Beckwith was there, beside the amiable boat, lifting a large sea chest with another man. The other was as tall as me and thin, slightly stooped. His dark hair was precisely combed and his eyes were lost in shadows. The chest, decorated with chipped paint, looked to be made of tin. If it was his, it did not fit with his otherwise melancholy mien.

Beckwith placed his end of the chest on the ground and the man did the same.

‘Miss Grayling,’ he said, and gestured towards the man. ‘I expect you will want to meet the Moonbird’s master. Mister Herman Argyle, I give you Miss Eliza Grayling.’

He bowed just a little, took my hand without enthusiasm and held it motionless. His grip was slight, though his eyes were intent upon mine. They were warm eyes, dark. Hiding something, but not particularly from me. He did not say anything.

On board, two short lads in identical grey slops, their faces indistinguishable from each other. They had either end of a folded sail, and the one at the end nearer to me lifted the load. Enough of Sydney’s life and commerce passed through the hands of lags that the prospect of having a couple on board did not alarm me.

Just then the nearer one snapped the sail so a tarred cord whipped into the groin of the other, who looked thunder and burst unexpectedly into tears. He threw down his part of the load, turned his back and clutched at the site of the blow with both hands, hissing through his teeth as he kicked at a nearby stanchion.

The first man—his brother, surely—dropped his part of the load and came around to him, muttering soft words. He reached his arms out and embraced him. There was an irritated shrug and half a raised elbow in response, but soon enough the weeping brother had restored himself. Argyle stepped towards them.

‘Angus, Declan, enough o’ that.’ He did not raise his voice.

The weeping brother eyed the other one and then appealed to the master. ‘Fuckin started it.’

The other snarled, ‘I’ll feckin fenesh it too, ye pretty bitch.’ Ridiculously, they were still hugging. Then they tensed, their tenderness replaced by aggression as swiftly as it appeared. It was like watching toddlers. The master stood squarely between them. I realised I could barely tell the brothers apart. Thick necks, heads made of muscle, not bone. Short, robust limbs and heavy chests. By appearances at least, they were twins. But I was sure the one who’d wept had used sing-song Scots, whereas the other, the one who comforted him, spoke in thick Irish tones.

‘Who’s the tall bird?’ the Scot asked the other under his breath. I pretended not to hear.