An odd duck, our captain. Restless, prone to nightmares when he sleeps. Fond of music, it would seem, of singing, but in some strange sour-toned manner that is hard to credit as joy. A well-behaved man, fastidious even. Most captains have one sort of manner when they deal with shipowners and quite another once they are at sea: a swear word here, a gust of Smoke there, a dirty joke. Not so van Huysmans. Stiff as a plank. A chubby man, but his heart is starched.

I complain to the cabin boy about it. Poppy. God knows how he came by the name. Poppy is a fellow of fourteen; this is his third voyage. A wide-eyed sort. The whole world is new to him. Looks up to all the sailors. I am a hero to him because at the age of forty-three I have managed to be promoted to the dizzying height of first mate.

“Our captain wants to be a gentleman,” I say to Poppy, watching van Huysmans mince around the deck.

“A gentleman!” Poppy replies enthusiastically, not catching my tone. “Imagine it! Clean sheets, nobody cussing you out or even raising their voices. No pushing and shoving. A soft world.”

I snort. “Always thinking before you speak. Inspecting your bedding in the morning. Keeping your farts in, lest they trigger something. A life lived with your arsehole clamped. Never letting rip.”

But the boy is adamant, forgets for a moment that I am his senior and prophet, his shipside god.

“What’s so great about coarseness and dirt?” he asks.

And when I don’t answer (for he’s hit upon a point, I suppose) he adds, angry now, wet in his eye: “They’ll go to heaven, sir. And you and I shan’t.”

ф

The first set of customs officials boards us two full leagues off the coast. His Majesty’s servants! And how thorough they are, how prim, fine gentlemen in worsted suits. Always in twos, watching each other’s virtue like hawks. They must submit reports, it is said, about each other’s behaviour. And all the same I would bet my pecker they are just as bent as that one-eyed thief that runs the port at La Rochelle. This is Britain, though. Here crookery has had a haircut, and its shirt cuffs are freshly ironed.

There are four checks in total. Each time the cargo is examined and reexamined. Seals are applied, paperwork lodged, fees paid. Each time our captain fawns and twitters; attempts small talk; offers drinks and is rebuffed. All captains are like this when it comes to customs.

But our captain is dripping with sweat.

“What are we smuggling then?” I ask when yet another pair has left the ship and we are steaming down the mouth of the Thames.

Captain van Huysmans starts.

“A joke, Captain, a joke. What’s our cargo? Spices? Flowers? Opium?”

He shakes his head, dries his forehead on a handkerchief.

“Machine parts.”