Though it was a new experience for her, Evangeline had adjusted fairly easily to working for the Whitstones in St. John’s Wood, deferring to them and submitting to their whims. She, and they, existed within a clearly defined social order. But she had little familiarity with people who were gratuitously cruel, driven by anger or boredom or revenge. People who got away with bad behavior because they could.

The sandy-haired sailor, she learned, was named Danny Buck. The sailors called him Buck. It was rumored he’d slit a woman’s throat. He’d been sentenced to transport himself, as Olive had guessed, and became enamored of the sea on his own crossing. As soon as he’d served his time, he signed on to a crew that sailed back and forth between London and Hobart Town, the port city in Van Diemen’s Land, Australia, ferrying female convicts.

One foggy morning, scrubbing the deck on her hands and knees, Evangeline heard voices from across the water. She stood and went to the railing. It had rained through the night; the water was the same dull hue as the sky and the air smelled of rotting fish. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she could barely make out the skiff leaving the dock. As it got closer, she could see Buck and another sailor in the middle seats, flanked by four women huddled like pigeons against the damp.

The skiff bumped against the ship and the women were unloaded. One by one they plodded up the ramp, their chains clinking. The first, plump and disheveled, appeared to be in her thirties. The next two were close to Evangeline’s age. The final girl was much younger. She was ghostly pale, with unruly copper hair gathered in a loose bun against her neck—the only spot of color in the drab scene. Looking neither at Buck nor at the small crowd lining the railing above, she stared resolutely ahead, stepping carefully in her chains like a dancer to avoid the thick treads. She wore boys’ breeches, tied with a cloth belt, and was as fine-boned as a sparrow.

Buck, walking close behind her, thwacked the girl’s backside with his palm. She stumbled forward, barely catching her footing. “No dallyin’,” he said, kissing his fingers and winking at the men above, who whistled and clapped.

The girl stopped. He came up short, bumping into her.

She turned slowly to face him, her chin thrust forward. Evangeline couldn’t see her face or hear her words, but she watched Buck’s smug leer vanish.

As the girl turned back around and continued up the ramp, Buck’s expression changed again, from blank consternation to anger. Gripping the railing, Evangeline called, “Watch out!” but her voice was swallowed in the tumult.

When the girl reached the deck, Buck shoved her hard, and, tripping on her chains, she sprawled forward. She couldn’t raise her arms to protect her face, but at the last second she twisted to the side, closing her eyes as she fell with a sickening thud.

Someone gasped. The hooting stopped. The girl lay still. Evangeline watched Olive push through the sailors and prisoners gathered around the prone body, and, kneeling, lift the girl to a sitting position, one arm around her shoulders. One side of her head was matted with blood, deep red, staining her curls and running down her neck.

Buck jumped lightly onto the deck. “Such a clumsy one,” he said, nudging the girl’s leg irons with his foot.

A few sailors laughed.

The girl’s eyelids fluttered. With an arm around her back, Olive helped her to her feet. Evangeline could see the knobs of her backbone beneath her thin blouse and a small crescent moon tattooed in blue and black on her neck. She was quivering like an aspen. Olive’s dress was smeared with blood.

“What happened here?” the surgeon asked, coming toward them.

Wordlessly the sailors dispersed, avoiding his eyes.

“Mr. Buck?”

“Seems the prisoner lost ’er balance, officer.”

Dr. Dunne glared at Buck, as if wanting to reprimand him but not finding enough cause. He exhaled through his nose. “Get the locksmith.”

“Will do, officer.”

“Do it now, seaman.” Dr. Dunne motioned for Olive to step away. Crouching down in front of the girl, he said, “What is your name?”

“Don’t matter.”

“I’m the ship surgeon. Dr. Dunne. I need to know.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “Hazel.”

“Hazel what?”

“Ferguson.”

“Where are you from?”

She paused again. “Glasgow.”

“May I?” He held his hands up, as if surrendering, then reached toward her, fingers spread. She let him cup her face. He turned her head this way and that, inspecting it. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“The wound needs cleaning. As soon as you get these irons off, I’ll take a closer look.”

“I can take care of meself.”

Stepping forward, Olive blurted, “That sailor shoved her. Buck. We all seen it.”

“Is that what happened?” the surgeon asked the girl.

“Dunno.”

“You don’t know, or don’t want to say?”

She lifted a bony shoulder in a shrug.

“Did the same to me,” Olive said. “Savage as a meat axe, that one. Ye should throw him off the ship.”

Dr. Dunne gave her a sharp look. “That’s enough, Miss Rivers.”

“What d’ye know.” Olive grinned, nodding to the crowd. “He knows who I am.”

The surgeon stood and faced her, hands on his hips. “Do not mistake my solicitude for affinity, prisoner,” he said. “I am paid to know who you are. And to keep you alive. Though perhaps not enough to accomplish that feat.”

Evangeline didn’t see the girl again until after chores were done for the day and the convicts were herded down to the orlop deck to be bolted in for the night. As she approached her berth with a nub of candle she saw that the bottom bunk across the aisle was occupied. The girl’s narrow back was visible under the blanket, her curls spilling across it.

Evangeline motioned to Olive, just behind her: Look there.

Olive climbed up to her bunk and leaned across the aisle. “Ay, Hazel.”

Silence.

“I been to Glasgow once.”

The form shifted slightly.

“That cathedral. Big, in’it? Huge.” Olive whistled through her teeth.

Hazel twisted around to look at them. “Ye seen it?”

“I have. You’re a long way from home.” When the girl didn’t answer, she said, “I’m Olive. This here’s Evange-a-leen. I call ’er Leenie. She floats along with her head in the clouds, but she’s all right.”

“Olive.” Evangeline sighed.

“What? It’s true.”

“I’ve never been to Glasgow, but I read about it,” Evangeline told Hazel. “Rob Roy. I loved that book.”

“See what I mean?” Olive said. “She tries, god love ’er, but all she knows is books.”

Hazel made a grunt. A laugh, maybe.

“You’re pitiful young,” Olive said. “Ye must miss your mum.”

She snorted. “Hardly.”

“Ah, it’s like that, then. How old are ye?”

“Twenty.”

“Pah. If you’re twenty, I’m seventy-five.”

“Quiet!” a woman shouted. “And kill that candle, or I’ll do it for ye.”

“Mind your business,” Olive yelled back. “You’re not a day over twelve,” she said to Hazel.

In the glow of the candle Evangeline could see Hazel scowling at Olive. “I’m sixteen. Now leave me alone.” She leaned across the narrow aisle, looked Evangeline in the face, and blew the candle out.

The ship was at capacity. The day before they were to set sail, Evangeline heard voices from the water and saw the skiff coming toward the ship with three women, Buck, and another sailor in the middle, as usual, pulling on the oars. But this group was different. They were sitting bolt upright, for one thing, whereas convicts stooped; it wasn’t easy to stay erect in chains. And their clothing looked clean. Each wore a neat dark cloak and a white bonnet.

As the skiff pulled alongside the ramp, Evangeline realized it was the Quakers. She recognized the figure in front: the wisps of gray hair, the light blue eyes. Mrs. Fry.

In an uncharacteristic display of gallantry, Buck stepped out of the skiff and held it steady for the women to disembark. He took each woman’s arm as he helped her out of the boat: Mrs. Fry, then Mrs. Warren and Mrs. Fitzpatrick. The captain, who generally made himself scarce, had materialized at the railing in a formal uniform—a peaked cap with gold trim, a black tailcoat with gold buttons, braid, and epaulettes. The surgeon, in his navy blue uniform, was at his side. As the Quakers made their way up the ramp, the sailors below them hauled two large trunks out of the skiff. The sailors at the railing were quiet.

Evangeline had almost forgotten it was possible for women to be treated with such deference.

At the top of the ramp, Mrs. Fry spoke quietly to the captain and surgeon before turning to the small group of convicts nearby. “We’ll begin with those present.” Despite the creaks and clanks and the lapping of water against the hull, her voice was clear. Spying Evangeline, she beckoned her forward. “We have met previously, I believe?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“At Newgate.” When Evangeline nodded, she said, “Ah, yes. You’re literate. Your father was a vicar.”

“You’ve a good memory, ma’am.”