He was lying face down on sand, head cradled in the crook of his elbow, and a voice above him said insistently, ‘I wish to speak with you, mynheer.’ He turned his head sideways and blearily opened his eyes. In the half-darkness he could make out the glow of a camp fire and thought briefly it was the same fire that he and Dan had found when they returned to the beach the previous evening. Jacques and the other cooks had served up a feast, and the men from the Cygnet and the Delight had gathered round, eating and drinking. Hector had joined them and, after filling his belly, had stretched out on the sand, still mystified by Dan’s intentions. The foot nudged his ribs again, more firmly this time. ‘Wake up, Gods vloek,’ the voice said with some sort of foreign accent. Hector realized the fire couldn’t be the one Jacques had used to grill strips of tortoise meat last night. It was too close to where the Nicholas was careened. He rolled over and looked up at the man who had roused him.
