He tried to see beyond the shadow which hid the captain’s face. He could see the lines at the corners of his mouth, a bead of sweat running from beneath the dark hair. But there was no reality. It was all part of the same nightmare.

Bolitho said, “Do you recognise these?”

Someone held out a pair of small pistols, bright and evil looking in the sunlight.

Allday shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Or this?” Bolitho’s voice was quite empty of emotion.

This time it was a knife, the tip broken off by the force of savage blows, its worn handle dark with congealed blood.

Allday stared. “It’s mine, sir!” He clapped his hand to his belt, his fingers brushing against an empty sheath.

Bolitho said, “The pistols were found amongst your possessions below. Your knife was discovered beneath Mr Evans’s locker.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Where it was dropped after the struggle.”

Allday swayed. “I didn’t do it, sir.” The words seemed to hang in his throat. “Why would I do such a thing?”

As if from a long way off he heard Vibart’s harsh voice. “Let me run him up to the yard now, sir! It will give others of his sort something to think about with him dancing from a halter!”

Bolitho snapped, “I think you have said enough, Mr Vibart!” He turned back to Allday. “After your behaviour since you first came aboard, I had high hopes for you, Allday. Mr Herrick has already spoken on your behalf, but on this occasion I can find no reason for leniency.” He paused. “Under the Articles of War I could have you hanged forthwith. As it is, I intend that you should be tried by court martial as soon as the opportunity arises.”

There was a low murmur of despair from the main deck, and Allday knew that in everyone’s eyes he was already a dead man.

Bolitho turned away. “Place him in irons, Mr Vibart. But any unnecessary brutality will be answerable to me!”

Dazed, and stumbling like a drunken man, Allday allowed himself to be led below.

Deep below the main deck there were two tiny cells, each just large enough to contain one man. Allday watched dumbly as the rough manacles were snapped around his wrists and ankles, but only when the door was slammed and bolted behind him and he was left in total darkness did the true realisation close on him like a vice.

By the time the Phalarope returned to port, and a necessary number of officers was available for a court martial, no one would remember or even care if he was guilty or not. He would be used as an example to others. A dancing, kicking puppet on the end of a rope as he was hauled slowly to the main-yard to the accompaniment of a drum’s mournful beat.

He smashed his fists against the door, and heard the sound echo and vibrate in the stillness of the hull. Again and again, until he could feel the blood running across his fingers and taste the angry tears on his lips.