He sighed and walked from the cabin, past the table and its untouched breakfast, through the door with the rigid sentry and towards the bright rectangle of sunlight and the open quarterdeck beyond.

Keverne was waiting, his dark features inscrutable as he touched his hat and said formally, “Two minutes, sir.”

Bolitho studied the lieutenant gravely. If Keverne was brooding about his sudden removal from possible command he did not show it. If he was thinking about his captain’s feelings he concealed that too.

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly to the weather side of the deck where the ship’s lieutenants were already mustered. Slightly to leeward the senior warrant officers and midshipmen stood in neat lines, their bodies swaying easily to the ship’s motion.

A glance aft told him that Giffard’s marines were fallen in across the poop, their tunics very bright in the fresh sunlight, the white cross-belts and polished boots making their usual impeccable array.

He turned and walked to the quarterdeck rail, letting his eyes move over the great press of seamen who were crowded along the gangways, in the tiered boats and clinging to the shrouds, as if eager to watch the coming drama. But he could tell from the silence, the air of grim expectancy, that hardened to discipline and swift punishment though they were, there was no acceptance there.

Eight bells chimed from the forecastle and he saw the officers stiffen as Broughton, accompanied by Lieutenant Calvert, walked briskly on to the quarterdeck.

Bolitho touched his hat but said nothing.

Across the anchorage the air shivered as a solitary gun boomed out, and then came the doleful sound of drumming. He saw the surgeon below the break in the poop whispering to Tebbutt, the boatswain, and his two mates, one of whom carried the familiar red baize bag. The latter dropped his eyes as he realised his captain was looking at him.

Broughton’s fingers were tapping the hilt of his beautiful sword, seemingly in time with the distant drum. He appeared relaxed, and as fresh as ever.

Bolitho tensed as one of the young midshipmen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a quick nervous gesture which brought back a sudden memory like the feel of an old wound.

He had been only fourteen himself when he had witnessed his first flogging through the fleet. He had seen most of it in a mist of tears and nausea, and the nightmare had never completely left him. In a service where flogging was commonplace and an accepted punishment, and in many cases more than justified, this final spectacle was still the worst, where onlookers felt degraded almost as much as the victim.

Broughton remarked, “We will be weighing this afternoon, Bolitho. Our destination is Gibraltar, where I will receive further orders and news of developments.” He looked up at his flag at the fore and added, “A fine day for it.”

Bolitho looked away, trying to shut the persistent drumming from his ears.