The guard lets her finish, then says, “Bollocks. I saw you talking to the prisoners. So you’re the lad who swam aboard, are you? They were talking about you in the galley. If the captain has only just taken you on, he’ll be glad to be rid of you when I report you. If he doesn’tlock you up with the rats in the brig, that is, when he learns the reason you gave him for coming aboard is false.” He gestures with the pistol, indicating the way back to the ladder. “This way. Let’s see what the bosun has to say about your lies.”
The hold grows dimmer, the noise of the ship louder. It’s filling her ears, then her head, making it difficult to think. “Please…” She hates begging. She must beg. “Please, sir, don’t report me. I…I lost my father and I have nothing to eat at home and—”
“Enough of that,” says the guard. “You should’ve thought of that before you snuck down here. I saw you with my own eyes, didn’t I, talking to the landlubbers in there. Did you know there’s a murderer as well?” His eyes narrow. “Were you talking to him, perhaps?”
“I wasn’t, I swear. Please—”
“Enough.” The guard’s patience has run out. “I’m taking you to the bosun.”
If they take her off the ship or lock her up, Jack is lost. She got so close. He’s right there. She can almost touch him, hold him, kiss him. They’re going to hang him and there’s nothing she can do. Tears run down her face, into the corners of her mouth, down into her neck. There’s such a noise down here, the creaking, sawing noise of the ship as it cuts through the water. She can’t think. “Please,” she says again, and now she’s no longer trying to make her voice sound lower or act the part of the fifteen-year-old boy, it’s just her, Isabel, begging. “Please, I beg you.” The guard is looking at her intently. “Please,” she says. “I shall tell you the truth.”
“You had better, right this minute.”
“I’m not truly a ship’s boy. I’m a girl. A…a woman.” Her sobs make the last word bounce up and down,wo-man.
The man lowers the pistol as he takes a step closer, peering at her in the dim light. A red flush creeps up his jaw from his neck; the sweat begins to make a trail down his sharp, boned cheeks. “By God, you are! How the devil did I miss it? It’s obvious as day to me now. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, coming aboard dressed like that? Did you honestly mean to sail with us?”
She presses ahead. “I’ve come aboard to…to see my brother. He was impressed into the service. He’s all I have in the world, sir, and he…he may be going away for a whole year. I only wished to sail with him. Please, I beg you, do not report me. I only wish to be with my brother.” She lifts her hand, runs it across her face. “I can do the work, sir, I promise you, I’ll work harder than any of the boys.”
The guard laughs. He shoves the pistol back into his belt. She forces herself not to look at it as he says, “Who’s your brother, then?”
“Will. Will Pengelly.”
“Aye, he’s in there. And you’re Will Pengelly’s sister, are you?”
“Yes. My name is Isabel Pengelly.” She keeps her voice steady, but only just.
“Well, Isabel Pengelly, you make a nice case for yourself. I suppose I could let you both slip away in the dead of night, but it’d be on my head if we lost a newly impressed man. Nor can you stay. Where would you sleep, for one, with the men not half an inch apart in their hammocks? Not to mention, a woman on board brings ill luck. Last thing we need, that is.”
“Please, sir. I beg you—”
“Stop with the begging, will you? I’ve got no choice but to report you. You’ll be taken off the ship, there’s no question of that. However, because I have a sister myself and care for her like you care for your brother, I shall let you have a moment to say goodbye to him. If he was impressed, he must’ve been taken all of a sudden.”
“Yes, sir, it was terribly sudden. I didn’t know he had gone until the next day.”
“Look, do not fret for your brother. It’s not as bad a life as that. You’ll see him again and he’ll send his pay to you, I’m sure, so you won’t go hungry.” He bangs his fist against the door and calls, “Will Pengelly there! Do you promise to send your sister your pay for her keep?”
A few seconds pass, then Will’s voice rings out loud and clear: “I will, sir. Pray, is that my sister there? But how can it be?”
“So it appears. What’s your sister’s name, Will Pengelly?”
A desperate, quiet moment, then: “Why, it must be Isabel. I have no other sister.”
The guard grins. “So it is. You’d better appreciate what she’s put herself through to come see you, lad.” To Isabel, he says, “We’re about to anchor in the river outside some little cove. I’ll give you five minutes with your brother, then I’m taking you to the bosun. He’s sending a party ashore shortly, so you won’t have to swim again.” Guffawing, he says, “It’s a good thing they’ll see you for themselves! They wouldn’t believe it if I told them. And the captain fell for it, did he?”
So did you until I told you,she thinks, but she says, “Thank you for allowing me to see my brother, sir. I’m ever so grateful.”
“Step aside, Will’s sister, so that I may open the door.” Half turning his back on her, he reaches under his shirt and lifts a key on a leather string. There’s a click as he pushes it into the lock. Isabel slides her hand into her pocket, inch by inch, until she can wrap her fingers around the hilt of the meat knife.
The guard pushes the door open a crack, his hand on the pistol in his belt. He calls, “Will Pengelly there! Step outside to see your sister, though you may not recognize her the way she’s dressed.” He laughs again, then says more soberly, “You’ve got five minutes. The rest of you, if there’s any trouble, I’ll see you all flogged at the grating, you hear me?”
Her heart pounds in her head. The ship groans as it rolls and the door swings open outward with the motion. Stepping back to avoid the door, the guard clasps the hilt of his pistol when instead of Will, Jack emerges from the room. His hair is matted and several days’ worth of stubble graces his jaw, but his eyes are sharp as they light on her for the smallest of moments.
The guard begins to say, “You’re not—” and then Jack lunges at him, throwing his full weight into the man. The guard staggers back as Jack’s fist slams into the side of his face. The other eight men come spilling from the brig, and in the confusion, Isabel watches the guardyank the pistol from his belt; watches his finger wrap around the trigger and the muzzle lift until it’s pointing directly at Jack’s chest, not ten inches between them. It’s as if she’s back on the doorstep of Roskorwell, watching Lieutenant Sowerby prepare to shoot. With a ragged cry she pulls the meat knife from her pocket and throws herself at the guard.
There’s a dreadful resistance as she pushes all her strength in the blade, then a grunt, followed by a silence so loud all other sounds flee beforeit.
She’s staring down at the blood on her hands. The knife is bloody, too. Even in the dim light of the ship’s hold it gleams darkly, and there’s blood on the sleeves of Jack’s shirt, which she’s wearing, and also on the shirt Jack is wearing. It spurted and there’s a spray of drops. The guard is folding into himself like a puppet without stuffing, his hands gripping his stomach, an awful moaning coming from his mouth. His shirt is the bloodiest of all.
