There was a tap at the door and Allday stepped into the cabin. Dressed in white trousers and checked shirt, his long hair tied back with a length of codline, he looked every inch the landman’s idea of a sailor. On his cheek and neck there were two diagonal scars where Brock had struck with his cane.

Bolitho faced him for several seconds. Then he said, “I called you here to thank you properly for what you did, Allday. I wish I could say something which would help clean away the wrong which was done you.” He shrugged. “But I know of no such reward.”

Allday relaxed slightly. “I understand, sir. As it was, it all turned out for the best.” He grinned self-consciously. “I was a bit scared, I can tell you, sir.” His eyes hardened. “But when I saw Onslow, that was enough! I’m glad I was able to kill him!”

Bolitho studied Allday with new interest. He had a clean-cut, intelligent face, and but for his total lack of education might have gone far and done well by himself.

“Onslow should be a lesson to all of us, Allday.” Bolitho walked to the stern windows, his mind going back over the thought which had nagged him most since the mutiny. “He was doomed by his life and circumstances. It is up to us not to make any more Onslows through cruelty or lack of understanding.” He swung round. “No, Allday, I failed with Onslow. He was just a man like the rest of us. He never stood a real chance from the day he was born!”

Allday stared at him with surprise. “There was nothing you could have done for him, if you’ll excuse me saying so.” He spread his hands. “He was a bad one, and I’ve seen a few in my time!”

Maynard peered in the door. “Closing the flagship now, sir. Ready to lower the gig.”

“Very good.” Bolitho looked at Allday. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Allday shifted uncomfortably. “There is one thing, sir.” Then he lifted his chin, his eyes suddenly clear and determined. “It’s about Ferguson, your clerk, sir. Are you sending him over with the other mutineers?”

Bolitho spread his arms to allow Stockdale to buckle on his sword. “That was the intention, Allday.” He frowned. “I know he came back with you, and did much to repair the damage he had done by his complicity with Onslow. But,” he shrugged, “there are several charges against him. He aided the mutineers with confidential information, without which any sort of uprising might have been impossible. He attacked a sentry and released a prisoner, the guilt or innocence of whom had not been decided.” He picked up his hat and stared at it. “Do you think he should warrant complete pardon?”

Allday said quietly, “Remember what you said about Onslow, sir? Ferguson’s no real sailor, and never will be.” He smiled sadly. “I’ve looked after him since we were pressed together. If you do this to him I shall feel I’ve let him down. I shall feel as you do now over Onslow!”