Maynard had lowered his glass and looked round at the two officers. He had looked sick, as he had on the day he had discovered Evans’s body. “It’s no signal, sir!”

Bolitho had taken the glass from the youth’s hands and trained it across the hammock netting. Coldly he had watched the small black dot rising towards the Cassius’s main-yard. It had twisted as it made its slow journey. Twisted and kicked, so that in his imagination Bolitho had thought he could hear the drum’s staccato roll and the steady tramp of bare feet as the selected men had hauled the choking mutineer slowly up to the yard.

Maynard was wrong about one thing. It was a signal to every man who saw it.

Bolitho had returned the glass and said, “I am going below, Mr Okes. See that you have the best lookouts aloft, and call me if you sight anything.” He had glanced quickly at Maynard and added quietly, “That man, whoever he was, knew the price of his folly. Discipline demands that it be paid in full!”

He turned on his heel and walked below, despising himself for the cold unreality of his words. In his mind he seemed to hear Vibart’s thick, accusing voice, still jeering at him for his weakness. What did one more death matter? Fever and unaccountable accident, the cannon’s harvest or the end of a rope, it was all the same in the end.

He threw himself across his cot and stared at the deckhead. A captain had to be above such things, to be able to play God without thought for those who served him. Then he remembered Allday’s words and the blind trust of men like Herrick and Stockdale. Such men deserved his attention, even his love, he thought vaguely. To use power as a tyrant was to be without honour. To be without honour was to be less than a man.

With that thought uppermost in his mind he fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

“Captain, sir!” Midshipman Neale rested his hand anxiously on Bolitho’s arm and then jumped back in alarm as the cot swayed violently to one side.

Bolitho swung his legs to the deck and stared for a long moment while his mind sought to recover from the nightmare. He had been surrounded by screaming, faceless men, and his arms had been pinioned while he felt a noose being tightened around his neck. Neale’s hand had only added to the nightmare’s reality, and he could still feel the sweat running across his spine.

He said harshly, “What is it?” The cabin was still in darkness, and it took him several more seconds to recover his composure.

Neale said, “Mr Herrick’s respects, sir. He thinks you should know we’ve heard something.” He fell back another pace as Bolitho lurched to his feet. “It sounded like gunfire, sir!”

Bolitho did not pause to find his coat but ran quickly to the quarterdeck. It was almost dawn, and already the sky was painted in a pale blue strip beyond the gently corkscrewing bows.