Lacroix sat and took them off. The big toes of both feet poked through the filthy wool of his stockings. The man took the boots from him. He made loops of rope about them both, then threaded the rope through the handle of the bag and the handle of the fiddle case. The other sailors came forward now. There were only four of the cattle remaining in the boat. Three of these they put in the water, watched them begin their swim to the shore.

“And this is for you,” said the sailor who had roped Lacroix’s things. He tapped the back of the last animal.

“For me?” said Lacroix. He had misheard; or no, he had not misheard. He shook his head, began his protest, but the men were about their business and not interested in what he had to say.

They put a tether round the animal’s neck, tied the end to a cleat and heaved the animal over the side. “Quick now,” said the man.

They lifted him—he must have been light enough after the cows—swept him clear of the gunwales and settled him on the cow’s back, his legs in the water to the tops of his thighs. It was cold! The shock of it almost sobered him, it certainly silenced him. Someone hung his gear around his neck, then the tether was freed, the end given to Lacroix as a type of rein, and the cow prodded away from the boat with the point of a boathook. He had, out hunting or on manoeuvres, forded half a dozen English rivers. In Spain he had crossed the Esla on Boxing Day, the French vanguard an hour’s ride behind him. But that was on a cavalry mount, on Ruffian, and the horse’s hooves had never left the river bed. This was a cow! This was swimming! He gripped the rope, gripped the wide back with his thighs. The possibility of simply sliding off and being dragged down by his own possessions seemed very real and for the first half-minute he was frightened. He urged her on as he would a horse. Behind him, the skirts of his green coat drifted like weed. He heard the rattle of the bottles in his pockets.