Collis, his trunk already packed for the journey across the isthmus, stood under one of the awnings on the afterdeck, crowded next to his Latvian cabin partner. There was no sign of Hannah, and he suspected she was still in her cabin. He hadn’t seen her all day, and at lunchtime the steward had taken a tray along to the women’s quarters, so he guessed she was feigning sickness. Maybe she wasn’t feigning. The air was close enough and hot enough to make anyone feel sick. But the whole damned business made him feel unutterably depressed. As if life weren’t galling enough already.

Maria-Mamuska, still wrapped in her Pueblo blanket, a bundle of belongings by her side, was standing in the rain by the forward rail, her hair wet and stuck to her face. Andrew Jackson Hunt had positioned himself not far away from her, and every now and then Collis could see him turn and give her a cocky little smile. Well, thought Collis, if he’s prepared to take on Maria-Mamuska’s unborn infant, he’s welcome to her. It was a pity she was so damned dirty.

Gradually, the Virginia’s engines slowed, and she turned and eddied sideways towards the jetty. Out of the mist, beyond the jetty, the white two-storey headquarters of the steamship company appeared, surrounded by spindly palms, and an assortment of warehouses and storage tanks and fenced enclosures. Further inland, through the rain, Collis could make out only a scattering of dilapidated tropical houses, and beyond, to the South, foothills that were so dark and moist that they looked as if they were forested with freshly steamed broccoli. Even before the ship berthed, he could smell the distinctive tropical odour of donkey dung and sewage and home-cured tobacco, and he could hear the screeching of parrots in the trees.

The gangplank was lowered, and the passengers filed off the Virginia and on to the jetty. The rain continued steadily, and hardly anyone spoke. The company official shook a few hands and then stepped up on to one of the jetty’s bollards, holding up his umbrella as if he were going to attempt a leap into the sea.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, in a congested Illinois accent, ‘I very much regret to tell you that the rain has brought on a mudslide up at the Culebra cut, and that the railroad won’t be running this evening. However, the company has arranged for you to stay here at Aspinwall for tonight, and we should be ready to roll by midmorning tomorrow.’

There was a general murmur of dismay and disapproval. Even from where they were standing within the company’s premises, it was clear that the town of Aspinwall wasn’t as mysterious and magical as it had appeared from the bay. The heat was desperately oppressive, and every breath smelled of garbage and fever.