The planks of the poop deck are only a few inches above Daniel's face as he lies on his sack of straw. He's learned to recognize the tread of van Hoek's boots on those boards. On a ship it is bad manners to approach within a fathom of the captain, so even when the poop deck is crowded, van Hoek's footsteps are always surrounded by a large empty space. As Minerva 's quest for a steady west wind has stretched out to a week and then two, Daniel has learned to read the state of the captain's mind from the figure and rhythm of his movements – each pattern like the steps of a courtly dance. A steady long stride means that all is well, and van Hoek is merely touring the precincts. When he's watching the weather he walks about in small eddies, and when he's shooting the sun with his back-staff he stands still, grinding the balls of his feet against the planks to keep his balance. But this morning (Daniel supposes it is early in the morning, though the sun hasn't come up yet) van Hoek is doing something Daniel's never observed before: flitting back and forth across the poop deck with brisk angry steps, pausing at one rail or another for a few seconds at a time. The sailors, he senses, are mostly awake, but they are all belowdecks shushing one another and tending to small, intense, quiet jobs.