There was a rumble of agreement from some of the watching men, and Pochin added, “Call the boat alongside.”

Bolitho could feel his heart pounding against his ribs as the boat bumped against the hull, and in sudden silence Allday and Ferguson climbed up through the entry port.

Pochin leaned over the rail and shouted, “Welcome back, John! We’ll sail together after all!”

But Allday stayed where he was below the starboard gangway, the sunlight bright across his upturned face. Then he said, “I’ll not sail with him!” He pointed straight at Onslow. “He killed Evans and put the blame on me! I would have ended on a gallows but for Bryan here!”

Onslow replied calmly, “But now you’re free. I never intended you to die.” There was sweat on his forehead, and the knuckles around the pistol were white. “You can stay with us, and welcome.”

Allday ignored him and turned to the men on deck. “There are two French frigates out yonder, lads! Will you let the Phalarope fall to them because of the word of that murdering swine?” His voice grew louder. “You, Pochin? Are you such a fool that you cannot see your own death?” He seized another seaman by the arm. “And you, Ted! Can you live with this for the rest of your life?”

A babble of voices broke out, and even the men from aloft swarmed down to join the others in noisy argument.

Bolitho shot a glance at Herrick. It was now or never. He had seen two armed seamen walk aft to see what was happening. They had to be the sentries guarding the rest of the prisoners.

But it was Vibart who acted first. Broken and bleeding, his head sunk dejectedly in his shoulders, he was momentarily forgotten by the men around him.

With a sudden roar he lashed out and knocked his guards sprawling.

Bolitho yelled, “Neale! Now, for God’s sake!”

As he shouted he threw himself bodily sideways into Onslow, and together they rolled kicking and fighting across the deck.

Pook screamed with fury and had his feet kicked from under him by Herrick, who scooped up his pistol, cocked it and fired in a matter of seconds. The force of the shot lifted Pook from his knees and smashed him back against a carronade, his jaw and half his face blown to bloody fragments.

Somehow Onslow managed to fight himself free, and with one great bound cleared the rail to land amidst the other seamen. The sudden pistol shot had left the men standing like statues, but as Onslow hit the deck he snatched up a cutlass and yelled, “To me, lads! Kill the bastards!”

Bolitho seized Onslow’s pistol and fired point-blank at a man by the wheel, and then gasped, “Go aft, Mr Proby! Get weapons!”

There was a ragged volley from the forecastle, and the stunned mutineers reeled back across the main deck as another handful of seamen surged up from below led by Belsey, the master’s mate, his injured arm strapped across his body, but wielding a boarding axe with his good hand.