William, afraid that Weber was about to flee, grasped him by the arm. This resulted in a sharp cry and a blow to William’s stomach. Considering Weber’s size, it wasn’t a bad try, but William grunted at the impact, let go Weber’s arm, grabbed the man by both shoulders, and shook him like a rat.

“Still!” he said. “Ich tue Euch nichts!”

The statement that he meant Weber no harm seemed not to soothe the gentleman, but the shaking at least stopped him struggling to get away. He went limp in William’s grasp and stood gasping.

“What’s going on?” William demanded sharply, in German. He nodded down the quay. “Is that man keeping you prisoner?”

Weber shook his head.

“Nein. Er ist mein Freund.”

“Well, then.” William let go and stepped back, hands spread in token of harmlessness. “Meiner auch.”

Weber nodded warily and straightened his waistcoat, but declined further conversation, resuming his wooden impassiveness. A fine tremble passed through his person at intervals, but his face showed nothing, though he glanced now and then toward the deepening fog at the end of the quay. William could see shapes—mostly masts that poked suddenly out of the mist as the air shifted—and the thick air carried random shouts that sounded eerily distant one moment and startlingly close at hand the next. The fog was deepening, creeping over the quay, and he had a sudden sense of disorientation, as though the world were dissolving under his feet.

And then Denys was suddenly there, with no warning. His face was still anxious but bore a set resolution. He seized Weber’s arm, glanced at William, and said briefly, “Kommt.” William wasted no time in argument, but seized the gentleman’s other arm, and between them, he and Denys rushed the little man into the fog and up a gangplank that suddenly appeared in front of them.

A tall man in a blue coat manifested himself on deck, flanked by two sailors. He looked closely at Denys, nodded, then, catching a glimpse of William, started back as though he’d seen a demon.

“One soldier,” he said sharply to Denys, catching him by the sleeve. “One, they said! Who’s this?”

“I’m—” William began, but Denys kicked him in the ankle. “His friend,” William said, nodding casually at Denys.

“There’s no time for this,” Denys said. He reached into his breast and withdrew a small, fat purse, which he handed over. The captain, for so he must be, William thought, hesitated for a moment, glanced suspiciously at him again, but took it.

The next instant he was hurtling back down the gangplank, propelled by an urgent shove in the back from Denys. He hit the quay staggering, but regained his balance at once and turned to see the ship—it looked like a small brig, from what he could see through the mist—draw back the gangplank like a sucked-in tongue, cast off a final line, and with a rattle of shrouds and a snap of filling sails move slowly away from the quay. In moments, it had disappeared into the grayness.