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landed a punch that felled him again, forcing him to curl up into a ball, with his hands around his head. He began to feel the impact of the kicks now raining in on his body.
    It was odd listening to the sounds of anger and excitement, feeling the strength of the blows without much pain. His senses, except his hearing, seemed numb, as though the assault was being inflicted on another. Each voice was clear: Rivers spluttering as he cursed and swore; Dobree calling feebly to them to let Nelson be. He guessed that Makepeace, a silent attacker, was inflicting the greatest hurt, his boot beating a tattoo on his unprotected back. Everyone, it seemed, had joined in, Rivers’s deep growl set against a background of high-pitched squeals. But many seemed token in their efforts, careful as they added their contribution, using the confined space and ample noise to amplify the apparent extent of their labours.
    It took the senior midshipman a good minute to begin a vain attempt to stop the fight. Given the ballyhoo, this allowed time for Mrs Killannan to arrive, her shout bringing immediate relief to Nelson. Nearest the door, and between the gunner’s wife and the fray, Dobree took a thudding clout, which threw him out of the way. Her hands and forearms were not all fat and she had little difficulty in dragging or punching everyone back from the boy still huddled on the floor. ‘You miserable swabs,’ she cursed, dragging Nelson upright and hauling his face into the apron that covered her ample bosom. ‘Don’t you surmise no better’n to batter the Captain’s nephew?’
    The bloodied face was pushed back for examination, the note in Mrs Killannan’s voice carrying more than a trace of desperation. ‘And who’s to excuse this away when the Pig comes aboard?’
    She caught her breath, as if to try to cover her inadvertent use of the Captain’s nickname. But the boy wasn’t listening. He was wriggling to get free. Nelson knew he was hurt, but could still feel no pain. The salty taste of blood in his mouth seemed quite pleasant. That didn’t last the distance between the mid’s berth and the gunner’s quarters. Agony came as the force that had animated him subsided and his hurts were not aided by the less than gentle ministrations of Mrs Killannan and her neat rum.
    Her husband sat through this, chewing on his tobacco, a glint in his eyes, which twinkled every time he moved the quid to one side so that he could repeat, ‘You’re fer the ’igh jump now, me girl. It’ll be roast Sow, stuffed and trussed, when the Pig comes up that there gangway.’
    Which he did the following morning, the ceremony of piping the captain aboard attended by everyone. To avoid any further trouble his battered nephew had spent the night in the gunner’s quarters. Captain Suckling spotted him right away and his all too obvious wounds. But the needs of his office took precedence and the formalities were punctiliously observed. Only when they were complete was his nephew summoned, first to account for his presence but much more for his condition.
    Stepping into the great cabin of HMS Raisonable for the first time terrified him, almost as much as the stern look in his uncle’s eye. Pacing back and forth, Captain Maurice Suckling was silhouetted against the casement windows that ran across the rear of the ship. Thus, the angry look he wore was apparent each time he turned to retrace his steps. Yet there was something else, a similarity to the memory of Nelson’s mother. This meant that the boy’s eyes, which would have been better cast down in shame, were occupied in close scrutiny of his relative’s features. That made his uncle stop and growl. As Nelson didn’t know him well, it was impossible for him to deduce if the wrath was genuine or contrived, but the voice was certainly peppery when he spoke.
    ‘I come aboard only to find you already here when you’re not supposed to be.’
    ‘My father was eager to return to take the waters at Bath,