Sproat stopped at the top of the boarding ramp, his lips pressed into a hard line, and swept a look over us—hundreds of prisoners, all silent and waiting. “You Americans are all immoral beasts lacking in spine, decency, and honor. Never dare to think otherwise,” he declared. He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and chucked it as he stalked to his quarters. It hit Hackett’s chest and he caught it against himself.

“Who’s an able reader?” he said.

“Me—I am,” I said, already sweeping the paper from his hands. “It’s the Boston Gazette. Dated October sixteenth.” I skimmed lower—barely lower—and spots burst before my eyes. My balance teetered. The world had begun to rotate around me.

“Go on, Salty. Read it.”

I drew a breath, forcing steadiness into my body, and then I read—even as I struggled to absorb the very news I was sharing.

Treason had been committed by the Continental Army’s star general, Benedict Arnold, who had conspired to turn over the fort of West Point on the North River to the British. Arnold’s deception had been uncovered before coming to fruition when Major John André, his coconspirator and adjutant general to the British army, was captured across enemy lines. Plans describing the West Point garrison and a letter from General Arnold were found on Major André’s person. General Arnold managed to escape capture and fled to British lines. He was now a commander in the British army. Major André, however, had been tried as a spy by the Continental Army and sentenced to death by hanging, the right to an officer’s death denied him. The execution, ordered by General Washington, had been carried out on October second, concluding the disgraceful affair.

The Jersey was silent as I finished. Then a din of voices swirled up as men shouted in outrage and cursed Benedict Arnold.

Arnold, whom I now finally knew was Monk.

“The rotten traitor!” they yelled. “The Judas!”

Their anger only increased. Every man there had given his life for what Arnold had nearly undone.

In the midst of the commotion, I felt a pair of eyes regarding me steadily.

“That’s some look you got on your face, Little Salt,” Hackett said. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

I couldn’t find the words. My mind had filled with memories: André giving me a portrait tied with string. André telling me about the sets he was designing himself for Macbeth. André sighing wearily in Knyphausen’s study, no idea I was watching him.

Hackett leaned in. “Were you part of this?” he whispered. “Finding Arnold out?”

“I think so.” I’d never know for certain, but I felt I had been.

“That’s why you’re here? For spying?”

I nodded.

“My, my, Salty.” He shook his head. “My, my.”

There was awe and pride in his eyes, but I couldn’t share in it.

Not now.