A broken mumbling started on one side. A voice Kydd recognized as Stallard’s snarled back and the mumbling stopped. The man next to Kydd stank, a musty uncared-for rankness. Kydd inched over the top of the big cask to get away – and slid off with a cry. He fell into what seemed to be a shingle beach. He stood up in confusion and moved forward. Each step into the shingle ballast brought a renewed roiling of an acrid stench.

A shape appeared over the edge of an adjacent cask. “Give us yer hand, mate,” it said. Kydd hastily scrunched over and did so. The human contact was gratifying and he found himself hoisted surprisingly easily onto the top of the cask. “Don’t want ter go wandering around too much, cully. Yer can find dead ’uns an’ all down there!”

It was difficult to make out who was talking; Kydd kept silent.

The man eyed him. “Truscott. Didn’t move meself fast enough when they came.” He grunted. “Shoulda known better. A pox on the bastards, anyway.”

Kydd felt a surge of anger at those who had torn him away from his rightful place in life to this world of squalor and misery. “What happens now?” he asked.

“Why, that’s easy enough. We go before the First Luff, who’ll rate you landman ’n’ me able seaman – mebbe quartermaster’s mate if I’m lucky. And then we gets to be part of the crew of this ’ere vessel.”

“So how long’ll this be – I mean, when can I go back home?”

The man chuckled harshly. “Forget home, lad. You’re crew of the Royal Billy all the time she’s in commission – you gets to leave her only if she goes to Davy Jones’s locker by bein’ wrecked ashore or sunk in an argyment with a Frenchie.”

“But…” The idea was too overwhelming to take in.