Do drowned men have headstones? Those whose bodies are never recovered? But they might screw a brass plaque to the wall beside the family pew. Captain John Lacroix of the — Hussars, lost at sea May 1809. The book of his life would be closed. Nothing to answer, nothing to explain. No more thinking or wishing. No more staring inwards at what shifted like shadows on a wall. He clutched at the rail. He was faint again, might have toppled one way or the other, might have howled (he had heard men howl), but a whip of spray broke over his cheek and the brief salt sting of it returned him to the passing moment, its innocence, its indifference. He tottered back to the hatch, clambered down and went to his cabin. He took the cork from the brandy and drank a deep mouthful straight from the neck. It was nonsense to suppose that drink didn’t help. It was how the army functioned. The navy too, no doubt. Strong drink. Copious quantities.

He tugged off his boots, took off his coat and jacket and waistcoat. From the larger of his two bags he pulled out his oiled cloak. He wrapped himself in it, loosely, and lay on the little bed, drawing over himself the blanket he had been issued by way of bedding. It took him an age to warm up. He made a study of the shadows on the wood above him. His nose was damp, his mouth dry. He played songs in his head. “Soldier’s Joy,” “Harvest Home.” He heard a man’s feet on the deck, then the sound of the hatch being secured. Behind its smut-grey glass the flame, responding to the change in the atmosphere, the movement of the air, bent at the waist then straightened. The candle would not last much longer. He watched it, the feathered edges of its light, waiting for it to gutter.

When he woke, Erikson was there, or Erikson’s ghost. A grey shade with ribbons of daylight on his back. He had a message.

Lacroix listened, grimaced. “Again,” he said.

Erikson pointed upwards. “The captain. Wants words in your ears.”

“About?”

“That you will know when you are on the deck. But coffee first.” He held out a bowl.

Lacroix took it and the cook slipped away, the curtain falling behind him. To cool the coffee he added a splash of brandy, emptied the bowl in four gulps, then, finding himself ravenous for light, he dressed, pulled on his boots and fumbled his way to the ladder. The hatch was open, a square like the mouth of a furnace, and he climbed out into a May morning that was cloudless, almost warm, the sea in a dazzle.