On the bench in the tender, Mercy wrapped her arm around Sarah, one of the orphans she’d befriended during the train ride from London to Dartmouth. With each dip of the oars, the waves slapped hard as though to keep the small boat from reaching her destination, the steamship anchored ahead.

Sarah shuddered. “I’m gonna be sick real soon.”

“We’re almost there, sweet lamb,” Mercy murmured. “Take a deep breath of air. That’ll help, to be sure.”

Several of the others attempted to do as Mercy instructed, breathing in gulps of salty air to stave off the rush of seasickness. Their faces were as chalky as the limestone cliffs they’d left behind on the shore. And the pallor only highlighted the gauntness in each face.

The Columbia Mission Society had attempted to help the young women clean up and wash away all traces of grime before the voyage, giving them each a twopence to take baths and wash their hair at a public bathhouse near the Society’s building.

Although the dirt had been washed from their bodies, they hadn’t been able to wash away the sickly hollowness that came from living and breathing in the filth of their slum neighborhoods.

Mercy had only been to a bathhouse once before in her life, and the experience of immersing her entire body in a tub of water—even if it had been lukewarm and murky after several women had gone before her—had been a luxury.

She still marveled as well at the fine garments Mrs. Dotta had provided for her, the finest she’d ever owned or worn. The dark blue cotton skirt was serviceable and somewhat tattered along the hem but was thick, sturdy, and best of all it had no stains. The blouse was the same color of blue as the skirt and buttoned up the front.

Mercy ran a hand over one of the long sleeves, relishing the soft, almost silky texture. She even marveled at the freshness of her chemise, as well as the drawers. While a bit more frayed than her outerwear, they were whiter and cleaner than anything she’d ever worn.

“Are we almost there yet?” Sarah asked, burying her face into Mercy’s arm.

“Just a mite longer.” Mercy peered ahead at the ship that didn’t seem to be drawing any closer. An elegant figurehead graced the long bowsprit, and a funnel rose from the top deck into the air alongside several masts.

One of the men rowing the tender had explained that the ship had a large screw propeller fueled by steam, which came from coal engines deep in the belly of the ship. He’d said there were times when the ship needed the propeller and steam engine to move her along, and other times when the ship used her sails for power.