The American grinned, but not because anything was funny. Three months to get here and now this pompous Prussian wanted to haggle. Jesus, but what a prick. He felt the twitch he’d recently acquired return to the corner of his left eye. In that deranged little spasm, all he’d endured: the steaming, insect-plagued forests of Surinam, the crossing of roiling, pirate-infested seas on that bloated slug the Alfons, then the volatile borders all through Europe, harassed by murderous highwaymen and fleeced by counts and princes to pass their roads, and now, the sudden walking blind into a war and Bonaparte’s two-hundred-thousand-strong stinking, looting, cutthroat Grande goddamn Armée on the march in the same direction. And everybody wanting to know, everywhere they went: What’s in the barrel, son?

And his companion, the Negro, speaking barely a word the whole time, except to say ‘water’ now and then, as though Wesley Lewis Jr needed reminding to replenish the barrel in order to keep the eel sons-of-bitches alive and kicking.

‘How about you stand there and watch,’ he’d say, inserting the tap at the bottom of the barrel to drain it, after some hours trying to find fresh water in a dead village somewhere, skinny dogs barking at him, cannon thunder and smoke on the horizon. ‘Make sure I do it properly.’ But the Negro never bit.

Wesley Lewis Jr walked slowly over to the barrel and picked up the lid that was leaning against it. He turned the greasy wheel in his hands, looking it over, then placed the lid carefully on top of the barrel, crouching a little to check the alignment. He gave it some attention, took his time, made sure it was straight. Then he stood back, put his hands on his hips.