Elizabeth lit every candle in the cabin and then she sat down to drum her fingers on the table. Directly in front of her the rosewood clock sat in its wall niche, and it gave her sorry news: just one o'clock in the morning, hours until sunrise. Hours in which irritation and worry would battle for the upper hand.

In front of her there was a small pile of books, Hannah's basket with its bits and pieces, papers and notes, Mungo's sword, paper, quill and ink, and a half-eaten orange. In any other setting these things would have been more than enough to pass the time until sunrise, but this evening Nathaniel was roaming the ship in search of Adam MacKay.

It is between Hannah and her father, Elizabeth told herself resolutely. And between Nathaniel and Adam MacKay. She picked up the orange and peeled off a section. It was parched and sour, but she swallowed resolutely. She would leave this to Nathaniel, as she had once left Billy Kirby to him.

Hannah's journal lay before her, the page held open by a small bottle of pale yellow fluid. Tucked into the leaves were odd pieces of paper, some in the Hakim's handwriting, others she did not recognize. On one page Hannah had begun to copy a letter addressed to Hakim Ibrahim from a Dr. Jenner of Barkeley.

Most of the journal was filled with Hannah's drawings, circle after circle of what she had seen through the Hakim's microscope, each carefully labeled: skin of an onion, human eyelash, chicken feather, codfish scale. And pages devoted to blood, the blood of every animal on board, and human blood, too. Elizabeth studied them for a good while and could decipher little beyond the notes that Hannah had already made in her small, neat hand: a sea of small oval shapes, and with an occasional larger, rounder shape among them. How strange that this unwanted journey should bring to Hannah an opportunity she would otherwise never have had. It was something to be thankful for, in spite of Adam MacKay.

But it was not enough. Elizabeth stood and pushed the journal away. She could not sit here; she would not. If Nathaniel might move about the ship at night with impunity, so could she.

19

The Kahnyen'kehâka knew that the best time to attack an O'seronni village was at night. As a young man training under Sky-Wound-Round, Nathaniel had heard the stories of such raids, where rich merchants came under the knife with an open tinderbox clutched in a fist. The Kahnyen'kehâka warriors, feared throughout the Hodenosaunee Nation and far beyond for their ferocity and courage, shook their heads over men afraid of the dark.

Nathaniel, growing up between red and white worlds, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of both, knew that this much was true: white men did not all fear the dark, but most of them forgot how to use their ears when the sun set.

Now he made his way through the darkened ship, navigating by his memory, by his senses of smell and touch, and most of all by an ability to listen hard. In the endless forests he knew the size of a doe by the sound of her step in the undergrowth; on the Isis he had come to recognize the walk of a dozen different men and boys by the way the boards gave under their feet. Now, just above him on the middle deck, the first officer was on his way to his quarters, weaving down a corridor he had walked a thousand times, making as much noise as a child at play. Nathaniel kept pace with Adam MacKay, moving soundlessly in the dark.

MacKay had been in the round-house earlier in the evening, his strange profile standing out like a flag. Nathaniel knew of the man only a few things: that he ignored his wife, or beat her when he could not; that the sailors respected MacKay's seamanship but disliked him for his poor humor, the tight fist he kept with rum rations, and his generosity with the whip; that he took pleasure in giving little girls nightmares.

Nathaniel ducked around the thick pillar of the fore capstan, tucked his arms in close, and spidered his way up the narrow ladder to the middle deck. MacKay was just behind now, but not by much. Nathaniel crouched down low in the deeper shadows of the capstan wheel, its long wooden spokes polished smooth by generations of callused hands. The wood smelled of salt and sweat, and the great wheel muttered softly to itself like an old horse at pasture.

Not ten feet away, MacKay sang in a crusty monotone:

Heart of oak are our ships

Heart of oak are our men

We always are ready

Steady, boys, steady

We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.

Nathaniel pulled in a lungful of stale air tinged with gunpowder, axle grease, and salt. A calm came over him; he could feel the blood moving through his arms and legs, pooling in his hands. His fingers twitched slightly. It was the feeling a man got when he came across a bear. Bear meant meat for a month or more, fat to cook with, a good pelt. But a bear was always a gamble. Most would take a bullet to the brain and lie down without an argument, but every once in a while you got one too dumb or too ornery to give in quick, and that was the bear to watch out for: she'd take all the lead you could offer and come roaring for more. The trick was to strike fast and hard.

In a single quick movement Nathaniel rose out of the shadows. With one hand he grabbed MacKay by the throat, winding his fist in the white linen to yank him forward. With his other hand he caught the lantern before it could fall. Then he lifted the man off his feet and flipped him onto his back, pinned him down and straddled him, one knee in his soft gut with his hands caught behind his back. The lantern he put down out of reach, and then he grinned.

"You're up late tonight, Coo MacKay." It was the name the sailors called him behind his back, for his shape and his stare, dull as a cow's. The insult did its work: MacKay's expression changed from confusion and surprise to outrage. Keeping him off balance was Nathaniel's best chance of getting the man to say more than he wanted to.