He ran to the rail before anybody could stop him.

  "Nathan!"

  He stopped, clutching the rail, the wind ruffling his grubby hair.

  Beyond the harbor the mudflats stretched before him, a flat, marshy ribbon on which only a few gulls picked, their heads bobbing as they trod the grime and filth that rimmed the high-tide line.

  There were no bloated bodies on those flats.

  No Connor, no Nathan.

  Nothing but seabirds and rippled sand scored by the waves.

  Toby fell to his knees and covered his face, sobbing with relief.

  Clayton was behind him. "Get up."

  He hauled himself to his feet, gulping in great draughts of the fresh, sweet air, the very strangeness of it making him want to wretch. It was too much, too soon. He clutched his stomach and, eyes watering in the hazy sunshine, stared up at the guard.

  "My brother —"

  "In the Hole." The guard reached out and yanked Toby away from the rail.

  "Then why was I brought . . ."

  "His Lordship want t' see ye."

  Toby had no idea who "His Lordship" was, but the look on the guard's face and the severe tone of his voice boded ill. Bravely he tried to smooth his repellent clothing, determined to conduct himself in a way that would make his brothers and father proud . . . until he realized the guard was shoving him aft, towards the captain's cabin.

  "Oh no ye don't," the big man growled, blocking Toby's escape route with his musket. "I've about had all I can take from the likes of ye, boy. Now get yer arse moving, and don't stop 'til yer beyond that door, ye hear me?"

  Cold terror washed through Toby. He had heard the stories about the new captain, how he was so terrible that he'd made the pretty English lady faint when she came aboard the ship yesterday, that he was so ruthless some men were faking illnesses so they'd get transferred off HMS Surrey and onto the port's hospital ship.

  And he had heard that Armand and his friends were already plotting to murder him if the prisoners' beer rations were not increased.

  "But why does he want to see me?"

  They were beneath the shadow of the poop deck now, and the captain's door loomed ahead like the door to a mausoleum.

  "Damned if I know." Clayton knocked on the door, once, twice, and then, hauling it open with an ominous creak of its hinges, seized Toby's arm and shoved him inside.

  The door shut behind him with a crash like a coffin being sealed.

  Alone, Toby stumbled to his feet, sealing his arms protectively over his chest to contain his pounding heart. He curled his toes into the rug beneath his bare and grimy feet, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid, even, to look up.

  "Sit down," a deep-timbred, cultured voice ordered. "I do not bite."

  Slowly, Toby dragged his head up and looked about him. The cabin was dim, shadowed, lit by only a wedge of gray light through the partly opened curtains at the stern windows. That light touched the rich maroon leather of a swivel chair, the gleaming surface of a table set with a bottle of port and a single placement of china.

  It did not touch the figure that stood in the shadows, leaning negligently against the edge of the window seat.

  "Come forward, so I might see you." This time the voice was a shade gentler, as though its owner had sensed Toby's terror and was sparked by pity and compassion.

  Slowly Tony crept forward, into that wedge of light. He felt hideously dirty and malodorous. He hung his head, ashamed.

  "What has become of your clothes?"

  "They got torn," Toby mumbled, still staring at his toes.

  "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

  Toby raised his head. He shoved his cracked spectacles up the bridge of his nose and peered through the grime that hazed them. The figure was still in the shadows, unmoving, but the gloom made it impossible to discern any details of the face.

  "I said, sir, they got torn."

  "I am a marquess. You do not address me as 'sir.' You address me as my lord."

  Such an imperious command was enough to infuse Toby with some of the Yankee spirit he thought he'd lost. He stiffened his spine and, raising his chin, regarded that shadowy figure. "And I am an American. You are no lord of mine, and I will address you the same as I would any other man."

  Slowly, like some deadly panther uncoiling itself after a nap, the marquess straightened up. He was tall, taller than Toby's father, taller than his Uncle Brendan, taller even than Connor. He came melting out of the shadows as though he had been born to them, lethal, leonine power in his every movement, malice wreathing the air that dared to surround him. A glass of spirits dangled from one elegant, relaxed hand, and rich whorls of dark hair framed a flawlessly chiseled face of stone. The mouth was hard, the nose as bold as the blade of a knife. Only the eyes gave the impression of any warmth — the satanic variety, Toby thought fearfully — and these were fierce and glittering with a cunning intelligence that made Toby's blood run cold.

  "You have spirit," the marquess said, softly.

  With the wine glass hanging loosely from his hand, he walked a slow circle around Toby, taking in his greasy hair, his grimy face, his tattered clothes, his raw and ulcered feet. Toby swallowed hard. At last the man stopped, looking at him the way he might regard a dead rat.

  "Your condition is appalling."

  The anger in those four sharp words only fueled Toby's indignation. "My condition is not something I have control over . . . sir."

  They stared at each other for a long tense moment, the boy in rags, the aristocrat in all his lordly splendor. At last Morninghall turned away, head high and nostrils flaring, as though he could not bear the sight — or smell — of him.

  Toby relaxed, sinking down on his heels.

  Without warning, the marquess turned, his hand lashing out to seize Toby's jaw. He forced Toby's chin up, scrutinizing the bloody scrape on its underside, his eyes hardening like ice. Toby fought, tried to jerk away.

  "Hold still, damn it!"

  His jaw caught in that iron grip, Toby obeyed, eyeing his tormenter with mulish pride even as the marquess inspected the cut. Tears of shame pooled behind his lashes.

  "Who did this to you?"

  "I fell."

  Morninghall released him. "I hear that those damned Frenchmen have been abusing you. Is it true?"

  "Who told you that?"

  "Answer the bloody question."

  Toby rubbed his jaw with his palm, trying to wipe away the enemy touch. "Aye, it's true," he said, sullenly, "but I can take care of myself. You don't concern yourself with anyone else on this reeking tub, there ain't no need to concern yourself with me."

  "I am concerned about your brother, and he was the one who told me."

  Toby froze. Morninghall stalked silently away from him, moving into the bar of light and extinguishing it in a slow and eerie eclipse.

  "M-my brother?"

  Slowly, the marquess turned his head and looked at Toby from over his shoulder. "You do have one, do you not?"

  "Aye — he's in the Black Hole." Toby drew himself up. "If you're so 'concerned' about him, then why's he still in there?"

  "He tried to escape. He must be punished. If punishment were not meted out to those who try to escape, then chaos would run rampant on this ship, would it not?"

  Toby balled his fists. "Have you ever been in the Black Hole — sir?"

  The marquess put his goblet on the table very carefully. "No, Mr. Ashton. I confess, I have not."

  "Then I guess you can't know what it's like then, can you?"

  Morninghall stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then picked up the bottle on the table and topped up his glass. "You are wise beyond your years, young man. How old are you?"

  "Thirteen," Toby said, sullenly.

  A slow, studied nod of the marquess' head was his only answer. Strange shadows flickered across his eyes and he looked briefly preoccupied. Human.

  Almost.

  Toby crossed his hands over his chest, humiliatingly aware of the raw, nauseating stench of himself. "You . . . you talked to my brother, sir?"

  Morninghall seemed to come back to himself. "I did."

  "Is he —"

  "He is well. As well as one can be given his present predicament."

  "Will you shorten his time in the Hole, sir?"

  "I cannot."

  "But —"

  "I cannot," the marquess repeated firmly. As Toby stared imploringly into that stark and unfeeling face, he saw something like compassion there before the ice moved back in to veil what had surely been only an illusion, anyhow.

  It was too much. Toby, feeling the tears springing up, pivoted on his heel and turned to go before he could disgrace himself — and his country.

  "I have not dismissed you."

  Something in that low, authoritative voice stopped him dead in his tracks. Swallowing hard and fiercely blinking back the tears, he turned around. Morninghall had not moved.

  "I called you up here, young man, to offer you a job," he said, quietly. He flicked an aristocratic hand. "Something to get you away from those damned Frenchman and out of the unhealthy fumes belowdecks."

  "What, burying dead bodies?" Toby challenged, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist.

  Morninghall seemed oblivious to his tears, the disgrace he was making of himself. "No. I need someone to clean my cabin and bring me my meals." He frowned, gazing into his glass, a hint of a smile playing across his mouth. "My last servant was sent to another ship. Complained to the admiral about me, said I was too much of a bastard to work for."

  He raised an eyebrow and shot Toby a sidelong look, as though daring him to dispute the fact.

  Or, accept the offer.

  Toby stood, confused. He didn't know whether to be enraged, insulted, or grateful that he, of all people, had been plucked from the flames below by the devil himself. Yet there was something about the nobleman's display of kindness when just about everyone below treated him no better than they did the rats, that was vastly appealing. He bit his lip, sucked it between his teeth, and kicked at the rug upon which he stood. It was a tough choice: continue suffering the abuse below or work for his English enemy.

  Morninghall put down his glass and lifted his hand, idly studying his thumbnail. He looked askance at Toby. "The job is not without pay."

  "I don't want it," Toby muttered, sniffling.

  "You shall eat the same meals I do."

  "No," Toby repeated, less forcefully than before.

  "You will have regular baths, decent clothing, and — given your good behavior, of course — the chance to escort me ashore when duty and pleasure take me there."

  The chance to escort me ashore . . .

  Toby's head came up. He blinked away the tears and gaped at the marquess, disbelieving what he'd just heard. God and country forgive him, he had no wish to work for this English aristocrat and he could care less about the money, but decent, warm food in his belly was a far cry from maggots, and if he had the chance to leave the ship, perhaps he could pass information on to Connor. His heart leaped as the idea took hold. Connor, who everyone knew was the Black Wolf anyway, would find a way to rescue him and Nat!

  "Well?"

  Morninghall's patience was running out.

  "Aye, I'll take it," Toby said, looking down at his grimy toes and trying not to sound too eager. Then he glanced up, mutinously. "But that don't mean I gotta like it."

  The marquess smiled thinly. "No, I expect you won't. But then, I cannot imagine that most of us do enjoy our jobs, do we?" he added cryptically and, turning away from Toby, pulled the curtains aside to stare out the window.

  Toby waited.

  "You may go now," Morninghall murmured, still gazing out that grimy window. "I shall expect you first thing tomorrow morning."

  ~~~~

  The feathery clouds had given way to low, steel-bellied leviathans marching across a harsh field of gray by the time dusk arrived, and with darkness came a light, chilling mist which snaked beneath one's clothing and right into the very marrow of the bones.

  It was a dreadful night to have a candlelight service, but the Black Wolf couldn't have ordered a finer one.

  Of similar opinion, the Reverend Peter Milford stood on the wet and open deck of the prison ship garbed in a tarpaulin coat, his hat pulled low over his brow, his Bible in his hand. A raw breeze drove over the water, heavy with the scent of salt and rain, and he turned his back to it, trying to shield the old book from the cold drizzle.

  Above, wet clothing flapped on the clothesline, a lonely sound in the night. Peter rocked back on his heels, waiting as a sailor moved around the circle of guards, silently lighting the taper each man carried with all the solemnity the occasion warranted. Peter was nervous, as he always was when a rescue was to take place; nevertheless, he managed to adopt an expression of appropriate gravity as he watched the quiet, flickering flame travel to each cold taper of wax, until at last an array of orange tongues tickled the darkness around him, lighting the faces of those who held them.

  Behind the guards, mere shadows in the drizzly darkness, several prisoners stood, relatives and friends of the men who had perished in this last week alone. Peter tightened his fingers around his Bible. Morninghall had not allowed the poor souls to have candles, fearing they might use them to set something on fire and start an uprising, but at least he had shown some compassion by allowing them to attend and grieve for their loved ones.

  The sailor had come to the last mourner and was lighting his taper. The flame sputtered and flared to life, swaying drunkenly in the damp breeze, and the scent of burning wax cut through the rainy darkness. It was almost time to begin, and Peter felt the tightening of his nerves, the faint sense of inadequacy that always plagued him before beginning a memorial service.

  The sailor handed him the candle; then Peter cleared his throat and looked around him. The guards huddled miserably in their damp clothing, shielding their flames against the wind with their broad hands. Light flickered against their shiny, wet faces, infusing their eyes with a heightened sense of life and feeling, throwing their individual features into sharp relief. Some of them looked distant, weary, perhaps even sad. Some looked bored and miserable in the wet. Some were restless, while a few stood solemnly at attention. Yet Peter knew that to a man, each and every one of them was glad for the respite from their tedious duties, and were not above the pretense of mourning a colleague that most of them had disliked — and prisoners they thought of as animals.

  The candles flickered in the darkness. The men looked amongst themselves, waiting. A heavy raindrop tumbled out of the night sky and extinguished one of the tiny flames; the man who held the candle turned to his mate beside him and relit the fizzing wick.

  Peter opened the Bible, feeling the reassuring weight of its heavy, worn spine against his palm. It did much to calm his apprehension. He said a quiet prayer for the Black Wolf's success and safety. He prayed his friend would start carrying out these daring rescues for the right reasons instead of the wrong ones, and that God would open his eyes to the truth. He thought of the woman who would assist the Wolf tonight, the lovely Orla with the soft Irish brogue and prayed for her safety, too. Then, content that his prayers were safely delivered to God, he looked at his watch. The night wasn't going to get any darker, and it was nearly eleven o'clock.

  Time.

  Loudly clearing his throat, he raised his head, the light from his own taper flickering across the open Bible. He felt a stab of guilt that he held no love for the guard Morninghall had shot, and that his compassion was all on behalf of the deceased prisoners. He sent up a last silent prayer, this time asking God's forgiveness for being so judgmental and preferential. After all, he reminded himself, God had made the guard, too — and God did not make rubbish.

  "Good people," he began, raising his voice so it would carry throughout the mourners. "We are gathered here tonight to pray for the souls of those who have died aboard this ship during this past week." Too flat. You can do better than that, Peter. "We pray for the souls of prisoners of war who have been released from this earthly suffering, and we pray for the soul of Ralph Leach, who perished whilst engaging in an act for which we beg God's compassion and forgiveness. This we ask in Jesus' name, using the prayer that He taught us: 'Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . . .'"

  The small crowd joined in, a low baritone in the darkness — solemn, sad, and contained beneath the drizzling mist.

  "'. . . on Earth, as it is in heaven . . . Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses . . . And lead us not into temptation . . . thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever . . .'"

  Lieutenant Radley, the marine commander, stood nearby, his narrow face hard, his shoulders stiff against the cold drizzle. He looked nervous, his eyes darting from side to side, as though he expected the prisoners standing quietly behind him to rise up and club him over the head.

  Lord Morninghall was nowhere to be found.

  "Amen," Peter finished, quietly.

  The mist thickened, became a light rain which beat softly on the deck. Gazing over the faces of the men who looked to him, Peter thought he could just see a form, darker than the darkness, sliding through the water a stone's throw off the old ship's starboard bow.

  He raised his voice, drowning out any sound the boat might make as it moved through the waves, hoping that the few sentries still on duty would be patrolling the stern of the ship.

  "We pray for the soul of Richard Morrill, late of the American warship Merrimack, who left this life on Friday last after a blessedly short illness. God, be with his family, be with his friends, and be with him. In Jesus' name we pray —"

  Some of the guards shuffled nervously. "Amen," a few of them said, without much conviction.

  "Lord, we pray for the soul of Ebenezer MacGill, brother of Jake MacGill, who succumbed to the travails of his existence on Thursday last. Please, oh Lord, comfort those he leaves behind, and be with his family during their time of suffering and grief. In Jesus' name we pray —"