He was, to begin with, looking the wrong way—nothing but sea and sky. Then he turned and saw, less than two hundred yards away, a ship, a naval frigate, several times the size of the Jenny. Both ships appeared to be sailing, very slowly, in parallel. Perhaps they just drifted with the tide, it was hard to tell. Some canvas up but not much. As he watched, a small boat appeared from around the back of the frigate and started to pull towards the Jenny. Four oarsmen, a man at the tiller, another standing, quite securely it seemed, at the bows.

“Something for you to know,” said the master, who had come up quietly and stood just behind Lacroix, close enough for him to feel his breath against the whorls of his ears as he spoke.

“They are looking for men. Most of all they are looking for any who were with them before. So I would ask you, for all our sakes, to forget the existence of Crawley.”

“The sailor with the bird on his neck?”

“He was five years with them and five was long enough. When he had the chance he made himself free. If they find him they’ll take him, and we’re short-handed as it is.”

“He’s a deserter?”

“You might call him a man who has played his part,” said the master, still speaking like a familiar into the lug of Lacroix’s left ear. “One who has done more than most.”

“And is that all they want?”

“If the mood is on them they may take everyone but you, me and wee Davey. They may take wee Davey.”

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“We cannot outrun a frigate. Not in this.”

“I mean, nothing you can say?”

“Very little,” said the master. “Or it might be you will think of something.”

The gig had come within hailing distance. The man at the bows shouted for them to put down a boarding ladder. The mate, Berryman, already had one in his arms, a roll of rope and wooden rungs. At a nod from the master he made it fast and tumbled it over the side. They could not see the gig now, it was directly below them. Lacroix looked across to the frigate, her flags shifting idly in the softness of the breeze. She had the look of a vessel that had been at sea a long time. Her black and yellow paint was streaked with greens and browns. All the gun ports but one were shut. From her quarter-deck came the glinting of a spyglass.

The crew of the Jenny—everyone but Crawley—stood in a huddle behind the master. Almost too late, Lacroix realised that his own position, a stride ahead of the rest, might cause confusion, and he stepped back, stepped again to the side.