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the baggage and engage a conveyance to take them to Hull the following morning. Quilhampton was left to walk the streets of York alone, unable to throw off the image of Catriona MacEwan.
    The good weather held. The following day being a Sunday they were obliged to hire a private chaise but the drive over the gentle hills was delightful. Drinkwater was much refreshed by his long sleep at York where, by a stroke of good fortune, he had enjoyed clean sheets. They ate at Beverly after hearing mattins in the beautiful Minster, reaching Kingston-upon-Hull at five in the afternoon.
     
    First Lieutenant Francis Germaney stood in his cabin and passed water into the chamberpot. His eyes were screwed up tight against the pain and he cursed with quiet venom. He was certain now that ‘the burns’ had been contracted in a bawdy house in Kingston-upon-Hull and he wondered if Sir James Palgrave were similarly afflicted. It would serve the Goddamned smell-smock right for he deserved it, that pistol ball in his guts notwithstanding.
    ‘Oh Christ!’ He saw the dark swirl of blood in the urine. And their blasted surgeon had not been sober since the morning of the duel. Not that he had been sober much before that, Germaney reflected bitterly, but there had been periods of near sobriety long enough to attend the occasional patient and maintain an appearance of duty. But now, God rot him, just when he was wanted
     
    Germaney resolved to swallow his pride and consult a physician without delay. Mr Surgeon Macpherson with his degree from Edinburgh could go to the devil. As he refastened his breeches his eyes fell on the letter from cousin Templeton. Commander Drinkwater’s arrival was imminent and Templeton indicated that the First Lord himself was anxious to brook no further delay. Germaney reached for his coat and hat when a knock came at the door. ‘What is it?’
    The face of Midshipman the Lord Walmsley peered round the door.
    ‘Mr Bourne’s compliments, sir, but there’s a shore-boat approaching answering the sentry’s hail with “Melusine”.’
    ‘God damn!’ Germaney knew well what that meant. The boat contained the new captain. ‘Trying to catch us out,’ he muttered.
    ‘That’s what Mr Bourne says.’
    ‘Get out of my fucking way.’
     
    Drinkwater folded his commission after reading it aloud and looked about him. Beneath a cloudless sky the corvette Melusine floated upon the broad, muddy Humber unruffled by any wind. Her paint and brass-work gleamed and her yards were perfectly squared. She lay among the tubby black and brown hulls of the whalers and the squat shapes of the other merchantmen and coasters at anchor off the port of Hull, a lady among drabs.
    Not a rope was out of position beneath the lofty spars that rose to a ridiculous height. Named after a Breton sprite, Melusine showed all the lovely hallmarks of her French ancestry. Drinkwater’s spirits soared and although he knew her for a showy thing, he could not deny her her beauty. He clamped the corners of his mouth tightly lest they betrayed his pleasure and frowned, nodding to the first lieutenant.
    ‘Mr Germaney, I believe.’
    ‘Your servant, sir. Welcome aboard.’ Germaney removed his hat and bowed. ‘May I present the officers, sir?’
    Drinkwater nodded. ‘Mr Bourne and Mr Rispin, sir; second and third lieutenants.’ Two young officers in immaculate uniforms bowed somewhat apprehensively.
    ‘Mr Hill, the Master
    ‘
    ‘Hill! Why, ‘tis a pleasure to see you again. When was the last time?’
    ‘Ninety-seven, sir, after Camperdown
    ‘ Hill was beaming, his face ruddy with broken veins and little of his fine black hair left beyond a fringe above his nape. Drinkwater remembered he had been wounded when a master’s mate in the cutter Kestrel.
    ‘How is the arm?’
    ‘An infallible barometer signalling westerly gales, sir.’ They both laughed. ‘I heard you was wounded off Boulogne, sir
    ‘
    ‘I am a trifle sagged amidships, Mr Hill, but