Chapter 21: The Hard Winter

Chapter 22: Floating

Chapter 23: Homecoming

Chapter 24: Return to Ranelagh

Chapter 25: Reckoning

Chapter 26: Spy

Chapter 27: Hell Afloat

Chapter 28: Frannie

Chapter 29: The Seventh Fathom

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

FOR EVERY 355.

During the American Revolution, General George Washington employed a ring of spies in and around New York City, the headquarters for the British war effort in North America. These spies identified themselves in their letters by code numbers. One was known as “355,” which stood for “lady.”

To date, her true identity remains unknown.

The waves have rolled upon me,

the billows are repeatedly broken over me,

yet I am not sunk down.

—Mercy Otis Warren

New York Harbor

July 1780

I’d swum with deadly sharks and stolen from deadlier men. I’d survived hurricanes, war, and even love—but I didn’t know if I’d survive this.

I pulled myself off the floorboards, my legs shaking as I stood. The cabin spun around me. I drew a deep breath to steady myself, smelling pine tar and bilgewater, tensing as the door swung open.

Two redcoats hurried inside. One carried shears; the other, a length of rope. They were big men, filling the cabin with their bright regimentals and shocked stares. They obviously hadn’t expected to find a young lady in a torn silk gown, bleeding from a head wound.

“We have orders to cut your hair,” said the one with the rope. He cleared his throat and raised the rope higher. “If you resist, I shall be forced to use this.”

I swallowed thickly. I had an idea what this meant. “I won’t resist.” I stepped forward. “Go ahead. Cut it.”

The man with the shears hesitated, then gathered my hair in a clumsy swipe and sliced. My long locks came away in his hand. He blinked at them like he was confused, then tossed them down and carried on hastily, cutting so close at times he nicked my scalp and left my eyes watering.

As my dark curls tumbled to the floor, years of dance assemblies and fine dinners flashed before my eyes. I shut them and imagined I was feeling Mama’s gentle hands on me instead of this stranger’s. Mama, singing in Spanish as she teased out my tangles with the patience of an entire ocean.

What would she think of this? I’d promised her I’d find a safe, respectable life—and done the exact opposite.

“Why?” whispered the man with the rope. I opened my eyes. The candle on the floor guttered and popped, making his shadow writhe behind him. He licked his lips. “Why are you here? Are you—are you a spy?”

“Shut up, Wilcox,” said the other one. Then he glanced at me like he wanted to know, too.

“Tell me where I’m being sent and I’ll answer.” I already thought I knew, but I needed to be sure.

They shared a look.

“Go on, Wilcox,” said the one with the shears. “Tell her.”