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He’d learn to dream himself elsewhere, but first he wanted things for which
there were no words. He wanted warmth and food and sleep, and could not summon them. Shipmaster Comstock and his crew could be excused their neglect of him. They all were bruised. They all were
cold. Their tempers were worn thin by the six-mile walk along the coast and by the prospect of some weeks ashore. They had no energy for anyone except themselves.
    They put Otto in the tackle room beneath the wooden balcony. They covered him in horse blankets woven from rough perpetuanna wool, and made him comfortable on straw. They shut the bolts.
‘It’s best to let him rest,’ Shipmaster Comstock said. The captain had more pressing problems than the African. He had his ship wedged on the bar. He had fifteen sailors and a dog
to feed and pacify. There were hard letters to be written: to the owners of the Belle ; to the various agents further down the coast who had arranged passages from several ports for emigrants
to Montreal; to the Bostonian family of the seaman, Nathaniel Rankin, who had drowned; to the livestock merchants who had shipped the cattle that now were grazing freely at Dry Manston, still a
half-day’s voyage short of the Belle ’s second destination, and their owners at the port of Fowey. He had to find the means to dislodge his vessel before it broke up on the Monday
tides, and dock it in Wherrytown. He had to find the wrights and riggers to carry out repairs. He had to justify himself. Thank God that there were men like Walter Howells. In their brief
conversation on the beach, the man had introduced himself as someone who could alleviate the captain’s burden, for some decent recompense. Already he had undertaken to herd the cattle at Dry
Manston and find secure grazing for them. And he had promised more.
    Comstock and his men were tired. They ate the bread and soup which Mrs Yapp prepared. They longed for sleep. It was midday. Aymer had stood on the bedroom balcony and watched the caravan of men
arrive. The Norrises were there below, their passage tickets in their hands, anxious to discover what their travel prospects were. A small, untidy dog with a bearded throat and white hair on its
chin and eyebrows ran wildly in the yard, barking at the townspeople as if they were the newcomers and the dog belonged. The horse-drawn cart was stabled with its horses. George began to unload the
bed of seaweed and stack it in the inn’s fuel store. Aymer couldn’t see the African. The sailors who carried him into the tackle room obscured the view. At last the sailors followed Mrs
Yapp into the inn. The Norrises walked once more down to the quay, and the townspeople returned to their nets and pots and laundry. Now the courtyard was empty except for the dog which was turning
horse manure with its nose and eating some.
    Aymer came down from the balcony by the wooden stairs. He tried to see inside the tackle room, but the single window had been boarded. There was no sound. Aymer knocked on the door and then drew
the bolts. The black man had his back against a saddle and a saddle-cloth. It was too dark to see his face, although the draughty winter light that slanted through the open door displayed the
healing rawness of his ankle where the chain had been.
    ‘Are you sleeping?’ Aymer said. Evidently not. The man’s reply was a fusillade of words. Aymer couldn’t recognize the language but he knew the tone. Here was a man who,
had he got the strength, would have taken Aymer by the throat. The shouting brought the dog to Aymer’s heels. She spread her legs and growled into the vociferous darkness of the room.
    Aymer put the bolts back in place. He went into the warm breath of the stables where he could hear George at work. ‘Is there a good physician in Wherrytown?’ he asked.
    ‘There’s not,’ said George. ‘Are you unwell? That shoulder’s giving trouble, is it, sir?’
    ‘It is, indeed. But I was thinking of that poor