I SAW THE GRAY smoke over the factory chimneys. Under my feet, the deck tilted. I smelled metal and steel—the anchors, chains, clamps, hasps. The scent of tar brought back the image of Ram Munt and his hands. My own hands held the railing, wet with fog. My heart pounded; I was sailing away, sailing, as in my dreams, from the place that had brought me mainly misery. This is not my true life, Chinese Sally’s words rang in my head. And now I was sailing toward a new place, what must be the beginning of my true life. I watched the chimney pots of Liverpool grow small. I thought of Shaker, the light limning his body as he stood on the dock, one hand lifted in a final farewell. August 1830 My dearest Shaker, It is over a month since we left Liverpool on this tall-masted frigate, and today is my birthday. Today I am eighteen, and to celebrate this occasion I am writing to you. I know this letter cannot be posted for months, but I am feeling a strange sense of loneliness tonight, and the act of putting quill to paper always comforts me.
