Tom Hackett was no longer the barrel-chested boatswain I’d met on the Ambrosia. Like every other man here, he’d wasted away, his burliness worn down to big bones that had little to carry. Nevertheless, it was still him. He was still scowl-faced. Still had the mulish lift of his jaw and the look in his eyes like he’d steal your fingers if you shook his hand. Seeing him in prison didn’t surprise me—but this was a prison for patriots, and that he had not been.

“I need a sixth,” he said, looking me up and down. “I think you’ll do.”

“You can’t take him, Hackett,” said Turtle. “He’s no officer.”

Hackett moved toward him. “You got a point, Turtle. But we need a brat to fetch things for us and whatnot, and this scrap won’t take up much space. Anyway, there en’t time to debate it, so let’s just call it settled.”

That did settle it. Turtle muttered something and wandered off. To my relief, the last of my audience lost interest in me.

Hackett crossed his arms. “My, my, Little Salt. You seen better days.”

“And you haven’t?”

“Never. Never better days than these.” His jaw ticked higher, his eyes flashing. I could see the surprise and the questions he was holding inside. “Well, Salty. Here you are, blest to be on the Jersey with the rest of us. It en’t ideal conditions, as you can see, but you’ll get used to it. Either that, or you’ll die.”

“I’m not dying.”

“Is that right?”

I stared at him. He didn’t know how strong I was, but I’d show him. I’d show myself. I had given up everything for a new beginning. I wasn’t going to roll over now.

His eyes moved past me. Men were climbing the ladder, up to the weather deck. A few were carried out by their messmates, limp and lifeless. The casualness with which they went about the task shook me.

“Expect that’ll be you in about a month, Salty. Come on. Time to feast.”

I followed Hackett up the ladder, feeling like I was rising from a swamp.

Outside, the air wasn’t fresh, but it was worlds better than what I’d left behind. Marines and sentinels stood on the quarterdeck and on platforms built over the bulwarks. From these lookouts, they watched the sea of prisoners—a sea I was now part of.

Shaky as I felt and full of new fears, a kind of lightness came over me.

I wasn’t Miss Coates anymore.