The impact had flung Nash all the way back to the bridge door. Thankfully, it had slammed shut, for he could easily have hit a stanchion or gone over the side. Getting to his feet, he saw the bridge was a shambles. Jaap Boerman lay sprawled in his chair, shaking his head like a heavyweight shrugging off a scoring punch. Between his feet, Goki wasn’t moving. Through the now-cracked windscreen in front of him, the elongated branch of a giant fig tree reached out like a warning hand. Meanwhile, Hartono and Sura were trying to extricate themselves from a tangle of limbs. Everything was blurry and incredibly loud, and Nash became aware that the Albany was still on full power reverse, trying to wrench herself out of the mud. She was shaking so violently that it felt as if she was going to tear herself apart.

‘Turn the fucking engines off!’ he yelled at Boerman. ‘The big red button!’

In the silence that followed, the sound of the aggrieved forest outside became apparent. Birds of all kinds were honking, squawking and shrilling at the insult. High branches could be heard shaking and snapping, and leaves were drifting down in a light rain.

Nash pulled Sura to her feet. She was pale, too unsteady to speak. Grabbing the first aid kit from the back wall, he shoved it into her hands.

‘Help Goki!’ With a dismissive nod at Boerman he added, ‘And don’t let that fucking idiot anywhere near the controls.’

Kaboro had reached the quarterdeck when Nash got outside. The front of his white uniform was stained with coffee, and he was staring in dismay at the ship’s prow, embedded in the long grass of the sloping riverbank. Beneath their feet, the deck was slanted fifteen degrees to stern with a tilt to starboard.

‘Goki hit a canoe,’ Nash explained. ‘Two people, I think . . . before he lost control. Tell me, Lieutenant, do you have the ship now?’

It was a cruel thrust, but Nash was angry; the expedition was over before it had even begun, and he wanted to provoke some resolve in Kaboro because they still had to get out of there.

Kaboro’s expression was sombre.

‘Yes. And I give you my word that I will see to your safety, but first I must organise a search for survivors and check the ship and crew.’

Down on the main deck, Nash spotted Mia with Douglas. She was examining his forehead while the old pilot buttoned up yesterday’s shirt.

‘It was Singkepe . . . I woke up with him sitting on my bloody head.’

‘It’s a bump, Frank.’ Mia’s face was scrunched at the stench of sweat and stale alcohol. ‘You’ll be fine.’

The old pilot’s face fell as Nash explained the cause of the grounding.

‘Robbie, I’m sorry,’ he said miserably. ‘I’ve stuffed up, haven’t I?’