Under the Watch of the Rivers

Chapter OneStrabane, Ireland

It begins before a man knows it has begun.

—Edwin Beard – Undated

1718

The River Mourne ran cold under the thinning afternoon light.

Edwin was already in the shallows, hands in the water, waiting. They did not speak at first. They did not need to.

A cart moved somewhere beyond the hedgerow.

Edwin said, "Ye hear it too."

Thomas did not look at him. "Hear what?"

"The way folk talk."

Thomas had heard it—the pauses, the lowered voices, the way names stopped a conversation instead of starting one.

"They've tightened the rents again," Edwin said. "Porter's man came through. Rent had been called twice before the last was paid."

Thomas's jaw set. "Aye."

Coburn.

They did not say the name.

Edwin straightened, water slipping from his hands.

"Ye ever think about leavin'?" he said.

Thomas turned then.

"Just thinkin'," Edwin said. "Feels like the ground's shiftin'."

"When men start talkin' about leavin'," Thomas said, "it's because someone else has already decided they should."

Edwin nodded once.

He stepped back into the current and lifted the ash-wood spear, the iron nail lashed crooked at its tip.

"Hold still," Thomas said quietly. "Ye're stirrin' it."

"I am still."

"That's still, is it?"

They settled.

A trout slid from beneath a stone, its flank catching what little light broke through the mist.

"D'ye see it?" Thomas said.

"I see it," Edwin said. "Thought it was gone."

"Then take it. Easy."

Thomas guided his grip.

"Now."

Edwin struck.

Water broke upward. The spear bent. The nail held. The trout thrashed once, then lay still.

"I've got it—Thom—"

"Lift it."

The fish hit the bank hard. Their laughter carried—

Hooves cut through it.

Three riders came out of the road above them. Two Redcoats. And between them, a third rider.

Thomas saw him then.

Culver Coburn rode easy in the saddle, a ledger tucked beneath one arm.

"Well now," he said, reining in. "If it isn't the Baird whelps."

Thomas stepped forward.

"Poachin', are ye? On the landlord's river."

"We've fished here all our lives," Thomas said.

"Aye," Coburn said. "She had the same way of speaking."

Rebecca.

Edwin stepped forward. "Don't say her name."

Coburn spat into the water.

"And chose yer father instead."

He flicked his fingers.

"Take the fish."

"It's our supper!" Edwin said.

"Then starve."

The Redcoats moved.

"Run," Thomas said.

They were gone before the soldiers reached the bank.

The cottage came into view, low against the hillside, smoke lifting thin from the chimney.

John Baird stood outside.

An ash shepherd's crook, seasoned and worn smooth, rested easy in his hand.

"Ye're late," he said.

Thomas did not answer. He bent, hands on his knees, catching his breath.\ Edwin came in behind him, the spear still in his hand, the fish hanging from a chain he carried, water dripping steady to the floor.

"Coburn," Edwin said.

John's eyes moved between them.

"What passed?"

"They came down on us at the river," Thomas said. "Two Redcoats with him. Said we were poachin'."

Edwin shook his head. "He was lookin' for more than that."

John's grip tightened once on the crook.

"Aye," he said quietly. "He always is."

Thomas glanced back toward the rise.

"He'll come."

John studied him a moment longer—then nodded. "Inside." The door closed behind them.

Peat smoke held low in the room. Damp wool hung near the hearth. Herbs dried in small bundles from the beam.

Edwin set the spear by the wall and the fish on the table.

John noticed.

"Rebecca warned me," he said. "He wouldna let it rest."

Thomas straightened. "Then we should—"

Hoofbeats came again. Closer now. Not passing. Stopping.

No one spoke. The sound of leather, a bridle drawn tight. Boots in the yard.

John did not turn. "Stay behind me," he said.

The door opened hard against the wall.

Coburn entered without looking up, ledger already open in his hand.

Behind him came Bram Fetherston.

He filled the doorway. Broad through the shoulders, thick in the neck, clothes stained with old work and older things. The smell of him reached the room before he moved—sour wool, old sweat, damp leather.

His eyes moved once across the space and settled on Edwin—not curious, measuring.

"John Baird," Coburn said, reading as he stepped forward. "Rent overdue. Wool unsold. Fines added."

His eyes lifted.

"And now—poaching."

"Collect it," he said.

Bram lunged.

He drove Edwin hard into the wall. The table overturned, the fish striking the floor and sliding beneath it. The spear went with it, skidding free—shaft catching against the chair, the iron nail angled up.

Edwin twisted, slipping sideways out of Bram's grip—

"Hold him!"

Bram drove after him—his boot came down on the fish, slid—

His weight pitched forward. He tried to catch himself on the chair. It shifted under him—and turned him. The nail met him at the temple. A short, hard sound. He dropped where he was, breath failing him.

Edwin stood with his back against the wall, his hand pressed to the place where Bram had struck him. He did not understand what had happened. He saw Bram's fingers curled against the dirt. He saw the dark place opening in the hair beside his temple.

He waited for Bram to curse.

Bram did not curse.

"Bram," Thomas said. The name came out thin.

John moved then.

He crossed the little room in two steps and went down beside the man. His hand hovered once over Bram's shoulder, then lowered. He turned him only enough to see.

John did not speak.

That was when Edwin knew.

Coburn stared at the body. Then at the spear. Then at Edwin.

His face had lost its color.

"You killed him," he said.

No one answered. "You all saw it."

Still no one answered.

Thomas looked from Edwin to Bram and back again, and in that look Edwin saw the truth separating from what would be said of it.

"He slipped," Thomas said.

Coburn's eyes moved to him.

"He came at Edwin and slipped."

Coburn breathed once through his nose. The room had become something he had not intended. The paper was still in his hand, bent now where his fingers had tightened around it.

John stood slowly. His eyes did not leave Coburn. "You brought him into my house."

Coburn backed one step.

The back of his leg struck the overturned table.

The sound made Edwin flinch.

Coburn looked out the door. The soldiers had gone around the cottage, one toward the byre, the other down toward the lower shed, searching for more fish, hidden wool, anything that could be written into debt. Near enough to answer. Too far to have seen.

The fear went out of Coburn's face. Something else came in. "You killed him," he said again, but this time it was not shock.

It was decision.

John took one step toward him.

Coburn went out through the door. Not running. Not yet. But quickly enough that the cottage seemed to draw breath after he was gone.

For a moment all that remained was Bram on the floor, the overturned table, the fish in the dirt, and Edwin against the wall with no mark on him that could equal what had happened.

John looked at Thomas and Edwin. "You must go," he said.

Thomas did not move.

The crook leaned against the wall beside the hearth. His father's hand went to it—not to take it up, but to push it toward him. "Take it," he said.

Thomas stared at it. Of all things—

"Take it," his father said again, sharper now.

Thomas reached. Their hands touched on the wood, only for a moment.

His father did not let go at once. Thomas saw then how still he stood. "Keep him with ye," he said. "Promise me."

"I promise, Da," Thomas said.

Then he released it. "My boat's tied past the bend," John said. "Ye ken it. Take it. Go to Derry. Find Alexander McNutt. He'll be for Boston. Go with him. Don't stop."

He reached behind a loose stone in the hearth and drew out a small bag of coin. He pressed it into Edwin's hand and closed the boy's fingers around it. From beneath the bench he pulled the old boat-pack and shoved it against Thomas's chest.

"Both of ye. Go."

Edwin hesitated.

"Da—"

"Go!"

Thomas pulled him.

Outside, Coburn shouted for the soldiers.

They ran.

John watched them go.

Then he took up the spear from beside Bram's boot.

He stepped into the yard where Coburn could see it in his hand.

Only then did he run for the barn.

The barn door slammed behind him. He dragged a loose rail across it and set his shoulder to the wood.

"Open it!" Coburn shouted.

"Come take it," John said.

The first blow hit. Wood groaned. "Buyin' time?" Coburn said.

"Aye."

The rail shifted under his hands. He knew then it would not hold long. Long enough was all he had asked of it.

Another blow. "She chose ye," Coburn said. "I'll prove her wrong."

John leaned into the door. "She knew what ye were."

"Break it." The door shuddered. Then a pause. In it, John heard what he needed—running, farther now.

He smiled.

"Fire through," Coburn said.

The musket slid between the boards.

John saw it.

"Rebecca," he said.

The shot came. Thomas heard it. Edwin stumbled once in the dark.

"Thom—"

Thomas pulled him forward.

"Keep goin'." They ran.

Branches tore at their sleeves. The ground fell and rose beneath them.

"Thom—he's—"

Edwin's voice broke.

Thomas stopped.

Only for a moment. The path behind them lay open—dark, still. He could go back.

Edwin caught his sleeve. "Don't." And ran.

The river opened below them. The boat waited where the bank curved. Thomas gripped the crook and pulled Edwin after him. They did not slow. They did not look back.

The rise took the house from sight. Only the ground remained. Edwin tried once to turn. Thomas held him fast. And kept moving.

The yard had gone quiet. John Baird lay where he had fallen.

Coburn stepped forward only when the last of the movement had settled. He bent and lifted the ledger, opening it.

"Edwin Baird," he said, writing. "Assault upon the landlord's officer. Bram Fetherston dead by his hand."

The quill moved steadily.

"A hanging matter."

He closed the book. Only then did he look toward the river.

"Find them."

Chapter TwoThe Narrowing

The river dimmed to silver as it widened.

They let it carry them.

Mist held to the banks. The oars dipped only when the current turned them too close to reed or stone. Once the blade struck something unseen beneath the water, and Edwin flinched as though the sound had come from behind them.

Thomas did not speak.

The pack lay between his feet. His father's old boat-pack. Oatcake. A knife. A folded shirt. Wool wrapped tight against damp. The small leather flask. At the bottom, wrapped in linen, John's bone-handled awl and a twist of waxed thread

Find Alexander McNutt.

Da had said it with Bram on the floor behind him and Coburn gone into the night.

Go to Derry. Find Alexander McNutt. He'll be for Boston. Go with him. Don't stop.

Edwin still held the bag of coin. He had not opened his hand since John closed it around the leather. Near midnight he whispered, "Thom?"

Thomas looked toward the black line of the bank."

D'ye think Da sees us?"

Thomas did not turn.

He had not let himself think the word dead.

"Aye," he said.

Edwin bowed his head. The coin bag creaked in his fist.

For a while there was only the river. Then Edwin said, "We left him."

Thomas's hand tightened on the oar.

"We did."

"You pulled me."

"Aye."

Edwin looked at him then. In the dark Thomas could not see his face clearly, but he felt the accusation in it.

"I promised him," Thomas said.

Edwin said nothing.

The current took them on.

By dawn, the Mourne had broadened into the tidal Foyle. The sky paled low over the water. Behind them, the hills held their dark shape. Ahead, beyond the turn of the river, masts rose thin and bare, like winter trees stripped of leaf.

Derry.

Thomas brought the boat in where reeds gathered below a low bank. He stepped out first, water taking him above the ankle, and dragged the bow far enough in that Edwin could climb without slipping.

"Leave it?" Edwin asked.

Thomas looked at the boat. Da's boat. For a moment his hand stayed on the wet wood. Then he let go.

"Aye."

They climbed the bank and stood in frost-stiff grass. Smoke lifted from chimneys beyond the fields. A bell sounded once, faint through the morning air.

The crook was still in Thomas's hand. Men had known John Baird by it from Strabane to the lower roads.

Derry was river, wall, gate, and ships. Men went there when they had trade. Men went there when they had no other place left.

Thomas took up the pack.

Edwin looked back toward the boat.

"Come on," Thomas said.

They went toward the city by the field edge, not the road. Frost held in the grass where the sun had not reached. In open places the earth had begun to soften and take marks.

Edwin stopped first.

"Thom."

Thomas turned.

Edwin pointed to the broken frost behind them. Their own steps lay plain. Thomas stared at them.

"Aye," he said.

They stood too long.

Then Thomas stepped off the track and moved along the broken wall where stones had fallen into the grass.

"Where the ground holds less," he said.

Edwin nodded.

They kept to stone, root, and hard places. Behind them, the boat shifted in the reeds.

By first light, Coburn found it.

He stood above the bank and looked down without speaking. The boat lay half in water, half in reed, one oar still inside it. Mud showed where two boys had climbed out. Wet grass led up the bank and vanished toward the fields.

One of the men behind him spat.

"They've crossed through."

Coburn stepped down to the boat and laid one hand on the side.

Cold.

Water still moved from the keel in thin threads. The older one had pulled it in. The younger had climbed badly.

He could see it in the mud. The deeper marks. The broken grass. The hurry.

The younger one would tire first.

Thomas and Edwin kept low where they could.

The nearer they came to Derry, the more the land narrowed around them. Wild growth thinned. Fields pressed closer. Stone walls held the shape of farms. A cart passed far off, its wheels grinding in frozen ruts.

Thomas waited in brush until the sound faded.

Edwin's hands were red with cold.

"You should take the pack awhile," Thomas said.

Edwin shook his head. Thomas looked at him.

"I can," Edwin said.

"I didna ask if ye could."

Edwin lowered his eyes.

Coburn looked toward the smoke beyond the fields. "Derry," he said.

The men looked where he looked. "They'll seek a ship," one said.

Coburn straightened. Mud had dried on his coat from the night's work. His face showed nothing of it.

"Then we take the road?"

"No."

Coburn looked once more at the prints.

"They'll fear the road."

He climbed the bank. "We cut them before it."

Thomas took the bag of coin from Edwin and put it inside the pack. Edwin let it go as if he had forgotten he held it.

Thomas pulled the strap across his chest and set the crook in his other hand.

"Keep your breath," he said.

They went on.

Once they crossed a narrow run, stepping stone to stone. Edwin's foot slipped. Water splashed high against his leg. He caught himself against the bank and stayed there, breathing hard.

Thomas turned back.

"Can ye walk?"

Edwin nodded.

"Then walk."

Edwin looked up at him.

For a moment Thomas thought he would speak again of John.

He did not.

Coburn came upon the run not long after. The marks ended at the water. He did not curse. He stepped down into the stream and stood where the current moved around his boots. Upstream, nothing. Downstream, a faint scrape showed where a foot had slipped against stone.

He followed it slowly. At the far bank he stopped.

One of the men came behind him. "They're close."

Coburn looked at the broken earth where the younger one had climbed. "Yes."

He rose and turned his head toward the city. "Faster now."

Thomas and Edwin climbed away from the run and came into thinner trees. Beyond them, through the branches, Derry showed itself in pieces: a roofline, pale wall, dark masts beyond.

Edwin stopped.

Thomas saw them too. "Not yet," he said.

A sound carried from behind them. Not close. Not far enough.

Thomas took Edwin by the sleeve and drew him down behind a tangle of winter brush. They waited. A crow lifted from the field beyond the wall. Edwin's breath came too hard.

Thomas put two fingers against his own lips.

The sound passed to their right: a cart on the road below, wheels striking stone, a man cursing at the horse.

Only a cart.

Still Thomas waited until the sound had gone thin. Then he pulled Edwin up.

Coburn heard the cart too. He stopped at the edge of a field and looked toward the road. His men waited behind him. One shifted his weight, impatient.

Coburn did not move.

The cart rolled on toward Derry, its wheels cutting the frozen ruts. No shout came from it. No boy ran from the brush.

Coburn looked back to the ground.

The prints had thinned where the stones began.

He crouched once, touched the frost broken near a wall stone, and rose. "They're keeping to the hard edge."

One of his men looked toward the road. "Then they'll miss the lower lane."

"No," Coburn said. His eyes went to the wall line, then the trees beyond it, then the city. "They'll think it safer."

Thomas and Edwin moved along the wall where stones had fallen into the grass. In places they had to climb. In places the wall dropped low enough to step over. Every time Edwin lifted his wet leg, the cloth dragged against him.

Thomas heard it. The small weight of water. The small delay.

He slowed without seeming to.

Edwin noticed. "I can keep up."

"I said nothing."

"You slowed."

Thomas looked at him. Edwin's face was white with cold and anger.

"I'm not a child."

Thomas looked toward Derry.

"No," he said. "Not now."

The words struck harder than he meant them to. Edwin looked away.

They went on.

Coburn found the place where the wall had been climbed. Not much.

A smear of mud on a stone. A thin line where wet cloth had brushed lichen. A broken stem still shaking in the wind.

He stood over it.

The younger one again. He did not smile.

"Close," one of his men said.

Coburn looked toward the wall line. "Closer."

Derry was no longer only masts and smoke. It was noise now. Gulls, wheels, men calling near the water, iron striking stone.

Thomas quickened despite himself.

Find Alexander McNutt.

The words had held through the night. They were not comfort. They were a task. A thing a man could do if his feet kept under him long enough.

Edwin heard the harbor too. "Thom."

"I know."

The track bent toward a lane where two walls narrowed the way before falling open toward the lower fields. Stone rose shoulder-high in places, lower where winter and years had broken it. Mud lay frozen in the shade. At the far end, light opened. Past it, the road fell toward the harbor.

Thomas could smell the river again, broad and salt-touched. They entered between the walls.

Behind them, Coburn came to the broken wall above the lower field.

He stopped long enough to listen.

Harbor noise.

Cart wheels.

Gulls.

A boy's breath would not carry through that. He pointed to one of his men. "Over."

The man climbed the wall and dropped on the far side. Coburn pointed to the other. "Lower end. Cut the road."

The second man went.

Coburn waited until both were moving. Then he stepped into the lane ahead of the boys.

Thomas had nearly reached the bend when Coburn came from behind the wall. He stopped so sharply Edwin struck against him.

Coburn stood in the road ahead. His coat was torn at one cuff. Mud had dried along one boot. He was breathing harder than he wished them to see.

"That is far enough," he said.

Thomas shifted the pack higher and moved Edwin behind him.

Coburn's eyes went to the crook in Thomas's hand.

Then to Edwin.

Then back again.

"Give me that."

Thomas did not move.

Coburn stepped forward.

Thomas set his feet.

One of Coburn's men came over the wall behind them and dropped into the lane. Another appeared at the lower end, cutting off the road.

Edwin turned and saw him.

The sound he made was small and gone almost before it left him.

Coburn smiled without warmth.

"You have had a long night."

Thomas stared at him.

"Your father should have answered when he was asked."

Thomas's grip tightened on the crook.

Coburn saw it.

"Aye," he said softly. "There it is." He came in quickly then. Not at Thomas. At Edwin.

His hand closed around Edwin's arm and jerked him forward. Edwin stumbled, striking his shoulder against Coburn's coat.

Thomas moved at once.

The man behind him caught the pack strap and hauled backward. The strap cut hard across Thomas's chest. He twisted and drove an elbow into the man's ribs, but the grip held.

"Leave him," Thomas said.

Coburn held Edwin fast. "You'll answer for what was done in that house."

Thomas pulled again. The strap bit deeper.

Edwin tried to wrench free.

Coburn struck him once across the side of the head. Not hard enough to drop him. Hard enough to still him.

Thomas made a sound then that was almost a word.

A voice from above the wall said, "Take your hand from the lad."

Coburn turned.

Men stood where the wall had fallen low. Another came from the ditch beyond them with a mattock over one shoulder. They were not soldiers. Their coats were patched. One had river mud to the knees. Another held a cart whip loose in one hand. One more stood farther back near the road, watching toward Derry.

Coburn did not release Edwin.

"This is not your concern."

The oldest of the men looked at him. Then at Thomas. His eyes lowered to the crook. He went still.

No one spoke.

The man climbed down from the wall slowly, as though sudden movement would dishonor the thing he had recognized. His gaze stayed on the wood in Thomas's hand. On the worn curve. On the place where John's palm had darkened it through years of use.

"John Baird's," he said.

Thomas did not answer.

The man looked from the crook to Thomas's face. Whatever question he had meant to ask did not leave his mouth.

He turned back to Coburn. "Let them pass."

Coburn's grip tightened on Edwin's arm.

"They are wanted."

"For what?"

"Murder."

The word lay in the lane.

The old man looked once at Edwin, then at Thomas, then again at the crook. "No," he said.

Coburn's face hardened.

"You did not hear me."

"I heard ye."

"This is Crown business."

The man with the cart whip smiled without warmth."Then take it to the Crown."

More men had stopped now at the lower end of the lane.

Not many. Enough.

A carter beside his horse. Two laborers from the ditch path. A boy no older than Edwin watching until one of the men pushed him back.

Coburn looked toward Derry. The road widened there, and people were already turning. His men waited.

Thomas could feel the pack strap pulling against him. He could feel Edwin's fear as if it were his own.

The old man took one step closer. "I said let them pass."

Coburn looked at him for a long moment. Then he released Edwin.

Edwin stumbled back. Thomas tore the pack free from the man behind him and caught Edwin by the sleeve.

"Go," the old man said.

Thomas did not wait. He drove Edwin past the men and down the lane toward the widening road. Edwin nearly fell once, but Thomas held him up and kept moving.

Behind them Coburn took one step.

The man with the mattock lowered it across the lane. "Not here," he said.

Coburn stopped.

Thomas and Edwin ran.

The road opened beneath them.

Derry rose around them in sound and motion. Carts blocked the way. Barrels rolled toward the quay. Men shouted over rope and cargo and tide. Women turned at the sight of the crook and looked quickly away.

Every face seemed to look too long.

Thomas did not look back.

Edwin did once.

At the mouth of the lane, the men still stood across the road. Coburn was behind them, his dark coat still in the morning light.

Then a cart moved between them, and Edwin lost sight of him. They ran until the crowd swallowed them.

At the lane, Coburn stood without moving. The old man had not lowered his gaze. For a moment no one spoke. Then Coburn looked past him, toward the harbor and the masts.

"Names are slow things," he said. "But they keep."

The old man did not answer.

Coburn turned from the road. His men followed.

Down by the quay, Thomas slowed at last. Edwin bent over, hands on his knees, drawing breath in broken pulls. The mark from Coburn's hand had reddened on his arm.

Thomas looked at it. Then away.

"Can ye go on?"

Edwin nodded.

Thomas adjusted the pack. The crook was still in his hand.

They moved along the quay, keeping near crates and carts where the crowd was thickest. Families stood with all they owned. Women held children close. Men argued over passage. Sailors shouted from deck to shore and back again. The tide slapped black against the hulls.

Thomas searched every face.

"Who are we looking for?" Edwin asked.

"Alexander McNutt."

"I dinna ken his face."

"I do."

Thomas had seen him twice before. Once near Strabane, standing beside John after the speaking was done. Once at market, when Alexander had come to their house afterward and sat by the hearth with his hat in his hands.

Da had trusted him. That had to be enough.

They passed a wagon loaded with chests. A woman turned and looked at the crook, then quickly away.

Thomas kept moving.

Near a stack of crates marked for loading, a man stood with his wife, their daughter, and a small boy. He had one hand on a tied bundle and the other on the shoulder of the child beside him. His wife was speaking to a sailor. The daughter looked toward the river, pale and silent.

Thomas stopped.

Alexander McNutt turned at the sound of feet on stone.

For a heartbeat he did not know them. Then his face changed.

Not at once.

Not enough for those around him to see.

His eyes went first to Thomas's face. Then to Edwin's bruised cheek. Then to the crook.

He asked no question in the open street.

Thomas heard Da's voice again.

Find Alexander McNutt.

He'll be for Boston.

Alexander stepped closer. "Come with me," he said.

Thomas stood where he was, breathing hard.

Alexander lowered his voice. "Now, lad."

Thomas looked once behind him, toward the road from which they had come.

Then he took Edwin by the sleeve again and followed.

Chapter ThreeFlight

Thomas would not let me look.

—Edwin Beard – 1718

Alexander McNutt did not take them into the crowd to hide.

He took them through it.

Thomas followed close, one hand on Edwin's sleeve, the crook tight against his side. Carts pressed in from both directions. Men shouted over barrels and rope. Women stood with bundles at their feet and children clinging to their skirts. The harbor was already awake with departure.

The tide had turned.

Martha McNutt saw them first.

Her hand went to her mouth, but Alexander gave one small shake of his head, and she stopped herself. Jean stood beside her, holding the hand of the little boy. Her eyes went from Edwin's bruised cheek to Thomas's face, then to the crook.

Alexander leaned close to Martha. "Keep them with you." Then he looked at Thomas."Behind the barrels. Do not move unless I call ye."

Thomas nodded.

Martha drew Edwin toward her, but he held to Thomas's sleeve.

Alexander looked once down the quay. Coburn had not yet reached them.

"Tell me," he said.

Thomas swallowed. "There was trouble at the house."

Alexander's eyes did not move.

"Bram Fetherston is dead," Thomas said.

Martha closed her eyes. Alexander's face did not change. Not enough for the crowd to see.

"How?" "He came at Edwin. Slipped. The spear—"

Thomas could not finish. Edwin stared at the boards beneath his feet.

"Coburn said I killed him," Edwin whispered.

Alexander looked at him then. "And John?"

Thomas's hand tightened on the crook.

"He held them off."

Martha's hand went to Jean's shoulder. No one asked whether John had followed.

The answer was in the crook.

Alexander breathed once through his nose. "Behind the barrels," he said again.

Thomas moved Edwin into the shadow beside stacked casks and coils of rope. A sailcloth had been thrown over one pile. Thomas crouched low and pulled Edwin down beside him. The crook lay between them, hidden beneath the edge of the cloth.

Alexander stepped away.

A stout vessel stood moored two ships down, her deck crowded with men at work. Barrels were lashed near the rail. A sailor cursed at a coil of rope fouled underfoot. Above the stern, the name was painted in dark letters.

The Robert.

A gray-streaked man stood near the gangplank, lean and weather-cut, his coat open despite the cold. He turned before Alexander called to him, as though he had already been counting every face that came too near his ship.

"Captain Kerr," Alexander said.

Kerr looked first at Alexander, then past him toward Martha and the children.

Then toward the barrels.

His eyes narrowed. "More passengers?"

"Two lads."

"Listed?"

"No."

"That isna an answer."

"It is the one I have."

Kerr looked toward the river.

"The tide willna wait for your trouble."

Alexander stepped nearer, lowering his voice.

Thomas could not hear all of it over the harbor noise. He heard John Baird. He heard Bram. He heard Coburn. He heard dead.

Kerr's face did not change while Alexander spoke. When it was done, he looked out across the harbor. He looked toward the city wall. He remembered Derry not as a city, but as a shutting of gates.

Other ships lay along the quay, each one taking on the last of its people and stores. Kerr's jaw tightened. "They'll search the ships."

"Aye."

"And hang trouble round any man who gives them deckroom."

"Aye."

Kerr looked toward the barrels.

Thomas could not tell whether he had seen him.

Then Kerr's eyes returned to Alexander.

"John Baird," he said.

"Aye."

Kerr did not ask where John was. He did not ask what had been done. After a moment he turned and called to a sailor near the main hatch. "Shift the after barrels. Leave a man's width behind them."

The sailor stared. Kerr's voice hardened. "Now."

The man moved.

Alexander looked back toward the road.

A shout rose farther down the quay. Not panic yet.

Recognition.

Coburn had reached the harbor.

He came out from the road with two men behind him and another limping a little from the chase. His coat was marked with mud. He stopped at the first vessel and looked up at the deck.

Then he climbed aboard.

Kerr watched him.

"He doesna know which one," Alexander said.

"No," Kerr said. "But he knows tide."

The ship nearest the road was searched first. Coburn did not waste time with courtesy. Men were ordered aside. A hatch opened. A woman shouted when one of his men shoved past a stack of bedding.

Nothing came of it.

Coburn came down the gangplank and moved to the next ship.

The delay should have comforted no one.

It did not.

Jean stood beside Martha, watching from behind the cart. Alexander came down from the gangplank and bent close to her.

"Jean."

She looked up at him.

Alexander did not point at once. He turned as if only watching the loading, his eyes moving over the quay, the wagons, the men bent under sacks, the ropes coiled in wet heaps beside the posts.

"Do you see the rope merchant?"

Jean followed his gaze.

Near the end of the quay, beneath a patched awning, a broad man stood beside coils of tarred rope stacked waist-high. He was speaking with two sailors and cutting a length with a hooked knife. A boy worked beside him, binding the smaller coils with twine.

Jean nodded.

"William McClintock," Alexander said. "He'll know what I mean."

Martha turned sharply. "Alexander."

He did not look away from Jean. "Go there," he said. "Tell him I need noise on my hand."

Jean swallowed. "What kind of noise?"

"Names," Alexander said. "Thomas Baird. Edwin Baird. From three places if he can manage it. Not together. One shout from near the wagons. One from the rope piles. One from the gate road."

Jean looked toward the road, then back to him.

Alexander lowered his voice.

"When I lift my hat, they shout. Not before. They shout as if they have seen the boys running toward the town gate."

Martha stepped closer. "She is a child."

"Aye," Alexander said. "That is why he will not watch her."

Martha's face tightened.

Alexander looked at her then, only briefly.

"Coburn is looking for men to stop him. Men with hands free. Men who stand too straight. He will not mark a girl crossing to buy cord."

Jean stood very still. Her hand had gone to the front of her dress, twisting the cloth once before she stopped herself.

"Not near him," Martha said.

"No," Alexander said. "Not near him. Not close. Through the crowd and back. You do not speak to Coburn's men. You do not look at them. You go to McClintock, say what I told you, and come back by the barrels."

He glanced once toward the place where Thomas and Edwin crouched.

"They must think the boys are making for the gate."

Jean's face had gone pale, but she nodded again.

"What should they shout?"

Alexander bent nearer, speaking low enough that only she and Martha could hear.

"First: There they go."

Jean repeated it under her breath.

"Then: Baird lads. Toward the gate."

"Baird lads," Jean said. "Toward the gate."

"And if McClintock asks who sent ye?"

"You did."

"No."

Jean looked confused.

Alexander's face hardened, but not at her. "You say, 'For the Mourne.'"

Martha's eyes moved to him.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Martha said, quieter, "He will understand that?"

"He will."

Jean looked from one adult to the other. Alexander put one hand on her shoulder. Not long.

"You walk," he said. "Do not hurry until you are coming back. If anyone speaks to you, you are looking for twine for your mother."

Martha drew in a breath.

"Jean."

The girl looked at her.

Martha wanted to say no. It was plain in her face. But the boys were behind the barrels, and Coburn was moving from ship to ship with his eyes searching every man who stood between him and the water.

Martha reached into her apron and took out a small coin. She pressed it into Jean's palm. "For the twine," she said.

Jean closed her fingers around it. Then she stepped away from the cart.

Alexander watched without turning his head.

Jean moved into the crowd with her eyes lowered, small among the legs of men and the wet hems of women's skirts. A sailor nearly brushed her aside with a coil over his shoulder, but she slipped past him. She stopped once where a cart blocked the way and waited like any child told not to run.

Coburn did not look at her.

His eyes were on the men. On the ships. On Alexander.

Jean reached the rope merchant's stall.

William McClintock glanced down when she came near. He was a thick man with tar black in the cracks of his hands. His knife paused halfway through the rope.

Jean lifted the coin.

"My mother needs twine," she said.

McClintock cut a short length and set it on the coil before her.

Jean leaned closer.

"My father says he needs noise on his hand."

McClintock's face did not change.

Only his eyes moved. "To where?"

"The town gate."

"When?"

"When he lifts his hat."

McClintock looked past her, once, toward Alexander. Then toward the quay. He saw Coburn. He saw the Robert. He saw the boys were not where the shouting would send men looking.

"What words?"

Jean's voice nearly failed, but she found it.

"There they go. Baird lads. Toward the gate."

McClintock pushed the twine toward her.

"And who is your father?"

Jean closed her hand around it.

"For the Mourne."

The knife stilled in McClintock's hand. Then he took the coin and made the bargain look finished.

"Back to your mother, then."

Jean turned.

As she moved away, McClintock spoke without raising his voice to the sailor nearest him. The sailor looked toward the wagons. Then another man took up a coil and walked toward the gate road as if he had been sent there all morning.

Jean came back by the barrels, quicker now but not running.

Martha caught her and drew her close.

Alexander did not thank the girl.

Not yet.

His eyes had gone to Coburn.

Coburn came off the second ship angry. A captain followed him down, protesting too loudly. Coburn ignored him and turned toward the next vessel.

For a moment his gaze swept across the quay and caught on the Robert.

Alexander climbed back aboard before Coburn reached it.

"He's coming," he said. Kerr nodded once.

"Stand where passengers stand. Say nothing unless spoken to."

Alexander moved beside Martha near the rail. Martha kept the boy close. Jean stayed under her arm, the twine still in her hand.

Thomas and Edwin crouched behind the barrels below, hidden by the cart and the shadow of the ship's side. Thomas's hand was over Edwin's wrist. The crook lay beneath the sailcloth.

Coburn reached the gangplank.

Kerr stood at the top of it.

"This vessel is preparing to cast off," Kerr said.

"This vessel will wait."

"No vessel waits on a man who has no command of tide or wind."

Coburn stepped onto the plank.

"I have command enough."

Kerr did not move.

Coburn came aboard and looked past him, taking in the deck, the passengers, the open lines, the men waiting near the ropes.

"I am looking for two lads," he said. "Thomas and Edwin Baird."

Alexander's hand tightened on the rail.

Kerr said, "There are many lads in Derry."

"These came aboard with a crook."

Kerr's face remained still.

"A crook?"

"A shepherd's crook."

Kerr looked toward a coil of rope at his feet as if deciding whether the man was worth answering.

"This is a ship, sir. Not a pasture."

Coburn stepped closer.

"They are fugitives."

"Then you should search the road."

"I have searched enough road."

Kerr's voice lowered.

"And now ye search my deck?"

"I search where I please."

For a moment the harbor noise seemed to draw back from them. Kerr did not yield the space between them.

"You may look," he said. "You may not break cargo. You may not delay my sailing past the tide. And you may not lay hand on my passengers without naming law before witnesses."

Coburn smiled.

"Witnesses are easily found."

"Aye," Kerr said. "So are crowds."

Coburn's eyes sharpened.

He turned to his men.

"Below."

One of them moved toward the hatch.

Thomas saw him from behind the barrels. Edwin stopped breathing.

The sailor at the hatch looked at Kerr.

Kerr did not move.

The hatch began to lift.

Alexander watched Coburn. Coburn watched Kerr. Jean's breath shook under Martha's arm.

Alexander waited until the hatch was open enough for the man to put one boot on the ladder.

Then he lifted his hat.

Not high.

Only enough.

At the rope piles a man shouted, "There they go!"

Heads turned.

Near the wagons another voice rose.

"Baird lads!"

Then from the gate road, louder:

"Toward the gate! They're for the gate!"

The quay broke open.

Men turned. Women lifted children. Someone shouted, "There! Two lads by the gate!" Someone else cried, "Past the rope merchant!"

Coburn spun toward the rail.

"Where?"

"Town gate!" a man yelled.

"Past the rope merchant!"

A wave of movement broke along the quay. Heads turned away from the Robert. A carter cursed as people shoved past his horse. Someone knocked over a small crate and apples rolled underfoot.

Coburn looked back at the hatch.

Then toward the crowd.

The calculation cost him a breath.

Only one.

"Out," he snapped.

His man stepped back from the ladder.

Coburn pointed to the quay.

"After them."

His men ran down the gangplank.

Coburn followed two steps, then stopped and turned back to Kerr.

"This is not done."

Kerr held his gaze.

"No," he said. "I expect not."

Coburn went down the gangplank and into the crowd.

Alexander turned at once.

"Now."

Thomas pulled Edwin up.

They moved not toward the gate, but down between the barrels and the ship's shadow, where the gangplank waited.

Kerr stepped aside only as much as he had to.

"Quickly."

Thomas pushed Edwin ahead of him.

They crossed the plank low, half-hidden by men shifting cargo toward the rail. A sailor took Edwin by the shoulder and turned him hard toward the main hatch. Thomas followed with the crook under his coat.

"Below," Kerr said.

The cargo hold breathed up salt, tar, damp wood, and old fish.

Edwin went pale. Thomas tightened his grip on his sleeve.

"If ye make a sound," Kerr said, "ye may as well climb back up and give him your names."

Thomas nodded. They climbed down.

The darkness took shape slowly. Barrels, crates, rope, sacks, the curved belly of the ship around them. Thomas kept the crook close against his ribs. Edwin crouched beside him with both hands over his mouth, trying not to gag.

Above them, the hatch shifted.

This time it closed.

On deck, Kerr turned.

"Cast off."

The words snapped across the ship.

Men moved. Lines dropped. A sailor kicked a coil clear. Canvas cracked overhead. The Robert shifted underfoot, first with a groan, then with a living pull as the river took her.

"Push her off!"

Poles struck stone. Wood scraped. A man shouted from the quay that they were not clear. Kerr shouted back, and no one mistook the meaning.

The Robert moved.

In the hold, Edwin lifted his head.

"Thom?"

Thomas did not answer at first. He listened to the boards, to the change in the water against the hull, to the sudden groaning shift of barrels as the ship took motion.

"We're moving," Edwin whispered.

Thomas found his hand in the dark.

"Aye."

Above, Derry began to slide away.

Coburn returned to the quay too late.

The false cry had spent itself near the town gate. Men shrugged. No boys had been found. No one knew who had first seen them. No one could agree which way they had run.

By the time Coburn forced his way back through the crowd, the Robert had drawn off from the stones.

He stood at the edge of the quay.

Kerr stood on deck, one hand on the rail. For a moment the two men faced one another across the widening water. Coburn said something, but the river took most of it.

Kerr did not answer.

The Robert eased into the channel among other departing vessels, sails finding wind in fits and pulls. Behind her, another ship was still taking on passengers, men shouting over a late cart and a woman crying out for a missing bundle.

Coburn turned his head toward it.

The George and Anne.

Her gangplank was still down. Her master was arguing with a man over papers. A line of passengers waited in disorder beside the crates, the whole vessel held in the last confusion before departure.

Coburn looked back at the Robert.

Then at the George and Anne.

For one moment the two ships held his life between them — one already leaving, one not yet gone.

But he had men behind him, a dead man in Strabane, and a report that would not write itself.

He could not board as he was.

Not yet.

Not with the morning's blood still unanswered.

He fixed the name in his mind.

The George and Anne.

Then he turned from the quay.

"Back," he said.

His men followed.

The Robert slipped farther into the Foyle.

The harbor noise thinned behind them. The city wall drew back. The masts became a forest of lines and canvas, then separated as the current took each ship into its own course.

Alexander came to the hatch only when Kerr allowed it. He crouched and lifted the board enough to look down.

"Hold fast," he said. "Not yet."

Edwin's face tilted toward the light.

"Did he see us?"

"No."

Thomas looked up from the dark.

"Will he follow?"

Alexander did not answer quickly.

"He will try."

Then the hatch lowered again.

The ship moved on.

Above, Kerr drove her through the narrow water while the tide served. Twice men shouted soundings. Once the hull scraped near shallows and every body aboard went still until she pulled free. The river drew in around them, dark and turning, with banks rising cold on either side.

Derry fell behind.

Edwin tried once to climb high enough to see through the hatch seam, but Thomas caught him by the coat and pulled him back.

"No."

"I only—"

"No."

Edwin stopped.

Thomas held him there in the dark. He would not let him look.

Behind them, the harbor broke into distance.

Ahead, the river opened toward the sea.