Broughton eyed him coolly. “John Taylor, you are charged with mutinous conspiracy and seizure of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Auriga. You were accused with one other, not yet in custody, of this same act, and are called here to receive sentence.” He tapped his fingertips together and added quietly, “Your treachery, at a time when England is fighting for her very life, singles you out as a man without either pride or conscience. You, a master’s mate, trained and trusted by your superiors, have betrayed the very Service which has given you your means to live.”

Taylor seemed stunned. He replied in a small voice, “Not true, sir.” He shook his head. “Not true.”

“However,” Broughton leaned back in his chair and looked at the deckhead beams, “in view of your past record, and all that my flag captain has done and said on your behalf . . .” He broke off as Taylor took half a step forward, his eyes shining with sudden hope. As a marine pulled him back again Broughton added, “I have decided not to impose the maximum penalty, as your case, in my personal view, demands.”

Taylor turned his head dazedly and peered at Bolitho. In the same small voice he whispered, “Thankee, sir. God bless you.”

Broughton sounded irritated. “Instead, the punishment awarded will be that of two dozen lashes and disrating.”

Taylor nodded, his eyes swimming with emotion. “Thankee, sir!”

Broughton’s voice was like a knife. “Two dozen lashes from each ship assembled here at Falmouth.” He nodded. “Remove the prisoner.”

Taylor said nothing as the marines wheeled him round and marched him out.

Bolitho stared at the closed doors, the empty space where Taylor had stood, and felt as if the cabin was closing in on him. As if he and not Taylor had received the sentence.

Broughton rose and said briefly, “Return to your ships, gentlemen, and read my new standing orders which Mr Calvert will make available. Punishment will be carried out at eight bells tomorrow forenoon. Normal procedure.”

As they filed out past Calvert, Bolitho said quietly, “Why, sir? In the name of God, why?”

Broughton looked past him, his eyes bleak, “Because I say so.”

Bolitho picked up his hat, his mind dulled by the sudden savagery of Broughton’s justice.

“Any more orders for the present, sir?” He did not know how he was managing to keep his tone formal and devoid of feeling.

“Yes. Pass the word to Captain Brice to resume command of Auriga.” He regarded Bolitho for several seconds. “Mine is the responsibility. So too is the privilege.”

Bolitho met his gaze and replied, “If Taylor had been given a court-martial, sir . . .” He stopped, realising how he had stepped into the trap.

Broughton smiled gently. “A proper court-martial would have hanged him, and well you know it. The sentence would have been carried out too late to make an example and time and indulgence would have been wasted. As it is now, Taylor’s punishment will act as a warning, if not a deterrent to this squadron where we need it most. And he may live to make capital from his one moment of personal insurrection, and will have you to thank for it.”