Pitman rubbed his eyes. He’d dozed off. Then he rubbed the alehouse window, where his breath had fogged the glass. Its thickness did not give him more than blurry sight. Still, it was clear enough to note the figure that twitched for several moments at the goldsmith’s door before pushing it in. The tinkle of the bell above it came faint to his ears, though it was like his regiment’s trumpet calling him to battle, for he was on his feet in an instant. “Keep it,” he said, spinning his last florin to the alehouse keeper at his trestle. It was a shilling more than he owed; but he or Josiah had sat there for five days and nights nursing the execrable beer, picking at the mouldy cheese. Also, he was certain now that his pocket would soon be filled with coin again, because although Captain c**k h
