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portend of bad things to come? Shifting weight off his bad led, Blake scratched his neck, feeling the cinch of the noose already. A breeze coming off the bay brought the scent of rain and freedom, but it did nothing to cool the sheen of sweat covering his neck and arms.
    The lieutenant slid fingers down his long mustache and thrust the papers back at Blake. “Prepare your ship to be searched, Mr. Roberts.”
    Blake’s chest tightened. “For what purpose?”
    “Slaves, Rebel soldiers, valuables that belong to the Union.” He thrust his face into Blake’s, dousing him with the smell of alcohol. “I’m sure we’ll find plenty of contraband to confiscate.” He faced his friend. “Go assemble a band of men. Tell them to arm themselves. We wouldn’t want our Rebel friends to forget themselves, would we?”
    “I assure you, Lieutenant, we aren’t carrying anything illegal.”
    “Then you have nothing to fear.” His gaze pierced Blake before he turned toward the sergeant ambling down the wharf. “Bart!” The man didn’t turn. The lieutenant marched after him. “Sergeant Bart!” he yelled, finally getting his attention. “Bring me the list of war criminals again.” He jerked a thumb toward Blake. “This one seems familiar.…”
    But Blake didn’t stay to hear the rest. The New Hope drifted from the quay, and the crew beckoned him on with anxious gestures, their faces pinched. He didn’t have time to check how wide the expanse of sea had become between dock and hull. He didn’t want to know. It mattered not anyway. He had no other choice.
    Ignoring the pain shooting up his right leg, he bolted down the remainder of the dock and leaped into the air. His feet spiraled over murky water. His arms flailed through emptiness, scrambling to reach the rope the crew dangled down the side of the brig.
    Curses and shots fired behind him. A bullet whizzed past his ear. The rope loomed in his vision as if it were at the end of a long tunnel. Larger and larger it grew. And yet farther and farther away it seemed. His lifeline. One scraggly rope that would either save him or hang him. The crew shouted encouragements, but their voices seemed muffled and distant. So did the pistol shots and the voice of the lieutenant damning him to hell from the wharf.
    Pop! Pop! Pop! More shots exploded around him.
    Tiny holes appeared in the hull of the ship, shattering the wood into chips. The brig drifted farther away. Blake’s feet touched water. It was all over. He wasn’t going to make it. Then his hand felt rough hemp. He closed his fingers. His shoulder snapped hard. His arm ached. He slammed into the hull with a jarring thud. Swinging his other arm up, he clutched the rope.
    A shot zipped past his head. Its eerie whine catapulted him into action. He yanked his feet from the water and began to climb up the oaken hull. Someone pulled the rope from above.
    A storm of boots thundered over the wharf, releasing a hail of bullets. A woman screamed. The wind snapped in the sails, and the water began a soft purl against the hull as the brig pulled out of port.
    Almost there. Almost there. Blake released the rope and grabbed onto the bulwarks. Hands hauled him on board just as the soldiers on the dock unleashed hell.

    Eliza backed away from the group of sailors as they dragged Colonel Wallace over the railing and onto the deck. She had not gone below as ordered. Not when a man’s life was at stake. Not when their entire journey was at stake. She knew trouble was afoot when those soldiers had stopped the colonel. Nothing good ever came of a chat with Union officers. Certainly not in the past year since the war had ended. They were out for blood. Pure and simple. They wanted nothing but to punish the South for her sins. And as self-appointed judge and jury, they wielded the whip of revenge with the utmost cruelty.
    Remorse and sorrow flooded her at the thought that she had once associated herself with the North. Quite intimately