“Look, chum, you’re a pressed man,” said Truscott, “same’s me. We don’t get to go ashore, we gets paid less ’n a private soldier and we’ve less say about what we do next than a common bloody trull – so do yerself a great favor and get used to it. You’re now a foremast jack in a man-o’-war, ’n’ that’s that.”

Kydd breathed deeply, reaching for calm, but frustration boiled within him. He smashed his fists on the cask and gave a long hopeless roar of impotent rage.

Truscott sighed. “Don’t take on, lad. Nothin’ you can do now. Listen – there’s them who are goin’ to suffer” – he glanced significantly at the broken farm-boy – “and they’re goin’ to be the muckers who’ll be on every shite chore there is, fer ever more. ’N’ there’s them that’ll work it out ’n’ make right Jack Tars of ’emselves – and that’s no bad life when you comes at it the right way.” He cleared his throat. “Ye’ll not expect to be one right off, but -”

“You’re just talking piss ’n’ wind, you are!” Stallard’s acid voice cut in from the dark as he scrambled over to them. “He wants to know why he’s a prisoner down here in this stinkin’ hole, not what wunnerful prospects he has!” His voice rose as though he were addressing a crowd. “We’re here because we ain’t got no rights – none!” He paused. A groan sounded in the dark. “Only ’cos we’re born in a cottage, not a mansion, we’re no better’n a flock of cunny sheep – do this, go there, yes, sir, no, sir. Whatever they say, we do. You see any whoreson gentleman down here, then? Not a chance!”

“You’d better keep your trap shut once we’re at sea, mate,” Truscott said.

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Sailor Man,” Stallard retorted. “I may know a thing or two about that – you just be sure you know where you’ll be standin’ when it comes down to it.”

Kydd bit his tongue. Stallard was mad if he thought he could get away with his petty seditions here – there was no chance of a mad gallop away into the night and anonymity in this closed community.