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On the fifth morning of our confinement, the corporal of marines appeared with an extra guard. My leg irons were removed and I was taken up the ladderway and aft along the gun-deck to a cabin on the starboard side of the vessel. It was the surgeon’s cabin, and the surgeon himself, Dr. Hamilton, was awaiting me there. He dismissed the guard and then, observing that I was in handcuffs, recalled the corporal and requested that these be removed. The man was reluctant to comply.

“Lieutenant Parkin’s orders were....”

“Nonsense,” the doctor interrupted. “Take them off. I’ll answer for this man’s safety.” The irons were then removed and once more the corporal retired. The surgeon turned the key in the lock, smiling as he did so.

“I’m not taking this precaution against yourself, Mr. Byam,” he said. “I wish our conversation to be uninterrupted. Please to be seated.”

He was a sturdily built man of forty, or thereabout, with a pleasant voice and manner. He looked like a ship’s surgeon and a capable one. I felt drawn to him immediately. After the treatment accorded us by Edwards and Parkin, mere courtesy seemed, by contrast, the highest of virtues. I seated myself on his clothes chest and waited for him to speak.