She’d already made sure their food rations were picked up and tucked away for safekeeping: biscuits, butter, preserved beef and fish, potatoes, raisins and currants, soup and bouillon, oatmeal, coffee, and even lime juice to prevent scurvy. They’d been given more for one week than they would have eaten in a month at home.

Mrs. Robb allowed one woman per cabin to prepare the food and do the cooking. Of course, the girls had nominated Mercy. So twice a day she went to the galley in the forecastle. There, along with the other women, she used the ship’s stove, pots, pans, and utensils to cook the meals under the watchful eye of the ship’s quartermaster. Mrs. Robb was present too, of course. When finished, Mercy returned to her cabin, where she and the girls ate each morsel with gratefulness, knowing how fortunate they were compared to the ones they’d left behind in London’s slums.

Even if they were more fortunate, Mercy wasn’t about to take any chances with having their weekly rations ruined by the water flooding their cabin. Already her new boots and stockings were soaked through, her skin was shriveled, and her toes felt numb from the cold. She aimed to keep the others from suffering too.

But her task had grown more impossible as the rough night had turned into an equally rough day. After waiting in Dartmouth nigh onto a week for everyone to board, including the steerage passengers, they’d finally set sail on the morning tide two days ago.

They’d been out into the English Channel, entering what Mr. Scott had informed them was the Western Approaches, when a southeast gale struck.

And it hadn’t let up since.

Gripping the bunk, Mercy slid along the wooden beam until she came to Ann, who was curled into a ball. In the darkness, Mercy brushed a hand over Ann’s warm cheeks and down her back over her long braids. The girl groaned in reply.

“Bless you, little lamb,” Mercy crooned. “Can you drink a sip of water?”

Ann shook her head.

Mercy applied some of the minty ointment to the girl’s nostrils before making her rounds to Flo, Minnie, then Kip. One by one, the girls had given way to sickness until each had become violently ill. Even Mercy had battled the churning in her stomach, which seemed to rival the churning of the sea.

Finally, Mercy knelt in front of Sarah and touched the girl’s forehead. It was hot and clammy. The girl was faring the worst. Still weak from her last bout of sickness, she’d grown nearly delirious.

“Sarah?” Mercy attempted to draw the girl back to reality. “Don’t you give up.”

She didn’t respond, not even to moan, and her silence sent fresh anxiety skittering up Mercy’s backbone.