Tregembo held out the cocked hat, his face wearing an injured look.

'Damn it, Tregembo, I've a touch of the blue devils lately.' 'You know my Susan would run a house fit for 'ee and Mistress Elizabeth, zur.'

'It's not that, my old friend,' said Drinkwater, suddenly dropping the pretence at formality between them. 'Susan and Mistress Elizabeth would both be full of joy if we went home. But d'you think they'd tolerate our interfering indefinitely?' He made an attempt at flippancy. 'D'you think you'd be content to weed the onion patch, eh?' He took the proffered hat and smiled at the old Cornishman.

'Happen you are right, zur. There's many as would miss 'ee if 'ee took it in mind to go.'

Drinkwater hesitated, his hat half raised to his head, sensing one of Tregembo's oblique warnings.

'I know the people are disaffected ...'

'It ain't the people, zur. Leastways not as cause, like. They be more in the nature of effect.'

'Meaning, Tregembo?' asked Drinkwater.

'Mr. Rogers, zur, is shipping a deal of the gunroom vino. 'Tis a fact 'ee cannot hide from the people, zur. They hold 'ee for a fair man, zur. 'Twould be a pity to see Mr. Rogers become a millstone, zur, if 'ee takes my meaning.'

Drinkwater jammed the hat on his head. He should be grateful for Tregembo's warning, yet the old man had only revealed the cause of his own recent ill-humour. Carrying eighty thousand pounds around in an explosive corner of the world with one hundred and sixty thousand muskets tucked under his lee for good measure was bad enough, but to have to contend with a pot-tossing first lieutenant to boot was well-nigh intolerable.

'Belay that infernal prattle,' he snapped and threw open the cabin door. Ducking through with a nod to the marine sentry he sprang for the ladder to the quarterdeck.

Behind him Tregembo shook his head and muttered, 'Jumpy as a galled horse ...' He rinsed the razor, dried and closed it, nodding at the portrait of Elizabeth on the adjacent bulkhead. I did my best, ma'am.'