Any irregularities in the boat-handling would be commented upon to the disservice of Cyclops. Then a second thought struck him. Any such display of poor seamanship would reflect equally upon Mr Midshipman Morris and he was unlikely to let Drinkwater discredit him unscathed. The prospect of another beating further terrified the boy.

Drinkwater stared ahead of the boat. The low shore of Hampshire lay before him, the sun shining on the dun blocks of the forts at Gosport and Southsea, guarding the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour. Between the gig and the shoreline a long row of ships of the line lay at anchor, their hulls massive beneath the masts and crossed yards. Large ensigns snapped briskly at their sterns and the gaudy flutter of the union flags over their fo'c's'les gave the vista a festive air. Here and there the square flag of a rear or vice-admiral flew at a masthead. Sunlight glittered on gilded figureheads and quarter galleries as the battleships swung head to wind at the slackwater. The sea surrounding them was dotted with small craft. Coastal vessels crowded on sail to avoid pulling boats of every conceivable size. Small launches and gigs conveyed officers and commanders; larger long boats and cutters under pint-size midshipmen or grizzled master's mates brought stores, powder or shot off from the dockyard. Water hoys and shallops, their civilian crews abusive under their protection from the press gangs, bucked alongside the battleships. A verbal duel between their masters and anxious naval lieutenants who waved requisition orders at them, seemed endless. The sheer energy and scale of activity was like nothing Drinkwater had ever witnessed before. They passed a small cutter aboard which half a dozen painted doxies sat, pallid with the boat's motion. Two of them waved saucily at the gig's crew amongst whom a ripple of lust passed at the unaccustomed sight of swelling bodices.