I knew I’d done the right thing. A week ago, he’d been a stranger—how well did I truly know him? Enough to promise I’d love and obey him the rest of my life? Mama had married Sewel hastily. I’d seen where that had led. And what sort of life would it be—the wife of a poor privateersman in wartime? As Asa faced daily peril at sea, I’d be alone for months or years, praying he made it home. Every wharf town in the world was filled with widows of mariners. I did not want to be one of them.

And I had to honor Mama’s memory and live for more than she’d had.

I wouldn’t let her down. No matter how much it hurt.

I returned to the main deck, my breath still ragged, an ache in my heart like spikes had been driven into it. The noise and commotion of the crew had ended and an uneasy silence hung over the ship. I slipped into the shady spot by the quarterdeck stairs and peered at a scene that seemed unreal.

The Ambrosia’s hands stood in a neat line. All sixty-some men, shoulder to shoulder. Their backs straight. Their eyes pinned to the massive warship looming beside us.

In all my years wrecking, I’d never seen anything half so grand. It rose like a mountain of shining black paint and gleaming gunports, its sails filling half the sky. A ramp ran from one of its middle decks to the Ambrosia, where Captain Jansen stood waiting with Hackett and Izra.

Marines came pounding across, two by two. Everything about them, from their bayonets to their crisp red coats and white cross belts, looked so sharp. Hewn from wood. Behind them followed men of a very different feather. Rough men in shoddy garments, carrying cudgels and ropes. Never had I seen a press-gang before, but I knew I was looking at one now.

I turned back to the Ambrosia’s men, my knees softening beneath me. They had piled into all their garments and wore shirts upon shirts and trousers upon trousers, sweating under the weight of all their earthly belongings. The fear in their eyes reminded me of stories Sewel had told me of the Royal Navy’s harsh treatment and meager pay. Four hundred lashes for laziness. For stealing a biscuit, a thousand. The rebels don’t call us bloody-backs for nothing.

I spotted Asa near the end of the line. He stared straight ahead, his dark hair curling out from beneath his knit cap. Nothing that had happened in the past fifteen minutes felt real. Had he really just asked me to marry him?

An officer crossed the ramp to the Ambrosia last. He was a short man, nearly as slight as me, his coat made of more gold epaulets and buttons than wool.