The bowman hooked on to the chains, and Bolitho pulled himself through the entry port.

At his elbow Herrick snapped, “Why did you not hail the gig, man?” His own unhappy thoughts put an unusual edge to his voice.

The seaman at the entry port blinked and stammered, “I’m sorry, sir. I—I . . .” His voice trailed away as he stared up at the quarterdeck.

There was a tight group of seamen beneath the quarterdeck, and as the cold realisation seeped into Bolitho’s brain, they pushed out into the growing sunlight which shone and reflected on their raised muskets.

Herrick thrust Bolitho aside and reached for his sword, but a giant sailor with a pistol snapped, “Stay where you are, Mr Herrick!” He pointed up at the quarterdeck rail. “Otherwise it will go hard with that one!”

Two more men appeared from behind the cabin hatch between them carrying the small, struggling figure of Midshipman Neale. One man drew a knife from his belt and laid it across Neale’s throat, grinning down at the two officers as he did so.

The tall seaman, whom Bolitho now recognised as Onslow, stepped slowly across the main deck, his pistol trained on Herrick. “Well, Mr Herrick? Do you drop your sword?” He grinned lazily. “It’s all the same to me!”

Bolitho said, “Do as he says, Mr Herrick.” He had seen the brightness in Onslow’s eyes, and knew that the man was eager, desperately eager to kill. He was only just keeping his pent up madness in check. One false move and there would be no more time left to act.

The sword clattered on the deck. Onslow kicked it aside and called sharply, “Take the gig’s crew forrard and batten ’em down with the other pretty boys!” He tapped his nose with his pistol. “They’ll all join us later, or feed the fish!”

Some of the men laughed. It was a wild, explosive sound. Brittle with tension.

Bolitho studied Onslow, the first shock giving way to sudden caution. Every captain dreaded such a moment. Some had earned it, others had fallen foul of uncontrollable circumstances. Now it had happened to him. To the Phalarope.

It was mutiny.

Onslow watched as the gig’s crew was bundled below deck and then said, “We’ll up anchor as soon as a likely wind blows. We have the master below, and either he or you will take the ship to open waters.”

Herrick said hoarsely, “You’re mad! You’ll swing for this!”

The pistol barrel came down sharply, and Herrick dropped to his knees, his hands across his forehead.

Bolitho saw the blood bright across Herrick’s fingers and said coldly, “And if the wind fails to arrive, Onslow? What will you do?”

Onslow nodded, his eyes searching Bolitho’s face. “A good question. Well, we have a good little ship beneath us. We can sink any boat which tries to board us, do you not agree?”

Bolitho kept his face impassive, but realised that Onslow had good reasons for confidence. Outnumbered by the rest of the crew and Rennie’s marines, Onslow was still in the position of king. Even a handful of men could keep boats at bay with the frigate’s guns loaded with grape. He glanced at the sun. It would be hours yet before Okes started on the long march back to the beach.