The heaving breaths Abraham drags in as he sits hunched on the deck taste like copper and the sea and are just about the only things that make sense as he splits his attention between the shouting Englishman and the tall goyishe man clutching his belly like he's been stabbed. The cold breeze off the water douses the back of his neck, cooling, quite literally, the anger that had so gripped him before.

Unsteadily, he reaches out to grip the rail and climbs to his feet, then turns and hawks a mouthful of blood over the side, wiping his lips on a damp sleeve that smells heavily of soup. That done, he returns his gaze to the man in the uniform, to him just another man in another uniform, as easily dismissed as dogshit on his shoe. More interesting is the rich man and the way that man's pain seems to echo in his own chest, the way he doesn't seem to hear the rough bestial noises he's producing or the arguments of the official now waving his hands in a shooing motion, and he realises that he is not the only outsider here.

He crosses over to Walter in a couple of lurching steps and sets a hand on the man's back between his shoulders, patting him as he looks back at the officer and makes a vague gesture to the effect of, all right, we're going, you can quit shouting so much, before tugging a little more insistently on the rich goy's arm, encouraging him to get moving before more of them arrive.