, cold and hopelessness lay siege to his spirit, Nathaniel was exposed to the vicissitudes of fate and in the surrounding darkness his sobbing was overheard by his neighbour, the senior midshipman.

At dinner the following day as eight or nine of Cyclops's dozen midshipmen struggled through their pease pudding, the president of the cockpit, Mr Midshipman Augustus Morris rose solemnly from his place at the head of the filthy table.

'We have a coward amongst us, gentlemen,' he announced, a peculiarly malevolent gleam in his hooded eyes. The midshipmen, whose ages varied between twelve and twenty-four, looked from one to another wondering on whom the wrath of Mr Morris was about to descend.

Drinkwater was already cringing under the onslaught he instinctively felt was destined for him. As Morris's eyes raked over the upturned faces they fell, one by one, to dumb regard of the pewter plates and tankards sliding about before them. None of them would encourage Morris neither would they interfere with whatever malice he had planned.

'Mister Drinkwater,' Morris sarcastically emphasised the title, 'I shall endeavour to correct your predilection for tears by compelling your arse to weep a little — get over that chest!'