Mess three had it easier than most, as our place in the officer’s section gave us a little more room. There, I’d lie awake between Hackett and King George, both snoring like hounds, and I’d convince myself that I was safe. That if I stayed right between them, no one would try to touch me. Most nights, it took hours before I believed it. Then I’d slowly stretch my legs out and dive into the seventh fathom, where I could go anywhere I wished.

Floating in that peacefulness, I imagined Lucy and Charlotte at garden concerts or at lavish assemblies, their petticoats flaring as they turned and danced with Duncan and André. I imagined Robert Townsend in his shop, a quiet hero behind his gentle smile and eyeglasses, a book open on the counter. I imagined Aunt Nora and Uncle Henry. The judge. Liesje and Rebecca. Everyone but Asa.

A little hope kept me going, lighting my way. But I feared too much would blind me.

As the weeks passed, I came to know my messmates and their reasons for being on the Jersey. Red and Wilkins were privateersmen from Rhode Island, caught by the British off the East Florida coast. King George was a militiaman from Maryland, captured aboard a packet ship. Tom Hackett had come to the cause of liberty after seeing “a hotheaded but decent lad beaten to hell and all but murdered by a press-gang.” He’d been caught privateering outside Boston. Tim’s reason I never learned, as he was bayoneted through the gut for trying to filch a piece of bread a few days after I arrived.

They asked about my past too, but I dodged their questions. I wanted to disappear amongst them; telling them I was a captured spy wouldn’t have helped. But my silence on the matter only increased their curiosity. Finally, after a few weeks of being pestered, I told them I was an urchin from Cuba who’d joined the crew of a privateer to free myself from poverty. But I wasn’t satisfied with my story, so the next day I told them I was actually a prince from a tiny kingdom on the Baltic coast that’d been invaded, so I’d fled to the high seas, where I’d been captured by pirates who’d soon after fallen prey to the British navy, therefore landing me on the Jersey. The day after that, Red scratched his jaw and said, “Where’re you from today, Little Salt?” and I’d let a tale spool out that was even better.

So it’d been since. My imagination offered the only freedom I could have on the Jersey. I didn’t at all mind sharing it.