The Corvette

and the bout commenced.

The two men advanced and retreated cautiously, feeling their opponent by an occasional change of line, the click of the blades inaudible above the hiss of the sea and the thrum of the wind in the rigging.

There was a sudden movement. Mount's lunge was parried but the marine was too quick for Drinkwater, springing backwards then extending as the captain came forward to riposte.

Drinkwater conceded the hit. They came on guard again. Mount came forward, beat Drinkwater's blade and was about to extend and hit Drinkwater's plastron when the captain whirled his blade in a circular parry, stepped forward and his blade bowed against Mount's breast.

They came on guard again and circled each other. Mount dropped his left hand and threw himself to the deck, intending to extend under Drinkwater's guard but the captain pulled back his pelvis, then leaned forward, over Mount's sword and dropped his point onto the Marine officer's back.

'Oh very good, sir!' There was a brief round of applause from the knot of officers assembled about the contest.

Mount scored two more points in quick succession before a hiatus in which each contender circled warily, seeking an opening without exposing himself. The click of the blades could be heard now as they slammed together with greater fury. Mount's next attack scored and he became more confident, getting a fifth hit off the captain.

Mount came in to feint and lunge for the sixth point. Drinkwater realised the younger man was quicker than Quilhampton and he was himself running short of breath. But he was ready for it. He advanced boldly, bringing his forte down hard against Mount's blade and executing a croise, twisting his wrist and pulling his elbow back so that his sword point scratched against Mount's belly. He leaned forward and the blade curved. Mount straightened and stepped back to concede the point. The second he came on guard again Drinkwater lunged. It would have gratified M. Bescond. Mount had not moved and Drinkwater had another point to his credit.

The muscles in Drinkwater's shoulder were hurting now, but the two quick hits had sharpened him. He caught Mount's next extension in a bind and landed an equalising hit. The atmosphere on the quarterdeck was now electric and the quartermaster called the helmsmen to their duty.

Drinkwater whirled a molinello but Mount parried quinte. There was a gasp as the onlookers watched Mount drop his blade to attack Drinkwater's unguarded gut, stepping forward as he did so.

But Drinkwater executed a brilliant low parry. The two blades met an instant before they collided corps-à-corps. They separated and came on guard again.

'A guinea on Mount,' muttered Rispin.

'Done!' said Hill, remembering the slithering deck of the Draaken one dull October afternoon off Camperdown.

Drinkwater scored again as Mount slipped on the deck then lost a point to the marine with an ineffectual parry. They came on guard for the last time. There was a conversazione of blades then Mount's suddenly licked out as he lunged low. Drinkwater stepped back to cutover but Mount seemed to coil up his rear leg and thrust himself bodily forward. His blade curved triumphantly against the captain's breast.

The fencers removed their masks, smiling and panting. They shook their left hands.

'By God you pressed me damned hard, sir.'

'You were too fast for me, Mr Mount.' Drinkwater wiped the sweat from his brow.

'You owe me a guinea, Mr Hill.'

'I shall win it back again, Mr Rispin, without a doubt.'

Drinkwater returned below, nodding acknowledgement to the marine sentry's salute as he entered the cabin. Tregembo had the tub of salt water ready in the centre of the cabin and Drinkwater immersed himself in it.

'I've settled all your things now, zur, but we have too many chairs.'

'Strike Palgrave's down into the hold. Get the sailmaker to wrap some old canvas round them.'

'I hope the pictures are to your liking, zur.'

He looked at the portraits by Bruilhac and nodded. Sluicing the icy water over his head he rose and took the towel from Tregembo.

'Don't cluck like an old hen, Tregembo. Don't forget I'm short of good topmen.'

'Aye, zur, I doubt you'll take to Cap'n Palgrave's lackey,' replied Tregembo familiarly, brushing Drinkwater's undress coat, 'but I'll exchange willingly, zur, I'm not too old yet.'

'D'you think I could stand Susan's reproaches if I sent you aloft again?' Drinkwater stepped out of the bath- tub. 'Where's Germaney put Palgrave's man?'

'He is mincing about the gunroom, sir,' replied Tregembo with a touch of ire and added under his breath, 'and 'tis the best bloody place for 'im.'

The Cornishman picked up the tub and sluiced its contents down the quarter gallery privy.

Dressing, Drinkwater sent for Mr Midshipman the Lord Walmsley. Donning his coat he sat behind his desk and awaited the appearance of his lordship. A glance out of the stern window showed the tail of the convoy. The sea was a dazzling blue and the wind still steady from the north of west, blowing fluffy cumulus clouds to leeward. It was more reminiscent of the Mediterranean than the North Sea: too good to last.

'Come in!' Lord Walmsley entered the cabin, his uniform immaculate, his hose silk. Drinkwater could imagine that he and his servant were popular in the confines of the cockpit.

'You sent for me, sir.'

'I did. The man Leek fell from the fore t'gallant yard yesterday, a consequence of skylarking didn't you say.'

Walmsley nodded. 'That is so, sir.'

'Skylarking upon the yards is irresponsible when it leads to losing men…'

'But sir, it was only high spirits, why Sir James…'

'Damn Sir James, Mr Walmsley,' Drinkwater said quietly. 'I command here and I intend to flog Leek this morning.' He paused. 'I see that disturbs you. Do you have a weak stomach, or a feeling of solicitude for Leek? Eh?' Drinkwater suppressed the smile that threatened to crack his face as he watched perplexity cross his lordship's face. 'Do you have any feeling for Leek?'

'Why… I, er… yes, er…'

'Is he a good seaman?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then I rely upon you to intercede for him. Do you understand? When I call for someone to speak for him. Now, kindly tell the first lieutenant to pipe all hands aft to witness punishment and to rig the gratings.'

Drinkwater gave way to suppressed mirth as Walmsley retreated, his face a picture of confusion. The lesson would be better learned this way.

Half a minute elapsed before the marine drummer began to beat the tattoo. Drinkwater heard the pipes at the hatchways and the thump of marines' boots and the muffled slap of bare feet. He rose, hitched his sword and tucked his hat under his arm. He picked up the slim brown book that gave him the right to do what he was about to.

Germaney's head came round the door. 'Ship's company mustered to witness punishment, sir. Lord Walmsley tells me it's Leek.'

'That's correct, Mr Germaney'

'Begging your pardon, sir, but I conceive it my duty to inform you that Sir James encouraged…'

'… Such rash bravado. I know. Walmsley has already informed me. But, Mr Germaney, I would have you know that I command here now and I would advise you to recollect that Sir James's example is not to be followed too closely.' He was unaware that his remark pierced Germaney to his vitals.

Drinkwater stepped on deck into the sunshine. Half a mile to leeward the convoy foamed along. Mount's marines glittered across the after end of the quarterdeck and the officers were gathered in uniform with their swords. Forward a sea of faces was mustered. 'Off hats!'

Drinkwater cleared his throat and read the Thirty-Sixth Article of War.

'All other crimes not Capital, committed by any Person or Persons in the Fleet, which are not mentioned in this Act, or for which no Punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished according to Laws and Customs in such cases used at Sea.'

It was colloquially known as the Captain's Cloak, a grim pun which covered every eventuality likely to be encountered in a man-of-war not dealt with by the other thirty-five Articles.