47
“Follow me close now,” Tom hisses as the guards and the bedraggled lot of us make our way down the dock.
I’ve never been a seaman, so I have no claim on such skills, but even to my ignorant eye, this square-rigged merchant ship we are shuffling toward looks like prayer ’tis the only thing keeping it atop the water. The siding is heavily chipped and worn but at least the sails look serviceable with only a few patches. The shackles have rubbed my wrists raw and I worry about the manner of infection that might float ‘round a crowded gaol ship.
Tom, I see as the chained clump of us make our way down the harbor pier, is elbowing his way to the front of the pack. I follow, not sure his plan but me friend never be without one.
Soon, the destination is clear for the guards direct us up the
