'Didn't seem safe, when grapeshot was flying – but – as it's only an entertainment – well . . .' Daniel gets up from his squatting position underneath the Captain's chart-table and sidles over toward the windows, moving in a sort of Zeno's Paradox mode – each step only half as long as the previous. Van Hoek's cabin is as broad as the entire stern of the ship – two men could play at shuttlecocks in here. The entire aft bulkhead is one gently curved window commanding (now that Daniel's in position to see through it) a view of Plymouth Bay: wee cabins and wigwams on the hills, and, on the waves, numerous scuttling boats all flocked with gunpowder-smoke, occasionally thrusting truncated bolts of yellow fire in their general direction. 'The critical reaction seems hostile,' Daniel observes. Off to his left, a small pane gets smashed out of its frame by what he takes to have been a musket-ball.