It caught on the finely woven seam of her waistcoat. In the soft dusk light, she turned to look out towards the hazy image of Roscoff off the port bow and wrenched the bottle free. It had taken two hours to load all the casks onto the boat. And there was definitely something very strange about the two passengers the Rocket had picked up. As soon as the first passenger’s hands had appeared on deck, Harriet had known it would be a woman, the fingers were too long and fine. She sniffed; hopefully she looked more believable in her man’s clothes. That woman did not know how to walk and the pantaloons were too ill-fitting to work. Harriet pressed hard at the cork on the bottle but it refused to budge. She hadn’t eaten anything since daybreak that morning. The sailors hadn’t stopped for lunch. She leaned against the prow of the boat and, bracing her arms, wrenched at the cork, which exploded with a loud bang. Turning her head sharply, she surveyed the deck. The crew were still below, tidying away barrels.
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