The dock looked much the same as when she left: soldiers of various regiments milling about, trade being conducted, goods and passengers loaded and unloaded. She was much the same too.
Tom sat on the wall by the inn, from where coaches, local and long-haul, departed, and she wondered which she needed to get that would take her closest to Dortmund. She had money still, her own money, from the People of the Republic of France, a pistol and a short dirk. The army would not miss those. Especially if they had known her purpose.
South Carolina, that was where she had gone, to right a wrong, the wrong that had been burning inside her inside since her thoughts had crystallised into why she wanted to go, consuming her, making her restless with nervous energy. But it had been easy to find him.
Perhaps now it was done she would be able to find the captain.
The thought of seeing William Frederickson, late captain of the 60th rifles brigade and the man who had asked her to marry him warmed her mind, like the sun rising on summer's morning. She had thought of him often, and it had been her thoughts which had made her decide to go, go to the Americas, commit the act that she had done.
It had been wrong, she knew, having to decide between two trespasses on God's laws - and God's laws were incontrovertible.
Honour thy father and thy mother, the fourth was clear, unambiguous, the eighth equally so. Thou shalt not kill. But, had she not signed up to an organisation whose prime objective was killing? Had she been a Roman Catholic, Tom might have at least been able to consult a priest.
Catholics were lucky they had an interpreter, Tom had often thought; the liberty that Protestantism offered, to read the bible in your own language, to decide yourself what it meant was, in this case, a difficult and daunting prospect, and increasingly frought with misinterpretation through ignorance. Surely one day, Roberta thought, Protestantism could be the end of religion in Britain, for if enough people realised that if they didn't have to rely on ritual to fulfil their lives did they need to rely on anything else?
The rattle of wheels and the clatter of hooves brought Tom out of her thoughts, and the thoughts of her journey ahead sprang forth. She jumped down, the heavy winter wool coat she had bought in New York, where she had indeed received a letter from Matthew Harris. He had written, as he had promised he would. He had given up the navy and was now stable master in a country house in Hampshire, and tutor to the young son of the family.
It was keeping the best of the fresh spring weather from chilling her on that fresh evening, and she waited for the next coach to arrive, so she could work out how she would get to Westphalia. Would this one be one, that might go to Dortmund? Or somewhere near, that she could get a connection.
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In the office at the back of his law partnership buildings, William Frederickson put down the land registry title deeds that were the subject of a legal dispute between two wealthy families and leaned back in his curved chair.
The room was well furnished and he was indeed lucky to have been able to secure the premises on city's main street, Hochstrasse. Smart and comfortable, he was indeed making a pretty penny from the war widows and landholders keen on re-establishing their claim on land, however tenuously linked to them prior to 1793 and the subsequent wars.
It was somewhere that Roberta would be pleased to call home, he was sure, where they could establish a family and her time spent fighting in the British Army could be a distant anecdote for parties and gatherings.
It had been three months dince she had departed, three long months since her embrace to initiate earthquakes. Yet William Frederickson had heard nothing from her.
It was to be, he told himself, how it was to be. It was a foolish man that turned to drink over a woman, or a lost love.
Looking at the letter, the broken seal of the Hohenzollern Arms, symbol of the Prussian Army reflected in the candlelight Sweet William considered its instruction.
The Field Marshal was requesting all officers to be recalled to command and that he should report to Paderborn immediately.
Frederickson's eyes looked at the intertwined signature at the bottom. Von Blücher. His action at Grossgörschen was highly laudable, despite the losses, and he had punched a hole of tens of thousands of the Grand Armeé and, better, the Imperial Guard had been decimated.
Yes, pondered Frederickson, placing down the letter on top of the legal writs, subpoenas and land charges. Yes. Under a man such as Blücher, leading forwards with fire and ferocity, Frederickson felt that could acquiesce to the Prussian Royal House's request that he attend.
He lay the letter on the table then, from the drawer pulled out two sheets of writing paper. The second letter was for his partner, Schneider. The first, well...when she came, Roberta should know where he was.
When both had been written, Frederickson laid them both on the table, his good eye looking over his thin, sloping handwriting. God willing, the name on that letter would, in time, read "Roberta Frederickson."
With a swift intake of breath, the former - and future - captain crossed over to the walnut cabinet, opening the doors with care. The forest green of his uniform reflected in the candle-light, its scarlet collar standing out to the eye. It was all there, his 60th uniform.
Tomorrow he would wear it on his journey down to Paderborn, designated by Blücher that the Westphalian officers should assemble, and receive their men.
Above the cabinet, held in fastenings, was his regimental - and sometimes practical - curved sword and his Baker rifle. He would take great pleasure in dressing tomorrow for, he chuckled to himself, wondering whether his old friend Richard Sharpe would be re-enlisting too, this time his uniform, as well as his gun, would be spotless.
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"I need to get to Dortmund," she asked the coach driver, who clearly could not speak English and addressed Tom in what was presumably Dutch, and she said, "I'm sorry I don't speak Dutch."
Another discourse in Dutch caused Tom to feel inflamed - how ever would she get to Dortmund, if none of the drivers could understand her?
Behind her, several passengers waited impaitiently, clicks of the tongue, shuffling of the feet.
"Please," she insisted, to the man who was now talking to the couple behind her very quickly. "Dortmund. Do you go to there? Or to Hamburg?"
The coach driver looked back up to her, narrowing his eyes, then said something incomprehensible to Tom. She stepped back, pulling her coat closer around her shoulders - a bitter wind was creeping and she had better think of sonewhere to stay if she couldn't travel that evening.
All of the rest of the queueing travellers got on past her until only Tom was standing by the driver. He gave her a look which said he really did not understand her, when Tom tried once more.
"Do you travel to Dortmund?"
The man replied in haste, waving a hand dismissively in her direction. Tom took a step back, away from the carriage. It might go to Dortmund or it might not; and she looked at the carriage, full with its passengers.
"There's no coach til the morning," a voice beside her said, and Tom turned to see a young man, perhaps a few years older than Tom, black hair, and dark eyes, which were alive and active, looking at her up and down.
He was dressed in dark breeches and a coat, a tricorn hat and black boots, though his appearance seemed to be very put together from several different wardrobes. Tom smiled, gratefully.
"You speak Dutch?"
"That was Flemish," said the young man, " I also speak English, French and German." He seemed proud of this and, folding his arms, leaned back and beamed.
"Are you catching a coach too?"
"Maybe. I am in this town on, shall we say, business. I may move on, into Gernany, or maybe not."
"Looks like I'm staying the night," said Tom, his eyes resting on the inn. "I'm Tom." She held out a hand. The young man shook it.
"Kit. Kit Marlow."
"Are you a playwright?" asked Tom, amused. But Kit did not smile back, rather he looked confused. "What?"
"Oh, nothing," said Tom, taking up her bed roll, in which her clothes and all the rest of hee belongings were bundled. "I'll see if they have roomsm. Thanks for the translation."
But, instead of leaving him behind, Tom realised after a few steps that Kit Marlow was following him, much as a lost puppy might do. Tom felt a little sorry for him and, at the inn door turned and said, "are you staying?" Kit grinned.
"You paying?"