From the deck of the Jenny they watched the gig row back. Almost before it arrived, the frigate began to shake out her sails. She steered a few points to the west, gathered speed, eased away from the Jenny. The master watched her until there was a good mile between them. Only then did life on board resume. He studied the skies, gave instructions to Berryman, sent Erikson below to make coffee. The men—without Crawley—worked the ropes. Sails were loosed, trimmed, trimmed again. The day freshened. The Jenny became a living thing once more, her bows butting a sea dark with cold. For a long while the frigate remained in sight, but she drew steadily away until, between one glance and the next, she was gone entirely.

Several times throughout the afternoon Lacroix readied himself to speak to the master. He would tell him, plainly, why he had given the lieutenant a false name. He would say, for example, that he had found the man impertinent. That, surely, one was not required to give one’s actual name every time some jackass in a blue coat asked for it. It was a question of one’s dignity, one’s liberty as an Englishman. Was that not what the war was about? Not trade or national advantage but liberty, which the French pretended to champion but in truth extinguished wherever they went? His lie therefore, was a type of assertion. It was patriotic. Or some such. Something of that. You may call me Lovall or Lacroix, sir, whichever takes your fancy. Then laughing together. Perhaps a handshake? Remarks about the weather, the ship, poor Crawley who must be hiding in the bilges or in the hold with the glass.

How does a man hide behind glass?

In the end he approached the master, found himself treated to that same droll gaze, knew immediately the folly of any attempt at explaining himself, and asked if he might try his pistol at the sea. It had been unused a long time now and he wished to test its action.

“As you like,” said the master.

Lacroix thanked him. He went forward, descended through the hatch, then along the passageway to the galley. He found Erikson there and asked him for a fresh candle. Behind Erikson, peeling a potato over a wooden tub, was Crawley. Erikson pulled another candle from his apron, lit it as before with a spill touched to the flames of the stove. Crawley glanced over. The smallest of nods, then back to his work.