By the time the Tartar sighted Barbados on 13 May, Tom had settled into the routine of shipboard life as if he had been aboard one of His Majesty’s ships for years. He was a good pupil and full of energy. He learned fast and made friends easily amongst the men and the officers; the gunner’s wife who was charged with overseeing the welfare of the boys on the ship kept a quiet eye on him, as always trying to avoid favourites and knowing that any signs of preference for one boy over another would lead to jealousies and petty cruelties out of sight down on the orlop deck. One boy had already been badly hurt when the fixings of his hammock had been loosened and he had fallen awkwardly onto the boards beneath.

      Jamie and Tom had whispered together that night; they knew who had done it and why. At eight years old, Robbie was the youngest and smallest boy aboard the ship. He still cried at the end of his watches, thinking his tears were inaudible, and when the gunner’s wife went to comfort him he clung to her and begged to get off the ship, seemingly unable to comprehend that they were at sea, far from any port. She did her best to reassure him whilst drying his tears and robustly trying to instil what she called backbone. It was of little help. The boy was fading before their eyes, his misery compounded by the vicious bullying of the lad who hung his hammock beside him.

      ‘No, Tom, don’t get involved!’ Jamie caught his arm and pulled him away as Tom clenched his fists that evening, watching as the little boy’s mess tin was grabbed and ostentatiously emptied onto his neighbour’s already over-full portion.

      ‘Finished so soon, youngster?’ the cocky voice crowed as Robbie stared down, bewildered, into his empty bowl.

      ‘Give it back!’ Tom shouted across the table. He was unaware of the sudden authority in his voice. Jamie cowed back out of sight beside him. ‘You great bully! What has this poor lad ever done to you?’

      ‘He annoys me, that’s what!’ Andrew Farquhar stood up, ducking his head away from the lantern swinging from the low beam above their heads. ‘With his snivelling and his whining. So?’ The face, now turned in Tom’s direction, was set with dislike. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

      Tom flinched back, but he forced himself to stand up. He was a good head shorter than his opponent. ‘I’m not going to do anything. You are going to give him back his food,’ he said as firmly as he could. He narrowed his eyes as he saw Andrew grab his tin and, anticipating the next move, shouted, ‘And you are not going to throw it on the floor. You are going to put it back on his plate.’

      ‘Oh, his plate!’ Farquhar’s voice had risen into a singsong mockery of Tom’s Scots accent. ‘We ordinary folk, we eat out of tins. But your lordship has a plate. Where is it then? In your box, is it? All painted with gold and silver, is it?’ He launched a kick at Tom’s sea chest. Jamie had been sitting on it beside Tom and as he ducked sideways to avoid the vicious attack he slipped awkwardly to the floor.

      ‘I am not a lord,’ Tom said through gritted teeth. In spite of his blind fury he was surprised to feel himself becoming calmer as his opponent blustered more and more loudly. ‘I am a fair man who hates to see a great blooter like you bully someone small and helpless, and I’m sure our friends feel the same.’ He did not dare look at the others round the crowded mess table. The silence after the chatter and laughter was intense.

      ‘I’m sure they do not,’ Andrew said, so softly his voice was all but inaudible above the creak of the timbers round them.

      Tom became aware that Jamie was scrambling to his feet beside him. He reached over for Jamie’s shoulder and pushed him, trying to stop him standing up, but Jamie shrugged him off. ‘They do,’ he announced staunchly.

      One or two of the others nodded, the others remained stock-still, their eyes moving shiftily between Tom and his protagonist.

      Andrew dropped the tin on the trestle, splashing the gravy over the scrubbed wood. ‘Take it then, if you are so hungry. Eat mine as well. Why don’t you.’ He turned and pushed his way out of the entrance into the cockpit beyond. They heard his feet on the ladder, and it was only then that Tom became aware of the greater silence from the seamen who had moments before been shouting and laughing beyond the wooden partition which separated the midshipmen from the rest. With a sinking heart, he realised the altercation had been clearly audible to the whole watch below.

      Mastering his trepidation, he gave Robbie a smile as he pushed the mess tin towards him. ‘Go on, Rob. Take your chance. Eat up.’

      The boy seized his spoon and stuck it into the mess of stew but after two mouthfuls he dropped the spoon and stood up, ducking away from the table. Only seconds later they heard him retching into a bucket.

      One by one their companions resumed their meal. No one spoke. Tom glanced at Jamie, who grimaced and put his finger to his lips. Robbie huddled against the ship’s side in the shadows. He said nothing either.

      It was later, as the watch slept, that Tom woke suddenly and saw, in the last flickering light of the candle stub, a figure standing over Robbie’s hammock, fiddling with its fixings. ‘Hey!’ he called, but it was too late. As the burly shadow melted back into the darkness Robbie let out a scream and there was a crash, followed by two great throaty sobs, then silence. Somewhere someone grabbed a flint and lit the lantern. The boy’s body was lying awkwardly across the corner of his sea chest and he seemed to be unconscious. The loosened end of the hammock was trapped beneath his body.

      A burly sailor carried Robbie up to the sickbay and the acting surgeon and the gunner’s wife gave him as much help as they could, waving sal volatile under his nose and burning feathers, straightening his bent limbs, setting a splint on his leg. As dawn rose he opened his eyes but he recognised no one. Tom was called when word below deck identified him as Robbie’s friend and only an hour later, with Tom holding his hand, the little boy died. The shadow that left him had no more substance than a wisp of smoke.

      Tom was sent for by the captain. Lieutenant Murray was standing beside him as Tom went into the day cabin. Beyond the great stern windows he could see the roll of the waves, a cloud of gulls swooping and diving into the ship’s wake.

      ‘I want you to tell me exactly what happened last night.’ Sir John had a notebook open before him on his desk and a pen in his hand. Tom looked anxiously at the blank page as the captain fixed him with a firm stare, ‘Every detail, if you please.’

      Tom told him. At some level he was aware that the code of loyalty amongst his fellow midshipmen would demand silence, but he had been brought up to tell the truth. Besides, he was burning with anger and shock. The sight of the little boy, lying on the bunk before him, the feel of the small hand, so trusting and warm, which had for a moment squeezed his own before falling limp and then oh so quickly grown