Herrick shouted, “The boats are coming, sir!” He hurled his empty pistol at another shadowy figure and grabbed a cutlass from Proby. “My God, the boats are coming at last!”

Bolitho snapped, “Follow me!” Swinging the unfamiliar cutlass like a scythe he dashed down the ladder, hitting out with all his strength as a man charged across the deck with a long pike. He felt the hot blood spurt across his face as the massive blade sliced through the man’s bulging neck artery as if it had been thread.

Faces loomed up, ugly and distorted, but faded into screams as he slashed his way across the deck to where Vibart was fighting with his bare hands against three mutineers. As he drove his cutlass into the nearest man’s shoulder he saw the sun gleam on a knife, and heard Vibart’s great bellow of agony. Then he was down, and as the released men from the cable tier charged into the fray, some of the remaining mutineers dropped their weapons and held up their hands. Bolitho slipped in some blood and felt someone lifting him to his feet. It was Allday.

He managed to gasp, “Thank you, Allday!”

But Allday was staring past him, to the far side, where encircled by levelled weapons and abandoned by his fellow conspirators, Onslow stood with his back against a gun, his cutlass still held in front of him.

Allday said, “He is mine, sir!”

Bolitho was about to answer when he heard Vibart calling his name. In three strides he reached the man’s side and knelt on the stained planking where Ellice and Belsey were holding Vibart’s shoulders clear of the deck. There was a thin ribbon of blood running from the corner of Vibart’s mouth, and as he lay staring up at Bolitho’s grave features he looked suddenly old and frail.

Bolitho said quietly, “Rest easy, Mr Vibart. We’ll soon have you comfortable.”

Vibart coughed, and the blood dribbled down his chin in a growing flood. “Not this time. They’ve done for me this time!” He made as if to move his hand, but the effort was too much. From behind his shoulders the surgeon gave a quick shake of his head.

Bolitho said, “It was a brave thing you did.”

There was a clash of steel across the deck, and Bolitho turned to see Allday and Onslow encircling each other with bared cutlasses. The other men stood watching in silence. This was no court martial. This was the justice of the lower deck. Bolitho looked again at Vibart. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The dying man grimaced as a fresh agony ran through his body. “Nothing. Not from you. Not from anybody!” He coughed again, but this time the torrent did not stop.

As the returning boats ground alongside and the gangways became alive with breathless men, Vibart died. Bolitho stood up slowly and stared at the dead man. It was somehow typical and right that Vibart had remained unflinching and unshaken to the end.