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that would serve as his bed, and he crumpled into them.
    He lay on his back, staring up into the darkness at the one or two lanthorns in the distance outside that still glowed a fitful yellow. Then he jerked alert. He knew that he was not alone and he sat up, straining to hear.
    Without warning, a shape launched itself straight at him. He opened his mouth to scream, but with a low “miaow” a large cat was on his lap, circling contentedly. Kydd stroked it gently and the animal purred in ecstasy, then stretched out comfortably and settled down. Kydd crushed the animal to him. First one tear, then another fell onto its fur.

C HAPTER 2
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    I t was the cruelest journey, from the womb-like escape of sleep and a gentle dream of home — the musty little shop, his mother watching him as he stitched dutifully at a periwig, the sun splashing in through the thick windows — back to this waking nightmare.
    Then came a vigorous shaking. “Rouse yourself — you’re wanted on deck!” The boatswain’s distinctive voice brought Kydd to his senses. “On deck. First Lieutenant means to muster all pressed men.” The light from the lanthorn he carried deepened the lines in his face and sent a glow into the far corners of the sail room. “You’ll get the number of your mess then. And your watch ’n’ station.”
    Kydd struggled to his feet. “Thank ’ee, sir, I’m —”
    “Get going — ask y’r way to the quarterdeck, abaft the mainmast.”
    In the cold gray of dawn, the pathetic line of pressed men shuffled miserably.
    Kydd recognized the homespun and weatherworn old felt coat of a peddler, the patterned stockings, soft bonnet and greatcoat of a sedanchair man, the leather knee breeches and smock of an agricultural laborer. They looked out of place here.
    The wind off the sea was raw and blustery. Kydd’s plain broadcloth coat gave little protection and he shivered.
    The sea dominated in every direction, winter-hard, blue-gray, its vastness amazing to someone whose only experience of great waters had been the Thames at Weybridge. A slight breeze flurried the surface, but Kydd’s eyes kept returning to the metallic line of the horizon. The ship slipped through the sea in a continuous, unvarying motion. Day andnight they would be moving like this, much faster than he could run, eating up the countless miles without ever stopping. And over the line of horizon was the outer world — that plane of existence containing the dangers and fables that were part of the folklore of his society. Where previously it could be marveled at or ignored, now it was advancing to meet him, both threatening and beguiling.
    The man at the wheel stood braced impassively, occasionally looking up at the weather leech of the main course, easing a spoke or two if it appeared to be on the point of shivering in the useful quartering breeze. Nearby, the officer of the watch paced slowly, his telescope of office under his arm.
    High up the mighty mainmast nearly overhead, on the sturdy platform of the main fighting top, figures could be seen preparing for some maneuver. As Kydd watched, one man swung out and appeared to hang down from the main yard. He moved out, the men in the top paying out a rope as he made his way along the hundred-foot spread of the yard. Even at this distance Kydd could see that the sailor was disdaining to cling on, instead balancing between the tiny footrope he stood on while leaning familiarly against the big spar.
    Kydd watched in awe. Then there was movement and the Master-at-Arms growled, “To yer front!”
    The First Lieutenant strode briskly out from the cabin spaces aft, accompanied by a junior officer. His clerk hurried after him with books and paper, quill and ink. Two men set up a table at which Tyrell and the clerk then sat.
    Tyrell looked up at them from under his bushy eyebrows and nodded to the lieutenant, who touched his hat and went over to the pressed men to address them. “Pay attention! You will now be