As fall crept closer, the trees along Brooklyn’s shores turned amber, gold, and red. New prisoners came to replace the dead and the sick who were transferred to medical ships—always much too late to do them any good. Our food was poisoned by salt and copper. Our rations put us on the path to starvation; our filthy quarters fed diseases that ran like wildfire through the hold.

You’ll get used to it. Either that, or you’ll die, Hackett had said that first day.

I got used to it.

If the departed men had valuables, like knit caps or good shoes or blankets, those were passed on. No one had a pocket watch for me, but one day a fife made its way into Hackett’s hands. Then, sometimes, amid the weeping and the wailing and Fire Man’s nonsense, in the unbroken dark of that miserable hold, he played it quiet, quiet, quiet, so as not to be heard by the guards. And we listened and felt rich.

One thundery afternoon in late October, a victualing ship came to Wallabout and moored at the mouth of the bay. We gathered at the rail to watch the tenders rowing toward us with hogsheads and crates, relishing the break from the usual tedium.

“What do you think those hogsheads are full of?” I asked. “Rice?” Food was our favorite topic.

“Lemons. I’ve been dreaming of lemons,” said Red.

“Apples.” King George licked his cracked lips. “I’d give my right arm for an apple.”

“I’d give both my arms for wine,” said Wilkins. “A bottle of Madeira and I’d die happy.”

“Pails,” Fire Man said behind me. “I hope they’ve brought sturdy pails.”

“Look at Sproat, boys,” Hackett said, his voice low. Serious. “Something’s happening.”

The Jersey’s commander stood at the bottom of the ramp with a newspaper, reading aloud to several marines, who shook their heads in disbelief.

I itched at the rough wool cap I’d inherited a few days before. “What do you think it is? News of a battle?”

More than we wanted food, we wanted news of the war. If America won, freedom would be ours—and we’d live.

“Don’t think so,” Hackett said. “They en’t celebrating.”

“They’re not wallowing, either,” King George said. “They look furious.”

He was right. One of the marines turned away from Sproat and smacked his hand against a wood piling. I could hear another uttering blasphemies. Both were offenses Sprout should’ve punished, but he did nothing.

Other prisoners around us took notice. By the time Sproat and the marines came aboard, the deck was crowded with men wanting to know what had stirred such hot responses.