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formality, an eager confidence which was at once infectious. There was a delicacy about the little man. He looked far older than his thirty-nine years, his skin fine drawn, almost transparent over the bones. His large nose and wide, mobile mouth were at odd variance with his body size. But the one good blue eye was sharply attentive, a window on some inner motivation, and the empty sleeve bore witness to his reckless courage.
    ‘Do you know the whereabouts of my frigates, Captain?’ he asked Griffiths, ‘I am driven desperate for want of frigates. The French have escaped me, sir, and I have one brig at my disposal to reconnoitre for a fleet.’
    Drinkwater sensed the consuming frustration felt by this most diligent of flag officers, sensed his mortification at being deprived of his eyes in the gale that had dismasted Vanguard. Yet Vanguard had been refitted without delay and the battle line was impressive enough to strike terror in the French if only this one-armed dynamo could catch them.
    ‘There is Hellebore, Sir Horatio,’ volunteered Griffiths.
    ‘Yes, Captain. Would that the whereabouts of the French squadron was my only consideration. But I know that their fleet, besides sail of the line, frigates, bomb vessels and so forth, also comprises three hundred troop transports; an armada that left Sicily with a fair wind from the west. It is clear their destination is to the eastward. I think their object is to possess themselves of some port in Egypt, to fix themselves at the head of the Red Sea in order to get a formidable army into India, to act in concert with Tipoo Sahib. No, Captain, I may not permit myself the luxury of retaining Hellebore
    ‘ The admiral paused and Drinkwater felt apprehensive. Nelson made up his mind. ‘I must sacrifice perhaps my reputation but that must always subordinate itself to my zeal for the King’s service which demands I acquaint the officer on the station of the danger he may be in. I have already written to Mr Baldwin, our consul at Alexandria, to determine whether the French have any vessels prepared in the Red Sea. As yet I have had no reply. Therefore, my dear Griffiths, I desire that you wood and water without delay and send a boat for your written orders the instant you are ready to proceed to the Red Sea.’
    Drinkwater felt his mouth go dry. The Red Sea meant a year’s voyage at the least. And Elizabeth had given him expectation of a child in the summer.

Chapter Three July-August 1798
A Brig of War
    Lieutenant Drinkwater stared astern watching the seas run up under the brig’s larboard quarter, lifting her stern and impelling her forward, adding a trifle to her speed until they passed ahead of her and she dragged, slowly, into the succeeding trough. Hellebore carried sail to her topgallants as she raced south west before the trade wind, the coast of Mauretania twenty-five leagues to the east.
    Drinkwater had been watching Mr Quilhampton heave the log and had acknowledged the boy’s report, prompted by the quartermaster, that they were running at seven knots. Something would not let him turn forward again but kept him watching the wake as it bubbled green-white under the stern and trailed away behind them in an irregular ribbon, twisted by the yaw of the ship and the oncoming waves. Here and there a following seabird dipped into its disturbance.
    He had felt wretched as they passed the Straits of Gibraltar and took their departure from Cape Espartel, for he had been unable to send letters back to Elizabeth, so swift had been Hellebore’s passage from Syracuse, so explicit the admiral’s orders. Now it was certain he would be separated from her until after the birth of their child, he regretted his inability to soften the blow of his apparent desertion.
    He was aware of someone at his elbow and resented the intrusion upon his private thoughts.
    ‘Beg pardon, zur.’ It was Tregembo. Ten years older than Drinkwater the able seaman had long ago attached himself to him