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“I have already had words with my carpenter, Sir Richard. With his aid I intend to coax Orontes ’ master into rigging a jury rudder.”
    Bolitho raised his own telescope and studied the other vessel. Her decks seemed to be full of people, crew or convicts it was impossible to tell. No one appeared to be working and he said quietly, “Take some marines with you, Val.”
    Keen lowered his glass and looked at him. “Aye, sir.” He sounded uneasy. “Some of their people are drinking. At this time of the day!”
    The gig and then a cutter were lowered alongside while the flagship came into the wind and lay hove-to, her reefed canvas flapping wetly in the spray.
    Keen hurried to the entry port and Bolitho said, “Go with him, Mr Stayt. You may learn something less basic then seamanship today.”
    Keen waited impatiently as a squad of Royal Marines clattered down into the cutter with their junior officer Lieutenant Orde. He was a haughty young man who obviously resented the idea of soaking his immaculate scarlet coat on the crossing Keen touched his hat to the quarterdeck and then hurried down the side where Hogg waited with his gig.
    Keen had no doubts in his mind that the next months would be crucial as England and her old enemy circled one another to seek out and exploit a first weakness. He wanted to begin, to use his ship where she was most needed. For Keen it was like a driving force. He had nothing else.
    Once he glanced astern and saw his ship riding easily in the swell and Bolitho’s straight figure by the quarterdeck rail. Argonaute would serve him well, Keen thought. I owe him that and so much more.
    The coxswain swore silently as the gig shuddered alongside and hooked onto the main-chains. The cutter, caught on a sudden crest, was carried past, the marines watching with amusement as the oarsmen fought to regain control.
    Stayt stood aside to allow Keen to climb the ladder. After the lively motion and stinging spray the Orontes ’ broad deck seemed almost sluggish and without wind.
    There were figures everywhere, on the deck and gangways, even in the tops overhead. A few carried weapons, guards probably, the rest looked like the sweepings of a jail.
    But Keen saw only the drama being enacted below the poop. The rigged grating, a great brute of a boatswain’s mate with what looked like a long whip in his hand as he stared at the figure seized up for flogging.
    Keen hated the savage ritual of a flogging, more so the occasional need for it. Ever since he had seen his first punishment as a young midshipman, like most sea officers he had fought to conceal his revulsion for the sake of discipline. Others, it seemed, could watch it without turning a hair.
    But this was different. He felt his spine go cold as he stared at the spreadeagled form on the grating.
    A seaman exclaimed behind him, “Christ A’mighty, sir, it’s a girl!”
    She was stripped almost to her buttocks, her face and shoulders hidden by her hair, her arms stretched out as if she had been crucified.
    Keen stepped forward but before he could speak the boatswain’s mate drew back his arm and curled the whip across the girl’s back with the sound of a pistol shot.
    Keen saw her arch her body, her torn clothing falling still further. But she did not scream for the force of the blow had smashed the breath from her body. Then, after what seemed like several seconds, a bright scarlet line showed itself from one bare shoulder to the opposite hip and then the blood ran down her back, and as the man drew back his arm she began to struggle.
    Keen said sharply, “Belay that! ” He felt Stayt beside him but did not take his eyes from the scene. Around and above him he could hear a baying chorus of voices. Anger, disappointment— they had wanted to watch her flogged.
    In the sudden silence Keen said, “Mr Stayt! If that man so much as lifts his whip I order you to shoot him