‘I know who you are,’ said the Magyar with a grin. ‘You are Cathal Goodenough.’ He had trouble pronouncing the ‘th’ and it came out sounding more like ‘Cattle’.

‘It’s pronounced Cahill, actually,’ said Goodenough automatically, and then stopped himself. ‘But how did you know my –?’

‘With respect,’ Zoltan interrupted with quiet authority in his voice, ‘it is pronounced however I want to pronounce it.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Goodenough, taken aback. ‘There is no cause to be uncivil. I have offered my assistance to you –’

‘My apologies,’ the Magyar interrupted again and bowed even lower this time, with a faintly mocking manner. ‘You are right. There is no need for any unpleasantness. My men will simply take what we have come for and leave.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ said Goodenough. ‘Take what?’

Louis, the first mate, and two other crewmen, wearing their crisp white uniforms, were cautiously approaching along the deck.

‘This conversation is becoming boring,’ said Zoltan. ‘Like a boring English tea party. I went to England once. The food was grey, the sky was grey and the people were dull.’ He clapped his hands. ‘And now that my men are all in position, I can stop this chit-chat and get on with my business, Sir Goodenough.’

‘It’s just Goodenough, actually,’ said the Englishman with some irritation in his voice. ‘You would say “Sir Cathal”, but never “Sir Goodenough” –’

‘I will say whatever I want to say,’ Zoltan snapped. ‘Now, please don’t annoy me. I am attempting to stay calm and polite, like you Englishmen, because when I am angry I do things that I sometimes later regret. Now, please, I am busy…’

So saying, Zoltan the Magyar clapped his hands again and a group of armed men appeared from behind the deckhouse.

With a shock Goodenough realised that while he and his crew had been distracted, another rowing boat had put out from the tramp steamer and several more sailors had climbed aboard. This new group were armed – with knives, cutlasses and guns that they quickly handed out to their friends. The huge South Sea Islander was passed a whaling harpoon, which he held lightly in one massive, tattooed hand. With his other hand he removed the cigar from his mouth and then spat a flake of tobacco on to the deck.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ said Goodenough, outraged – but he knew the meaning all too well.

They were pirates, and there was nothing he could do.

For emergency use there were two rifles and an ancient pre-war pistol locked away in his cabin, but to this day they had never left their strongbox.

And now it was too late.

The first mate, Louis, made a move, but Goodenough glared at him and he stopped. For a captain to have his command taken from him like this was appalling, but it would be madness to try and resist.

It was best just to get it over with.

‘This is a private vessel,’ he explained as calmly as he could. ‘We have no cargo; we have no hold full of treasure. There is a small safe with some money in it, but not a great amount…’