A picture rose up in Stephen’s mind – the dark, fusty hold of the ship – his mother, worn out by the pains of childbirth, surrounded by strangers – himself a tiny infant. Did she even speak the language of the other people on board? He had no way of knowing. How alone she must have felt! He would have given a great deal at that moment to be able to reach out and comfort her, but all the years of his life lay between them. He felt his heart harden another degree against the English. Only a few minutes ago he had struggled to persuade the gentleman not to kill Strange, but why should he care what became of one Englishman? Why should he care what became of any of that cold, callous race?

With a sigh, he put these thoughts aside and discovered that the gentleman was still talking.

“… It is a most edifying tale and demonstrates to perfection all those qualities for which I am especially famed; namely self-sacrifice, devoted friendship, nobility of purpose, perceptiveness, ingenuity and courageousness.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“The story of my finding your name, Stephen, which I am now going to relate! Know then that your mother died in the hold of a ship, the Penlaw,3 that was sailing from Jamaica to Liverpool. And then,” he added in a matter-of-fact tone, “the English sailors stripped her body and flung it into the sea.”

“Ah!” breathed Stephen.

“Now, as you may imagine, this made the task of recovering your name extremely difficult. After thirty or forty years, all that was left of your mother was four things: her screams in childbirth, which had sunk into the planks of the ship; her bones, which was all that was left of her, once the flesh and softer parts had been devoured by fishes …”

“Ah!” exclaimed Stephen again.