‘What was she called?’ Caleb asked out of politeness rather than interest.

‘It had a pretty name. Too pretty for a warship … Shenandoah. That’s it.’

Shenandoah.

Caleb downed the vile liquid that passed for whiskey in this place in one gulp. How could one word have the power to evoke pain as real as the jerk of a knife?

Several whiskeys later, he had become maudlin and homesick and when that happened, it generally resulted in singing. He pushed to his feet and turned to face the crowded room.

Oh Shenandoah,

I long to hear you,

Away, you rolling river.

Oh Shenandoah,

I long to hear you,

Away, we’re bound away

’Cross the wide Missouri.

The fiddle player who had been entertaining the bar with Irish ballads picked up the old melody.

’Tis seven years

since last I’ve seen you,

Away, you rolling river.

’Tis seven years

since last I’ve seen you,

Away, we’re bound away

’Cross the wide Missouri.

Caleb broke off with the drunken realisation that it had been seven long years since he’d crossed the Missouri, never to return. One more whiskey and he would be sobbing on the bar.

‘Got to get back to my lodgings,’ he slurred at the barkeeper as he paid for his drinks.

‘Good luck with the claim—’ the barkeeper said.

Caleb stepped out onto the street.

For November, the night was oppressively warm and the waterfront street was busy with trade from the many pubs and brothels. He crossed the road and stood on the water’s edge looking out into the night. Beyond the stinking mud flats, the riding lights of innumerable ships shimmered across the calm, still water of Hobson’s Bay. Beyond the boats, distant pinpricks marked a settlement on the far shore.

His soldier’s instincts prickled, and he turned in time to catch the gleam of a knife in the street lamp as a man lurched out of the darkness.

‘Don’t do it, Hannigan,’ he said, holding up his hands and stepping backwards. ‘I’m not armed,’ he lied, the familiar weight of his Colt revolver resting against his hip, hidden by his jacket.

‘You took my claim!’ Hannigan lunged, but Caleb sidestepped and whirled on his heel, sending Hannigan staggering past him. The Irishman turned, his lips bared in a snarl.

‘You don’t want to kill me,’ Caleb said. ‘I reckon that’d be a hanging offence in this town. Nasty way to die.’

The knife wavered and Caleb held his breath, his fingers itching to draw the Colt. But he didn’t want to shoot the man. It had been just such an unfortunate misunderstanding that had led to his hasty departure from San Francisco.

Hannigan gave a sob and moved the knife to his own bearded neck. ‘I’ve nothing left,’ he sobbed. ‘May as well just—’