It was only the second time Drinkwater had seen him face to face since their brief interview. Their eyes met, the boy's full of awe, the man's blank with indifference. Hope turned around, grasped the manropes and leaned outboard. He descended the side until a foot above the gunwale of the boat he paused waiting for the boat to rise. As it did so he jumped aboard, landing with little dignity between stroke and second stroke. He clambered over the intervening thwart from which the seamen deferentially drew aside and sat himself down.

'Toss oars!' yelled Morris.

'Bear off forrard!' Drinkwater pushed mightily against his boat-hook. It caught in the iron work of the chains; he tried to disengage it as the boat's head fell off but it refused to move, its shaft drawing through his hand and sticking incongruously outwards from the ship's side. He leaned further outboard and grabbed the end of the handle, the sweat of exertion and humiliation poured off him. He lunged again and nearly fell overboard.

'Sit down forrard!' roared Morris, and Drinkwater subsided in the bows, his cup of agony overflowing.

'Give way together!'

The oars bit the water and groaned in the thole pins. In minutes the men's backs were dark with perspiration. Drinkwater darted a glance aft. Morris was staring ahead, his hand on the tiller. The captain was gazing abstractedly at the green shores of the Isle of Wight away to larboard.

Then a thought struck Drinkwater. He had left the boat-hook protruding from the frigate's side. What in God's name was he going to use when they reached the flagship? His mind was overcome by sudden panic as he cast about the bow sheets for another boat-hook. There was none.

For nearly twenty minutes as the gig danced over the sparkling sea and the westerly breeze dashed spray off the wavecaps, Drinkwater cast about him in an agony of indecision. He knew their destination was the flagship, HMS Sandwich of 90 guns, where even the seamen would look haughtily on the frigate's unremarkable gig.