“Only two?” Herrick eyed him with sad amusement.

Ellice became suddenly serious as his rum-sodden mind grappled with Herrick’s question. “You can live without ’em, boy! I’ve seen it many a time.” He dropped his voice. “But watch out for your wedding-tackle! A woman’ll forgive much, but lose that lot and you might as well be food for the fish!”

Herrick watched him go and then strode aft to the taffrail. Another man dead. Whose turn would it be next?

* * *

Bryan Ferguson took another cutlass from the deep chest and handed it to old Ben Strachan. The latter peered quickly along the heavy blade and then bent over the grindstone and began to run the cutlass back and forth across the spinning stone, his eyes gleaming brightly in the flying sparks.

Ferguson looked at the berth deck and at the leaping shadows cast by the madly swinging lanterns as the ship rolled and staggered beneath his feet. It was strange how he was now able to retain his balance, and even his stomach seemed able to resist the lurking agony of seasickness.

The low-beamed berth deck was strangely deserted by comparison with its usual appearance of crowded humanity, he thought. Apart from the men selected for the boarding parties, all other available hands were on deck preparing the ship for action. As he watched Strachan concentrating on his sharpening he could hear the menacing rumble of gun trucks as the main armament was carefully loaded and then lashed once more behind sealed ports. The decks were already sanded, and he could hear Mr Brock, the gunner, yelling some last-minute instructions to his magazine party.

A strong smell of neat rum pervaded the berth deck, and he turned to stare at the huddled groups of seamen who remained below enjoying a small moment of rest before taking to the boats.

He said quietly to Strachan, “What will happen, do you think?”

Strachan tested the blade and laid it carefully on the pile beside him. “Hard to tell, mate. I’ve been on a few cuttin’ out raids meself. Sometimes it was all over with a few prayers and a few ‘Oh my Gods’ an’ afore you knew what ’ad ’appened you was back aboard none the worse! An’ other times you was shocked to be still alive!”

Ferguson nodded, unable to picture the nerve-wrenching horror of a raid in total darkness. His new duties as clerk kept him away from that sort of danger and had somehow thrown him further apart from his companions.

It was all he could do to stay clear of trouble with the first lieutenant. Vibart read every order and account at least twice, and he never failed to follow up a complaint with a threat of punishment.

Ferguson thought back to the floggings and the last one in particular. He had wanted to hide his face, yet was stricken and mesmerised by the relentless punishment so that he had watched it to the end. Kirk had died in the sickbay, but his sobbing cries still seemed to hover in the space which had once been his home.