“These are mine,” he said, to anyone who cared to hear. He sat on the box, pulled on the right boot and was about to pull on the other when the stallholder arrived. After speaking at each other for a minute it became clear that the man wanted two pounds for the boots.

“I paid twelve guineas for them in Bath,” said Lacroix.

The stallholder seemed unsure what to do with this information. A surprising move in a familiar game. Another man came up. He was perhaps the stallholder’s brother, his twin. They conferred. “Two pounds,” said the second man. “Or yi can feck off.”

Lacroix considered mentioning the new police but thought better of it. He was in no position to defend himself, would not survive a second thrashing. He did not even feel indignant. He could see their point of view. He found, deep in the slit pocket, another of the pound notes, added to it some of the apothecary’s silver. It was several shillings short of what they wanted but they stood out of his way. He walked. Walking was quite different with boots on. He had been walking in the earth, now he walked on it. He looked for the boy. He could not find him but found the fish seller again, bought four more of the smoked fish and put them in his pockets. He bought a bottle of whisky in the whisky tent, laid it next to the wrapped pistol in his bag, then set off towards the masts. Groups of animals were being driven in the same direction so that he was often walking in their midst.

Like this he came to the shore where an open boat half the size of the Jenny was taking on some of the cattle. A figure in a collarless shirt was overseeing it all. Lacroix approached him and explained what he wanted. The man ignored him; no doubt he hoped he would go away. When he did not go away, when he repeated his request more boldly, more insistently, the man looked round at him, glanced at the fiddle case.

“I can pay you a little,” said Lacroix. “Though I have had to buy back my own boots.”

The man spoke to another on the deck of the boat. At first Lacroix imagined he was mishearing English, or mishearing Scots, then realised it was what he had heard the Highland soldiers singing on the march into Spain. Erse. Gaelic. He smiled at the man. Though the drug had not made the pain go away it had made him cease to care about it much.

“I will try to learn your language,” he said. “And I have brought my own food.”