At two in the afternoon, towed behind a pair of tenders, they came into the harbour at Dumbarton. They threw mooring ropes to men on the shore, men known by name and who bantered with the crew as they drew the Jenny tight to the splintered wooden lip of the wharf. Sails were rolled, lashed. For an hour the master became a tyrant. Nothing could be done well enough or quickly enough. Then it was over; the master rubbed his face, pressed it hard as though to squeeze from it all fatigue, all care, then turned down the collar of his jacket and went ashore.

Lacroix descended through the forward hatch. He fetched hot water from the galley and shaved in his cabin. He felt unsteady in this new stillness and nicked the skin on his upper lip, bled a little. He thought of his old moustache and whiskers that someone had shaved off in Portsmouth when he was too sick to complain or care. Had they ever suited him? He had been pleased enough when they were first grown, though his moustache was never as bushy as Broadhurst’s nor as glossy as Vane’s. The colonel, of course, had the best of all. It was, conceivably, why he was appointed colonel—that and the reputed thousand guineas he paid to the Duke of York’s mistress. Poor Lagan couldn’t grow one at all and transferred to the artillery. Lovall’s, as he remembered it, had been very blond, white blond and patchy.

He wiped his face then packed his things, the larger bag, the smaller. He brushed his hat with his sleeve, put on his green coat, took a last look around the cabin, that damp, snug space whose air would carry some faint print of him for a while, an hour or two.

On deck it seemed he had the ship to himself, then noticed Wee Davey and the cat sitting side by side on a gaff, the boy’s feet dangling in the air. When the boy saw Lacroix he pointed to one of the houses on the shore, made the drinking gesture. Lacroix nodded, smiled, lifted an arm in farewell. He had settled his accounts, he was free to go, and though sorry not to part more formally from people he had come to have a regard for, he did not wish to make an appearance in the tavern, the conspicuous stranger, the man about whom—it may already have been said—there was some doubt as to his true identity. He walked to the rail. There was no gangway in place and he was looking for where he might best swing himself over when he saw the master crossing the quay back towards the ship. He came aboard at the ratlines and crossed the deck to Lacroix. He had a high colour but seemed sober. Sober enough.

“You want to get on to the city, I suppose.”