Bolitho hated floggings, even though they were part of a sailor's life. There still seemed to be no alternative for a captain to maintain discipline when far away from higher authority and the company of other ships.

The grating was rigged by the gangway, and Balleine, a muscular boatswain's mate, stood waiting beside it, the red baize bag dangling at his side.

Cairns crossed the quarterdeck as Pears appeared beneath the poop.

'Company assembled, sir.' His eyes were expressionless. 'Very well.'

Pears glanced at the compass and then walked heavily forward to the quarterdeck rail. There was a hush over the crowded seamen who filled the gundeck and overflowed on to the gangways and into the shrouds themselves. '

Bolitho glanced at the midshipmen grouped alongside the older warrant officers. He had been sick at a flogging when he had been a midshipman.

He thought about Carlsson. Found asleep on watch after a whole day of fighting wind and rebellious canvas.

With some officers it might have made a difference. But Lieutenant Sparke had no such weakness as sentiment. Bolitho wondered if he was thinking about it now. How it had cast a blight over the very day he was going to lead a boat attack. He glanced sideways at him but saw nothing but Sparke's usual tight severity.

Pears nodded. 'Uncover.' He removed his hat and tucked it beneath his arm, while the others followed his example.

Bolitho looked to larboard, half expecting to see the sails of their faithful shadow. During the night the schooner had edged closer, and was now visible from the tops of the lower shrouds,

but not from the quarterdeck as yet. That made it harder to accept in a sailor's simple reasoning. A Yankee rebel cruising along as safe as you please, and one of their own about to be flogged.