Mr Quintal, the boatswain, had walked slowly aft, the familiar red baize bag swinging from his wrist as the silent company parted to allow him through.

Up to the last moment, even as Vibart closed the Articles of War and announced harshly, “Four dozen, Mr Quintal!” Herrick doubted if Kirk had heard a single word.

Only when the boatswain’s mates seized him and stripped his thin body and spread-eagled him across the grating like a writhing crucifix did he start to scream and protest.

Most men took their punishment in silence. The tremendous force of a single blow from the cat-o’-nine-tails was enough to drive the wind from the lungs and left little to cry on.

Kirk’s cries continued as his wrists were tied in position so that his feet were only just touching the deck, and the boatswain’s mates exchanged quick glances, momentarily unnerved by the man’s terror.

Quintal drew the lash from the red bag and handed it to Packwood. Gruffly he had said, “Two dozen. Josling can do the other two.” Under his breath he had added, “If he lives that long!”

Vibart had replaced his hat and nodded curtly. “Carry on!”

Herrick had seen plenty of floggings, and had steeled himself to accept what was part of naval life. But this one had seemed different, and unfair because of Vibart’s obvious eagerness.

The marine drummer had struck into a quick roll, and Packwood had drawn back his thick arm.

“One!” The lash came down with a swishing crack.

As usual Herrick had been sickly fascinated by the time it took to show its mark. For a moment there was nothing on the man’s naked back, not even a bruise, but even as the lash swung back for the second stroke the whole area of taut skin from the shoulder to the waist opened and shone in a criss-cross of fine cuts.

“Two!” Kirk screamed and wriggled helplessly on the grating, and Herrick saw blood on his chin and knew that he had bitten through his tongue.

“Three!” Packwood faltered and hit again, his eyes glassy as Kirk’s back began to shred into a tangle of bloody flesh.

Vibart’s voice had cut through the roll of the drum. “Harder. Packwood! Don’t go easy on the scum, unless you wish to change places with him!”

And so it had continued. Stroke by stroke, to the inhuman rattle of the drum. Kirk had fallen silent and limp after the first dozen, but when Ellice, the surgeon, had pronounced grimly, “ ’E’s still alive, sir, but not takin’ it well!” Vibart had snapped, “Carry on with punishment!”

Herrick had seen Midshipman Neale holding Maynard’s sleeve as if for support as the grisly flogging had continued.

Kirk had little flesh to begin with, and after eighteen strokes Herrick thought he could see the gleam of bone and muscle through the man’s butchered skin.

Josling had taken the lash from his fellow boatswain’s mate and had run it through his fingers to clear it of flesh and gristle. With a quick glance upwards at Vibart’s expressionless face he had carried on with the second two dozen.