Away from the gaudy tourist haunts in the Caribbean there are many tactile relics of rousing times past, unwittingly bequeathed to us by men whose concerns of the hour did not include a care for posterity. Henry Morgan’s Port Royal slid into the sea a century before Kydd arrived, but the bones of the dockyard still exist, albeit in a parlous state. More rewarding is English Harbour in Antigua, where Kydd suffered and loved, and which remains much as he would remember – a uniquely preserved jewel of naval history.

There are many who care deeply about the Caribbean’s past, and I think especially of Reg Murphy of Antigua dockyard, who told me the story of the deadly confrontation on the quayside, which I faithfully retell in this book, and Desmond Nicholson whose encyclopaedic knowledge so enriched my visit. In Barbados, the staff of the museum were especially kind, enabling me to find Karl Watson at an archaeological dig of the eighteenth century; he then provided me with an embarrassment of material. In Jamaica, John Aarons at the National Library proved a fascinating source of his country’s deeply interesting past. In fact, my apologies are due to all of them that, within the scope of one book, I have not been able to do justice to their generosity.

Above all, it is to my wife and creative companion that I owe so much: Kathy’s cool judgement on my hot imagination, and sturdy practicality in walking and talking the plot to delight my publisher with the result. Thus it is with some confidence that I let the juices flow and now set forth on my next – and very different – story in Thomas Kydd’s tale.