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affair.
Captain D'Auvergne had become almost silent and Drinkwater had remained
curious as to his background and his function, aware only that he
enjoyed a position of privilege as Cornwallis's confidant. The only
clue to his origin was in his destination, St Helier. Drinkwater knew
there were a hundred naval officers with incongruous French-sounding
surnames who hailed from the Channel Islands. But Cornwallis had called
St Helier D'Auvergne's 'post', whatever that meant, and it was clear
from his appetite that he had not lived aboard ship for some time or he
would have been a little more sparing with Drinkwater's dwindling cabin
stores. The decanter had circulated twice before D'Auvergne, with a
parting look at the retreating Mullender, leaned forward and addressed
his host.
    'I apologise for teasing you, Drinkwater. The fact is
Cornwallis, like most of the poor fellows, is worn with the service and
bored out of his skull by the tedium of blockade. Any newcomer is apt
to suffer the admiral's blue devils. 'Tis truly a terrible task and to
have been a butt of his irritability is to have rendered your country a
service.'
    'I fear,' said Drinkwater with some asperity, 'that I am still
being used as a butt, and to be candid, sir, I am not certain that I
enjoy it over much.'
    The snub was deliberate. Drinkwater had no idea of
D'Auvergne's seniority though he guessed it to be greater than his own.
But he was damned if he was going to sit at his own table and listen to
such stuff from a man drinking his own port! Drinkwater had expected
D'Auvergne to bristle, rise and take his leave; instead he leaned back
in his chair and pointed at Drinkwater's right shoulder.
    'I perceive you have been wounded, Captain, and I know you for
a brave officer. I apologise doubly for continuing to be
obscure… Mine is a curious story, but I am, as I said, a
post-captain like yourself. I served under Lord Howe during the
American War and was captured by the French. Whilst in captivity I came
to the notice of the old Due de Bouillon with whom I shared a surname,
although I am a native of the Channel Islands. His sons were both dead
and I was named his heir after a common ancestry was
discovered…' D'Auvergne smiled wryly. 'I might have been one
of the richest men in France but for a trifling matter of my estates
having been taken over by their tenants.' He made a deprecatory gesture.
    'You might also have lost your head,' added Drinkwater,
mellowing a little.
    'Exactly so. Now, Drinkwater, that wound of yours. How did you
come by that?'
    Since his promotion to post-captain and the transfer of his
epaulette from his left to his right shoulder, Drinkwater had thought
his wound pretty well disguised. Although he still inclined his head to
one side in periods of damp weather when the twisted muscles ached
damnably, he contrived to forget about it as much as possible. He was
certainly not used to being quizzed about it.
    'My shoulder? Oh, I received the fragment of a mortar shell
during an attack on Boulogne in the year one. It was an inglorious
affair.'
    'I recollect it. But that was your second wound in the right
arm, was it not?'
    'How the deuce d'you know that?'
    'Ah. I will tell you in a moment. Was it a certain Edouard
Santhonax that struck you first?'
    'The devil!' Drinkwater was astonished that this enigmatic
character could know so much about him. He frowned and the colour
mounted to his cheeks. The relaxation he had begun to feel was
dispelled by a sudden anger. 'Come, sir. Level with me, damn it. What
is your impertinent interest in my person, eh?'
    'Easy, Drinkwater, easy. I have no impertinent interest in
you. On the contrary, I have always heard you spoken of in the highest
terms by Lord Dungarth.'
    ' Lord Dungarth?'
    'Indeed. My station in St Helier is connected with Lord
Dungarth's department.'
    'Ahhh,' Drinkwater refilled his glass, passing the decanter
across the table, 'I begin to see…'
    Lord Dungarth, with whom Drinkwater had first