I didn’t hesitate—I headed for the bow.

I passed two sentries, but neither of them spared me a glance. Their eyes were locked on Hackett. His flute was beginning to sound half drowned and warbly, but I recognized the song, “Yankee Doodle,” and felt a bubble of laughter push up. I passed another sentry leaving his post, drawn by Hackett’s antics, and finally reached the bow. I climbed onto the lookout platform that had just been abandoned and stood at the very nose of the Jersey.

The wind whipped up, and the swirling rain flew into my eyes. Far, far below, the bay’s waters looked frothy with wind and chop.

It was time. It was time. But I couldn’t resist a look back.

Hackett’s flute had been all but overpowered by the rain. His piping was garbled, every third note flying, but he’d improvised and was dancing as he played, kicking his legs and elbows out like a fool. King George stood, gaping at him, his court wig pale in the stormy dark. Then he swept his gaze over the deck, spotted me, and broke into a mad, capering dance. Red jumped in without hesitation, then Wilkins, then Fire Man. Others came over in curiosity and were immediately swept up, till there were dozens of them, gamboling on their very graves. Singing their spirits out as the rain washed over them.

The British guards laughed and pointed, but I’d never seen anything more beautiful in all my life.

With a final glance at Hackett piping away in the middle of it all, I turned back to my escape. I shuffled to the edge of the platform. Peered down and felt my heart shoot into my throat. Never had I dove from so high. Not even close.

“Halt! You there—stop!”

Gathering every bit of my strength, I threw myself into the sky—and fell for miles and leagues and fathoms. An instant, a lifetime. Then I punched through the surface. Frigid water shot into my nostrils, my ears. Shocked my heart. But then it steadied me, slowed me, and I realized I had done it. I was still alive.

I kicked, spearing my arms above me, bringing myself back to the surface. I broke into the rainy night and pulled in air, pain flaring in my weakened lungs. Muskets cracked above me, marines firing from the platform where I’d just stood. Water exploded beside me—inches away.

I gulped in air and dove. Pushed my arms through dark water. Kicking. Kicking. Never stopping. Not to breathe. Not to think beyond leaving the bay and making it out to open water. As I swam, I sensed the bullets slicing around me, but I kept going, even when one found my calf and bit.

The water deepened beneath me. I could feel the space opening, widening like the sky. I kicked deeper—to one fathom.

Lord, I prayed. Please give me a chance to do this right.

And kicked harder, to two fathoms.

Then three. And there I saw Emmeline Coates, alive, beautiful. Thank you, I told her. Thank you for letting me borrow your life. I swam through her, past her, down to four fathoms. To Lucy and Charlotte. The Holdridges. I begged forgiveness for the hole I’d made in their lives.