Sergeant Thatcher lunged at the men as he tried to pull Sorcha and Nettie to safety. The butt of a rifle connected with his skull and he tumbled to the floor, out cold. More pushed their way through the door, throwing their fists about, waving their weapons, uncaring now the soldiers had been disarmed. A gun discharged. The women screamed. The round went into the ceiling, sending a shower of plaster and straw upon everyone below.

The fire was kicked, peat and smouldering lumps rolling out of the hearth. Smoke belched and billowed. It was difficult to see; to breathe.

Torn from Janet’s side, Sorcha fell hard against the window, almost shattering it. There was another scream. Nettie was hurled against a wall and fell to the floor unmoving. Janet was lifted into a pair of burly arms. It was the bearded man who’d tied her up on the beach, the incomer. He was helped by two others Sorcha didn’t recognise and a few others she did.

Bodies pressed against her, pushing, crying, shrieking, whimpering. Unarmed soldiers barged into the room fists hooked. One was stabbed, another toppled unconscious, too close to the fire. Jenny tried to stamp out the flames before they took, shoving the burning peat back into the hearth.

Carried out of the house, Janet was flung onto the road. Sorcha clawed at the window, trying to open it, but it was jammed. Pinned against the glass by the press of bodies, she was unable to move; forced to watch as a wide circle formed around Janet.

The bearded man began shouting instructions, his voice unclear to those inside the house. A couple of men disappeared briefly. There was the splintering shriek of tearing wood. It was the signal the crowd had been waiting for. Their approval was deafening.

Janet lay bleeding and crying on the road, curled on one side, her knees against her chest, unaware that two men were marching up the road carrying a great wooden door. They halted next to Janet, their eyes fixed on the Englishman.

The crowd grew quiet. Janet rolled painfully onto her back to see why. When she saw the men, the door held high above their heads, a terrible prescience dawned. She craned her neck as far as she could.

Sorcha locked eyes with Janet, willing her to focus on her and her alone. The old fishwife lay there, still as could be. As they stared at each other, Sorcha poured all the love and memories of their years together into her gaze: as fishwives, as friends, labouring by the ocean, helping the men. She recalled their shared history, the bonds that linked them in ways others could not comprehend. Slowly fear and uncertainty drained from Janet’s face. A smile curved her lips as she mouthed something.

As if she stood beside her, Sorcha heard the words clearly. ‘Live for me.’

They were like a punch to the stomach.