It is early spring back in Spain, but here, battling the winds 'round the Cape, the sun itself is almost but a dream. Stephen pulls his coat tighter as he ventures above deck. He is troubled by the risk of frostbite to the men, and absently rubs his own hands together, coaxing warmth into the brown leather gloves.

His hands are his trade and joy. As a man of medicine, they had made him of value to Jack, a happy accident in Port Mahon. Rather, his education had made him of value. His hobby, his love of music had made him of interest. Lucky indeed.

Stephen flexes his fingers in the gloves, worn soft with age and use, then reaches for a rail to steady himself. The Surprise creaks so violently at times, but Jack is stalwart, holding the men and the sea to a punishing rhythm that pulls them inexorably forward towards their prize.

There is no life here that he can see through the short grey days, but perhaps there is something beneath the waves, something waiting for the rays of the sun to cycle back down and touch the sea with warmth.

They need but to get through this, through the violent wind and weather around Cape Horn. Then, perhaps, his hands will coax a tune from the 'cello, Jack will join in on the fiddle, and the sun will shine again.