Wind, weather, and the passage of time had not been kind to the simple wooden cross, which had slipped to a sixty-degree angle in the soft earth. As Smith straightened the cross and firmed the soil at the base, Bess solemnly placed a bunch of flowers on the grave.
“Abel Watson,” Bess read the carved name. “It must seem strange standing beside your own grave.”
Smith shook his head. “The man who lies here was named John Smith in life. He was a good enough man, a reasonable seaman, and with as much personality as the name suggests. I’m doing him a favour by giving him my name.”
Bess smiled. “You’re an intriguing man, Abel Watson.” She removed a handful of weeds, looked around, and tossed them over the graveyard wall.
“I’m John Smith now. As you see, Abel Watson is dead and buried.”
“He d
