Watching the gang of stokers feed the supply of pine logs into the furnace’s open maw, it occurred to Hawkwood that if anyone was of a mind to wonder what the pits of hell might be like they’d be well advised to pay a visit to a steamboat’s fire room.

Never had a place been so aptly named. The heat was ferocious, and the heightened activity and noise made it impossible to follow Renner’s attempts to explain the vessel’s inner workings, as much of his commentary was drowned out by the pounding of the machinery. The odd words that Hawkwood did manage to pick up between the hissing and the clanking and the roaring of the flames might as well have been in Mandarin for all the sense they made. So, while Renner waxed lyrical about reciprocating engines, steam generators, crank shafts and gauges, Hawkwood and Lawrence exchanged the slop chest’s seconds for their own attire – retrieved from one of the boiler rails – and did their best to appear impressed whenever Renner looked to them for a reaction.

They returned to the deck with their ears ringing. The drop in temperature that greeted them was a welcome relief, but it didn’t take long for the rawness of the day to make its presence felt. Not that the cold deterred Renner from his determination to extol the rest of the steamboat’s virtues.

Forced to pit his voice against the noise from the starboard paddlewheel revolving loudly only a few feet away, his face lit up. “Quite a sight, yes? She’ll do five knots fully stoked!”

“Five? Really?” Lawrence arched his eyebrows in dutiful amazement. “Why, that’s close to—”

“Six miles an hour!” Renner finished effusively, unconcerned by the spray from the blades misting the air where they stood.

“Well, by God!” Lawrence shook his head as though thoroughly awed by the revelation. “Six!” He blinked water out of his eye and caught Hawkwood’s gaze. “Would you credit that?”

“Rain or shine,” Renner added, his face and jacket growing damper by the minute. “Makes no difference.”

“I can see why she was requisitioned,” Hawkwood said. “She must beat anything the British have.”

“Oh, they’ve nothing to touch her. Nothing,” Renner responded, guiding them towards the stern, away from the pounding paddles and the relentless deluge. “She’ll do Whitehall to St Johns and back in two days. Takes the schooner at least a week, sometimes two.”

“I saw the Paragon in Albany,” Hawkwood said, bracing himself against the trembling of the deck.

“Did you indeed? She’s new – launched last year. Twice our tonnage; a little faster, too, I believe.” A small smile dimpled the first officer’s face. “Fulton always was a braggart. He has a rather annoying tendency to argue that bigger is better.” Renner tapped the steamboat’s rail affectionately. “That’s not necessarily the case.”