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a while. Then he sighed and said, ‘Now why would you’m be axing that, zur?’
    Drinkwater took a deep breath. ‘Because if it was ove what I believe it to have been then it touches the midshipmen as well as the lower deck . . .’ He watched Tregembo’s puzzled frown smooth out in comprehension.
    â€˜I know, zur,’ he said quietly and, looking directly at Drinkwater, added ‘I saw what they’m did to you in Gib, zur . . .’ It was Tregembo’s turn to be embarrassed.
    â€˜I kind of took to ’ee, zur,’ he flushed, then resumed with a candid simplicity, ‘that’s why I did fur ’Umphries.’
    Drinkwater was shocked: ‘You murdered Humphries?’
    â€˜ ’E slipped and I ’elped ’im a bit.’ Tregembo shrugged. ‘Off’n the jibboom, zur. ’E ent the fust,’ he said to alleviate Drinkwater’s obvious horror. The midshipman absorbed the knowledge slowly. The burden he had borne was doubled, not halved as he had hoped. The respect for the law engendered by his upbringing was suffering a further assault. Tregembo’s lawless, smuggling, devil-may-care attitude was a phenomena new to him. His face betrayed his concern.
    â€˜Doan ye worry yerself, Mr Drinkwater. We’re used to buggers and their ways. Most ships ’ave ’em but we doan like it when they doan keep it to ’emselves . . .’ He indicated the handsome seaman coiling a rope amidships. He looked up at them. There was appeal and desperation in his eyes, as though he knew the substance of a conversation taking place sixty feet away.
    â€˜Yon Sharples is a good topm’n but ’e’s scared of ’em, see. I doan wonder if ye’d seen what they done to ’im . . .’ Tregembo reached into a pocket and slipped a quid of tobaccointo his mouth.
    â€˜ ’E won’t ’ave owerlong to wait,’ he concluded ruminatively.
    Drinkwater stared sharply at Tregembo. ‘The lower deck’ll look after it’s own, zur, but Mr Morris as a cockpit problem. Cockpits usually ’ave their own justice, zur.’ Tregembo paused sensing Drinkwater’s sense of physical inadequacy.
    â€˜You’d easy outnumber ’im, zur, wouldn’t ’e?’
    The log line was neatly coiled in its basket and Tregembo rose. He walked forward knuckling his forehead to the first lieutenant as he passed. Drinkwater remained aft at the taffrail staring astern unseeing. He felt no shame at the suggestion that he was alone unable to thrash Morris . . . yet it saddened him to think that Morris could terrorise not just him and his fellow midshipmen but the less fortunate Sharples . . . There was so much in the world that he did not comprehend, that was at variance with the picture books and learning had given to his mind’s eye . . . perhaps . . . but no it was not possible . . .
    He turned to walk forward. The whole of
Cyclops
lay before him. Devaux and Blackmore were at the foot of the mizen mast. The boom and spanker overhead. She was a thing of great beauty, this ship, this product of man’s ingenuity and resolve to conquer. For mankind went onwards, following an undirected destiny at no matter what cost to himself. And in the echo of that resolve, exemplified by the frigate, he cast about for the will to do what he thought was right.

Chapter Six
May 1780
Prize Money
    His Britannic Majesty’s frigates
Meteor
and
Cyclops
saw their charges into Spithead in the last week of May 1780. News had just come in from the West Indies that Admiral Rodney had fought a fleet action with De Guichen off Martinique on 17th April. But the battle had not been decisive and there were disturbing rumours that Rodney was courtmartialling his captains for disobedience.
    The news, though vital to the progress of the war, was of secondary