Then Evans’s eye fell on the meat beside the table. He sucked his teeth and asked sadly, “And who did this, then?”

No one spoke, and once more the angry roar of the sea and wind enclosed the staggering berth deck with noise.

Ferguson looked up, his eyes bright and feverish. “I did it.”

Evans leaned his narrow shoulders against the massive trunk of the foremast which ran right through both decks and said, “ ‘I did it, sir.’ ”

Ferguson mumbled something and then added, “Sorry, sir.”

Allday said coldly, “It was an accident, Mr Evans. Just an accident.”

“Food is food.” Evans’s Welsh accent became more pronounced as his face became angrier. “I cannot hope to keep you men in good health if you waste such excellent meat, now can I?”

Those grouped around the table stared down at the shapeless hunk of rancid beef as it lay gleaming in a patch of lamplight.

Evans added sharply, “Now, you, whatever your bloody name is, eat it!”

Ferguson stared down at the meat, his mind swimming in nausea. The deck was discoloured with water and stained with droppings from the tilting table. There was vomit too, perhaps his own.

Evans said gently, “I am waiting, boyo. One more minute and I’ll take you aft. A touch of the cat might teach you some appreciation!”

Ferguson dropped to his knees and picked up the meat. As he lifted it to his mouth Betts pushed forward and tore it from his hands and threw it straight at Evans. “Take it yourself, you bloody devil! Leave him alone!”

For a moment Evans showed the fear in his dark eyes. The men had crowded around him, their bodies rising and falling like a human tide with each roll of the ship. He could feel the menace, the sudden ice touch of terror.

Another voice cut through the shadows. “Stand aside!” Midshipman Farquhar had to stoop beneath the low beams, but his eyes were steady and bright as they settled on the frozen tableau around the end table. Farquhar’s approach had been so stealthy and quiet that not even the men at the opposite end of the deck had noticed him. He snapped, “I am waiting. What is going on here?”

Evans thrust the nearest men aside and threw himself to Farquhar’s side. With his hand shaking in both fear and fury he pointed at Betts. “He struck me! Me, a warrant officer!”

Farquhar was expressionless. His tight lips and cold stare might have meant either amusement or anger. “Very well, Mr Evans. Kindly lay aft for the master-at-arms.”

As the purser scurried away Farquhar looked round the circle of faces with open contempt. “You never seem to learn, do you?” He turned to Betts, who still stood staring at the meat, his chest heaving as if from tremendous exertion. “You are a fool, Betts! Now you will pay for it!”

Allday pressed his shoulders against the frigate’s cold, wet timbers and closed his eyes. It was all happening just as he knew it would. He listened to Betts’s uneven breathing and Ferguson’s quiet whimpers and felt sick. He thought suddenly of the quiet hillsides and the grey bunches of sheep. The space and the solitude.