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17 Jul

Chapter XVI

BOOK TWO THE DEATH HUNTER After a couple of days spent rattling around a relatively empty vessel while she chugged around the Western Approaches, the Birkenhead docked off Queenstown in the precincts of Cork Harbour on the fifth of January. It was a miserable morning; wet, and as hard and cold as flint, while the terraces of ugly slated houses in view beyond the quay stuck out like rows of monstrous teeth. I felt equally wretched, and I thus did not reject Captain Lakeman’s offer to ‘Irish up’ the mug of tea around which I wrapped my numb fingers from a silver hip flask when our paths crossed on deck. I inwardly blessed him for a saint in soldier’s...
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