Dyson, lying curled up like a whipped dog cowering in a corner, stared up at Jackson.

'Get up!' me American snapped.

'Not bloody likely; I'm staying 'ere. You wouldn't hit a man when he's down.'

'Don't be too sure.'

With that, Jackson kicked him in the ribs. It wasn't a hard kick, but there was very little flesh on Dyson's bones, and he staggered to his feet.

'What's it all about?' he gasped 'Why pick on me?'

'Dyson, you are going to talk to me. A nice friendly little chat. You're going to tell me part of your life story—beginning from the minute I came on board with the rest of the Livelies.'

'Oh no, I'm not!'

Jackson held out first the nun bottle and then the belaying pin.

'Like a drink, Dyson?'

The cook's mate shook his head.

'I should, Dyson. It helps with the pain.'

'Haven't got any pain,' the man said, like a sulky child.

'You haven't—yet.'

Jackson's drawl began to sound like the teeth of a saw dragged across metal.

'Not yet, Dyson. But in the next hour, you greasy little runt, you're going to have so much pain you're going to be begging me to kill you off to put you out of your misery.'

'But why pick on me,' Dyson whined. 'It was Brooky— cut 'im up instead. Brooky started it all. Yes'—he seized at the idea—''e's your man, not me!'

Jackson paused. Brookland? He was sure Dyson hadn't suddenly named the foretopman to protect Harris: he was so frightened it was much more likely he'd name the real leader to save his own skin. But where did Harris fit in? Why was Harris yapping about the dangers of mutiny— Harris of all people?

Well, if Brookland was the ringleader he wouldn't reveal anything that'd incriminate himself, and anything Harris had to say was likely to confuse the situation even more. No, Dyson was the man to tell the tale.

'Dyson, my greasy little friend, it doesn't matter who we start with because you're all going the same way home. So brace up that tongue of yours and get under way.'

The man wiped his brow. Already white-faced, his skin now seemed sweat-sodden and turning grey. Glancing up, he saw the American's eyes, began to say something and then held his hands out helplessly and looked down again.

Jackson said, 'Rosey, put the lantern over there.'

Dyson watched the Italian take a couple of paces to the corner, put down the lantern, and return to face Jackson, who said in an off-hand tone:

'Rosey, just cut off the top joint of his right index finger.'

Dyson gave a little scream and sat on his hands as Rossi turned towards him, In the moment's silence that followed, Jackson said:

'Wait a second...'

He held out his own left hand and with the right index finger touched each joint '... That's fourteen chops for each hand. I say, Rosey, that's twenty-eight and'—he glanced down at his bare feet —'about ten for each foot. Forty-eight: it's going to take time. You'd better give him a drink first. Change your mind, Slushy?'

But the man had fainted. Jackson went to the door and called to Maxton.

'Bring Harris back in here, Maxie, and take out Brook-land.'

As he waited, Jackson glanced over at the bloodstained top-man. There was fear in his eyes: bottomless fear, the kind of fear found only in a real coward, for it had paralysed him. He could no longer move a muscle even to save his life.

Maxton had to drag him out of the tiny room and Jackson waved Harris over to where he had originally been sitting on bread bags, and prodded Dyson, who was beginning to stir, with his foot As soon as he could see Dyson had recovered sufficiently to know what was happening round him, he said to Harris:

'I've brought you in to watch a cook's mate being butchered. Should be interesting. Think of all the chickens whose necks he's wrung. All those pigs and cows he's slaughtered and cut up...'

Since another of a cook's mate's duties was to act as slaughterer of a ship's livestock, the irony of the remark was not lost on Harris who began to say something, but Jackson held up his hand.

'Your turn for a farewell speech will come, Harris. Until then, one word out of you and I'll let Maxie get to work. Now, Dyson, you feeling better?'

Dyson nodded, then shook his head violently. Too violently, in fact, because he had to dose his eyes as the cabin began to spin. Jackson hoisted him to his feet and flung him back so he was sprawled across the bread beside Harris, but with his back to him.

'As you seem to be a bit squeamish, Dyson, HI give you one more chance to start telling your tale. Otherwise Rosey begins to chop.'

The cook's mate glared at him and muttered a filthy oath. Jackson motioned to Rossi but before the Italian could step forward Dyson held up both hands, as if to ward him off, and whined, 'All right, all right, give me time!'

He took a few deep breaths and, staring down at the deck, said:

'Well, at Spithead we Tritons was just like all the rest of the Fleet. Yes, we'd mutinied because of conditions—and the Lively did the same.

'Then half the Tritons get sent to the Lively and you lot are transferred. Well, that didn't mean nuthin' to us because the Fleet's working together. Then that Mr Southwick comes out. All right, we let him on board—not many ships would 'ave allowed that, and you know it, but 'e seemed an 'armless old coot "That was our mistake, because next day along comes Mr Ramage. Well, we still didn't suspect nothin'. We'd 'card about him and the Kathleen at Cape St Vincent and reckoned the Admirality had given 'im command of the Triton as a sort o' reward.

'The next bit you know: 'e tells us to weigh and we won't —none o' the rest of the Fleet would 'ave done, an' you know it. So 'e suddenly cuts the cable and we 'ave to make sail to keep off that shoal. Well, that wasn't fair: 'e 'ad no right to risk drownding the lot of us. When we found out we're supposed to be bound for a long voyage, we decided the best" thing to do was to take the ship back to Spit'ead and be along with our mates in the Fleet'

Jackson nodded, as if waiting for him to continue.

'Well, that's all mere is to it'

'No, it's not—let's have the whole story, Dyson. Did everyone in the ship agree with you?'

'Well, not quite everyone. You, Rossi, Stafford, Evans, Fuller, that West Indian fellow—'course you wouldn't 'ave done: that's why you weren't told about it.'

'And the rest from the Lively—were they asked?'

'Not all of 'em, no,' Dyson admitted.

'Any of them? Even one man?'

Dyson shifted uneasily. 'Well, they wouldn't 'ave tried to stop us.'

'How did you word the question?'

'Just asked 'em.'

'You didn't say something like, "If you won't join us, just keep out of the way—or you'll get knifed in your hammocks!"?'

'Well, we 'ad to protect ourselves in case any of them went running to the captain. Stands to reason,' Dyson said defiantly.

'So you threatened to murder your shipmates in their hammocks if they stayed loyal to their captain—a captain who's the finest in the service—and refused to mutiny?'

Dyson said nothing and Jackson suddenly wheeled on Harris.

'You knew better. You're educated, not an ignorant peasant like Dyson. Why did you plan all this?'

The suddenness of the attack had just the effect Jackson hoped.

'I didn't, you damned fool! I was trying to stop them. I...

'Go on, Harris.'

'I've nothing to say. Except you're worse. You shouldn't talk about loyalty—Mr Ramage's a stranger to us. You lot are supposed to be the ones who fought alongside him But what are you doing now? Mutinying and taking the ship over to the French!'

The man made no attempt to hide his contempt 'You're worse than mutineers; you're a bunch of traitors —traitors to your country and, what's worse, traitors to the man who trusted you. A good man: a man who can understand another man.'