In a low voice, as though ashamed of what she had to say, Marianne told him:

'I must find a vessel to take me across the sea – and I cannot tell who to approach.'

'Why, the Harbour Master, of course! It all depends on where you want to go—'

'To France.'

The old man gave a low whistle which vanished on the wind.

'That's another matter entirely, but even there, the port office may be able to do something for you. You must not think our brave English lads are frightened of Boney and his war dogs. There are still some who run the blockade.'

'But I cannot go to the port office,' Marianne broke in impatiently. 'I have no papers. I – I have run away from my parent's house and I have to get to France.'

The old man thought he understood. He chuckled loudly, winking and nudging her with his elbow.

'Oho, you cunning little rascal! Off to join your sweetheart, eh my pretty? That's why we don't want to be noticed, is it? Frightened the Runners'll be after you to take you home again, eh?'

'Yes, you have guessed. But who will take me?'

'No one without money!'

Modestly turning her back on him, the girl quickly raised the hem of her skirt, fumbled in her canvas pocket and withdrew a shilling which she placed in the old man's hand.

'Here, I have a little money. But for pity's sake, if you know of any sailor or fisherman, even a smuggler who might take me, tell me his name—'

The old man held up the coin to study it then tossed it in his hand with evident satisfaction before thrusting it into his pocket. This done, he returned his attention to the girl and looked at her doubtfully.

'There is one I know,' he said with some seriousness, 'but I'm not sure if I ought to send you to 'un. 'E'd sell 'is own mother for a shilling and for a guinea'd kill her with 'is own hands.'

'I will take the risk. Tell me where I may find him.' A sudden, instinctive caution made her add: 'At all events, I could not give him more than a guinea. That is all I have—'

The old man sighed. He rose and stretched himself with a groan.

'Dang me, old I may be but I'll not let you go alone to find Black Fish. If so be as you've another shilling to quench an old man's thirst, I'll take you and put in a good word for ye.'

'Black Fish?'

'That's what they call 'un. Never heard's right name. But you can trust Nathaniel Naas, I've never met a better sailor – or an uglier!'

Once again, Marianne felt in her pocket and drew out a shilling which she gave to old Nat and a golden guinea which she kept in her hand, being determined not to reveal the whereabouts of the remainder of her treasures to one whom she strongly suspected of being a pirate. The old man pocketed the second shilling and limped away. It was now quite dark and the wind had dropped though a biting cold air still came in from the sea.

'It'll not be warm out there tonight,' the old man said, digging his hands deep in his pockets. 'I'd liefer face a bowl of punch than the breakers in the Sound.'

In single file, they made their way back to the Barbican. Nathaniel Nass stopped beneath a battered sign at the end of the old quay and pushed open the low door of a small tavern. A dim, orange light filtered through the grimy windows. Marianne was met by a nauseating reek of alcohol, fried fish and human sweat, together with a confused babble of drunken voices. Above it all, floated the crude air of a sea shanty. The girl drew back in terror. She had never imagined herself entering such a place. The old man glanced at her dubiously.

'You're quite sure? Shall I go in?'

Marianne clenched her teeth to still their chattering. She was cold and frightened and she wanted to go to sleep. She had reached very nearly the end of her strength. She had to get it over with.

'I am sure,' she whispered.

'Then you just wait there.'

He went inside, leaving her alone in the darkness. The quay was empty now. Lamps had been lit in the houses, conjuring up a picture of families within gathered warmly round the tea table. The girl's heart contracted. She felt suddenly very weak and very much alone. The muscles in her throat tightened and all at once she felt as if she wanted to cry while, at the same time, a tempting voice within her was urging her to give up, to go back and abandon herself to her fate. She felt chilled to her very soul. There were some people, she believed, whose lives collapsed without warning and ceased to have any meaning. Perhaps her life was like that, and no longer worth living. Perhaps it would be better to give herself up. Certainly, she had lost any inclination for the part of a heroine in a romance.

The forest of gently dipping masts in the harbour swam before her eyes. Some had their riding lights alight, like intermittent red stars in the darkness. For a second, Marianne was on the point of taking to her heels and running away but the sound of footsteps prevented her. Someone was coming along the quay and her instinct for self-preservation reasserted itself. She made out the dark figures of two men and drew back, shrinking out of sight into a dark, narrow passage running alongside the tavern.

The iron lantern swinging above the tavern door threw a bright patch of light, barred with a shadow like a cross, on to the cobblestones below and this enabled the girl to obtain a clearer view of the two men strolling towards her at a leisurely pace. One was much taller than the other. He wore long seaboots and was muffled in a black cloak. The other barely reached to his shoulder but made up in plumpness for what he lacked in height, for he was almost as broad as he was long. As far as Marianne could tell, he seemed to be dressed like a country lawyer in a frock coat and beaver hat. He must be the owner of the high, fluting voice which Marianne had heard first. Abruptly, another voice, hard and authoritative, broke in but this time Marianne was able to hear the words. What she heard caused her to listen intently.

'You are certain she is here?'

'She was seen at the Crown and Anchor,' the other, lighter voice answered. 'It was certainly she—'

Icy sweat trickled down Marianne's spine. The words brought back the consciousness of her position and she felt her heart lurch in her breast. Who were these men? Was it imagination or had she heard that deep voice before? In her sudden desire to get a sight of its owner, she almost left her hiding place but, as if he had been aware of her secret wish, the taller of the two men paused beneath the lantern, took something from his pocket and jumping on to a stone mounting block, inclined himself towards the flame, flickering in its metal cage, in order to light a cigar. The light fell full upon his face and Marianne bit back a cry as she recognized the hawk-like profile and restless expression of Jason Beaufort.

Her heart beating wildly, she pressed herself back against the streaming wall of the building and closed her eyes in a childish effort to shut out that terrifying face. She was sure now, it was of herself that he had been speaking a moment before. So, not content with ruining and insulting her, the American had now descended to hunting her down like a common constable.

Anger took hold of her, all the more fierce because she was powerless. She wished now that she had not let him escape! He had deserved death as much as Francis, and yet he lived. From behind the fragile lids of her closed eyelids, she heard the scrape of Beaufort's boots as he jumped down and then, once again, the voice with the faint southern accent which was all too familiar now.

'Well, she'll not go far. She's too easily recognized and clever as she is, she'll not escape for long. The noose is already waiting for her.'

Marianne thought she would faint at this grisly prophesy. There was a sick taste of fear in her mouth. She could almost feel the roughness of the rope around her neck and instinctively she put up her hand to her throat as she tried to squeeze herself back even further into her refuge. If only the wall could have opened and swallowed her up.

Meanwhile, the two men were walking on, moving away from the passage and out of earshot. Had they said anything else? The drumming in her ears had prevented her from registering anything but the diminishing sound of their footsteps. Even when these had died away completely, she still dared not open her eyes so great was her terror of seeing Beaufort's face once again before her. But someone, close by, was calling her.

'Hoy! Little maid, where are you?'

That must be old Nathaniel. Taking a deep breath to calm the frantic beating of her heart, she emerged from her hiding place.

'Here I am.'

The old man smiled, revealing the remnants of some teeth which had long forgotten what it was to be white. He was rubbing his hands, apparently well pleased with himself.

'Come with me,' he whispered. 'I think it'll fadge. Black Fish sails tonight with the tide – wants a look at ye—'

Taking her firmly by the hand, he drew her to the tavern. Marianne suffered him to lead her without resistance and immediately found herself in a lighted room where the atmosphere was like a dense fog, reeking in equal parts of rum and tobacco smoke from the long clay pipes of the drinkers huddled beneath the low ceiling. There were fishermen, sailors in stocking caps and a sprinkling of marines in blue uniforms and hard black hats, all of them, with their girls, drinking shouting and singing at the tops of their voices. In a corner by the soot-blackened hearth, a boy knelt at a big, wooden tub washing the tankards as they were brought to him by a moustachioed serving wench. Marianne's entry in the wake of old Nat provoked an outburst of shouts and coarse jokes. Voices called out from all parts of the room.

'Cor, she's a ripe 'un! Hey, sweetheart, come and have a drink with me?'

'By the guts of old Noll, she's the girl for me! D'ye see those eyes, Sam? Clear as the sea the day after a storm!'

'Stow it, Harry! She's not for your picking. Look at her! I'll wager she's a virgin.'

'No harm in finding out! Here, darling! Over here!'

Hands reached out, striving to encircle her waist, or pinch her bottom. Scarlet with shame and terrified in case there should be someone there who knew her face, Marianne eluded them as best she could. Cursing and shoving lustily, old Nat managed to keep off the boldest but he had no easy job. Marianne clutched her cloak around her and tried to dodge the grasping hands, keeping her eyes on the ground so as not to look at the flushed faces of the men and darkling eyes of the girls. Suddenly, a loud voice thundered above the din.

'Stow that racket! And hands off! Leave the girl alone. It's me she's come to see.'

An enormous man had risen from his seat by the bar at the far end of the room. From the colour of his hair and the thick growth of beard that sprouted from his chin, Marianne guessed that this was Black Fish and forced back a gasp. Old Nat was right, never had she seen anyone so ugly. He was a giant of a man, black haired and swarthy skinned. His broad face, with its shapeless features and wide, fleshy nose, might almost have been flattened by a blow from some gigantic fist. The eyes, so bloodshot as to obscure whatever colour they might have had, spoke of long familiarity with the bottle. His bear-like form was clad in a striped jersey with, over it, a faded red coat which still retained some remnants of gold braid. An ancient cocked hat adorned with an enormous green cockade sat jauntily sideways on his pigtailed head. Loud-voiced and powerful, brandishing the inevitable pipe, Black Fish loomed up through the thick fug that filled the room like some weird and menacing Father Neptune. It was all Marianne could do to keep from crossing herself. But already a vast hairy hand had grasped her arm and was drawing her irresistibly forward. She found herself seated on the form facing old Nat who was chuckling and rubbing his hands.

'Its just as I told ye, lass! He's a right one is Black Fish—'

More frightened than she was prepared to show, Marianne privately considered that this Black Fish bore a striking resemblance to the pirates whose exploits she had devoured with such relish when safely between the covers of a book. The reality was quite a different matter. The man before her had no black patch over one eye or wooden leg but, these details apart, he seemed the living image of a gentleman of fortune. And so ugly! The prospect of finding herself alone at sea with this dreadful man made her shudder. But for the alarming words she had overheard pass between Jason Beaufort and the short stranger, she would probably have abandoned all thought of any closer acquaintance with this terrifying individual. But the American's presence in the city brought the shadow of the scaffold more menacingly close and she had no choice but to escape by any means and in whatever company, even that of the devil himself if need be.