CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

In the wee small hours of a clement Tuesday morning early in March, our vessel berthed by a small island. Mr.Cliff and his men were still our prisoners and although, Mr.Cliff showed signs of incipient insanity, he was reticent for the most part of the last lap of the journey.

We had sailed for five months and the tortuous journey had degenerated our looks. We rarely had a decent bath and our food was insipid most of the time because we had run short of cooking ingredients. Our fish had to be soused regularly to prevent the growth of mildew on them which would render them inedible.

The doctor held the map when we went onshore for the second time.