Some hours later she opens her eyes to the first touch of dawn. The tide is close in; most of the beach has vanished. She sits up slowly, sore all over. Brushing pebbles from her dress, she blinks against the sunlight pouring down the mouth of the river. The silhouettes on deck have turned into sailors; she can pick out the colors of shirts and hats, the buckets they carry, the way they gesture as they speak in the same muted tones as the night before. They’re less ghostly in the thin morning light. One of them must be Captain Hamer, she thinks, unless he’s still in his cabin.
The men on deck will have been a part of the ship’s company for some time. They won’t desert, unlike the new hands, who have beensnatched from the streets and public houses and impressed into the service. George was on recruiting duty once. They could never get enough volunteers, he said. He regretted that the press gang was what he called “a necessary evil.” The new hands, the ones who didn’t volunteer, will be under lock and key until the frigate gets under way. Only when the ship is far from shore will they be let out. When will that be? she wonders. After they’ve hanged Jack?
The ship is so close. It’s less than half a mile from the beach. If she shouted, Jack might hear her. If she swam across…but no, they’d catch her. If only she could be invisible, she thinks again, a ghost among ghosts. The sea murmurs, whispers, sings. Lullabies in an ancient tongue. If only…
Her hand flies to her mouth and she bites down hard on the skin between her thumb and forefinger to keep from calling out. In her mind, she hears George’s complaint and watches the regret flash across his face as he recounted how he led the press gang.Necessary evil. Never enough volunteers.
Jack’s breeches and shirt—that’s it, that’s the answer. She will volunteer. She’ll wear Jack’s breeches and she’ll cut her hair so it won’t look like a woman’s and then she’ll volunteer to join the ship’s company as…
She remembers Jack, on the day they sailed, saying,she’ll make a fine ship’s boy, don’t you think?
If she plays her part well, no one will know, at least for a few hours. As a volunteer, she won’t be locked up. And as a ship’s boy, she won’t be important. Nobody will pay her any attention—so she hopes. Her youth and inexperience will help make her invisible.
If Dick Pascoe had volunteered, she imagines the ship’s officers would’ve been suspicious. Why would a man like that volunteer, a man of an age to have family, a set of skills, a job? Same with any other member of Jack’s crew. But if she volunteers it won’t be like that. She’ll say she’s only fifteen. She’ll look it, once she has cut her hair to above her shoulders. She’ll tighten her stays as much as she can. Thecloth of Jack’s shirt, which is far too big for her, will hide the swell of her bosom. They’ll believe her. Theymustbelieve her. It’s her only chance.
She’ll be a boy looking for adventure, or perhaps a boy needing to get away from home. Too many mouths to feed—that sort of thing. She looks at the ship bobbing on the swell. She’ll swim across. It won’t be difficult, especially in Jack’s clothes; the buckskin of the breeches is light, the shirt lighter. She’ll swim to the ship and say she has come to volunteer. It’d be better to get a boat to take her across, but she worries whoever might row it for her may get impressed into His Majesty’s Service just like Dick and Will.
Once she’s on board, she should have enough time to find Jack before they discover her deception. He’ll be locked up in the brig with someone guarding him, most likely. She’ll have to think of a way to get him out, but for now, the main thing is to get on board the ship.
Her mind leaps. What if she manages to free Jack? What if they get off the ship together—then what? Escaping the ship is only the first step.
She gets to her feet and scrambles back onto the path. When she came to Helford, she intended to keep to herself. She wasn’t going to allow anyone to get close again. That was the plan. What a failure she is. In the span of less than three months, she has managed to acquaint herself with half the village, befriend a crew of smugglers, gain and lose the good opinion of the one woman well placed to be her close friend, and fall desperately in love with a smuggling captain condemned to die in two days’ time. And how glad she is her plan failed, despite the heartache and the fear; how glad she is to know them all. Especially now, when she’s going to need all the help she can get.
—
Harry Tremayne’s house, at the end of the Roskorwell estate, is far bigger than the old pilchard shed, with whitewashed walls and ivy trailing up to the low slate roof. She had to ask at two differentcottages to find the right place. Before she walks up to the front door, she looks around carefully, but there’s nobody about. She prays it’s early enough in the morning that Harry Tremayne will bein.
After her second knock, the door opens and a slight, gray-haired woman stands looking up at her. “Yes?”
“My name is Isabel Henley,” Isabel says. “I’m looking for Harry Tremayne.”
The woman doesn’t say anything, she only keeps looking at her. Isabel lifts a hand to her hair—it has come partly undone and there’s sand stuck to it. Glancing down at her dress, she discovers more sand and a few dried pieces of seaweed. Coloring a little, she says, “Are you Mrs. Tremayne?”
“That I am,” the woman says slowly.
“Could I speak with your husband, please? It’s rather urgent.”
A bone-dry laugh escapes the woman. “My husband? That’ll be difficult. He’s been in the ground for twenty years.”
“But—”
“Harry is my son.”
Harry’s voice thunders down the hall. “Mother! Who is it?”
“A woman for you, come on urgent business.”
Harry is at the door in seconds. He leads her inside, saying, “I’m so very sorry about Jack. Oppy brought us the news late last night. They’re putting the word about—Captain Hamer wants a crowd on Friday.” He looks her up and down and says, “But what has happened to you, Mrs. Henley? You look as if you’ve drifted in with the tide.”
She brushes the sand from her dress before she sits in the embroidered chair Harry’s mother points her into. “I spent the night on the beach. I came here the moment I woke; I hope to God I wasn’t followed.” The words come fast, breathlessly. “May I call you Harry?” At his nod, she says, “I need your help, Harry.”
He says, “We haven’t yet managed to move the contraband, but once we do I’ll make sure you get your share.”
“That’s not what I’m here about,” Isabel says, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.
“Of course,” Harry says. “And if you think it’s the first thing on my mind, you couldn’t be more wrong. But it’s what Jack would’ve wanted.”
He speaks as if Jack is already dead. A violent shiver runs through her, not of fear, but of anger—at Captain Hamer, Lieutenant Sullivan aboard theSwallow,and the entire Revenue Service. Mrs. Tremayne brings two mugs of small beer and a slice of bread each for her and Harry. The bread is dark with a hard crust and a soft, moist center. She takes a bite but finds she cannot swallow it. Over the edge of his mug, Harry says, “Why did you spend the night on the beach?”
