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Julian Stockwin
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Staring at the empty horizon where England had been, he didn't hear the footsteps behind. A hand clapped on Kydd's shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. 'No vittles fer you, then, lad?'
He followed Petit to the fore-hatch, and joined the others with mixed emotions at dinner. The lines beside Renzi's mouth seemed deeper, his expression more set than Kydd could remember having seen it before. He realised that Renzi must feel the same way as he, but with the added force of an intelligence that had no control over its destiny, no chance to affect its onward rush into whatever lay ahead. It was a sombre thought.
'So it's farewell t' Old England!' Kydd tried to be breezy, but it fell flat. The table lapsed into silence; no one wished to catch an eye. It might be years before they saw home again, and with the certainty that some would not make the happy return.
Cundall slammed down his pot. 'An' not too soon, mates — me dear ole uncle just got scragged at Newgate fer
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