The Jackdaw was only eighteen feet at the beam; Nathaniel could almost reach out and touch his wife as she paced by. But she looked to the horizon for comfort, and seemed not to take note of him at all. Since she had come on board and spilled out the whole story of what had passed she had barely spoken a word.

"It ain't her fault," said Hawkeye when she had passed them once again. "You need to make her understand that."

"If there's anyone tae blame, it must be me," said Robbie hoarsely. "I was a fool tae trust Moncrieff. I tried tae tell her so, but she wouldna listen."

Nathaniel said, "It'll take more than words to set her right."

Hawkeye grunted, for it was the simple truth. But Robbie's troubled expression settled on Nathaniel.

"Aye, but words are a start, lad. Dinna let her grieve alone." He put a hand on Nathaniel's shoulder, but it was the weight of the word, the idea of grieving, that brought him to his feet.

He scanned the length of the ship, from the forecastle where Stoker was deep in conversation with his first mate, to the bow.

"She's gone below," said Hawkeye, his unease showing clear. He had been raised among strong-minded women and had had another one to wife. His daughter-in-law was made in the same mold, and he liked and admired her; it wouldn't occur to him to forbid Elizabeth to go anywhere. But Stoker's crew was a rough lot--Americans and Irishmen, and a handful of the kind who claim no home and want none. Nathaniel saw the worry in his father's face, and thought his own expression probably gave away just as much. He went after her.

At the bottom of the companionway Nathaniel stopped to clear his head of the sound of the sea. What he heard took him by surprise: an old woman's voice, and Elizabeth's quiet tones in reply. Alone for a moment on a ship where there would be precious little privacy, too tall to stand in the cramped space, Nathaniel crouched down to listen. His head ached, and he was tired, and he wondered if he would ever be able to sleep again. Even in sleep he could not escape the fact that his children had been taken from him without a struggle, and by a man he had given his trust. I regret the necessity of such a drastic step, but your father-in-law denied me every other more reasonable alternative. That single sentence echoed in his head, carved deep in the very bones of his skull. If this ship should go down now and kill him outright Nathaniel knew that he would walk the sea floor to get to them. And to Angus Moncrieff, who would be taught the meaning of reason, and regret.

The sound of throaty laughter from the cabin startled him out of his daydream. Elizabeth's voice again, in reply. He thought of joining them, but then he had spent much of his life in the company of women and he knew the sound of a conversation where men were not welcome. And the truth was, he had little comfort to offer.

He went back up on deck to ask again after their speed and to find some work to do. For the moment hard labor was the only thing that would keep him sane.

She was old, so old that time had reversed its path: the hair under the tightly knotted kerchief was baby-fine and only two teeth were left in the wide, thin-lipped mouth. These were on the right side, and served as the anchor for a pipe that wobbled and waved over a sunken breast covered with a mass of chains and baubles. But there was nothing childlike about the woman's mind, and she squinted at Elizabeth from a fog of tobacco smoke with a bright and inquisitive expression, plucking her pipe from her mouth to point at a tea chest.

"Sit!"

Elizabeth hesitated, but the pipe tapped smartly on the arm of the chair and she seemed to have little choice but to comply.

"I had no intention of disturbing you," she said, resting very uncomfortably on the edge of the chest, and trying not to stare around herself at the crowded cabin, nor to inhale too deeply the mingled smells of stale tobacco, rank clothing, and fish oil. "I was just looking for a quiet spot."

The old woman let out a hoot of laughter. "Cor, a quiet spot on the Jackdaw. Now, there's a pretty notion."

The reedy, wobbling voice was London with an overlay of Ireland and other places Elizabeth could not quite put a name to. Here was a mystery that would have intrigued at any other time, but Elizabeth was so tired she could not focus on the most obvious things. Nor could she quite bring herself to do what she wanted to do, which was to give in to her low spirits and simply walk away.

"Please permit me to introduce myself--"

"I know who you are," said the old woman. "Saw you when you come with that bloody great Indian to talk to Mac, though I expect you didn't see me. Annie is my name, but most call me Granny Stoker. Mac is the youngest son of me youngest son."

"Ah," said Elizabeth. "I recall that he mentioned you the first time I spoke to him."

"Eh? And what did he say?"

"He did not say that you sail with him. I'm glad not to be the only woman on board, but I am somewhat surprised to find you here."

The old lady's mouth worked around the stem of the pipe. "Don't be. Women been on the water since the first raft was pushed off, even if some don't like to admit it. Now me, I don't go on land unless I'm dragged. First shipped out when I was just fifteen. That was seventy-seven years ago. I'll wager you've heard of me. I went by Anne Bonney back then, when I ran with Calico Jack."

Elizabeth thought it might be bad policy to admit she had not heard either name, but to her relief, the old woman's attention had already shifted. She fumbled for a cane at her knee and with it she poked at Elizabeth's skirts.