The quayside was still filthy with garbage and the deep gutter in the new road showed that no-one had thought it worth while to consider drainage for the new town. The score of houses still tipped their nightsoil on the riverbank or threw it out in the yard where it froze and then leached into the drinking water supply. It was still a town where men, and an increasing number of women, were coming only to seek their fortunes. They did not care what sort of life they led nor what sort of place they were making. Most of them still thought of England as ‘home’.

The fort was still there but the gates were stuck open and the guns were rolled back, as if they were only kept in place because no-one could be bothered to move them.

On the quayside people were waiting for news, goods, and to greet the new settlers. They were broad as bears, every one of them, muffled up against the cold air in thick skins, each breath a cloud before every face.

‘What news of the king?’ a man shouted as he caught the rope and made it fast. ‘What news of the war?’

‘Victory for the king!’ one of the sailors shouted jubilantly back. ‘We left just as his cousin Prince Rupert had wiped out Parliament’s men. One of the survivors swore there was no doubt about it, the king will have beaten them by now.’

‘Thank God for that,’ the man replied. And another one cheered. John noted that the report by one trooper of one skirmish had now been elevated into a total defeat and the end of the war, but said nothing. That was how the king’s masquing worked. Only one battle was ever enacted. There was no long, bitter exchange of small victories and small defeats, little setbacks and petty humiliations. One glorious cavalry charge by Prince Rupert had concluded the matter and the colonists could go back to growing tobacco and making money with light hearts.

John shrugged and went below to fetch his bags. He was as far from England and the news as everyone else. He had no reason to think that the war would be a longer and more painful business than the sailor and the colonists believed. Perhaps they were right and he was wrong and already the king was back in Whitehall and planning some new triumph: war with the Irish, or war with the Scots, or – since it was King Charles, as changeable as March weather – war with the Spanish or French. John hefted his bag holding his clothes and his money over his shoulder and went up on deck to the head of the gangplank.