'Hang the prisoner!'

The hanging party moved as though spurred by the vehemence in Drinkwater's voice There was no time for thought, no cause for apprehension to the watching Mount, ready to coerce the party with his muskets.

Comley's men leaned to Stanham's sudden weight as his body rose jerking to the starboard fore-yardarm.

Amidships another man fainted as all watched in terrible fascination.

Stanham kicked with his legs, tightening the noose with every desperate movement in his muscles, arching his back as he fought vainly for air. He was a strong man with a powerful neck that resisted the snapping of the spinal cord and the separation of the vertebrae that would bring a quick, merciful end.

Drinkwater found himself willing the man to stop, to submit to the Admiralty's omnipotent will and die quietly as an example to others, but Stanham was not going to oblige. The dark tangle of his blood-choked brain was roaring with the anger of betrayal, of treachery and injustice. The dark shape of his body set against the rolling scud seemed possessed of a protest from beyond the grave. Drinkwater cursed the Norwich informer, cursed John Barrow and his lack of compassion and cursed himself for bringing back such a secret from Russia that men still died for it.

Gradually asphyxia subdued the spasms. Stanham had given up the ghost. It seemed that a collective sigh, audible above the wind and the responding hiss of the sea, came from the Patrician's assembled company.

'Eight bells, sir.'

'Make it so and pipe the hands to dinner.'

The yellow flag fluttered down from the masthead as the four double rings of the bell tolled the hour of noon. Pipes twittered amidships and the men began to move below. Faintly similar noises could be heard from other ships. The rumble of voices grew as the men glanced upwards in passing forward.

'Another good man bin stabbed by the Bridport dagger, 'en…'