The one thing they had not anticipated was the smell. Having braced themselves against the prospect of high winds and choppy water, they now found themselves holding their noses against the pervading stink of fish. Cabal Mears had been loading his catch into the sloop for over thirty years and its wood was impregnated with a compound of pungent odors. It took some time for the passengers to get used to it. When they had cast off, Jamie Skoyles and Tom Caffrey took an oar apiece to row the boat while Mears held the tiller. Huddled together near the prow of the vessel, Elizabeth Rainham and Polly Bragg peered into the semidarkness with trepidation.
The two women had met before because Polly had befriended Nan Wyatt during the long journey south from Canada. Attractive, shapely, and with a ruddy complexion, Polly spoke with the same soft Devonian burr as Caffrey. It was one of many things that had drawn them together. Though she had done menial jobs for the army, there was no suggestion that Polly would now replace Nan as Elizabeth's maid. Adversity made the women social equals, and they traveled as friends, knowing that they would have to support each other during the testing days ahead. It was one thing to escape from Cambridge. Reaching the safety of New York was another matter altogether.
When they had rowed their way to midstream, the sail was hoisted and the combination of current and a stiff breeze carried them along at a steady speed. Skoyles and Caffrey were soon able to ship their oars. Canvas flapped noisily. The mast creaked and strained. Foam-edged water was left in its wake as the sloop moved forward. They were on their way at last. Skoyles took the opportunity to have a private word with Cabal Mears.
"We had a spot of trouble at the quay," he explained.
"So I gather."
"One of the guards trailed us all the way from the barracks."
"Yes," said Mears. "You bribed him to keep his mouth shut."
"The bribe wasn't enough to satisfy him. I had to shut his mouth another way. I just thought I should warn you, Cabal. By the time you get back, the body will have been found. Questions will be asked."
"I'm used to talking my way out of an awkward situation."
"There's nothing to connect him with you."
"Then I've no worries," said Mears blithely. "One less rebel in the world is a cause for celebration. In your place, I'd have done the same."
"He left me no choice."
"Forget about it."
"I will." Skoyles looked around. "This is a big boat for one person."
"I manage."
"Have you always fished alone?"
"My son used to help me."
"What happened to him?"
"He died."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Cabal."
"I wish that I'd been," said Mears coolly, "but I shed no tears over him. Peter never really took to the sea. He wanted to fight. When the war broke out, he ran off to join one of the Massachussetts regiments."
"He was a rebel?"
"Yes. It broke my heart. Divided loyalties in one family are a terrible thing. I tried to hold him back but Peter wouldn't listen. We never saw him again. Our son was killed at Hubbardton."
"I was there myself," said Skoyles, remembering the carnage on the battlefield. "I took part in that engagement. Your son was one of many who did not survive."
"All they told us was that he'd fought gallantly under the command of Colonel Francis." Mears chewed on the stem of his pipe. "Peter was on the wrong side. I wish I could find it in me to mourn his death."
"War is cruel. It separates father from son, and brother from brother. It can also play havoc with friendships."
"You've no need to tell me that."
"I'm sure. You must have lost many friends."
"Dozens of them," said Mears sourly. "Cambridge used to be such a happy town. We were a community. Then the trouble broke out and everything changed for the worst. People who had got along well with each other in the past suddenly fell out. They began denouncing their neighbors as loyalists. It was like a witch hunt."
"How did you come through it?"
"By keeping my opinions to myself."
"Your son must have known you were no rebel."
"He did, but he kept my secret. I owed him for that. Peter was ready to fight against everything I believe in, but he would not accuse his father of treachery. It's a terrible thing to say," he went on guiltily, "but there was a sense of relief when we heard that he'd been killed in action. More than that—God forgive me—I felt a peculiar satisfaction."
"I take no satisfaction in another man's death," said Skoyles, "even if he is an enemy. When I first came to America with the army as a mere lad, I was billeted on a farm and became close friends with one of the sons there. We kept in touch for years. I always knew that our paths would cross again somehow."
"And did they?"
"Yes, Cabal. Oddly enough, it was at Hubbardton."
"Was your friend in the rebel army as well?"
"Not as a soldier, but he was dedicated to their cause. When I met him again and saw that he was uninjured, I was glad. I wanted him to live even though I knew that he'd use his talents against us."
"His talents?"
"He was trained as a silversmith."
"Just like Paul Revere," said the fisherman with a sneer.
"Two of a kind," Skoyles continued. "Like him, Ezekiel produced prints that were aimed at stirring the emotions, and acting as recruiting officers for the patriots. We met again at Saratoga but he was on the winning side that time. Somehow," he added, "we remained friends, even though I killed his brother in battle at Bemis Heights."
Mears was astonished. "You killed his brother?"
"It was in self-defense."
"Yet this man still looks upon you as a friend?"
"I think so."
"Then he's a strange fellow indeed. What's his name?"
"Proudfoot," said Skoyles. "Ezekiel Proudfoot."
The bookshop was halfway down a lane off Front Street, close to a busy thoroughfare yet somehow quiet and secluded. Ezekiel Proudfoot soon found it. He had had little difficulty getting into the city. All that he had to do was to join the long column of people and wagons that streamed into Philadelphia at dawn for the market, and he slipped past the patrols unnoticed. He rode down Front Street, located the lane he was after, and saw the name of Pearsall Hughes swinging on the board outside the bookshop. It was early, but the shop was already open.
Proudfoot tethered his horse and went into the building. He found himself in a long, low, narrow room whose walls were covered with bookshelves. A table stood in the middle of the room with a display of new books to catch the eye. There was a faint musty smell to the place. The proprietor was seated in a chair beside a window at the far end of the room, reading a large leather-bound volume. Nobody else was in the shop. Proudfoot walked toward him.
"Mr. Hughes?" he asked.
"That is so," replied the man, looking at the visitor over the top of his spectacles. "How may I help you, sir?"
"General Washington sent me."
Hughes blinked. "That's a bizarre thing to say."
"He warned you of my arrival, surely?"
"No, sir."
"But he must have."
"I've no idea what you are talking about."
"He told me to contact you here."
"I doubt that very much," said Hughes, snapping his book shut. "I have no truck with the rebel commander, and would never make him, or any of his misguided supporters, welcome in my shop."
Proudfoot was baffled. "You are Mr. Pearsall Hughes, are you not?"
"That much I freely admit."
"Then you are the editor of a newspaper."
"I'm nothing of the kind," returned Hughes, hauling himself to his feet. "I'm a respectable bookseller, the best—though I say so myself—in the whole city. I'll thank you to make no more absurd allegations about me, sir. Newspaper!" he went on with utter distaste. "I inhabit the literary world. I would never demean myself by sinking to mere journalism."
Proudfoot was bewildered. The shop was at the address he had been given, and it was clearly owned by the man whose name he had been told. Why was he being given such a frosty reception? He looked at Pearsall Hughes more carefully. There was much to occupy his vision. The bookseller was a man of middle height but outsize proportions, fat to the point of obesity and with heavy jowls that shook as he spoke. His face was red, his nose even redder, and his wig too small for the bulbous head. Snuff had spilled down the lapel of his coat. Well into his fifties, Hughes exuded an air of erudition mixed with truculence.
"Well, sir?" he demanded. "Do you intend to buy a book?"
"No, Mr. Hughes."
"Then I'd be obliged if you quit my premises."
"But I came to see you."
"And I have been duly seen." He lowered himself into his chair and opened the book again. "Excuse me while I return to Plato."
"Something is amiss here," said Proudfoot, running a hand across his chin. "There can surely be only one bookseller in Philadelphia with your name and address."
"And with my reputation, sir. Beyond compare."
"Then why do you refuse to acknowledge me?"
"Because I have never seen you before in my life," said Hughes brusquely. "And since you make such preposterous assumptions about me, I hope never to set eyes on you again. Away with you."
"But I was told that you've heard of me."
"Indeed?"
"And that you would be glad of my assistance."
"My wife and I can run this place quite well on our own."
"I'm not talking about the bookshop," said the visitor. "I am Ezekiel Proudfoot. Does that name mean anything to you?"
"Should it?"
"I'm a silversmith and engraver."
The bookseller looked mystified. "Ezekiel Proudfoot?"
"Standing before you, Mr. Hughes."
"How do I know that?"
"Because I just told you. I am he."
"Any fool could walk in from the street and pretend that."
"I am Ezekiel Proudfoot," the other insisted, "and I can prove it." He undid the strap on the satchel that hung from his shoulder. "I have my engraving tools with me. You can examine them."
"There are lots of silversmiths in Philadelphia. Each one of them has a set of tools. I do not accept those as proof of identity."
"You must, Mr. Hughes."
"I sense that you may be an impostor."
"An impostor!" Proudfoot exclaimed with an edge of desperation in his voice. "Why should I try to deceive you? There must be some way that I can convince you who I am."
"There is, sir."
Hughes got to his feet again, crossed to the table, and opened a drawer in it. He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Proudfoot.
"What's this for?" asked the other.
"Draw."
"Why?"
"Draw," Hughes ordered. "I know a little about this Ezekiel Proudfoot. I've seen his prints. He has a very distinctive style. Let me see if you can match his skills."
"What must I draw?"
"The first thing that comes into your mind."
Taking out a pencil, Proudfoot put his satchel on the floor, then bent over the table. His hand moved quickly and fluently over the paper. Pearsall Hughes, meanwhile, sauntered across to the door and locked it so that nobody else could disturb them. He waited until his visitor had finished, then took the drawing from him. The portrait of George Washington was remarkably lifelike. After one glance at it, the bookseller's manner changed completely.
He offered a flabby hand. "Welcome to my shop, sir."
"A moment ago, you were about to throw me out."
"That was before I realized who you really were, Mr. Proudfoot. This sketch of yours has persuaded me completely. Nobody else but you could have drawn it."
"Why were you so hostile to me?"
"I'm suspicious of anyone who walks in here and makes such a bold claim as you did. The city is full of spies. You would not have been the first person who used the name of George Washington in the hope of tricking me into declaring my sympathies." He beamed at the other man and pumped his hand. "I am sorry that I was inhospitable."
Proudfoot relaxed. "I'm so grateful to learn the truth."
"Then learn something else. Be more discreet. Never use names, least of all that of our revered commander. It will give you away at once. When you are in Philadelphia, you are a Tory."
"I'll remember that."
"Befriend the British troops. It's the best way to gain intelligence."
"And the newspaper?"
"All in good time," whispered Hughes, a finger to his lips. "Let's get more closely acquainted before we touch on that. When did you last eat?"
"Yesterday."
"No breakfast?"
"Not so far."
"My wife will make you some food at once."
"I don't wish to put her to any trouble."
"Miranda will be more than happy to prepare you a meal." Hughes tugged at a bookcase and it swung forward on hinges to reveal a doorway. "Come and meet her, Ezekiel Proudfoot."
The farther they sailed down the Charles River, the more signs of life they saw. It was not just the appearance of other craft heading for the sea. There were gulls wheeling in the sky, ducks swimming in the shallows, and cows in the fields, waiting to be milked. As the fisherman had predicted, it was a clear day. He was still at the tiller, pulling on his pipe and steering his boat in midstream. Tom Caffrey sat with his arm around Polly Bragg, wondering how on earth she had managed to doze off while he was kept so wide-awake. He was more concerned about her safety than his own, and was having second thoughts about the wisdom of bringing her on what was bound to be a hazardous journey.
The other passengers were now in the stern of the boat. Elizabeth Rainham nestled against Jamie Skoyles, sad to have left so many good friends behind her but relieved that she was sailing away at last from Major Harry Featherstone.
"What will they do?" she asked.
"Who?"
"The people who discover that we've gone."
"Our disappearance will be duly reported," said Skoyles, "and our names added to the list of deserters. We're not the first to run away, by any means, and—when it becomes clear that our army will be kept here as prisoners of war in defiance of the agreed terms—there'll be a lot more people searching for a means to escape."
"Do you really think that we'll get to New York, Jamie?"
"We have to."
"It's such a long way."
"Would you rather stay in that crowded attic?"
"No!" she said with a shiver. "It was gruesome."
"There were no featherbeds in the barracks either."
"It was just as bad for the German troops on Winter Hill. According to Baroness von Riedesel, they were treated no better than animals."
"It can only get worse," said Skoyles. "Provisions are running low."
Elizabeth let out a squeal of surprise as a little water came over the gunwales and wet her feet. They had reached the mouth of the river now and had to contend with the rolling waves of the bay. The increased undulations brought Polly Bragg awake and made Elizabeth cling more tightly to Skoyles. The sun was lifting above the horizon and throwing dazzling patterns across the green sea.
As their gaze traveled over the wide expanse of Boston Harbor, they saw boats and ships of every kind and size. A harbor that had once been occupied by a menacing British navy was now filled with rebel craft. Frigates, schooners, sloops, brigantines, cutters, and galleys lay at anchor. Gondolas and pinnaces bobbed on the waves. The fleet was nowhere near as large or as imposing as its British counterpart, but it gave the rebel stronghold a feeling of reassurance.
The women were still trying to adjust to the unruly movements of the sloop, but Skoyles had noticed something. A line of vessels was blocking the entrance to Boston harbor.
"That explains it," he said.
"Explains what?" asked Caffrey.
"Why the transports failed to arrive from New York. Look at those frigates guarding the harbor, Tom. They've been put there to turn away any British ships. The likelihood is that they've already done so."
"Then there's no hope of the army being allowed back home?"
"They can't sail without ships."
Caffrey was bitter. "I wonder if they ever intended to release us?"
"I'm sure that General Gates did when he drew up the terms of the convention. His superiors obviously thought he was too lenient. They won't let us off the hook so easily." Skoyles surveyed the panorama before them. "This is where it all began," he said.
"What?"
"The war."
"Well, I wish they hadn't brought us to fight in it."
"You're a soldier, Tom. You thrive on combat."
"Only when I happen to be on the winning side."
"That time will come again."
"If we ever get off this boat alive!"
Caffrey grabbed the gunwale to steady himself. Though the fisherman was doing his best to keep the boat on an even keel, it was starting to tilt and buck. The swell combined with a gusting wind to remind the passengers that their voyage would not be an easy one. Water splashed into the boat, spray moistened their faces, and the mast creaked more noisily then ever. As the sail was buffeted by a fresh gust, Caffrey had to shout in order to be heard.
"Is it always this bad?"
Mears cackled. "Do you call this bad?"
"That's what my stomach is telling me," Caffrey complained.
"This is like a duck pond."
"Then I'd hate to be a duck!"
"You'll get used to it, Tom," said Skoyles.
"Not me. I'm a landlubber."
"This is nothing. We're still in the harbor."
"Yes," said Mears cheerily "Wait until we're clear of the Charleston Peninsula and Boston Harbor. Then you'll really get to see what the Atlantic Ocean can do."
Caffrey shuddered. "I'm not sure that I want to," he said.
"I'll make a sailor of you, Sergeant."
"As long as you keep me out of the water."
"I've never lost a passenger yet," Mears told him, then his face split into a wicked grin. "Not unless it was deliberate."
Miranda Hughes was an unexpected partner for the rotund bookseller. She was short, delicate, and soft-spoken, a gracious, middle-aged lady who gave Ezekiel Proudfoot a much warmer welcome than he had first received from her husband. Wearing a pretty blue dress with a hoop skirt, she had the kind of slender waist that needed no corset. Though they had a maid who helped with the cooking, Miranda insisted on preparing some breakfast for their visitor. It was only when he was eating it that Proudfoot realized how hungry he had been. They were in a room at the rear of the shop that served both as dining room and as a storage place for books.
"This is so kind of you, Mrs. Hughes," said Proudfoot.
"It's my pleasure," she replied. "It's such a treat for us to have the famous Ezekiel Proudfoot in our house."
"Famous or infamous?"
"A good question."
"Famous to all true Americans," said Hughes. "Infamous to the British army and the Tories. They would dearly love to catch you."
"Have my prints aroused so much enmity?" asked Proudfoot.
"Yes. That shows how effective they are."
"Good."
When Proudfoot had finished his meal, Miranda cleared the plate away, then returned almost immediately. She snapped her fingers.
"We must find a new name for you," she decided.
"Why?"
"Because your own could get you hanged."
"Am I really in such danger?" said Proudfoot.
"If your identity becomes known."
"Miranda is quite right," said Hughes peremptorily. "You must be baptized afresh, my friend. What shall we call you?"
"Choose a simple name. It's easier to remember."
"Then I have just the one," said Proudfoot. "I've a cousin in Boston named Reece, and another whose Christian name is Allen. Put the two of them together and we have Reece Allen."
"Reece Allen," she repeated. "Yes, I like that."
"From now on, that's what we shall call you," said Hughes.
"This is an extraordinary bookshop," remarked Proudfoot with amusement. "I come in hungry and walk out fed. I arrive with one name and leave with another. What other transformations will there be?"
"Only time will tell, Reece."
Proudfoot liked them. The more he heard about Pearsall and Miranda Hughes, the more unconventional they seemed as a couple. The wife was by no means confined to domestic duties. Miranda was an astute woman, who had once edited a newspaper in Baltimore and who now lent her journalistic talents to the cause of independence. It emerged that they had five children, a surprise to Proudfoot, who found it hard to imagine how two people of such dramatically contrasting sizes could produce any progeny between them. Miranda seemed too small and fragile to contemplate motherhood, and Hughes looked as if he would prefer to read a book in bed rather than sire a child.
They were enjoying a leisurely conversation when, without any warning, Hughes fired a direct question at their guest.
"What did you say your name was?" he demanded.
"Ezekiel Proudfoot." He bit his lip. "Oh, no," he said, annoyed that he had been caught out so easily. "It should be Reece Allen."
"Remember that."
"I will, Mr. Hughes."
"It could be the difference between life and death."
"Then I won't make that mistake again."
"Where will Reece stay?" asked Miranda.
"We'll find him somewhere, my dear. Meanwhile, I daresay that there are a few questions that he'd like to ask us. Is that not so, Reece?"
"It is," said Proudfoot. "I've been sent here to work on a newspaper, but I don't even know what it's called."
"The Pennsylvania Patriot."
"How often is it published?"
"Once a week at least."
"At least?"
"If events justify it, we sometimes produce a special issue."
"On what day of the week does it normally come out?"
"No specific day," Miranda explained. "We change the day of publication regularly in order to confuse our enemies. If they knew that it was issued on the same day every week, they would be waiting to see how it was distributed."
"And how is that done?"
"We have a system."
"But there's no need for you to know what it is," said Hughes blandly. "The less you know about that side of it, the better. Secrecy is our watchword, Mr. Allen. Complete secrecy."
"I understand, Mr. Hughes."
"All that need concern you is the Patriot. It's the sole reason you're here. You supply the pictures, we write the words."
"While we're on that subject," said Proudfoot, "I have a few comments to pass on from General Washington."
"Comments?"
"Suggestions about what you might put in the newspaper."
"Keep them to yourself."
"Why?"
"Because we decide what goes into print, Mr. Allen."
"Naturally."
"An editor needs complete authority."
"General Washington is surely entitled to express a view."
"Of course," said Hughes, striking a combative pose, "but we are equally entitled to ignore it. Miranda and I would never dare to tell him how to fight a battle. By the same token, we do not feel that we need his advice—or anyone else's for that matter—on how to wage war in print."
"I see."
"The Pennsylvania Patriot is our flag. We know best how to fly it."
Proudfoot remembered what he had been told earlier about Pearsall Hughes, and he realized how accurate an assessment of him it had been. Evidently, he would brook neither criticism nor interference. The bookseller was very much his own man.
Crossing the bay was a real trial for those unaccustomed to sailing, but it was far worse when they reached the open sea. The swell increased, the wind freshened, and the temperature seemed to fall. They also had to contend with swirling undercurrents. Jamie Skoyles sat with a soothing arm around Elizabeth Rainham's shoulders and, in spite of her apparent discomfort, she smiled bravely. Polly Bragg was also troubled by the random agitation of the boat, but she made no complaint either. What irritated Tom Caffrey was the way Cabal Mears remained at the helm, calmly smoking his pipe and giving every indication that he was actually enjoying their voyage.
"I'm glad I'm not a fisherman," said Caffrey.
"But it's a perfect day for sailing," Mears responded.
"Perfect!"
"Clear sky, calm sea, strong wind."
"We're being blown all over the place."
"No, Tom," Skoyles explained, much more at ease than the others. "Cabal is tacking to make best use of the wind. Trust him."
"I have no choice," Caffrey moaned. The boat dipped, then rose as another wave hit them. "Nobody told me that it would be like this."
"Would you rather be back in those squalid barracks?"
"No, Jamie."
"Then stop protesting. It's the same for all of us."
"True."
"Be grateful to Cabal. He's helping us to escape."
Caffrey was too jangled to be able to express any gratitude, but he had the grace to apologize for his outburst. He tried to put his own anxieties aside and devote himself to cheering up Polly Bragg. Veering one way, then the other, the boat continued south. The most likely place for it to be intercepted had been in the bay. With that behind them, they felt marginally safer. Elizabeth tossed an admiring glance at the fisherman.
"It's so brave of him to do this for us, Jamie," she said. "Did you have to pay him a lot to persuade him?"
"I haven't paid him anything yet," Skoyles replied.
"Oh?"
"Cabal insisted on getting us away from Cambridge first."
"How honorable of him!"
"The same can't be said of Otis Tapper. He wanted all his money before he provided the horses. I only gave him half of the agreed amount in advance—or I'd never have seen him again."
"As it was," she recalled, "he was dead before we even got there. They'd hanged him on the spot. We not only lost the chance to escape but you forfeited all that money as well."
"There was plenty more where that came from."
"Was there?"
"Yes," he said with a confiding smile. "General Burgoyne has been kind enough to invite me to the card table, and I rarely lose."
"What he said to me in Montreal was true, then."
"Yes, Elizabeth."
"It was at that ball, the first time I met you. He warned me never to play cards with Captain Skoyles because he had the luck of the devil."
He squeezed her hand. "Lucky at cards, and lucky in love."
"Do you really believe that?"
"Of course. Don't you?"
"Well, yes," she said uncertainly, "though I'm not sure that being tossed around in this boat is exactly my idea of good fortune."
"We escaped, Elizabeth. Most of the others are still there."
"I know."
"They're doomed to remain in captivity until the war ends."
"And then what?"
"They'll have to be set free."
"I'm not talking about them, Jamie. I was thinking of us. When the war is finally over, what will happen?"
"We'll get married and settle down here."
"In America?"
"Where else?" he said. "I told you from the very start that this is where I intend to stay. That's why I've taken every opportunity I've had for gambling. The card table has earned me the money I'll need to buy a decent amount of land. I couldn't do that on a captain's pay." He sensed her reluctance to agree with him. "When we first discussed it, you seemed happy enough with the idea."
"I couldn't be happier with the idea of marrying you, Jamie, but I do have qualms about staying in this country. Think of all the blood that's been shed. We'd be living among enemies."
"Memories fade in time."
"They would never accept us."
"They would if we showed them that we were determined to become one of them," he maintained. "If we were ready to live as Americans."
"I'm still too British to conceive of that."
"This country will grow on you."
"Frankly," she admitted, "it's starting to repel me."
"That's because it holds too many uncomfortable memories for you at the moment. Wait until you get to know America better, Elizabeth." He gave her a teasing look. "Would you rather go back home to England to marry Major Featherstone?"
"Heaven forbid!"
"He could offer you a wedding in Canterbury Cathedral."
"That's meaningless to me."
"Is it?"
"Yes, Jamie. I never want to set eyes on him again."
"Don't be too harsh on him," he said. "But for him, we'd never have met. You didn't sail all the way to Canada in order to meet that notorious cardsharp, Captain Jamie Skoyles. We have the major to thank for making that possible."
"I never saw it that way."
"Perhaps you should, Elizabeth. I loathe the man as much as you do, but I'm not blind to his finer qualities. He's a true philanthropist."
"Philanthropist?"
"Yes," he said with a smile. "My plans for the future cost money. And the person who put most of it in my pocket was none other than that selfsame Major Harry Featherstone. Every time I won at cards, he lost—heavily, as a rule. It was he who paid for the hire of Cabal's boat," he went on. "I wonder what he'll say when he finds out that he made our escape possible."
"Gone!" Harry Featherstone was astounded. "What do you mean—gone?"
"Miss Rainham is no longer here, sir."
"Then where on earth is she?"
"I don't know."
"You must have some idea, woman."
"All that I can tell you is this," said Nan Wyatt, feigning ignorance, "when I woke up this morning, Miss Rainham was nowhere to be seen. I searched the whole house, and the fields nearby, but there was no sign of her. I'm as puzzled as you, Major Featherstone."
"Did your mistress leave no note?"
"Not a line, sir."
"Damnation!"
Harry Featherstone slapped his thigh hard out of sheer frustration. They were outside the house where Elizabeth Rainham had been staying with Friederike von Riedesel and her children. Having gone to the trouble of scavenging a supply of food, the major was mortified to hear that Elizabeth was no longer there. He had hoped to ingratiate himself with her. Instead of that, he was left in the lurch with the bag of provisions he had carried all the way there.
"Tell me the truth," he said, fixing Nan with a stare. "Miss Rainham would go nowhere without her maid."
"She did this time. It's very upsetting."
"Don't lie to me or you'll live to regret it."
"Why should I lie?" asked Nan. "I worry about her. I've looked after Miss Rainham for many years, yet she leaves me without a word of explanation. I'm fretful, Major. I want to know that she's safe."
Nan Wyatt was on the verge of tears. Though she had been warned of her mistress's departure, she was very skeptical about her chances of escape and, as a result, was patently anxious. Unsure whether or not he could trust her, Featherstone saw no point in badgering the maid. He had just remembered the other visitor whom Elizabeth had seen on the previous day, and he spat the name out.
"Captain Skoyles!"
"What about him, sir?"
"How often has he been out here?"
"Once or twice."
"What brought him here yesterday?"
"Who knows, Major? I did not speak to him."
"Skoyles is behind this," he concluded, lip curling in disgust. "That's where Miss Rainham must be—she's run away with that rogue! Captain Skoyles has led her astray." He spun on his heel and marched away. "Damn the man! I'll make him pay for this."
The first sign of trouble was when the sun disappeared. Having dazzled their eyes until midafternoon, it suddenly vanished behind a cloud. The wind picked up and had a much harsher bite to it. The sky began to darken. Cabal Mears had been hugging the shore to get a measure of protection from the elements, but he could foresee danger.
"There's a squall coming," he warned.
"How bad will it be?" asked Skoyles.
"Bad enough. We need to run for cover."
"Where can we hide out here?"
"There are some islands around the next headland," said Mears. "I've anchored there before when the weather turned against me. Been there for days on end sometimes."
Caffrey was curious. "Where did you sleep?"
"Here on the boat."
"You must have been soaked to the skin."
"I hid under the tarpaulin. The sea is a capricious master," he went on resignedly. "You have to obey its rules."
"What must we do now, Cabal?" said Skoyles.
"Sit tight and be ready to get wet. Oh, and one more thing."
"What's that?"
"Pray," Mears suggested. "Pray that we're not swept out to sea."