'He let me in to his house because there was a riot underway, and I requested sanctuary.' Enoch gazes over at the Barker, then sidles closer to Ben. 'Here is a wonder for you: When my ship reached New York, we were greeted by the spectacle of thousands of slaves – some Irish, the rest Angolan – running through the streets with pitchforks and firebrands. Lobsterbacks tromping after them in leapfrogging blocks, firing volleys. The white smoke of their muskets rose and mingled with the black smoke of burning warehouses to turn the sky into a blazing, spark-shot melting-pot, wondrous to look at but, as we supposed, unfit to support life. Our pilot had us stand a-loof until the tide forced his hand. We put in at a pier that seemed to be under the sway of the redcoats.