The master arrived, entering by the door opposite the one Lacroix had come in by. He was followed by the boy, and a few moments later, by the sailor who had been plaiting rope. The master sat on a stool at the head of the table. The sailor and the boy sat on one side of him, Lacroix on the other. The cook, still in his curious hat, brought in a covered dish, set it on the table and swept off the lid. The chicken had been jointed and stewed and laid on a great bed of rice and cabbage. The master examined the food through its steam, nodded his approval, and after a short grace began to spoon it on to the plates in front of him. Lacroix had not eaten since the breakfast at his sister’s house. How long ago was that? A day? A day and a half? He was, suddenly, frantic with hunger, and he followed the others’ example of beginning his food the moment his plate was passed to him.

“The crew,” said the master, “will have their usual refreshment. You, sir, might prefer wine or brandy. I cannot answer for the wine. I would suggest the brandy. It found its way on to a Devon beach not long ago. Washed up, I suppose.”

“Brandy then,” said Lacroix.

The master pointed to the cook with his fork. “Erikson here will keep your score.”

“My . . . ?”

“Of bottles. Your score of bottles.”

The cook left them and returned a moment later, wiping a bottle with his sleeve.

“Will you have some with me, Captain?” asked Lacroix.

“Well,” said the master, chewing his meat, “just enough to calm a tooth.”

They drank from tin mugs—mugs untellable, thought Lacroix, from the one he had carried with him through Portugal and Spain. Once they had settled their first hunger, the master spoke again.

“Erikson is our cook and purser. By the book he is also a seaman, but we do not let him near the ropes. The boy is Wee Davey. And this here is Crawley.” He gestured to the sailor beside Wee Davey, and such was the room’s dimness it was only now, as Lacroix nodded to him by way of greeting, that he noticed the tattoo on his neck. It was a bird, though what type of bird he could not have said. Not an English bird.

“The mate, Mr. Berryman, is on watch with Suliman and Fritz. They will be down after us.”

“Are we making good progress?” asked Lacroix. He had anticipated being able to dine alone in his cabin. He had imagined his cabin would be a proper space, perhaps with a small table and some sort of window. But the food and the brandy had greatly revived him and he was not sorry to find himself in company—company that knew next to nothing about him and seemed content to leave it that way.