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the stink of an open sewage system. Warehouses, shipyards, chandlers and carpenters were arrayed along the seafront. Behind them the more wealthy townhouses were double-storied, typically Dutch in design, all standing alongside taverns, lodgings and workshops. A scatter of churches, a few mosques. And brothels. There were always brothels.
    The uphill ground swayed and dipped as he walked, a common problem for those who had been a while at sea, the movement of the ship staying with the body even on solid land. From experience Jesamiah knew to keep his eyes looking straight ahead and ignore the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to fall, but all the same, his gait rolled and he almost tripped up twice when misjudging the height of steps. He turned left and the street suddenly widened into a market square cluttered with stalls and bothies, a multitude of people, buyers, sellers, browsers, beggars and thieves.
    Buying a coconut-shell bowl of minced lamb and rice he strolled along while eating, scooping the food with his fingers, enjoying the delicious mess it made. Wiping his hands every so often down the front of his coat he glanced casually at the trade stalls, wondered how Malachias was faring with selling some of the cargo wharf-side. Well that was his problem; Jesamiah had played his part. He stopped to inspect a few bedraggled parrots and wandered on. He was tempted to make his way to the Golden Hind , it would be wonderful to meet Dampier. Would such a move be sailing too close to the wind? If anyone could spot a pirate masquerading as a trader it would be Dampier. Jesamiah sighed, he would have enjoyed personally meeting the man. Best not.
    Enthusiasm for these few precious hours ashore was draining away, his mood turning sour, the prospect of sport in bed with one of Cape Town’s doxies losing its appeal. Perhaps a tot or two of rum would rekindle his interest?
    Dismally, he inspected the several taverns on the uphill side of the square. Nothing seemed inspiring. He wove his way through the crowd, seemingly every race, colour and creed from every continent; a babble of languages, a variety of costume and clothing. Was it any wonder Cape Town had earned for itself the title ‘Tavern of the Seas’?
    He paused at a stall where a German was enquiring after the tobacco pipes for sale, picking each one up to closely inspect it with a squinting short-sightedness. Jesamiah slid in beside him, feigning interest in purchasing a pipe for himself, his eyes lingering on the fat money pouch the fool had carelessly put down on the table. His fingers twitching towards it, Jesamiah grimaced. So tempting to quietly take it up, slip it into his pocket…He was not here to draw attention to himself. He withdrew his hand then abruptly changed his mind, swung back to lift the pouch, clasping his fingers neatly around it – just as the German remembered the thing.
    Jesamiah’s reaction was the quicker.
    “Your money, mein Herr ? It is not sensible to leave it where any common cut-purse could so easily steal it.” With a smile, he took up the astonished man’s hand and put the pouch securely into the palm. Touching his hat in genial salute, Jesamiah strolled on, puffing his cheeks. That had been close! The penalty for stealing was no different than piracy. Hanging.
    Turning into a side street he headed back downhill in the direction of the harbour, then frowned at a sudden disturbance outside a blacksmith’s bothy at the far end of an intersecting alley. A girl’s shrill and furious shout.
    “Leave him be! Can you not see he cannot carry you? He is lame!”
    A man was beating a sweat-sodden saddle horse about the head with his riding crop, and a dishevelled girl was as vigorously pummelling the man with her fists and feet.
    “Damn creature threw me. This be none of your business girl, clear off!” One side of the man’s apparel was dusty, the horse’s knees were scuffed. He raised the crop again, about to set the lash into