We slid past under full sail, in close and eye to eye with the mistrustful beasts. Every sounding the convict called drew a reaction from them. They especially hated fourteen (‘FourTEEN!’) and they roared their displeasure at him. Connolly bellowed back, venting his grief at them in return. If they were damned I could not dispute he was damneder than they.

My eyes scanned the tussocks as we approached the northern tip, half-expecting to see the great serpents Argyle had spoken of: an Old Testament island, a pyramid of rock infested with venomous asps. Then we came down the western side: deep water and off-lying islands—rocks, really—through which the master wove a delicate course. To the west of Chappell, larger but much lower, lay Badger Island, and beyond it the smaller outline of Goose. Over several hours we drew slow circuits around these islands. Goose had seals; Badger did not. Neither showed signs of habitation, nor of wreckage. They were rocks that never changed, and things that grew and died beyond the care of the world.

When we had finished our survey of the west side of Goose, my father spoke. ‘Goose is the westernmost of all these isles,’ he said. ‘If the Howrah struck here, or anywhere to the east of us, then the wreckage will have drifted east. The world turns and the winds prevail that way.’ The master, who stood nearby in silence, nodded slightly.

~

The doctor and I had been circling around each other all day, exchanging glances but barely a word. Each time I caught the light on his face I felt a surge of animal lust that delighted and terrified me, and I castigated myself for all this foolishness. How could I care for my father, how could I discharge my duty on this voyage? The whole enterprise might be irrational, might even be ruinous, but I had come voluntarily and I had obligations. And yet here I was, a swooning idiot in the sun.

The boat ploughed her steady furrow, nodding up, nodding down. Patient mule that she was, she would have none of this nonsense and I should listen; I should take heed.

The master went about his duties in methodical silence. Connolly worked his grief into the ropes. My father disappeared below in the late afternoon, presumably to rest, to assist his recovery from the cruel withdrawal symptoms.

We anchored off Long Island, a barren mass of rock and tufted grass that lay only a handful of miles from Chappell, where we had started the long day. The sun slipped below the horizon behind us, the island to our east, and I watched Connolly at the anchor, wondering, I suppose, whether labouring over that particular piece of gear reminded him of his brother.