Once again, many thanks to my reviewers and my readers. Having you along for the ride makes me feel so much better about the story.

Chapter Six
September 29, 1934

Laura stood on the deck of the Venture, her feet spaced apart a bit to better her balance. She held the Winchester in both hands, her grip secure but not too tight. The sway of the boat had distracted her at first, but now the movement made little difference to her, and she was aware of the rocking sensation only when she thought about it. Today's calm sea gave her no cause for concern.

She was ready.

"Pull!" she shouted.

Two seconds of silence – an eternity to wait – and then came the sound of the mechanical arm releasing the clay pigeon. Her eyes caught it at once, a beige spot in the clear blue sky, and she reacted without having to think. The rifle came up, trapping the pigeon in its sights, and it bucked in her hands as she pulled the trigger.

She didn't watch the pigeon explode; her attention turned to the second target, released the moment she hit the first one. It flew lower and faster, but she found it easily, and then it too was gone, nothing more than fragments of shattered clay falling into the water.

Only when she lowered the rifle did she again become aware of the ocean and the boat and her feet on the deck. For the span of six seconds, she and the rifle and the clay pigeons were all that had existed.

Bridget, sitting beside Robert and the throwing arm, applauded.

Robert asked, "Don't you ever miss?"

"Only when I want to," Laura answered with a smile.

"Another round, Miss Ashfield?" Beaufort asked. He stood at ease on the other side of the arm, his rifle reloaded and cradled against his waist. Of his ten shots, he'd hit seven. Robert's teasing aside, Laura had missed two of her own pigeons.

"Not today," she replied. "I understand it's bad taste to continually outshoot your host."

Beaufort took the comment in stride, nodding his head in assent. He turned to Major Windridge and said, "Shall we?"

Picking up her pack, Laura moved to the starboard side of the boat and sat down on a tarp-covered crate to clean her gun. They'd been playing the shooting game for the past two hours, and Laura wondered exactly how many boxes of clay pigeons Beaufort had brought along with him. He played like he had an endless supply.

As Beaufort and Windridge began their contest, shooting off the port bow, Bridget came and stood next to Laura, watching her work on the Winchester. This did not surprise Laura in the least. The moment they came aboard the Venture, Bridget attached herself to Laura like a shadow. Unlike their trip on the Juliette, Laura encouraged the close proximity, hoping that it would keep Bridget from getting into trouble.

Women boarded the Juliette often enough, befitting its status as a passenger ship. It was a long way from being a cruise ship, and the captain had taken on cargo, but the crew was comprised of well-trained individuals accustomed to dealing with passengers and being polite, particularly to the females on board.

Her experience on the Venture had, thus far, given Laura no reason to complain, but she had realized early on that she should not let down her guard where Bridget was concerned. None of the men paid either of them much interest, but they were only four days into a journey likely to last more than three weeks. Laura suspected that Bridget's curiosity could get the best of her, and she wanted to keep that from happening if at all possible. She'd grown accustomed to the near-constant talk. Because of their shared cabin, Bridget had taken up the habit of asking Laura as many questions as she could before drifting off to sleep.

Of greater concern to Laura was Beaufort. He'd made plans to meet up with Carl in San Francisco, and Laura assumed that they would organize a second attempt to get to the Island. By the time that went anywhere, she would be back in New York and her worries would be focused elsewhere. All they had to do was get to California first. She'd seen Beaufort chumming with certain members of the crew; she consoled herself with the knowledge that Englehorn had no desire to return to the Island that had killed half of his crew.

"Captain Englehorn is watching," Bridget said, nodding up to the wheelhouse.

"Is he?" said Laura without looking up from the gun.

The girl gave what she no doubt thought was a romantic little sigh. "I think he's ever so handsome, don't you?"

Laura suppressed a smirk; she didn't want to encourage Bridget's sentimental notions. "I suppose he's not the homeliest sailor I've ever seen."

"You're not attracted to him at all?" She sat next to Laura on the crate, facing toward the bridge – and thus the Captain as well.

"I hardly know the man. Physical appearance means nothing, Bridget. Handsome men can be ugly on the inside."

Bridget drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees. "I don't see how anyone with eyes like his could be a bad person."

Laura glanced over her shoulder at Englehorn; he stood at the rail, hands in his pockets, a thin kretek cigarette jutting between his lips. He stared back down at them, but she couldn't tell if he was looking at her or Bridget or the area in general. Slipping the Winchester into its leather case, she shouldered the gun and stood up. She hooked her arm through Bridget's and pulled her to her feet, leading her down the deck toward the stern of the ship.

"Stay away from him," she said. "Stay away from all of them. If you must walk about this ship, be sure you do it with your uncle or my brothers or me."

"Why?"

"To keep things from getting complicated."

Bridget began to turn her head to look up at Englehorn as they passed the wheelhouse, but Laura kept her moving. "He never smiles. Do you think he doesn't like us? That he's mad we're on his ship?"

"I doubt Englehorn has any feelings for us beyond complete indifference. We paid in full. But tramping is a hard life, and women are a worry that should remain on land."

"Because they're not strong enough for it?"

"Because men are easily distracted. Women aren't mean to board a ship like this."

Bridget considered this, biting her lip. "I don't think I understand."

"All the more reason for you to stay close to me."

"How did you get so wise?" Bridget asked, and there was a little more awe in her voice than Laura cared to hear. She didn't like the idea of being the object of hero worship.

"I've been on a tramp or two," Laura replied simply.

They arrived at the stern of the ship, where a group of sailors sat smoking and drinking from tin cups. John was among them, and he waved at the two women as they went to the railing. Laura ignored him; Bridget waved back enthusiastically. The sun was low in the sky off to the ship's starboard side, and the end of the day's work allowed some of the men a bit of leisure time. The Cockney shantyman – he had introduced himself to Laura as Aldo Starke – started up a broadside called "Jackaroe." He had a deep, strong baritone voice, and another sailor played a concertina as accompaniment.

Laura took her cigarette case out of her pocket and listened to the sailors sing, some of them a bit brokenly. The concertina was a bit grating, but she thought Starke's voice was better than most she had heard. She liked the words more than the actual melodies – if she had to listen to music, she preferred the sea shanties and broadsides because they had the most interesting lyrics. "Jackaroe" happened to be a song of which she was particularly fond, with its simple story of a girl who dresses as a boy to follow her love to war and thus saves his life.

"I know my waist is slender,
my fingers neat and small.
But it would not make me tremble
to see ten thousand fall.
Oh, to see ten thousand fall."

Music had never been much of an interest for her. The Ashfields prided themselves on their classical tastes, and they'd introduced their children to it early. Laura couldn't remember a time when she actually enjoyed it. In an attempt to overcome what she viewed as simple stubbornness on her daughter's part, Margaret had hired a piano teacher to tutor Laura. The sessions had ended after only one week, giving the ultimate conclusion that Laura had no musical talent locked away in her, as her mother hoped. The teacher further stated that the girl had the manners of a savage and requested that the Ashfields never again inquire after his services.

Not long after that, Sir Walter and Margaret decided that their two eldest children would benefit from boarding schools in England.

Well, here's to that, Laura thought as she lit her cigarette. Perhaps some things aren't meant to be mended.

The song ended with a flourish, and Bridget clapped with the joyous exuberance that only youth could produce. Starke took off his cap and bowed deeply to her.

"Do you take requests, Mr. Starke?" Laura called to the shantyman.

"And what would you have, love?" the big, burly man replied. He laughed loud and often, Laura had noted – the lines on his face were all laugh lines. The first day, he'd gone out of his way to make Laura and Bridget feel at home, and she'd treated him with distant civility at first. At dinner, he'd told her about his daughters in London, even showing her a picture of the two identical pig-tailed adolescents grinning widely. "Lillian and Rosalie, my angels of the land," he'd called them. She'd liked him ever since.

"Give me the tale of that brave Prophet's son, Abdul Abulbul Amir."

Starke winked at her as the man with the concertina started the song's melody. "Only if you sing along with me, love!" Some of the other sailors cheered her on, shouting encouragement to get her to sing.

"Please, mates!" John cried, feigning a dramatic plea. "Spare my sister – and spare your ears! She sings like an irate blue jay. I've heard dying animals make prettier sounds!"

The men roared with laughter, and they all began the tale of Abdul Abulbul Amir and his bloody battle with the Muscovite Ivan Skavinsky Skavar. Bridget gaped at them, positively scandalized, but Laura laughed too and leaned back against the rail.

"Oh," Bridget said, "you let him say such things about you?"

"Why not?" Laura replied with a shrug. "It's the truth. I'm the victim of a tone deaf ear, I'm afraid. Skiffle and sea shanties like Mr. Starke's are the only things that sound even mildly pleasing to me."

Bridget stared at her. "You mean, you don't even like classical pieces? Or popular songs like you hear on the radio?"

"It's all rubbish, as far as I'm concerned."

Bridget paused to consider this. When she spoke again, she asked, "Can I ask you a question, Miss Ashfield?

Of all the questions Bridget posed to her, Laura liked that one the least. She said, "I lay before you all the wisdom and knowledge I have gleaned from my years of experience."

The sarcasm didn't even faze the girl. "Will you teach me how to shoot a rifle?"

Laura twisted her head to blow out smoke so the wind wouldn't push it back into her face. It also made it easier to avoid making eye contact with Bridget. "I doubt your uncle would approve."

"That's why I didn't ask him."

"I'm not sure that I approve."

"Robert said that by the time you were my age, you were already proficient with a rifle."

"That's because I'd been handling one since my tenth birthday." She frowned and added, "Don't be so familiar with Mr. Ashfield; it's bad form."

"He told me I could call him by his Christian name," Bridget replied with a pout. "And you're dodging my request."

Laura had tired of this game, and now Bridget's mere presence irritated her. Taking hold of a rifle was serious business, even for simple love of the sport. And she would certainly not be so presumptuous to teach Bridget without speaking to Beaufort first. Much as she disliked the man, she wouldn't overstep her boundaries like that.

"Alright," she said, flicking her cigarette out into the water. "I'll tell you what my father told me when he started teaching me. When it comes to guns, there's one fundamental rule: don't ever point a gun at a man unless you intend to shoot him. And if you do intend to shoot him, you'd best make sure to kill him."

Watching Bridget's eyes widen in shock pleased Laura less than she thought it would. The girl's mouth worked up and down without producing any noise, and then she turned around and walked further down the rail, her hands clasped against her stomach. Well, Laura thought, she can't stay sheltered forever.

John broke away from the group and strolled toward her, sipping from his cup. "Are your purposefully trying to traumatize that poor girl, or have you just gotten meaner since I saw you last?"

"She's a good kid," Laura replied. "I just get tired of answering questions all the time."

"Ironic, considering the rapid fire you used to submit Dad to."

"He clearly had more patience."

John chuckled. "Dad's a saint."

Her eyebrow shot up, and she said, teasingly, "And I'm not?"

"You're not going to catch me that way," he said. He leaned against the rail next to her and glanced over at Bridget, who was inching close to them again, pretending not to eavesdrop. "So, the divorce finalized?"

She stared at him. "What?"

He held up his left hand and wiggled his fingers. The sun glinted off his wedding band.

"Oh," she said, looking down at her left hand. Even when she was married, she'd rarely worn her wedding ring – she had no other pieces of jewelry, and she often just forgot about it. "Yes, it was decided last December. It's odd; I don't even know where the ring is now. I never got used to wearing it."

"You never got used to being married either. How is Will now that he's a free man?"

Laura glanced at Bridget and decided she had nothing to hide. The divorce was common knowledge, after all. "I hear he's courting in London. Young, rich, and pretty is what my sources tell me."

"Your sources?" John asked.

"The Faraday girls."

"Of course. The British roses of India." He paused and looked thoughtfully at the sky. "Or is it the other way 'round?"

She smiled at him with no small amount of affection. "You're a right berk, you know that?"

He grinned back. "Ah, but I'm an amusing one, you have to give me that."

An outburst of commotion from the mid-section of the ship drowned out the sailors' singing, and a number of the men left the stern to jog up the deck to see what was happening. Some of the men started shouting, and they laughed in loud, harsh barks as they jostled with each other along the rail.

Bridget ran over to Laura and clutched her hand. "What's happening?"

"We'll see," she replied, and she followed John as he made his way up the deck.

The men moved aside to make way for them, and they laughed and joked amongst themselves. Laura doubted anything terrible had happened; the men showed no concern at all and apparently thought the whole thing nothing more than a joke. She held tight to Bridget's hand so the girl wouldn't get lost in the bustle.

"A stowaway!" Starke cried in response to a question that Laura hadn't heard. He used a beefy arm to clear the way for the women, and he grinned as they passed. "We ain't had one of them since Jimmy got on board." His whole body shook as he laughed.

With Starke's help, it took only a matter of seconds to get to the front of the crowd, and Laura watched as the first mate – a New England man by the name of Kendrie – dragged a short, hunching figure across the hold. On the other side of the ship, the Society looked on in silent surprise.

"Who is it?" Bridget asked.

"Good Christ," said Laura. "It's Carl."

And so it was, which was plain for all to see as Kendrie brought his prisoner to a stop before the gathered men. Denham squinted in the sunlight, trying to hold up a hand to shield his eyes, but Kendrie's grip on his shoulders hindered him. His face was stubbled, his hair uncombed, his clothes tattered. Laura almost felt sorry for him, but she couldn't help but wonder how much of it was an act. He'd been on the boat for four days; someone must have been bringing him food and water. The implications roused all the worries she thought she had put to rest.

Englehorn appeared on the deck, and true anger darkened his normally expressionless face. Men scattered from his path, and Denham cringed back into Kendrie. Bridget's grip on Laura's arm tightened.

"Where did you find him?" the Captain demanded.

"Skulking about in the hold," Kendrie replied. He gave Denham a shake and said, "Not so high and mighty are you now, eh, Mr. Director?"

"That's enough, Kendrie," Englehorn said. He put his hands on his hips and glared down at Denham. "What do you have to say for yourself, Denham?"

For the first time in the four years that Laura had known him, Denham apparently had nothing to say. He looked everywhere but at Englehorn, as though he hoped the captain would just forget about him if he stayed silent.

Beaufort crossed over the hold, his hands raised in a gesture of appeasement. "I feel responsible for this, Captain. Denham is in my employ, after all. If you like, I'll take him into my custody, keep him out of your way."

"I can handle this, Beaufort," snapped Englehorn without looking at the American.

"Whatever you say," replied Beaufort, keeping a respectable distance.

"Look," Denham said, attempting to compose himself. He smoothed down his hair, though Kendrie limited his movement. "I couldn't just sit around Bombay waiting for another ship; I've got a serial to finish. I swear, I've got no ulterior motives, no plots, no plans."

"Shut up," Englehorn said. "You expect me to believe you? After what happened last time?"

"That was an entirely different situation."

"Yes. Now I know better than to believe anything that comes out of your mouth. You'll be leaving my ship sooner than you think."

Carl snorted. "What are you going to do, throw me overboard?"

"Don't tempt me," Englehorn replied. "The first bit of land we see will be your port of call. If your luck hasn't finally run out, maybe you'll get a place halfway civilized."

Denham shut his eyes and sagged against Kendrie. He looked over at Beaufort, who gave him a subtle nod of his head. Laura wondered if Englehorn had noticed.

Kendrie said, "What'll we do with him in the meantime, skipper?"

"Put him back in the hold, and lock him in one of the cages. He doesn't come on deck for any reason. No one speaks to him without my permission."

"Aye, sir," Kendrie said, and he headed back to the hold, dragging Denham with him.

Englehorn turned to address his gathered crew. "No one goes near him. I find anyone talking with him, I'll lock up that man too. Now get about your business."

The men began to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves but unwilling to anger Englehorn any further. The Captain left the deck, heading back up to the wheelhouse. On the port side, Beaufort and the Society men quietly gathered together their sporting equipment.

"Christ, what a mess," said John.

Starke stared at the cargo hatch and shook his head as Kendrie emerged again. "No good can come of this. That man ain't nothing but trouble."

Bridget let go of Laura's hand and squared her shoulders. "I think it's terrible. The Captain has no right to lock Mr. Denham up like he's some sort of animal. Mr. Denham is a gentleman."

"Begging the miss's pardon," said Starke, lifting his cap to her, "but you must not know the whole story. I was there on that Island; I saw what Denham really is. He don't care about none but himself."

The two men excused themselves, leaving Laura and Bridget alone. They watched as Kendrie joined the Society men, engaging Beaufort and Robert in a conversation. Laura strained to hear them, but between the ship's noise and the wind, their voices could not reach her. Beaufort nodded his head several times, as though assuring the sailor.

"You were right," Bridget said.

Laura didn't look away from the men. "About what?"

"Captain Englehorn. He's not the man I thought he was. Only someone truly uncivilized would treat Mr. Denham like that."

Maybe, Laura thought as she watched Beaufort and Kendrie part company. But, then again, maybe not.

The broadside "Jackaroe" first appeared in print in the early 1900's, and its author is generally listed as anonymous. "Abdul Abulbul Amir" was written in 1877 by Percy Finch, possibly in reference to the Crimean War. Both were (and continue to be) popularsea shanties.