'Hush now, don't make no noise or we'll have the British marines down on us.'
Jake lifted his head to consciousness, the voices taking shape before him. Alison and the old pirate were huddled cross-legged in the heavy mud of the shore a half-foot away.
'Jake, Jake, are you all right?' Alison asked.
'I don't know,' he told her. 'I seem to have all my arms and legs, at least.'
'I repent, sir, of my perfidy,' declared the old pirate. 'I was tempted by gold and an evil man.'
'The pirate saved us both, Jake,' said Alison.
Even if Jake had been inclined at the moment to hold a grudge, his body ached too badly for him to do more than sit up. He examined his leg. A ball had ripped clear through the side of his thigh, taking a piece of the skin and bruising the muscle, but missing anything of importance. He took off his shirt and ripped part of the sleeve to fashion a bandage.
Alison, seeing that he winced when moving his arm, got up and examined his back and shoulder.
'You have a wound,' she said. 'God, I can see the ball right in your skin. It looks like a rock.'
Jake took a hard breath, then flexed his muscle. It felt as if a giant were pressing his thumb to it. The fact that the wound was not deep was fortunate, but the bullet must be removed and the wound sealed.
'Do you still have your knife?' he asked her when he finished tying the bandage on his leg.
'Yes.' Her answer was clipped by the shivers of her teeth; despite the mist, the night still had a hard chill.
Jake got slowly to his feet, testing his balance by hobbling through the heavy mud to the waterline where the old pirate had gone to keep watch. 'I need you to start a small fire,' he told him.
'Daren't do that, captain,' said the man. 'The sentries on the prison ships will see it right away, and send a patrol. They've already heard us talking.'
'Where are we?'
'Wallabout Bay, in the mud flats.'
'The burial grounds.'
'Aye. Under the protection of the ghosts, I daresay.'
No account of the perfidy of the British during this war can miss the horrors persecuted on those imprisoned aboard the
whose hulking hull loomed nearby. The soft murmur of horror that drifted across the water was not the lament of ghosts but the groan of suffering.
Jake told the old pirate to gather some driftwood quickly; they must start a fire no matter the consequences. Indeed, he hoped the British might send someone to investigate, for therein lay their salvation; it would be difficult to get off the mud flats except by water, and they dare not wait until morning when they would surely be discovered.
After the pirate had piled enough driftwood for a modest fire, Jake undid the calked compartment in his money belt where his flint lay and gave it to the old man.
'Old flint won't spark,' complained the pirate after a few tries.
'You almost have it,' urged Jake.
'Here now, the ghosts helped us,' said the man as the fire sparked up.
'Get more wood, I want them to see the blaze,' said Jake.
Already there were shouts and activity on the prison, ships. The old pirate, not quite sure what Jake was up to, nonetheless began to hustle across the thick mud, seeking out more pieces of wood.
'Take the knife, Alison, and hold the blade in the fire.' Jake dropped to his knees, keeping his eye on the water. He saw the outline of a longboat setting out from one of the moored ships. 'When it burns red, use the tip to pry out the bullet, then sear the sides of the wound.'
'But it will hurt you.'
'It will hurt a hell of a lot more if you don't. Hurry, before that patrol reaches us. Be brave, girl.'
Alison held the knife into the flames as the pirate continued to carry and pile on the driest driftwood he could find. She steadied the blade until it was so hot it was difficult to hold, even with her shawl as a makeshift glove.
Alison bit her lip as she worked the tip against Jake's flesh. He fastened his teeth on a part of his coat, trying desperately not to cry out with the intense pain.
The offending bullet popped out with a hiss; she closed her eyes and ran the flat of the knife around the wound.
Jake collapsed forward on the ground, but slowly willed himself back to his feet. Alison helped him up, tears in her eyes.
'Are you all right?'
'It hurts like the devil's own poker,' he admitted. 'But that's a good sign. It's the infection dying. Come on now, I have to meet this shadow. You stay back there on the firmer ground and say nothing, no matter what happens. Do you still have the Segallas?'
'It's soaked.'
'Hold on to it anyway. Perhaps you can bluff someone, if it comes to that.' Jake turned to the old pirate; before he could say anything, the man was helping her back up the beach.
While the others retreated, Jake warmed himself in front of the flames. He took the dueling pistols from their protected bag and case, cocking them carefully and leaving them within his reach. He would use them as a last resort.
The pain from the cauterized wound was starting to retreat. His heart was beating regularly now — or as close to regularly — as could be expected, given the danger. Jake took the vial of sleeping powder from his pocket and loosened the cap, readying himself as the British boat nosed into the mud flat at the water's edge.
Four men had been sent to investigate the fire. A pair stayed with the boat; the other two fixed their bayonets and then splashed across the water into the thick mud, cursing at the muck.
Jake stood behind the fire, visible only as a dim shadow in the darkness and fog. 'About time,you got here,' he shouted. 'I have been waiting all night.'
'Who are you?' asked the lead soldier, about twenty yards away. 'Declare yourself.'
'Don't you recognize me?' said Jake. 'You buried me here just yesterday.'
'Buried — who are you, rebel?'
Jake held his arms out, as if welcoming them forward. He walked through the fire. There was no danger of his soaked clothes catching as he passed through quickly, but the effect was impressive.
'Jesus, Fred, he's a ghost.'
'Indeed — and I am the Queen's mother.'
The unsuperstitious Fred advanced toward Jake, who held out his hands in supplication and continued forward. The man reared back to slap down the rebel figure with the butt of his gun — and then tottered over to the ground, felled by a fistful of tossed sleeping powder.
'Run for your lives!' said the second man, turning and running back toward the boat. 'It's a goddamn ghost.'
He might have asked his companions how many ghosts would have stopped to scoop up a musket. Jake pushed his bruised leg forward, trying to hurry after the Britons before they could escape into the water. For a moment he worried that his plan had worked a little too well. The scared redcoats might row away before he could douse them all with the rest of his powder.
Fortunately, the two men who'd remained with the boat were no more superstitious than the archbishop's wife. Unfortunately, that meant they dealt with the supposed specter in a very earthly manner. They raised their guns and fired.
Because of the mist, Jake did not realize he was being shot at until the bullets whizzed by a few feet from his head. It was only sheer luck — and the notorious inefficiency of the muskets and their operators — that saved him.
Of course, the Britons had no way of knowing that. They saw a shadowy figure hobbling forward in the mud flats toward them, apparently impervious to their weapons. They had buried numerous men in this same area over the past few months; it did not take much imagination to draw frightful conclusions and change their minds about
