Sophie left upset when Clara made her feel unwelcome. Johann followed her through the steerage where she admitted that the father of her child had abandoned her, and Johann began to understand the judgment she faced from the other women aboard the Union. While sharing tea with Michael and Thomas, Sophie tightened her grip on her tin and pressed a hand against her abdomen. When she insisted she was only tired, Johann looked at her. “Sophie?”

*

She looked up, her grip easing. “I am fine.”

Thomas exchanged a glance with Michael.

“You do not look fine,” Michael said.

A faint smile touched Sophie’s lips and vanished. “Then perhaps I look tired.”

“After that storm, I suspect we all look tired,” Thomas said.

Sophie sipped the last of her tea and handed Michael his cup. “Thank you.”

Wiping the cup with his sleeve, he tucked it into his coat pocket.

The man who had earlier shifted on the bench for Sophie rose to his feet.“Good night.”

He nodded toward Johann. “Take care of your wife.”

Before Johann could answer, the man disappeared into the thinning crowd.

Around them, passengers gathered bedding and clothing that were still damp. A woman stifled a yawn as she folded a blanket over her arm. At a neighboring table, another passenger had to be nudged awake before he shuffled toward his bunk.

“I am going to sleep before another storm finds us,” Thomas said as he rose to his feet.

Michael snorted and stood. “Wake me when we reach New York.”

Thomas shook his head. “You may sleep through it.”

“Wouldn’t be the first important thing I’ve missed.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Thomas said, standing.

Michael pulled his cap lower. “Good night, Sophie.”

Sophie nodded. “Thank you for the tea, Thomas.”

“You needed it more than I did.”

Johann watched the two men disappear among the passengers turning in for the night.

“They seem like good men,” Sophie murmured.

Johann glanced at her. “They are.”

Sophie watched a drop of water trail down the wall. “I used to be a better judge of character.” She shook her head. “It never occurred to me that he would leave us.”

Johann shifted on the bench. “How could you have known?”

Sophie looked down at her hands. “Perhaps I wanted to believe him. She pressed her lips together. “My mother was fond of him.”

Johann frowned. “Then it wasn’t only you.”

Sophie pushed herself to her feet. “I am so tired.”

Johann rose and offered her his hand.

“You do not need to escort me everywhere,” Sophie said.

“No,” Johann agreed. “But I’d like to walk with you.”

Sophie hesitated before placing her hand in his. Johann closed his fingers gently around hers and led her away from the table. Their footsteps sounded softly on the damp floorboards as they crossed the dim steerage.

Near the entrance to the women’s compartment, Sophie stopped, her eyes closing as her free hand found the wall.

“Johann?”

He waited.

After a moment, she nodded.

Johann released her hand. “See you in the morning.”

Sophie managed a smile before disappearing into the women’s compartment.

Johann remained where he was, twisting the end of his mustache before finally turning back toward his own berth.

Michael was already asleep by the time he returned. Curled beneath a blanket, he had one arm thrown across his face. Thomas lay on his back, a faint snore escaping with each breath.

His gaze drifted up to McKenna’s empty bunk before he settled onto his own berth and stretched out full length.

The steady patter of drops against the wooden floorboards carried through the dim steerage.

Her mother had been fond of him. Johann could not shake the thought.

He stared into the darkness. It was strange how quickly a life could change. Not long ago he had believed he would spend the rest of his days in Veronika. Sophie had likely imagined a different future as well.

Had his mother approved of a woman he cared about, he would have trusted her judgment without question.

He pictured her sitting beside the stove in Veronika, mending clothes by lamplight while Bertha and Margarete played at her feet.

He wondered if Theodor had claimed his chair at the table. Johann rolled over onto his side. Of course he had.

He hoped Sophie was finally resting. The worry faded as sleep claimed him.

~

Johann opened his eyes to the sound of muttered complaints and a fit of coughing from a nearby bunk.

Two crewmen passed between the rows of bunks. “At least the latrines are working again,” one said.

The other gave a tired laugh. “Thank God for that.”

A drop of water splashed onto Thomas’s forehead. “I was beginning to miss that,” he muttered.

Michael pushed himself upright. “I’d even take that watery porridge this morning.”

Thomas cracked open one eye. “You’d eat anything.”

“After yesterday? Happily,” Michael said, struggling with his boots.

“Come on,” Michael continued. “We’d better get there before they scrape the bottom of the pot.”

Thomas swung his legs over the side of the bunk. “Yesterday you were writing farewells in your head. Today you’re worried about porridge?”

“Tea was nearly gone last night,” Michael replied. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

Johann laughed as he sat up. “Then we’d better hurry.”

By the time they reached the dining area, every bench seemed occupied. Passengers crowded around the serving line, tins and bowls clutched in their hands. After going without a proper meal during the storm, no one seemed inclined to miss breakfast.

Finding no empty bench, they moved aside to eat standing.

Thomas tapped the rim of Michael’s tin. “Worth the wait?”

Michael took another spoonful, rolling the porridge around in his mouth. “Best porridge I’ve ever had.”

Thomas snorted. “That says more about yesterday than the porridge.”

Johann looked down at his steaming porridge. “It is the same. At least it’s hot.”

“Aye, but anything is better than yesterday’s nothing.”

While they waited for a table to open up, nearby passengers argued.

“I heard one of the crew say we lost time,” a man insisted.

“We’re making good speed now,” a woman replied, leaning heavily on her cane. “Land can’t be far away.”

“Two days,” one man insisted.

“Three,” another countered.

“I don’t care if it’s five,” Michael called over his shoulder. “As long as there isn’t another storm.”

Johann nodded. “I’m ready to be on land again.”

“I’m ready for New York,” Thomas said with a shrug.

A young family with two children finished breakfast and left their table near the serving line.

Johann stepped toward the newly vacated places. As he sat down, he caught sight of Clara threading her way through the crowd with Marie at her side.

“There’s Clara,” he said.

Thomas looked over his shoulder and started to rise.

Clara barely spared him a glance.

“They say a baby was born last night.”

Johann straightened. “Was it Sophie?”

Marie exchanged a look with Clara. “We don’t know—”

“We understand she is not doing well,” Clara interrupted, throwing up her hands, “but no one seems to know exactly...”

“At least they say the doctor was not called—”

“It’s difficult to know what’s true,” Clara cut in. “They have blankets hanging from the bunks, and everyone who walks past comes away with a different story. One says the baby arrived before dawn. Another says—”

“But is she all right?” Johann asked.

Marie hesitated. “We don’t even know for certain that it was Sophie.”

“Whoever the mother is, she’ll be confined to her bunk for at least a week,” Clara said.

Michael frowned. “We’ll all have to get off when we reach New York.”

“When do they expect us to arrive?” Marie asked.

Thomas shrugged. “Two or three days, from what we’ve heard.”

Johann slid his tin toward the center of the table. The last thing he had said to her was See you in the morning.

Concerned that Sophie should not be left alone so near to giving birth, the group tried to find a place for her to spend the night. Clara, still grieving Liese’s recent death, could not bear the thought of someone else occupying her friend’s berth so soon. As the discussion continued around her, Sophie felt increasingly unwelcome and walked away. When Johann followed to apologize, Sophie said, “But Clara does not want me there.”

*

Johann shook his head. There was little he could say to that.

Water trickled down the wall behind Sophie and dripped softly into a puddle along the floorboards.

He tucked his hands into his coat pockets and shifted his feet. “Are you cold?”

Sophie regarded him quietly.

Johann winced. “I guess that was a foolish thing to ask.”

Sophie closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered.

“We still have not solved where you’re going to sleep,” he muttered.

Sophie drew a shaky breath. “I have a bunk.”

Johann stared at her. Of course she had a bunk. Every passenger aboard the Union did. How had he not thought of that?

Sophie looked down at the water pooled around her feet. “I left it.”

A passenger slowed as he passed, glancing briefly toward them before continuing on.

Johann waited until he was out of earshot. “You left?” he asked. “I do not understand.”

Sophie shivered and pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “The women… they talk.”

“Talk?”

Sophie nodded. “About me. They think I do not hear.”

Johann felt a knot tighten in his stomach. So that was it. “People are quick to judge.”

The glow of a lantern bobbed toward them through the dim passage as a weary crewman picked his way around the standing water that still lingered in places.

“Beg pardon,” he said. “Need to keep the passage clear.”

Sophie released a quiet breath as she stepped aside. “Good night, Johann.”

She turned toward the women’s compartment.

“Sophie—” Johann caught her elbow.

She stopped, her back to him, eyes dropping to his hand.

“I…” Johann’s grip loosened. “Please stop.”

“The father left,” she said without turning to face him, so softly he almost missed it.

Johann stared at the dark hair hanging damp against her shoulders. It seemed obvious now. He was troubled that he had not understood sooner.

“Sophie?”

He could not tell whether she wanted him to stay or leave her be.

She did not move.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Sophie swayed slightly and caught herself against the wall.

Johann’s brow furrowed. “I think… you should sit.”

“I am fine,” Sophie whispered over her shoulder, her other hand coming up to brace against the wall. “There is nowhere to sit.”

“At the tables.”

Sophie was silent for a moment.

“The tables where they’ve spread everything out to dry,” Johann said, watching as she leaned more heavily against the wall. “It is a bit of a walk.”

Sophie shook her head. “They’re crowded.”

“I’ll find you a place to sit.” A woman in her condition ought not be standing. If no one offered her a seat, he would ask.

Sophie rested her forehead against the wall, shoulders sagging. Her eyes closed. “I should go back to my bunk,” she murmured, pushing herself away.

“Just let me find you a place to sit.” Johann reached for her arm, then stopped. “May I take your arm?”

Sophie drew a weary breath and took a step, Johann stepping in beside her.

She kept her eyes on the floorboards as they made their way back through the crowded steerage. They had gone perhaps half the distance when she slowed.

“Johann.”

He stopped immediately.

“Wait a minute.” Sophie went still, her free hand finding his arm.

Johann waited. “I’m here.”

Sophie drew a slow breath and looked up. “Okay.”

“It’s not much farther,” Johann said.

The quiet of the passage gave way to the low hum of conversation as they reached the dining area. Sophie had been right. Every table was covered with blankets and clothing laid out flat to dry.

Johann glanced around the crowded room, searching for an empty place anywhere.

A hand waved from a table at the far end where Thomas sat beside Michael.

“There’s Thomas,” Johann said. “Come on.”

“What about Clara?” Sophie asked quietly.

“She’s not there. Neither is Marie.”

They made their way between the crowded tables.

A man seated across from Thomas looked up as they approached. He gathered a damp blanket closer and shifted down the bench.

“Room for your wife,” he said.

“Danke,” Johann said. He felt heat creep into his face and was grateful neither Thomas nor Michael commented.

Sophie lowered herself onto the bench with a quiet breath.

Thomas looked at Sophie, taking in her pale face. “They’ve made tea.”

Michael glanced down at his empty cup. “Not much left.”

Thomas shrugged. “Enough, I hope. May I get you a cup, Sophie?”

Michael handed his tin cup to Thomas. “She can use mine.” He turned to Sophie. “Is that all right?”

Sophie managed a faint smile.

Thomas pushed back from the table. “I see there’s still a queue for it. I’ll be right back.”

He returned a few minutes later, carrying two steaming tin cups. He handed Michael’s cup to Sophie and nudged the other across the table toward Johann. “Thought you might need one as well.”

Johann nodded. “Danke.”

Sophie wrapped both hands around the warm tin and closed her eyes.

Some of the tension eased from Johann’s shoulders as he watched the steam curl upward. “You should take a sip, Sophie.”

“Careful,” Thomas said. “It’s hot.”

Sophie nodded.

Thomas glanced up at the ceiling as a few drops of water splashed onto the table. “For a while I thought the storm would finish us.”

Johann traced the dented edge of his cup with his thumb. “The lightning troubled me most.” He shook his head. “Every flash that lit the compartment, I thought—”

“Aye.” Michael cut in, rubbing his forehead. “I was already composing my farewell.”

Johann looked up from his tea. “You can write?”

Michael’s mouth twitched. “Only in my head.”

“I hope it was brief,” Thomas said.

The corner of Johann’s mouth twitched. “Brief does seem safer.”

Michael tugged the brim of his cap lower. “It’s the only way I can write.”

Sophie looked down into her tea. “It’s not that hard to write,” she murmured.

Michael snorted softly. “Easy for you to say.”

Sophie studied her cup, though Johann thought he caught the corner of her mouth lift.

Thomas scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Has anyone seen McKenna lately?”

“Now that you mention it, no,” Michael answered.

Sophie leaned wearily on her elbow. “Who?”

“The Scot,” Michael said. “He bunks above me.” He paused, scanning the room. “Well, he did.”

Thomas snorted. “Always arguing with somebody. Mostly crew.”

Johann took a sip of his tea. “I thought they were going to turn the ship around and put him ashore in Southampton.”

Thomas laughed. “The crew may have considered it.”

“Aye,” Michael said, “more than once.”

Sophie drew a quiet breath. One hand settled on her abdomen and lingered there as the conversation continued around her.

Thomas glanced up as her fingers tightened around her tin. “You all right?”

“I’m just tired,” she said, not lifting her eyes.

Johann looked at her. “Sophie?”

Separated from the others aboard the Union during the Atlantic storm, Johann encountered a frightened young woman named Sophie alone in the darkness. When the lanterns were finally relit, he led her back through the freezing floodwater, believing she would be safer among the group. But with exhaustion, fear, and grief over the recent death of Liese, Clara did not welcome the idea of making room for another passenger.

*

The lantern chains rattled overhead as the Union continued to roll through the fading storm. Thunder followed the lightning in a long, distant growl that drifted across the sea as the small group huddled together.

Sophie lost her footing beside Johann as the ship gave another heavy sway. Johann caught her by the arm before she could fall.

Unsteady from the lingering roll of the ship, she remained against him a moment before pulling herself upright again. Color rose in her cheeks as she stepped back from him. Her movements were stiff from the cold, teeth chattering despite her efforts to hide it.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured softly.

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Johann said.

Marie’s gaze lingered briefly on Johann’s hand still resting against Sophie’s arm before she lowered her eyes again.

Clara caught herself against Thomas’s arm with an irritated breath.

“Well,” she said sharply as another smaller sway passed beneath the ship, “if the ship intends to throw us all together, it might at least choose dry footing for it.”

Thomas let out a weary sigh that almost resembled a laugh. “I shall mention it to the captain.”

“Do,” Clara replied. “And while you are at it, ask whether he has hidden an entire spare steerage that’s dry somewhere aboard that he neglected to show us.”

Thomas closed his eyes briefly while Michael lowered his head, too weary to argue with her.

The lanterns overhead continued swaying, though more gently now. The frightened clamor in steerage subsided, leaving only exhausted voices beneath the groan of timbers and the steady drip of water.

Johann glanced toward Sophie again. She stood close beside him, one hand gathered tightly in her shawl, her fingers trembling from the cold.

“Perhaps Sophie could stay near you and Marie in Liese’s—”

“In Liese’s berth?” Clara cut in sharply. “There is scarcely a dry board there for Marie and myself.”

Thomas rubbed a hand across his face before lowering his voice. “Clara—”

“Everyone has thoughts tonight,” Clara muttered, pushing damp hair back from her face with visible fatigue. She looked toward Sophie again, sounding more exhausted than cruel. “But no one aboard this ship seems to have discovered where they intend to put us all.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “Clara—”

Clara looked back toward Johann, some of the sharpness slipping from her face. “Johann… the poor woman was buried scarcely two days ago.”

Johann’s jaw tightened slightly. “I know. But Sophie cannot stand here freezing through the night either.”

“She’ll take ill standing wet and cold,” Michael said.

Sophie lowered her eyes. “I should find somewhere else.”

Marie hesitated, fingering the edge of her shawl before she looked toward Sophie again. “You should stay with—”

Clara cut in, the last of her patience breaking. “I should not need to remind you that Liese died in that berth scarcely two nights ago, Marie.”

Johann exhaled sharply. “I know. But we cannot leave Sophie wandering steerage alone, trying to find her berth in this.”

Sophie stepped away from them, her voice barely above the tired murmur filling steerage. “You need not decide my place for me.”

Thomas took a small step after her. “No one wishes to send you away.”

Sophie pressed her lips together briefly before answering. “I would rather not be spoken of so.”

“Beg pardon, miss,” a seaman muttered wearily as he pushed through the group.

Sophie moved aside to let him pass.

Johann reached for her elbow gently, drawing her back toward the group. “This has been a hard night,” he said. “I do not think you should be alone.”

Sophie looked away, smoothing damp folds of her skirt that did not need smoothing.

Marie glanced toward Johann uncertainly while Michael rested a hand against her sleeve.

Thomas drew a long breath. “Whatever is decided, none of us will fare well standing here all night.”

Sophie stared at Thomas for a moment as though she could scarcely believe he was still discussing her while she stood among them. She bit her lip briefly before gathering her skirts in one hand and turning away into the crowded passage.

“Sophie—” Johann pushed after her through the swaying lantern light. “Sophie, wait.”

Michael shook his head faintly. “I do not believe that improved matters.”

Marie remained silent, watching as Johann disappeared after Sophie into the dim passage.

Michael adjusted the brim of his cap, jaw tight.

Clara dragged a hand through her damp hair with sudden impatience. “Well? Are we all simply to stand here till morning now?”

Thomas opened his mouth to answer before thinking better of it.

“I did not mean to shame her,” Clara muttered, folding her arms tightly against the cold. “But I could not bear someone else in Liese’s berth so soon.”

Marie shook her head faintly. “She did not deserve that. She is alone.”

Thomas looked back toward the dim passage where Sophie had disappeared. “We spoke of her as though she were not standing here at all.”

Clara’s expression tightened. “And what would you have had me say?” she demanded softly. “I could still see Liese lying in her bunk.”

~

Johann followed several paces behind, keeping Sophie in sight in the shifting lantern light as passengers spread wet blankets across the steerage tables in hopeless attempts to dry them. The closer he came, the less certain he became of what he could possibly say.

Clara had not been wrong. She was grieving.

Sophie had been alone and frightened in the storm. It was his idea to bring her back to the group.

Liese’s empty berth had seemed the simplest answer. Hearing Clara speak, he realized she had not seen it as empty at all.

Johann called again, “Sophie?”

She slowed briefly to pull her soaked skirts away from her legs before continuing forward through the crowded steerage.

Johann tugged at the end of his mustache as he hurried after her. He should have stopped the conversation sooner somehow, though he still did not know what he ought to have said instead.

Sophie slowed as two crewmen forced their way through the crowd carrying sloshing buckets toward the flooded latrines. Passengers pressed back against the damp wooden walls to let them pass, and Johann caught up beside her just before she disappeared into the women’s compartment.

“Sophie, please…”

She paused, but kept her eyes fixed on the puddles at her feet.

“I only thought…” Johann rubbed a hand briefly across his mouth. “You were alone, and—”

He faltered as several passengers lingering near the compartment entrance turned to listen.

Johann glanced uneasily down the crowded passage before nodding toward a stretch of wall farther off where no one was standing.

“Could we…” He hesitated again. “May I try to explain?”

“I’m cold,” she whispered.

Johann lingered a moment before brushing her elbow to guide her toward the quieter spot off to the side.

A woman sitting nearby glanced up briefly from wringing out a blanket before lowering her eyes again.

“We did not…” Johann swallowed. “I did not mean for it to happen that way.” He stopped, realizing too late how poorly his words sounded aloud.

Sophie lowered her eyes again, saying nothing.

“Clara did not mean…” Johann paused, searching for the right words. “Liese only… her friend only died two days ago.”

Sophie lifted her eyes briefly. Johann caught the shine of tears before she looked away again.

“I thought I was helping,” he said, his hands fidgeting. “It seems I have only made matters worse.”

Sophie drew a slow breath.

“You were alone in the dark,” Johann continued. “I did not think it through.”

“I know,” she said. “But Clara does not want me there.”

As the worsening storm battered the Union, frightened passengers struggled to stay on their feet in the flooded steerage. Johann, Thomas, Michael, Marie, and Clara became separated as seawater poured down the companionway and panic spread below deck. Questions about the lifeboats went unanswered while the ship continued to pitch violently. Then the lanterns went out.

*

A sharp crack sounded overhead in the darkness, like timber splitting. A woman cried out near Johann’s ear, clutching suddenly at his arm. He flinched.

“Did something break?” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“Easy now,” Johann said. “I don’t know. Ships are built quite strong.” He scarcely believed his own words.

Lightning flashed outside the hatch, briefly revealing the shifting shapes around them. The woman pressed closer to Johann as the water continued to surge against their legs. “I’m so cold,” she whispered.

A heavy crash reverberated through the ship as it rolled. Loose trunks banged against the berth posts, while floating debris knocked against Johann’s legs.

“Johann!” Michael’s voice broke through the clamor.

“Here!” Johann shouted back.

The woman’s grip tightened on his arm. Johann leaned closer to her. “Have you anyone with you?”

“I’m cold.”

“Stay hold of my arm,” he said.

Johann listened for Michael’s voice again. One wrong step in the rushing water with no lantern light could mean being knocked down and trampled. He had seen frightened animals trample a fallen animal before. But staying here was not safe either.

“Keep to the sides!” a crewman shouted. “Mind what’s floating in the water!”

Johann kept one shoulder near the berth posts as he moved forward. “What’s your name?”

A heavy sea crashed over the ship with enough force to shudder through the hull. The woman ducked instinctively against him.

“Sophie,” she whispered finally.

Johann stopped and listened again through the frightened murmur of voices filling steerage.

“Michael!” he shouted. “Marie!”

The crewman shoved past them, one hand reaching for the low overhead beam to steady himself. “Keep clear!” he ordered. “Make room there!”

“The latrines are overflowing—” a man called out.

“There’s nowhere to go!” another cried.

“Stay back from there!” the crewman barked. “The water’s backing through the drains!”

“Come on,” Johann said, moving cautiously through the seawater. “We need to get to the side.”

A wooden box slid from an upper berth and struck the water hard enough to splash across them.

Sophie startled and shrank closer to Johann.

“Will more things come loose?” she whispered.

He glanced upward, though he could not see what else might come loose.

“Stay close,” Johann said, starting forward again. The freezing water had numbed his feet so badly that he could barely feel his boots. He drew a deep breath and caught the sharp, briny smell of the ocean mixed with wet wood and the sour smell of sickness.

“Scheiße,” he muttered under his breath.

“Michael! Marie!” Johann shouted.

“I can’t find my boy!” A man lurched forward, his face appearing inches from Johann’s. Drops of seawater clung to his beard as his eyes searched Johann’s face desperately.

“Please… have you seen Emil?”

Johann’s stomach tightened. “No. I’m sorry. I have not seen him.”

“Emil!” he shouted hoarsely. “Emil!” The man was gone again, almost as quickly as he had appeared.

Sophie tugged at Johann’s sleeve. “Dear God… a little boy.”

Johann swallowed, his hand tightening against the berth post. “We need to get to the side.”

They started wading through the freezing water again. For the first time in hours, the ship seemed strangely quiet.

A crewman muttered as he passed, “Maybe we’re past the worst of it.”

“Aye… wind’s easing,” came an answer.

“Johann!” Michael’s voice carried through the uneasy quiet.

“By the berths!” Johann called back.

“I hear you!”

The strange lull filled with voices again as passengers stirred. For the first time in hours, the water around their legs had subsided, now lapping at their ankles.

Aware of the steady patter of water dripping around him and how heavy his wet clothes had become, Johann turned toward the sound of Sophie breathing beside him.

“Sophie?” he asked.

“Still here,” she murmured. “Though I think I shall never be warm again.”

Johann brushed wet hair off his forehead and frowned. “It is a poor business without the lanterns.”

“Oh!” Sophie gasped.

“What is it?”

“A drop,” Sophie whispered, brushing at her nose. “Only water.”

Johann let out a faint breath that might almost have been a laugh. “There seems to be no shortage of water.”

“Do you think it is over?” Sophie asked, her grip easing against his arm.

Johann listened to the ship’s sounds around them. “I pray it is. It sounds calmer now.”

His fingers found the end of his mustache. “Sophie… is there someone you should return to when the lanterns are lit again?”

“No,” Sophie said softly. “I am alone here.”

“Then it is well we found one another.”

“Johann?” Michael’s voice called through the darkness. “Is that you?”

Johann turned toward him. “Ja. I’m here.” He could just make out two dim figures approaching in the darkness.

“We could see nothing,” Marie said with relief in her voice. “It was impossible with no light.”

“There’s someone here with me,” Johann said. “Sophie. She was alone.”

“I’m glad Johann found you,” Marie said.

“Then that makes four of us,” Michael said with a weary breath.

“We should keep moving,” Johann said. “It’ll be safer off to the side.”

“Aye,” Michael said. “Thomas was sheltering against the wall off to the side when I found him after we lost you. I think I can lead us back there.”

A seaman farther down the passage cursed softly as flint struck again. A moment later, a lantern sputtered weakly to life. Another light flared closer to the stairs, throwing long shadows across the wavering, ankle-deep water.

A few murmurs of relief broke out around them as the light spread. Faces slowly emerged from the gloom.

For the first time, Johann saw Sophie clearly, wet hair clinging to her face, her fingers still wrapped lightly around his arm. Michael stood breathing hard, seawater dripping from his coat. Marie looked especially miserable, wet strands of hair plastered to her cheeks after her fall in the water, her soaked skirts dragging heavily around her ankles.

Michael started forward again, guiding them toward where he thought Thomas and Clara waited.

As Sophie moved alongside Johann beneath the weak lantern glow, the soaked wrap hanging from Sophie’s shoulders shifted enough for Marie to notice the unmistakable swell of late pregnancy beneath it.

They eased carefully through the crowd, stepping around scattered belongings and exhausted passengers still struggling to right themselves. A woman knelt in the water, trying to console a sobbing child.

A waterlogged trunk had jammed sideways across the way. Two men strained to force it back against the wall.

“Here,” Johann said, stepping forward. He and Michael leaned in beside them, bracing against the trunk.

Marie’s gaze lingered briefly on the curve beneath Sophie’s wet shawl. “You have made this journey alone?” Marie asked gently.

Sophie looked down. “I had little choice.”

With one last heave, the trunk lurched aside. As the men straightened breathlessly, one man gave a weary nod while the other muttered, “Much obliged.”

Another swell rolled through the ship, pushing the women briefly together as Johann and Michael searched the restless crowd.

“Thomas?” Johann asked.

“There,” Michael said suddenly. “I see him.”

Johann followed close behind Michael, stepping carefully around overturned trunks and bundles half-submerged in the water as they worked their way through the crowded steerage. Thomas’s tall frame made him easy to recognize above the crowd near the far wall.

“Over here!”

Michale pushed forward, forcing his way through the last few people. Thomas caught hold of his shoulder as they reached one another.

“Thought I’d lost you,” Thomas said over the surrounding noise.

“Not yet,” Michael answered breathlessly.

Thomas’s gaze moved quickly over the others as they came up behind him… Marie soaked through and pale beside an unfamiliar young woman shivering in a wet shawl, Johann standing close beside her.

“You all right?” Thomas asked.

“We are now,” Marie rested a hand lightly against Sophie’s arm. “This is Sophie,” she said. “Johann found her alone during the storm.”

Thomas gave a tired nod toward Sophie. “You were fortunate he came across you.”

Another roll passed beneath the ship. The remaining water lapped against their boots as passengers nearby continued to gather scattered bundles and bedding from the flooded floor, while others were too exhausted to move.

“She should stay with us,” Johann said before anyone else spoke.

Clara looked toward Sophie beneath the flickering lantern light. “Of course she should,” she said. “In her condition, she ought not be left alone again.”

Sophie lowered her gaze, drawing the wet shawl more tightly around herself.

Johann glanced toward Sophie, only now realizing what Marie and Clara had seen.

“She’ll stay with us,” Johann said quietly, as though there could be no question of it.

Thomas nodded. “We’ll make room somewhere.”

Clara lifted the soaked hem of her skirt with visible annoyance. “Though where exactly we are meant to put another soul in this flooded coffin, I should dearly like to know.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “We’ll find—”

“Find what?” Clara cut in sharply. “Dry boards? Blankets? Another inch of space no one has already claimed?”

Sophie lowered her gaze. “I should leave…” she murmured.

Johann caught her by the elbow. “We’ll manage.”

Before anyone else could answer, a blinding flash of lightning burst through the hatch above them. The ship lurched violently to port. Lanterns swung overhead as cries broke out in steerage.

The quiet uneasiness following Liese’s burial at sea did not last. By evening, the storm drove the passengers into steerage, where water was already pushing through the passage. With Clara lost somewhere in the crowd, Johann searched in the dim light as the ship pitched in the growing storm.

*

When the ship finally righted itself, the water broke loose and rushed back along the passage.

Johann braced against the wall as it surged against his legs, cold through his boots. A man slipped ahead of him, going down into the water on his hands and knees as those behind pressed forward.

“Up! Get up!” someone shouted.

Thomas tightened his grip on Marie’s arm. “Stay with us.”

Marie nodded, though her footing gave again as the ship rolled back the other way. The lantern light swung wide, the passage falling into shadow before the light caught.

“Clara!” Thomas called, his voice carried off in the noise.

A voice answered nearby, not hers, swallowed by the groan of timber and the rush of water.

Johann turned, searching the shifting faces. They came and went in the half-light… strangers, bent figures, hands grasping for hold. No sign of her. She couldn’t have gone far. The thought faltered. People vanished. Just like that.

“She was just here,” Marie said, her voice breaking. “She said she would find you—”

Another blow ran through the hull, cutting her off. The timbers creaked under the strain as the ship pitched, and the water surged again, striking against Johann’s knees before pulling back.

Michael pushed closer, his shoulder hitting Johann’s. “I can’t see a damned thing.”

“Clara!” Thomas called again, stepping onto a low bench and bracing against the wall as he tried to see over the heads.

A frightened cry carried through the passage.

Johann lifted his head, listening. For a moment he thought he heard Clara.

“Thomas! Do you see her?”

“No!” Thomas called back. The bench slipped underfoot as the ship listed again. He caught himself against the wall. “I can’t!”

The ship rolled as a sudden flash lit the passage through the companionway, followed by the crash of the sea against the hull.

Johann looked toward the stairs. Water drove down the steps, spreading through the passage. If anyone had been pushed that way…

“I’ll check the stairs,” he called. His boots slipped as he moved, one hand catching the wall as he forced his way against the current.

A woman stumbled into Johann, clutching at his sleeve. “…God…” she whispered.

“Make way!” a crewman shouted from further down, one arm set against a beam as he moved people forward. “Keep the passage clear!”

“Will she hold?” a young man called toward the seaman, clutching a child to his chest.

“She’ll hold!” the seaman shouted. “Give way! Don’t stop there!”

Michael leaned in close to Johann’s ear. “Aye. So he says.”

Marie shook her head at Michael. “Don’t—” She turned to Johann. “She’ll hold, won’t she?”

Johann drew a breath. “He said—”

The ship lurched, and Michael caught Johann’s arm as a man staggered into him, driving Johann sideways into those around him.

McKenna’s face flashed close. “Mind yourself!” he snapped, then disappeared into the crowd.

“Was that the Scot?”

“There!” Thomas called. “There! I see her!”

Johann turned toward where Thomas was looking and pushed forward. Something caught at his leg. A child clung to him, crying. A woman pulled the child back, her face tight with apology.

People stumbled as the ship rolled. A hand brushed Johann’s shoulder while he forced his way through the rising water. He caught a glimpse of Clara, then lost her as the crowd shifted.

She was pushed into him from behind, clutching at his coat.

Johann turned. “Clara—”

She pulled her skirt free where it had been caught underfoot. “Marie. I lost her.”

“She’s with Thom—”

“Mind the light!” a crewman shouted as the lantern swung hard overhead, its flame flaring against the beam. He shoved through the crowd and reached up to steady it.

“What are you doing?” a man called to the crewman.

“Are there enough boats?” another voice broke in.

“Stand back!” the crewman snapped.

“He didn’t answer about the boats,” Clara said to Johann, tight- voiced.

She caught his elbow, keeping close as he worked his way back toward Thomas.

Johann’s fingers found the end of his mustache as he caught sight of Michael ahead. Even if there were enough boats… no one could launch them off the deck in this. Men would lose their footing in that sea.

Marie reached for Clara as she came up.

“Lost you there,” Clara said close to her ear.

Thomas leaned in toward Michael. “What do you think is happening above?”

“Sea was already rushing over the rail when we came down. God help us.”

“Keep below! You’re safer there!” a crewman shouted from the stairs.

“Safer…” Clara said, her patience gone.

Johann stiffened. Safer? It did not feel like it. Water was pouring down the stairs from the deck and flooding the passageway. Nowhere is safe.

“They don’t know,” Thomas said under his breath.

“That would explain why the crewman wouldn’t answer,” Clara said.

A foul smell rose as water pushed back through the dimly lit passage.

“Help!” a woman cried out. People began to push.

Michael turned toward her voice, though he couldn’t tell where it came from. “Then what are we to do?”

A heavy crash sounded above, followed by the scrape of something dragged across the deck, then a hard thud.

“—over the rail!” a voice shouted from the stairway.

“What did he say?” a man cried.

“—we’re taking on more water—”

The words broke apart as the pushing intensified.

Johann glanced up. A woman stood apart, crossing herself, her mouth moving without sound.

“Stay where you are!” Johann called, forcing the panic down. “Hold fast to the beam!”

Thomas dropped from the bench and caught himself as he turned. “This way!” he called. “Off to the side!”

Thomas took Clara’s elbow. This time she didn’t pull away.

He forced a step sideways, dragging her with him. Johann followed, driving his shoulder between two men who didn’t give way.

Michael led Marie as the crowd pressed harder and the shouting rose. A child stumbled between them, crying, “Mama!” A woman lunged, snatching the child back.

Marie got tangled in her skirts. “Johann!” she cried.

Johann turned at the sound, searching for Michael’s cap.

The crowd pressed between them, then shifted. Michael came into view as he straightened, pulling Marie up with him.

“Here!” Michael shouted.

Johann pushed toward him, forcing his way through faces crowding him.

The ship lurched again. Those around him pitched with it as water crashed through the passage, striking hard against their legs.

Johann lost sight of them as cries broke out around him.

The ship shuddered under a heavy sea, and the passage fell into darkness.

Johann and his companions left the purser’s office without answers about Georg’s disappearance. Before any clarity could be reached, word came that Liese had taken a turn.

By morning, she was gone. At the rail, Clara turned as Johann and the others approached. “She was not alone.”

*

Michael drew a breath, looking to Thomas. “Aye… that’s something.”

Thomas removed his cap. “So it is.”

“I hope she knew we were there,” Marie said, her voice barely a whisper.

Johann lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Clara turned back toward the rail, her hair no longer neatly pinned. Marie stood nearby, her eyes rimmed with weariness.

Michael murmured as Johann slipped his hands into his pockets and stepped away, “… the doctor… had he been there?”

“… in the night…”

Johann moved further down the rail. The day before, a woman from Liese’s compartment had come for Clara, saying Liese had taken a turn. He had not seen her for two days, perhaps longer. Now she was gone.

The horizon was hard to make out, the gray of sky and sea ran together as the water rolled beneath the ship. A darker swell lifted among the others, then settled again.

It put him in the mind of winter at home. Fields turned, the last of the stubble left behind, rough against the soil. It had been his responsibility to see the harvest through. His brothers would have had to do it without him, ready or not.

The deck lifted beneath him, and he steadied himself against the rail.

If he had gone over the side like Liese, no word would reach his mother. His grip tightened. She would go on as she always had. The sea moved beneath him, indifferent to what had passed.

The deck filled again, voices rising where only water and the steady thrum of the ship had been.

Thomas and Michael made their way along the deck.

“Johann,” Thomas called.

He looked up.

“The ladies’ve gone below to rest,” Michael said.

Thomas nodded. “They’ve had little sleep.”

“Ja, I expect so.” Johann said.

“Clara held herself well,” Thomas said.

Michael gave him a look. “You’ve taken note of Clara, have you?”

Thomas looked away. “I took note of what was before me, nothing more.”

Johann glanced out over the water. “Clara’s not one to be crossed.”

“Aye. She did not hold back with the purser,” Michael said.

Johann’s jaw tightened at that.

Michael gave a small half-smile. “Marie stayed close enough, she did.”

Thomas turned to him. “You’ve an eye for her, do you?”

Michael shrugged. “She’s easy company, I’d say.” He shot a glance at Johann. “She seemed to take to you.”

Johann traced the rail with his thumb. “She asked a question or two.” He lifted his head. “Straight to the docks in New York, then?”

“You learn quick enough who’s hiring and who’s not. I did,” Thomas said.

Michael shook his head. “Aye. We’ll speak of ships, then.”

Johann listened, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

A bell sounded below, and the deck stirred as passengers turned toward the companionway.

~

By afternoon, the sky turned under a gathering cloud. A few men sat with cards near the hatch, while others leaned along the rail, feeling the ship lift and settle with the growing swells. Children played between the clusters of adults, their steps uneven as the ship rose beneath them, their laughter carrying above the wind.

After the evening meal, fewer remained on deck. The wind was rising, driving the clouds faster overhead. Lightning came without warning, branching white through the sky.

Johann looked up.

The light held, the masts and rigging etched against the sky before leaving the deck in darkness again. Thunder cracked above them, then rolled out across the water.

“Did you see—” Michael began, his voice lost in the wind.

Another flash lit the clouds from within, the sky flaring.

A crewman pushed toward them, shouting over the wind. “Below! Move!”

The ship lurched hard.

Water came over the rail in a rush, sweeping across the deck.

Those nearest fell back. Johann slipped, and Thomas caught him, pulling him toward the companionway.

Men rushed past them, their voices snatched by the wind. Someone struck Johann’s shoulder as they passed.

“Christ—move!” Michael shouted.

The few remaining passengers tightened as they neared the companionway.

A crewman stood braced at the top, shouting for them to hurry below. Water ran down the steps, slick underfoot.

Thomas leaned in close. “Mind your footing.”

They moved down into the dark, splashing into standing water at the bottom.

“Scheiße!” Johann sucked in a breath as the water ran over his boots.

Light broke behind them, revealing the passageway awash with water driving through it. A dull roll of thunder pressed through the hull. The ship lurched.

A man ahead staggered into the wall. Michael caught himself, a hand hitting the planks through the water.

A crewman stood ahead, one arm braced against a post. “Keep moving!” he shouted, his eyes on the rising water.

A woman stumbled in front of them as the others pushed past, sloshing through seawater. The ship shuddered, the sound echoing through the passage.

“Thomas!” Clara’s voice rose over the noise.

She pressed forward, shoulder to shoulder with those around her. Her hand caught an arm. “Thomas!”

She shook her head, letting go. “Sorry.”

A man doubled over near the wall, retching, as others pushed past.

Michael’s gaze caught Marie off to the side, struggling for footing in the water. “There’s Marie!”

Thomas turned. “Is Clara with her?”

They made their way toward Marie through the crowd. A heavy thud rolled through the hull beneath their feet. Marie gave a small cry, gathering the hem of her skirts as she faltered.

Thomas caught her arm, steadying her. “You’re all right. Where is Clara?”

Marie’s breath came quick. “She went looking for you.”

Johann glanced to Michael. “Do you see her?”

Michael lifted his head. Faces shifted in and out of view, the lantern light wavering.

The ship rolled hard and hung there, water surging along the passage.

With Georg’s disappearance still unexplained, Clara insisted they take the matter to the purser. The ledger was checked at the deckhouse, and no record of Georg was found.

Though Johann maintained the man had been aboard, the purser could not account for a passenger not entered and dismissed the matter.

*

The passage outside the deckhouse seemed narrower as they stepped out into the wind, though nothing had changed.

Clara drew a breath, as if to speak, then let it out again. A strong gust caught at her hat, and she reached up to steady it.

“That cannot be the end of it,” she said at last.

Inside Johann’s pocket, his fingers tightened around the tin.

“There has to be an error in the ledger. I saw names struck through, more than one, while he ran his finger down the names. I tried to lean closer to see for myself, but—”

“There were several pages and a great many names—” Thomas said.

“The arrogance of some individuals, to speak with such certainty, and to suggest a man went overboard, and the purser not made aware—”

“Heaven preserve us,” Marie said under her breath as her hand went to the rail.

“What kind of a ship is it that fails to keep track of its passengers? Six hundred souls aboard, and a man may simply vanish from the record as though he were never there. It is not reasonable.”

She drew a breath as the wind caught at her skirts.

“And to suggest he went overboard, without so much as a report, when the man has a son expecting him in New York. No. Something is not right in that.”

“It may not be so straightforward as that,” Michael said. “There are many aboard and we do not know what befell the man.”

“We never saw the man… only Johann did… and still… if something had happened…” Marie said, her voice trailing off.

Johann shook his head. “Paul saw him too.”

“Paul?” Michael said.

“He slept in your bunk. Left the ship at Southampton.”

“Exactly the point,” Clara said. “Someone else saw him even if that man is no longer on board. If something had happened to Georg, it would have been known. It would have been recorded. A man does not simply vanish from a ship such as this.”

The door opened behind them with a sharp creak. The crewman stepped out, then stopped, his expression hardening as he found them still gathered there.

“You’ve had your answer,” he said, his gaze passing over them. “Move along.” He stepped back inside, the door closing with a firm thud.

“That was rather abrupt, I should say,” Thomas said, his brows drawing together briefly.

“Perhaps we should move on,” Marie said softly.

Johann drew the tin from his pocket, his fingers still curled around it. “Georg gave me…”

“Wait,” Clara said, turning to him. “You have something of his?”

“He had an extra one,” Johann said. “I had no tin of my own.”

“Let me see,” Michael said, taking it from him. He turned it over. “There are scratches along the bottom.”

“May I?” Marie asked. “Wait… I think there are letters.”

Clara took it from her and rubbed the bottom with the edge of her shawl.

The others gathered closer.

“You had not noticed?” Marie asked.

Johann shook his head. “I never thought to turn it over… it would have made no difference.”

“No shame in that,” Clara said. “These are letters.”

She stepped out from the shadow and held the tin toward the sunlight, tilting it to expose the bottom. “It is worn. G… e…” She frowned. “It is difficult to make out.”

“It was Gerog’s tin,” Johann said. “It must be his name.”

“And yet,” Thomas said, “what can the purser make of it, if Georg is not in the ledger?”

A faint color rose in Clara’s cheeks. “His name must be in the ledger. This is proof of it.”

“Aye,” Michael said, “and they may say Johann scratched it in himself.”

“But he couldn’t have…” Marie said, her voice trailing off.

Johann gave a small nod, hesitating.

“It troubles me. Georg’s things were there the first day out at sea… still there the next… then that night they were gone.”

Michael shook his head.

A woman pushed toward them along the rail, threading through those gathered there, her face drawn. “Miss Clara,” she said, catching her breath. “You must come. It is Liese. She has taken a turn. The doctor has been sent for again.”

Clara pressed the tin back into Johann’s hand and turned toward the companionway. Marie followed without a word.

Michael watched the women leave. He turned back to Johann. “If they say you scratched it in, it will be your word against the ship’s.”

Johann remained where he stood, his gaze lowered.

“It places you in a difficult position,” Thomas said.

Johann did not look up. “Georg gave it to me.” His fingers found the end of his mustache.

Two men passed along the rail in low conversation.

“—straight through Egypt, they say,” said a well-dressed man. “A canal cut clean across. Saves weeks, maybe more. Ships need not go round Africa any longer.”

His companion laughed softly. “The world grows smaller, then.”

Thomas turned from the rail. “Hear that? I thought as much. Trade will move quicker for it.”

“Must have taken years to dig, even with machines.” Michael said.

“Indeed,” Thomas said.

The afternoon passed without Clara and Marie’s return.

The wind picked up again, driving most from the rail.

At last, the bell sounded from below, carried up through the deck.

~

Morning came gray and still. Johann woke to the usual stirring of passengers waking up in the compartment, though something was not right.

He followed the others toward the tables, his tin already filled with the morning ration. The usual clatter was subdued. Voices stayed close among those already seated. Other passengers stood in small clusters, speaking in hushed tones.

“…before dawn…”

“…they took her up at first light…”

“…wrapped already…”

“She did not last the night,” a weary woman said further down the table, her head bowed.

“Liese’s gone?” Michael said, turning to the voice.

The woman’s head remained bowed.

Johann slowed, he glanced across the room before returning to Thomas.

Michael turned slightly, listening, his attention shifting as he looked for Clara and Marie.

Thomas’s jaw tightened.

Johann sat with the others, his tin untouched on the table.

Michael glanced toward the companionway. “Do you think they’ve put her over the side already?”

Thomas set down his spoon. “I should think so.”

Johann lowered his gaze. “That’s a hard thing.” He ran his fingers over the scratches on the bottom of the tin, hesitating there. “Would Clara and Marie have gone up?”

“They’ll likely be there still,” Michael said.

Thomas rose. “We should go up, then.”

They moved toward the stairs, crowded with passengers making their way down. They stepped out into a cold, windless morning, the light dulled to a gray.

A few lingered along the rail, not yet turning away. Clara stood among them, Marie beside her.

She turned as they approached, her face pale. “Liese is gone. She was not alone.”

After the weather eased and passengers were allowed back on the ship’s deck, a moment of calm gave way to trouble when McKenna, drunk and unsteady, accused Johann before the crowd, calling him “that German.” Though the crew took McKenna below, his words carried, and before long others had begun to ask questions.

From across the deck, his voice carried again:
“Thought you were rid of me, German?”

*

Thomas turned sharply at the voice, his gaze finding the man at once. “They’ve turned McKenna out already.”

Michael straightened beside him, pushing his cap back as he looked across the deck. “Aye… that didn’t take long.”

Johann turned at that.

Nearby, a few passengers had gone still, their attention drawn across the deck. One man paused mid-step. Another leaned close, speaking low to the woman beside him.

McKenna stood across the deck, his posture held too straight. Not far beyond him, a crewman paused with a length of rope in his hands, watching.

“He’s no notion when to leave off,” Michael muttered, edging forward.

“Leave it,” Johann said, not taking his eyes off McKenna.

“He means to press it,” Thomas said.

McKenna came on.

Thomas squared his shoulders. “He’ll draw attention.”

A well-dressed man shifted aside, drawing his companion with him. Others stepped back. Voices stirred low among those nearest. Eyes moved from McKenna to Johann and back again.

Clara came straight in, Marie following. Johann fell back half a step.

“Really, must we stand about like this? One would think no one had anything better to do—”

“We were—” Thomas began.

“—and you’ve all been here without us, which hardly seems fair. Come, we should not be left behind.”

“Miss Vogel, how good it is to see you.” Thomas brushed the brim of his hat.

Johann felt McKenna’s eyes on him and looked up. “He’s stopped.”

“We had thought—” Marie began.

“Who has stopped?” Clara asked.

“Nothing of consequence,” Thomas said, his gaze shifting past Marie.

Clara turned, her skirts brushing against her boots. “You again. Have you not had sufficient of making a nuisance of yourself?”

The crewman let out a short laugh, then shook his head.

McKenna worked his jaw, taking her in. “You’ve a sharp tongue on you,” he said.

Thomas stepped forward, putting himself in front of Clara. “You will address her properly. That’s quite enough.”

Clara shifted around Thomas. “Then I should think that settles it, and we need not stand about here any longer when there is perfectly good air further along and no cause to remain in the presence of so disagreeable a man.”

She turned and pointed. “Look there. The smoke’s shifted. The wind must be changing.”

Michael glanced up, shading his eyes. “Aye… that it has.”

Thomas moved with Clara, a hand lifting as if to guide her by the elbow. She slipped just ahead of it without breaking stride.

Marie fell into step beside Johann. “We had thought to find you sooner.”

“We’ve been here a while, we have,” Michael said.

“Ja. Seems so.” Johann looked out over the water.

Clara’s voice carried ahead of them, already speaking of the wind, Thomas answering now and again.

Marie glanced ahead to where Clara walked with Thomas, then stepped a little closer to Johann. “I think Liese is worse this morning. There are others nearby who are unwell… the air is close there.”

“It’s no place for the sick below,” Michael said.

“It won’t do for them,” Johann said, his brow drawing slightly. He let his step drift a little wider as he spoke.

“She could barely sit up this morning when we took breakfast.”

Clara turned. “Are you coming, or shall I go on alone? Someone ought to ask about that missing fellow.”

She glanced over her shoulder toward the deckhouse. “I’ve half a mind to see what the purser knows of it. What did you say his name was?”

Johann set his jaw. “Georg. He slept above me.”

“Georg,” she repeated. “And no one knows what became of him?”

Johann nodded.

“Who knows he’s gone? Was he expected somewhere? Where was he bound? Someone must have asked after him.”

Johann hesitated. “We asked after him.”

Clara did not slow. “And?”

“The purser could not be found.”

“Then he ought to be found,” Clara said. “One would think a ship could account for its own.” She set off toward the deckhouse. “Come along.”

Johann hung back as he followed. “It may be nothing,” he said. “Men keep to themselves.”

“All the more reason to ask,” she said. “We shall see.”

The deckhouse stood just ahead, its door shut tight against the wind. A crewman passed them without slowing.

Johann glanced toward the door. “It’s always closed.”

“Then we shall see if it opens for us,” Clara said. She rapped on the door.

Marie lowered her voice. “Do you think we ought to be here?”

Clara looked back. “Of course we should be here. A ship ought to be able to answer for those aboard it.”

Michael shot Johann a look, his brow lifting.

At last, the door opened a fraction, a crewman filling the space.

“We should like a word with the purser regarding a passenger who is missing.”

“The purser is not in,” he said. “I could not say when he’ll return.”

“Then perhaps you might find someone who does know,” Clara said.

The crewman moved to close the door.

Clara pressed her hand against the door. “Step aside.”

The crewman blinked. “Lady, I said—”

“Clara?” Marie said softly.

Thomas reached for her elbow. “Perhaps we—”

Clara stepped onto the threshold, the smell of pipe smoke clinging to him. “Do step aside.”

The crewman hesitated.

“He’s the one who turned us away before,” Johann said.

The crewman looked over his shoulder. “Sir—”

A voice from within answered, “What is it?”

Clara gathered her skirts and stepped past him.

“Miss—you cannot—”

She was already inside. The others followed. Johann came last.

The man behind the desk stood, bringing the ledger shut with a hard thump. “What is the meaning of this? This is no place for passengers.”

“Beg pardon, sir—” the crewman said.

Clara came up to the desk and stopped. “We should like a word with the purser.”

“You are speaking to him,” he said. “Explain yourselves.”

Clara met his gaze. “A passenger cannot be accounted for. We thought it best to inquire.”

“And who is this passenger?”

Johann stepped forward. “His name is Georg. He bunked above me.”

The purser pushed the ledger across to the crewman. “See if he is entered.”

“His surname?”

Johann hesitated. “I do not know.”

“Where did he embark?”

“Bremerhaven,” Johann said.

“Well?” the purser said to the crewman. “Do you find him?”

The crewman shook his head. “Not yet.”

“When did you last see him yourself?”

“The first day out at sea,” Johann said. “He fell asleep after breakfast. We did not see him after that.”

“Oh?”

“His things were gone the following night,” Johann said.

The purser studied him.

“No entry for him,” the crewman said, looking up. He hesitated. “There was some talk… a man overboard.”

Marie drew in a breath.

“Why has this not been brought to my attention?”

“Sir—”

“No.” Johann said, his hand tightening on the desk. “Not him. He had a son in New York waiting.”

“You see the difficulty,” Clara said. “Something has happened to him.”

“He is not entered,” the purser said. “And without a name, I cannot account for him.”

“Then the ledger is wanting,” Clara said, a touch of color rising in her cheeks. “He was seen.”

The purser sat down. “I can be of no further assistance.”

*

As they reached the companionway, McKenna stumbled, wrenching against their grip. “—ask him—” he cried, his words cut short by a rough cough. “—he knows—”

“Enough,” the red-haired crewman snapped, shoving him forward.

“—the German—” The word hung behind as they forced him down the steps.

A few turned to watch until McKenna disappeared. Others had already looked away. A glance passed over Johann, then held.

Clara lifted her chin and met the man’s gaze. He looked away.

She turned back to the others. “You need not concern yourselves with that man.”

Thomas glanced toward the companionway, then back to Clara. “I don’t believe I’ve seen a lady strike a man before.”

“Who is that man?” Clara demanded. “He seems determined to make a spectacle of himself.”

Johann’s hand brushed at his mustache. “He’s in the bunk above Michael.”

“He’s caused some bother below already. They took his flask,” Thomas said.

“Aye,” Michael said. “He’s trouble, that one.”

Marie turned to Johann, a faint color rising in her cheeks. “But why would he say that of you?”

Johann drew a breath. “I don’t know.”

“Miss, he’s not been right since we first set eyes on him,” Michael said.

“That is not proper—” Marie began.

“It is of no consequence,” Clara said. “You must not give it weight.”

Thomas inclined his head slightly. “Quite so. In such circumstances, it is best—”

“—to give it no further thought,” Clara said. “It is hardly worth the trouble. If his flask has been taken from him, one would expect the crew to prevent such nonsense from continuing.”

Thomas gave a small nod. “Indeed.”

Marie looked between them. “Surely they will confine him?”

“They did not seem overly concerned before,” Johann said slowly.

“Ah now, miss, they’ll see to him well enough,” Michael said.

Marie opened her mouth. “I should—”

“You will do no such thing,” Clara said. “Such men are best left to those whose duty it is to manage them, and there is no advantage in placing oneself in their path.”

Thomas’s gaze settled on her. “You handled the matter with admirable decisiveness, Miss Vogel.”

Clara placed a hand lightly on Marie’s arm. “We should go below. The air is turning.”

Johann watched as Clara drew her away. Marie glanced back once before she disappeared. The deck felt wider after she was gone.

“Ah, now you’ve frightened them off entirely, Mr. Carter,” Michael said.

“I only remarked,” Thomas said, straightening. “I thought her action entirely justified.”

Johann glanced toward the funnel, where the smoke no longer hung so low. “The wind’s shifted.”

Michael pushed his cap back and glanced up. “Aye, the wind’s settled some.” He unfastened the top button of his coat as he peered at Johann. “You’ve not gone unnoticed, I’d say.”

Johann turned to the rail and set a hand against it. It was easier to think on the wind than on what Michael had said.

The bell sounded below.

Michael pushed off from the rail. “That’ll be dinner, then.”

Thomas gathered himself and turned toward the companionway.

Johann let out a breath.

The deck had thinned. The air cleared as the smoke lifted. Johann remained where he was.

The wake trailed pale behind the ship, the water folding in on itself as though nothing had passed through it at all.

A man had been in the bunk above him one day, gone the next, and the ship carried on all the same.

Men had gone missing in Veronika, taken off the streets without warning, leaving fields half-worked and families to manage what they could.

He could still hear McKenna call him German. German. It was not the word itself, but what might follow if he set it right. Questions that led too easily to why a man would leave Prussia now, and what he might be running from.

Johann’s hand tightened on the rail.

How was his mother managing the farm now… His younger brothers at their chores in the yard toward evening. His sisters’ braids swinging as they ran with their dolls, not listening as they should.

It had not been a straight path to the ship. One delay after another, each one asking something of him, each one seemed the right decision.

Johann closed his eyes. He had not thought home would feel so far away.

“Bauer,” Thomas called from the companionway, “you’ll want to come along.”

~

By morning, the worst of the latrine smell had passed, and the air below was much as it had been before.

Thomas’s gaze went to the bunk across from him. “It would appear the Scot did not return last night.”

Michael leaned forward over his knees. “Aye… I wouldn’t think that’s the end of it.”

“Are his things still there?” Johann asked.

Thomas glanced again. “Strange they were left, given how concerned he was about them.”

Johann shook his head slightly. “He may not have had the choice.”

Michael’s mouth tightened. “Then he’ll be back.” He bent to his boots. “Think we’ll see the ladies on deck again today?”

The corner of Thomas’s mouth lifted. “You do not tire of the subject.”

Johann allowed a small smile and swung his legs onto the floor. “There are worse ways to spend a crossing. It gives a man something to look forward to.”

“Aye, and I’ll not have much chance of it in Illinois,” Michael said. “Best make use of it while I can.”

~

The air on deck was clearer than the day before, though the wind still came in uneven gusts.

Passengers had already gathered along the rail, some quiet, others speaking low as they watched the waves.

Michael’s gaze moved along the deck.

“Not there,” he said under his breath.

Johann followed his gaze to the deckhouse, where the ladies had stood the day before.

“Perhaps they’ve not come up yet,” Thomas said. “The pale one—Liese—she was unwell yesterday. It would not surprise me.”

The woman beside him gave a small nod. “Liese? Her bunk’s near mine. She’s taken poorly, not been up since.”

Michael rubbed a hand along his jaw. “That’s a shame,” he said. “She did stay below yesterday.”

Two men passing slowed.

The older man with the white beard stopped. “Are you that German with the Scot yesterday?”

Johann met his gaze. Prussian, he might have corrected. To be called German sat ill with him.

“I was nearby.”

The men muttered as they moved on. The man with a cane glanced back over his shoulder.

Johann watched them until they were gone. It would not end there.

“What’d he say?” Michael asked, still looking along the deck.

“They asked if it was Johann with the Scot yesterday,” Thomas said.

Michael frowned slightly. “They’ve started asking questions now,” he said. “That won’t stay with just the two of them.”

Thomas shifted his weight, glancing toward the companionway. “They won’t hold him long,” he said. “Not for drink alone.”

Johann said nothing for a moment. “It’s already started.”

A voice carried from across the deck.

“Thought you were rid of me, German?”

The Atlantic crossing had begun to wear on those aboard. McKenna’s temper sharpened since his flask was taken, and his attention remained fixed on Johann. Unease lingered in the crowded bunks below. Still, the lads had found some company on deck. That night, sleep came fitfully, broken by the motion of the ship.

*

Johann rolled onto his side as the ship lifted and dropped, the hull thudding against the sea. He lay still, listening.

A low groan came from somewhere nearby. Someone muttered, then retched.

He opened his eyes, his hand finding the edge of the bunk as it shifted again.

The lanterns near the passageways swung out of rhythm, dim light sliding across the beams overhead. Not the steady rise and fall of the ship he had grown used to. Something heavier. Uneven.

A loose crate slid across the boards and struck the far side with a dull knock.

“What was that now?” Michael muttered.

“No idea,” Johann said. He propped himself on one elbow, looking toward McKenna’s bunk.

“Only time he’s tolerable,” Thomas said under his breath. “Asleep.”

“Scheibe,” Johann muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk as a rank smell crept through the compartment.

The ship fell hard. Something sloshed somewhere off to the side.

Johann caught the berth post as the ship lurched.

A loud curse broke out nearby. “Mind it—”

The words cut off. A sharp reply came in the dark. A mop slapped across the boards. Voices overlapped somewhere near the latrines.

“—mind the bucket—”
“—hold it—”

“That’s a fine start to the morning,” Michael muttered.

“Lovely,” Thomas said under his breath.

The rasping cough of an older man sounded close by, followed by a wet, choking sound.

“I think we’ve had enough of this,” Thomas said, ducking beneath the beams.

Johann stood, steadying himself as the ship rolled again.

Michael pulled on his boots.

Johann made for the stairwell, one hand braced against the wall as the ship lurched. Michael and Thomas came close behind.

The stairwell narrowed ahead, bodies pressing in. A strip of pale light showed at the top where the hatch stood partly closed, past the shoulders of the men on the steps.

A crewman stood there, steadying himself against the frame.

“Back below,” he said. “Swells are too high yet.”

“We can’t stay in that,” the man on the top step said. “Not with that smell.”

“Not safe,” the crewman said.

A man ahead lowered himself onto the step. Another sat down after him. Johann settled on his step, the faint light above better than the air below. Michael dropped down beside him. Thomas hesitated, then sat as well.

The crewman moved down a step toward them.

“Can’t have you sitting there,” he said. “All of you, back down. Keep the passage clear.”

The men shifted and reluctantly moved down.

Johann drew a breath and wished he hadn’t. The smell hit him again.

“Verdammt!” an older man swore above the others.

At the base of the stairs, a younger man bent over, heaving. The boards were slick beneath Johann’s feet as he passed. His boot slipped before he caught himself against the wall.

“Mind your step,” Johann said over his shoulder.

Louder voices stirred in the dim light as they approached their bunks, the slap of mops amid complaints from the men in the passage where they waited.

Johann looked up as McKenna’s arm dragged along the edge of his bunk. His eyes opened and found Johann as the ship dropped.

“Christ! That stench!” McKenna pulled himself forward, squinting through the dim light. “Still here, are you.”

Johann turned from the bunk. “Doesn’t look like we’ll get above this morning.”

“So it would seem,” Thomas said. “We are rather confined for the present.”

“Aye… we might try the tables, if there’s room,” Michael said, glancing toward McKenna. They took up their tins and turned.

McKenna’s voice followed. “Run along, then, Johann. You won’t get far.”

They found space at a table, bracing themselves as it moved beneath their arms.

Morning wore on before food was served. The thin gruel slid from side to side with the ship’s motion, and men tipped their tins to keep it level. A couple of women sat further down the bench, heads bent over their tins. Michael glanced along the table, lingering before he looked away.

By mid-afternoon, the seas had eased, and word passed that passengers were allowed on deck. They stopped at their bunks to stow their tins. McKenna’s berth stood empty.

“He’s not one to keep himself out of trouble,” Thomas said.

Johann nodded and made for the stairs. The wind met them in sharp, icy gusts as they came up. Passengers lined the rail, breathing the clean air, coats pulled tight against the wind.

“There now,” Michael said quietly, nodding toward the deckhouse, where several passengers had drawn in close to its sheltered side. “I’d know that blue bonnet again, sure.”

Thomas looked that way, his expression settling. “Shall we?”

Johann pushed off the rail and followed them along the deck.

Clara turned as they approached, the wind catching at her shawl.

“Miss Vogel,” Thomas said with a slight bow.

“Gentlemen,” she answered.

Michael touched his cap. “Miss…” he said, turning to the woman in the blue bonnet.

“Marie,” she said.

A brief exchange passed between them, the wind tugging at coats and shawls.

Johann looked to Clara. “Your friend—” he said at last, quieter, “she’s not with you?”

“She was just—” Marie began.

“Resting,” Clara said, cutting in. “The air did not suit her. The motion is worse today—the deck will not hold still for a moment. I advised her not to come up.”

Marie’s mouth parted to speak, then closed again.

Thomas inclined his head. “A prudent—”

“It is quite impossible to stand for any length of time,” Clara said, the wind pulling at her skirts. “One is forever bracing oneself, and even then it is no use—”

Thomas made another attempt. “Of course, in such circumstances—”

“And the gusts come without warning. One has scarcely recovered from one before the next—”

Michael tipped his eyes toward Johann.

“—one might think the ship had taken leave of its senses entirely.”

Clara’s eyes shifted to Michael. “Sir, what was that look for, if you please?”

“Begging your pardon, miss,” Michael said easily. “I was only admiring how you put it.”

Johann turned to Clara. “She was unwell before. Is she worse today?”

Marie looked up at Johann. “She is a little worse—”

“She is resting,” Clara said. “It is only the motion.”

“And you, Miss Marie, have you kept your footing any better?” Michael asked.

Marie nodded, her expression softening. “Somewhat, yes.”

Her gaze shifted back to Johann. “Is it worse below deck?”

Johann hesitated, a faint color rising in his cheeks despite the cold. “It can be,” he said carefully. “But it passes.”

A shout cut across the deck.

“You there! That’s mine!”

Heads turned. A man pushed through the crowd, pointing. “He took my flask!”

McKenna stumbled into view, waving the flask high as if in answer. “Wasn’t me,” he cried, thick-tongued.

He lurched toward Johann, sloshing the contents as he tipped the flask. Swiping his mouth with his sleeve, he added, “Ask the German there.”

“Who is this?” Clara demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut through the crowd.

She stepped forward before anyone could stop her, facing him. “You will not speak of him that way.”

Her gloved hand struck him.

McKenna stared at her, stunned—then swayed, catching himself a step too late.

Michael and Thomas came up beside Johann, angling slightly in front of Marie.

The crowd surged closer, voices rising on all sides.

“Stand off there!” Two crewmen pushed through, the bearded man already reaching for McKenna’s arm, steadying him more roughly than kindly.

“That’s enough of this! Back, all of you,” the red-haired crewman snapped, driving the crowd a step away with a sweep of his arm.

The press loosened, though no one stepped back.

“That’s mine!” the passenger said, pushing forward.

McKenna blinked, slow to follow, his gaze shifting from Clara to the passsenger and back again. “What—?” he muttered, the word half-formed.

“You again,” the bearded crewman said, reaching for the flask. “Hand it over.”

McKenna jerked against the crewman’s grip. “I’ve done nothing—”

Thomas leaned in to Johann and Michael. “He’s the same one who took the whisky below.”

“You’ve done enough!” the red-haired crewman snapped.

McKenna twisted, pointing past them. “He set me up. The German—he’s the one.”

“McKenna, isn’t it?” the bearded crewman said. “You’ll come along.”

They led him toward the companionway.

The crowd shifted, though a few still looked toward Johann.

Marie’s hand found Johann’s arm from behind.

Michael saw it and looked away.

*

The stench of whisky filled Johann’s nose. Uneasy, he turned.

The Scot stood close beside him at the rail. Sweat shone along his temples despite the stiff wind sweeping the deck. His hand gripped the iron hard enough that the knuckles blanched, the fingers tightening and loosening again as the ship rolled.

“Quiet now that you’re alone.”

Johann turned his gaze back to the gray water.

McKenna studied him a moment longer.

“Aye,” he muttered at last, “you stood quiet enough while your friends lied for you.”

Johann tugged the end of his mustache as he watched the black smoke sweep aft across the sky.

“Thought so.” McKenna said. “That’s the sort of man you are.”

McKenna ran his tongue across dry lips, leaning close to Johann’s ear.

“A man’s bunk is his own,” he whispered. “You should’ve kept your hands to yourself.”

Johann straightened and turned to face him, his dark eyes steady beneath the sweep of his brow.

“What’s your name, then?” McKenna demanded.

Beyond McKenna’s shoulder, Johann saw Michael and Thomas coming from the companionway.

“Johann?” Michael called. “Everything well here?”

McKenna sneered. “Johann. Your friends are back.”

Thomas’s gaze moved from Johann to McKenna. “Something you wanted?”

The Scot gave a short laugh. “Back from walking the ladies, are you? Fine flock you’ve gathered.”

Thomas regarded him for a moment, his mouth tightening. “You’ll mind your tongue.”

McKenna laughed again. “What’s it to you?” The flush in his face deepened.

Michael straightened, his shoulders lifting. “Leave the ladies be.”

A heavy-set crewman scraping the deck nearby stopped to eye the men. Thomas glanced his way and gave a nod.

McKenna’s eyes followed the movement. He saw the crewman watching them before returning to his work. He wiped his nose with his sleeve, his attention returning to Johann.

Michael shifted a step closer. “You’ve had your warning already, McKenna.”

McKenna’s lips twisted with anger. “What are you lads going to do about it?”

Johann’s mouth twitched as he turned back to the sea. “Nothing at all,” he said under his breath.

McKenna spat aside as he turned from the rail, looking over his shoulder. “You had best mind yourself, Johann.”

Thomas watched McKenna move along the deck, shoulders tight against the wind. The ship rolled. McKenna staggered and bumped hard into another passenger.

The man turned sharply. McKenna barked something before pushing through the crowd.

“That one’s trouble,” Thomas said.

“Aye,” Michael nodded.

Johann shifted at the rail. “We might report him. Or ask to have him moved to a different bunk.” Rubbing his chin, he said, “Though I doubt they’d trouble themselves over it.”

Thomas pulled his hat lower against the wind. “Not unless he starts a fight.”

“They’ve too many aboard as it is,” Michael said.

Johann hesitated. “There’s another matter. A man named Georg bunked above me when we left Bremerhaven.” He nodded toward Thomas. “Where you are now.”

Thomas’s brows lifted slightly. “My bunk?”

“The first night out, he didn’t return from dinner. The next day his things were gone as well.”

“And his gear went after, you say?” Michael asked.

Johann nodded. “No one saw him go. Crewmen wouldn’t help. We couldn’t even get hold of the purser.”

Michael frowned. “Just gone?”

Johann paused. “Georg’s son in New York is expecting him.”

“Men don’t vanish aboard ship,” Thomas said.

“He did,” Johann answered.

The wind held through the afternoon, driving the long gray swells past the ship. Passengers came and went along the rail, trading places as the cold worked through coats and shawls.

As the sky began to darken, Johann’s eyes moved across the crowded deck and found the women again near the rail, their shawls pulled close at their throats, Marie’s blue bonnet bright against the gray sea.

Johann looked beyond them. “The ladies. Is the third one with them?”

Michael shaded his eyes and glanced that way. “No.”

Thomas followed their gaze. “The pale one?”

“Liese,” Johann said.

“Perhaps she’s still below,” Michael said. “That wind would finish a sick stomach.”

The bell sounded faintly through the ship.

Michael’s eyes followed the ladies as they started toward the companionway.

“Well,” he said quietly, “it would be a shame to lose sight of such company.”

Thomas adjusted his hat. “Then we’d best keep up.”

“After you,” Michael said.

Thomas nodded, and they worked their way through the crowd and fell in behind the women. Johann looked back for any sign of McKenna before joining the others.

“I trust your friend is no worse for the wind?” Michael said, leaning slightly to be heard.

Marie glanced back, recognition in her smile. “She will be well enough once she is warm.”

“She’ll mend, then?” Johann asked.

Clara turned. “She only took a chill. We left her resting in her berth.”

“Pray give her our regards,” Thomas said.

They reached the companionway and joined the slow press of passengers beginning down.

The ship lifted suddenly. Clara faltered on the step.

Thomas’s hand came lightly to her elbow. “Careful.”

She straightened at once. “Thank you, sir, but I should like to pretend I’m steady on my feet.”

Michael, a step below them, glanced back at the exchange, the corner of his mouth curving.

Someone behind Johann stumbled, sending him a step closer to Marie.

“Beg pardon,” he said.

Marie waved the apology away. “No matter.”

A man ahead of them paused halfway down, gripping the rail with one hand and pressing the other to his mouth. Those behind slowed until he moved on.

The women were carried toward the forward passage while Johann and the others were swept aft with the men’s line.

The compartment had grown warmer by evening, the lanterns throwing a dull yellow light across the bunks.

Johann stepped aside to let a man pass in the aisle.

Above Michael’s bunk, McKenna leaned forward in the narrow berth, shoulders hunched beneath the beams, watching them from the shadows.

His eyes narrowed, fixing on Johann, his face red and blotched, damp with sweat.

“Come back to nose through another man’s gear?”

Michael slowed near the berth and looked up.

Thomas looked back toward the passage. “Shall we fetch a crewman?”

McKenna’s lip curled.

“That how your mother raised you? Running to the crew, are we?”

Michael reached for his tin and straightened.

“Aye,” he said. “Looks to me you’re the one needing your mother tonight.”

McKenna leaned over the edge of the bunk, hand tightening on the rail, fingers trembling.

“You’ll regret that.”

He belched, the reek of whisky washing over Michael.

In the crowded steerage compartment, Johann passed the evening with two new bunkmates — Michael Doyle, an Irish laborer bound for Illinois, and Thomas Carter, a dockworker headed for New York. A sour-tempered Scot named Alasdair McKenna soon brought trouble.

When a crewman confiscated McKenna’s flask, the Scot turned his anger toward Johann. “I mind a slight,” he warned.

*

By the next afternoon, the ship had settled into the long, steady swells of the Atlantic. Below deck the air hung thick with damp wool, sweat, and the stubborn stink of the latrine that no amount of scrubbing quite erased.

Johann made his way up with Michael and Thomas, carried along in the slow press of passengers. A woman ahead of them paused to gather her skirts as the ship lifted. A small boy clung to her hand, stumbling as the ship dipped again.

“Mind your footing,” Michael murmured, catching the child lightly by the shoulder before they passed.

Michael ducked his head as the cold, salt-laden wind struck his face. Johann followed, drawing sea air deep into his lungs. Thomas pulled his hat lower as he joined them.

The bow met each swell with a hollow rush as the ship lifted and settled, her wake streaming white across the gray water astern. The sky stood high and washed with cloud, the pale sun showing through in brief, bleak light. No land lay on the horizon.

Passengers already lined the rail. A woman with an infant stood wrapped in a shawl near the stern. Two men stood shoulder to shoulder farther forward. Michael found a narrow space and leaned in. Thomas and Johann stood just behind him, Johann resting one hand on the iron.

The gray Atlantic rolled away in long, empty swells beyond the rail.

Michael gave a low whistle. “Well then.”

Thomas studied the horizon. “You could lose a man in that and never know it.”

“Aye,” Michael said, pulling his coat tighter as the wind tugged at their collars.

Johann kept his eyes on the water. “God help us. There’s no end to it.”

Glancing back along the deck, he saw McKenna near the fore rail, hands thrust deep in his coat pockets. His gaze met Johann’s and held it.

Johann turned back to the sea, his jaw set.

Michael leaned farther over the rail. “If it holds, we’ll make good time.”

Thomas glanced toward the funnel smoke trailing behind them. “Wind’s with us.”

“Better than against,” Michael said.

Johann let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Are we likely to meet another ship?”

Michael shrugged a shoulder. “Aye. Maybe.”

Thomas kept his eyes on the horizon. “Plenty pass this way.”

A family pressed past, the father’s palm resting lightly at the back of his daughter’s head as the ship rolled.

“It’s so windy,” the mother murmured, drawing her shawl tighter about her shoulders.

“Better than below,” the man answered. “At least you can breathe.”

Johann stepped aside to let them by.

When he looked up, Alasdair McKenna stood not twenty paces off, watching. McKenna faced him squarely, hands still deep in his coat pockets.

“The Scot’s come nearer,” Johann said under his breath.

Thomas shifted slightly, lowering his hand from his brow.

Michael’s whistle died. “You saw him up here before?”

“Ja. He was at the fore rail.”

“And now he stands here,” Thomas said.

The wind lifted the edge of McKenna’s coat. He did not stir.

His chin lowered, eyes fixed on Johann.

Then he turned and walked toward the hatch.

Johann watched him until he disappeared below.

The funnel smoke swept low across the passengers before it trailed aft again. Hands went to the rail as the deck rolled underfoot.

Michael let out a breath before looking down the length of the ship.

A young woman stood with two companions near the rail farther forward, one gloved hand gripping it, her bonnet strings whipping loose in the wind.

Michael tipped his chin toward her. “There’s something to ease the crossing.”

Thomas followed his glance, his expression unreadable for a moment.

“Well,” he said at last, “the ocean’s not entirely barren.”

“The one in the blue bonnet,” Michael said.

Johann watched the wind tug at her bonnet strings and lift them again. A faint smile touched his mouth.

Thomas glanced again. “Her friend’s not poorly set either. You’re looking at the wrong one.”

Michael huffed softly. “Am I now?”

Thomas did not answer. His eyes shifted to the young woman standing nearest the deckhouse, dark hair pulled smooth beneath her hat. “I stand by my claim.”

Michael gave a quiet laugh. He turned toward Johann. “There’s one left yet, if you’re minded.”

Johann turned back to the sea. “I’ll stand.”

The woman in the blue bonnet looked up. For a moment her eyes met Michael’s. She lowered them quickly, color rising beneath the brim.

Michael’s mouth twitched.

He removed his cap as he straightened.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll not have it said I feared the Atlantic.”

“Mind your manners,” Thomas said.

Michael grinned and stepped away, cap in hand.

Johann watched him cross the deck.

The woman in the blue bonnet lifted her eyes as Michael approached.

They exchanged a few words before he looked over his shoulder. All three women turned with him.

Thomas inclined his head politely.

Michael spoke with them a little longer, cap still in his hand.

The woman in blue answered him. The dark-haired woman said something that the wind carried away.

They stood together, the strong gust tugging at their shawls. After a brief hesitation, the women followed Michael to where Johann and Thomas stood.

Johann felt the weight of their attention and shifted his stance, both hands settling on the rail.

As they came up, Johann stepped a little aside to make room. The third woman lingered back from the others, her face pale in the thin light.

Michael shifted his cap in his hands and cleared his throat. “This is Thomas Carter and Johann Bauer.”

The dark-haired woman stepped forward, lifting her chin to be heard over the wind. “Clara Vogel,” she said. She tipped her head toward the pale girl behind her. “And this is Liese.”

Turning to the woman in the blue bonnet, she said, “And she can tell you her own name.”

The woman gave Clara a look before answering. “Marie.”

Michael smiled. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Better air here than below,” Johann said. The words scarcely left his mouth before he turned his attention back to the water.

“That much is certain,” Clara said, pushing a stray strand of dark hair back beneath her hat as a gust lifted it. “Though the wind has ideas of its own.”

Thomas glanced toward the smoke trailing from the funnel. “If it holds so—”

“It nearly tore my bonnet loose not five minutes ago,” Clara went on. “I thought the sea meant to carry it off.”

Thomas’s mouth curved as he waited to see if she had finished. “I say, I only—”

“And the deck pitches so suddenly,” Clara went on, “one hardly knows where to put one’s feet.”

“Have you crossed before?” Marie asked Johann.

“No,” Johann said. “First time.”

She gave a small shake of her head. “Mine as well.”

Michael smiled. “Then we’re all equally in the hands of the ocean.”

Liese gave a small cough behind her hand, turning away.

“Forgive me,” she murmured.

“The air is sharp,” Clara said lightly. “It catches the throat.”

“Are you well?” Marie asked.

“You should not stand in this wind, Liese,” Clara said.

“I think we should take her below,” Marie said to Clara.

“I said as much,” Clara retorted.

“We’ll see you to the companionway. The deck’s a bit lively today,” Michael said.

Clara adjusted her shawl. “We’d best go before the wind carries Liese away entirely.”

Liese turned, pressing her handkerchief to her lips.

“Mind the deck,” Michael said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the companionway.

Thomas inclined his head and fell in beside them.

Johann turned back toward the sea.

“Fine company you’ve found yourself.”

Johann stiffened.

McKenna stood close beside him, his breath rank.

“Pretty ones, too.”

Georg’s bunk remained empty, his disappearance met with the ship’s indifference.

The Union arrived in Southampton, where Paul departed to join family ashore. Johann lingered on deck, watching England as the drizzle set in before returning to steerage, where strangers now claimed the berths nearby.

*

The compartment had quieted after supper. The smell of boiled grain and the faint sourness of the latrines clung stubbornly to the air.

Men shifted in their berths, settling blankets, stacking tins. Voices fell into a softer murmur as evening closed in.

Johann sat on the edge of his bunk, the tin resting in his palms.

The man beside him stretched his legs into the aisle, black hair falling loosely across his brow, a shadow of beard darkening his jaw. “I’ve eaten worse,” he said, his Irish lilt soft but unmistakable. “But not often.”

A quiet huff came from above. The fair-haired man leaned over the rail, his pale mustache catching the lantern light. “You’ll not starve.”

“That’s the comfort, is it?” the dark-haired man said.

The man above shifted, adjusting his blanket. “Seen crossings leaner.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “Worked the docks.”

The Irishman glanced up. “In London, by your accent?”

“East India Docks,” the fair-haired man answered.

Lantern light wavered, shadows shifting across the beams.

“Michael Doyle,” the Irishman said.

“Thomas Carter,” came from above.

Johann looked up. “Johann Bauer.”

Michael glanced toward him. “Prussia?”

“Ja.”

Thomas’s voice drifted down. “German, then.”

Johann hesitated, fingers moved instinctively to his mustache. “Prussian,” he said. “Veronika.”

The wooden planks creaked lightly overhead.
“Plenty talk of Prussia these days,” Thomas said. “Men on the docks say war’s coming.”

Johann glanced at Michael, his hand tightening on the tin. “Where you bound?”

“Illinois,” he answered, rubbing his jaw. “Railroad work. If they’ll have me.”

“You’ll find work,” Thomas said. “Backbreaking work, but it’s work.”

Michael gave a faint shrug. “Ireland’s no place for a second son.”

Thomas nodded. “Aye, heard that often enough.”

Johann looked up. “And you?”

Thomas shifted slightly. “New York. Plenty of ships there.” He lay back. “Word is the pay’s better around Castle Garden.”

The low talk ebbed, leaving only the faint rustle of wool blankets as the men settled.

Johann stretched out slowly along the hard planks, the air thick with the rise and fall of men’s breathing in the darkness. He stared upward, sleep refusing him.

His thoughts drifted to the letter he had sent his mother. Has it even left Bremerhaven yet?

Night loosened what daylight held in check.

Georg had disappeared.
His bunk stood filled by another.

Johann rolled onto his side.

A faint creak from an upper berth stirred him. He listened, then settled again.

At last, sleep came.

~

Johann woke to the deep vibration of the engines, the bunk thrumming beneath him.

Around him, the compartment stirred. A sneeze nearby broke the morning stillness.

Michael rolled onto his back with a soft groan.

“Jesu… already?”

Johann blinked. “Morning.”

Thomas shifted to his side, lowering his voice as he nodded to the bunk above Michael.

“Still sleeping. Must have come in late, I’d say.”

Johann nodded. “I heard him last night.”

Thomas yawned, stretching until his shoulders protested. “Saints preserve us,” he muttered, wincing.

Michael pulled his blanket higher, grumbling. “They’ll shake the bones loose.”

A whistle shrieked overhead, sharp enough to startle.

Feet thudded above in quick succession.

Michael flinched.

Thomas swore softly.

The man above Michael did not stir.

Voices rose throughout the compartment.

“She’s moving!” someone called.

Michael swung his legs down. “Best have a look,” he said. “You coming?”

Johann shook his head. “Nein. You go ahead.”

“Aye, I’ll have a look,” Thomas said, climbing down, buttoning his sack coat.

Michael stood, pulling on his wool cap, winding a knitted scarf snug at his throat. “You sure?”

Johann nodded. “Ja. Go on.”

He watched them disappear into the small crowd pressing upward toward the deck.

Johann listened as footsteps faded from the stairs. The ship settled into its even rhythm.

He leaned back against the boards and let out a long breath.

“At last,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

The low hum of the engines fell away into the background.

“Johann?”

A hand shook his shoulder.

Johann stirred.

Thomas’s face hovered above him. “Bell’s rung.”

Johann pushed himself upright.

Michael glanced toward the bunk above him. “He’ll sleep through the meal at this rate.”

Pulling off his cap, he ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe I ought to wake him.”

Thomas reached for his tin. “If he’s hungry, he’ll wake.”

Johann shook his head. “Let him sleep. He looks worn through.”

While heading back toward their bunks with tins half full, they passed a man with a graying beard. “Late again,” he muttered. “Barely worth the wait.”

An older man nearby gave a small shrug. “Galley’s slower when they’re getting underway. Better than nothing.”

Thomas’s mouth twitched as he exchanged a glance with Michael. “Men will talk,” Thomas said under his breath. “Especially when food’s involved.”

They returned to find the man in the bunk above Michael sitting upright, rubbing his eyes with a sour expression. His shirt hung open, misbuttoned, hair crushed flat at one temple.

“Anything left, or have they scraped it clean?”

Michael lifted his tin slightly. “You’ve not missed much.”

Thomas glanced up with the faintest smile. “Plenty left.”

The man swung down from his bunk, his tin clattering on the planks as it dropped.

“Damn!” he muttered, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

Johann caught sight of the dull gleam of a flask tucked beneath his blanket.

“Away with you,” the man snapped, pushing through.

Michael watched him go. “Only a Scot greets the morning so warmly.”

Thomas settled beside Johann. “Pleasant sort.”

Michael lingered in the aisle, nose wrinkling. “Anyone else smell drink?”

Thomas nodded. They wiped their tins and settled back onto their bunks.

Johann glanced toward the Scot’s bunk, clearing his throat. “I saw—”

“Not a scrap left,” the Scot barked, reappearing in the aisle.

His gaze fixed on Johann.

“Saw what?”

Michael’s brow furrowed.

“What?” the Scot snarled. He jerked his chin toward his belongings. “You been at my gear?”

Thomas was already on his feet.

Michael tore off a piece of bread and offered it across. “Here.”

“You think I need feeding?” His eyes flashed as he shoved Michael’s hand aside.

The Scot gave a short snort. “I’ll not take charity.” He reached under his blanket and drew out the flask.

Michael’s eyes narrowed.

Thomas remained standing.

The Scot took a long pull, then lowered the flask.

“Damn breakfast’s gone,” he muttered. “Man’s got to take his sustenance where he can.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And keep your hands off my whisky.” He slid the flask under his blanket. Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder before tucking it into his pocket instead.

Shoving past Thomas, he grumbled, “I mind what’s mine.”

Michael watched him go. “Tough one, that.”

Thomas exhaled. “We’ll sleep light, then.”

By midmorning, steerage had fallen into its usual restlessness. The Scot reappeared with a crewman at his shoulder.

“That one,” he said, jabbing a finger toward Johann. “Found him nosing about my bunk.”

The crewman looked toward Johann.

“That’s not so,” Thomas said evenly. “We’ve been here together.”

Michael nodded. “Never moved.”

“I’ve not touched your belongings,” Johann said.

The Scot’s face darkened.

“You calling me a liar?”

He swayed as he dragged the flask from his pocket.

The crewman’s eyes dropped to it. “That’ll do.” He held out his hand.

The Scot blinked, slow to answer. “It’s only water.”

“Hand it over.” The crewman closed his fingers around the flask, turning it once in his hand.

“You’ve no cause,” the Scot snapped, the unmistakable stench of whisky rolling from him.

“Your name?”

“Alasdair McKenna,” the Scot said reluctantly.

“Not today, McKenna,” the crewman said, heading up the passageway. “See that your name’s not asked for again,” he said over his shoulder.

The Scot spat onto the planks. “I mind a slight.”

Georg’s bunk remained empty. No one had seen him. No one seemed concerned.

By evening, even his blanket and bundle had vanished, as though he had never been there at all.

*

The lanterns in steerage rocked gently, their amber glow wavering in the stale, smoky air.

Johann lay still.

The deep vibration that had carried them these past two days faltered, then gathered again before slowing.

Around him, men stirred in their bunks. A cough broke the quiet. Someone shifted, wood creaking lightly under the change in weight.

Footsteps crossed overhead in quick succession. Voices followed, clearer than before, no longer blurred by wind and sea.

A hatch clanged, the sharp sound ringing through the compartment.

Amid the waking noises of the ship rose the high, unmistakable cry of gulls.

Johann opened his eyes.

Paul was already seated, his coat on, his bundle drawn close between his boots.
“We’re nearing port,” he said low.

Johann pushed himself up on his elbows.

The ship no longer lifted and settled with the long breathing of the open sea. Its motion had grown restrained, almost hesitant.

“Georg’s bunk is still empty,” Paul said.

Johann shook his head and lay back down, closing his eyes.

A sudden clatter rang out from the galley, metal striking metal, followed by a voice raised in irritation.

Johann opened his eyes again.

“Your uncle meeting you?” he asked.

Paul nodded. “Said he would. Or one of my cousins. I’ve five.”

“On the dock?”

“Ja.”

Johann was quiet a moment.
“And Georg?” Johann asked.

Paul adjusted the strap of his bundle. “Don’t know.”

Johann stared at the underside of the upper bunk.
“He’s just gone,” he said. “Like he was never here.”

Paul hesitated. “Ship won’t hold space long.”

Johann swung his legs down and sat.
“What, then?” he asked. “I’m meant to forget he was here?”

He reached for the tin beside him, his fingers closing around it.
“This is all that’s left.”

Paul set his jaw, gaze dropping.
“Ship’s no place for answers,” he said. “Best get used to it.”

He stood, setting his bundle on his bunk.
“Doesn’t sit right,” Paul said. “But it happens.”

The indistinct murmur of waking voices thickened, mingled with impatience. Canvas shifted. Buckles clicked.

A man squeezed past, bumping into Paul in the narrow aisle.

Overhead came the tread of many feet and the sharp rise of voices.

The ship shuddered briefly, then steadied again.

Johann rose instinctively, steadying himself.

Paul tilted his head.
“Hear that?” he said. “We’re coming in.”

“Coming in?”

“Southampton.”

Johann hesitated.
“What happens now?”

“Eat first,” Paul said. “No use standing hungry.”

Paul retrieved his bundle, shifting it higher on his shoulder before stepping toward the galley. “There’ll be plenty of waiting.”

Men eased reluctantly away from the passageway as the smell of warm grain drifted back. Some returned to their bunks, tins in hand. Others lingered near the stairs, gazes drifting upward as though awaiting a signal.

The steerage deck jolted slightly as the ship came alongside the dock.

Two men passed, their voices carrying easily in the confined space.

“Six hours, they said.”

“Always overnight,” the other replied. “They’ll take on coal.”

Paul gave a faint huff of amusement. “You hear everything in a port.”

He turned slightly toward Johann.
“Come on then. You should see a bit of England.”

Johann glanced toward the stairs, where men were gathering in uneasy silence.

His fingers slipped inside his coat pocket.
The edges of his papers felt rough beneath his touch.

Paul waited. “There’s time,” he said.

Johann’s gaze dropped to the tin in his hand.
“Best not,” he said.

Paul hesitated. “You sure?”

Johann nodded, tightening his grip.

Paul gave a small shrug. “Suit yourself.”

A voice rang down the stairwell.
“Southampton passengers!”

Paul extended his hand.
“Mind your papers.”

Johann took it.

The wait stretched longer than Johann expected.

Paul shifted his bundle higher on his shoulder, turned and followed the others up. Near the top, he glanced back, then disappeared from view.

Men brushed past Johann toward the stairs, voices rising and fading, feet thudding on the steps.

Johann stood aside, the tin cool in his hand.

Another man squeezed by and Johann moved with him. Shoulders jarred as men crowded upward. A heavy parcel knocked against his arm.

Cool, salt-tinged air touched with coal dust met him at the top of the companionway. The deck was busy with movement. Disembarking passengers pressed toward the gangway while others lingered on the deck, gazing out over the harbor.

Johann stepped to the rail.

Gulls wheeled and cried above the ship while voices and distant shouts drifted across the water. Stone docks and long warehouses lined the water, broken by cranes and the dark funnels of steamers.

So this is England.

The dock stirred with movement… passengers, porters, and waiting carts moving steadily between grouped trunks and parcels.

Among the departing figures, Johann caught sight of Paul’s familiar coat and bundle.

He started to raise his hand, then let it fall.

Johann drew his coat closer as a chill breeze crossed the deck.

Men moved steadily along the quay, their clothes darkened with coal dust.

A woman nearby spoke softly. “That’ll be a church. Isn’t it lovely?”

“England, all right,” her companion murmured. “Churches everywhere.”

Johann followed her gaze.

A church spire rose beyond the warehouses. Chimneys stood above the town, trailing narrow streams of smoke into the gray sky.

Johann’s gaze drifted back toward the dock.

Paul was gone.

Johann remained at the rail a while longer, watching the harbor at work. Funnels and masts crowded the waterfront, belonging to ships already docked or waiting their turn. From the quay a crane creaked slowly.

Passengers boarding the ship drew back near the gangway as a horse on the dock suddenly tossed its head, its harness ringing softly. The driver caught the reins to steady it.

A fine drizzle began to fall.

Johann stepped back from the rail.

The air grew warmer as he descended. The odor met him before he reached the bottom. Voices and movement filled the compartment.

Johann moved toward his bunk. A stranger lay where Georg had slept.

Another man was setting his things down in Paul’s bunk. He turned to face Johann.

“Looks like we’re going to be bunkmates.”

Johann lowered himself onto his bunk, setting the tin beside him.
He looked up and nodded.

Southampton Harbor

*

Johann woke to the steady thrum of the ship.

The bunk pressed hard beneath his shoulders as his weight lifted and settled with it. The air lay thick, warm with breath and the smell of damp wool.

He lay listening to the timbers work and the stir of men waking. Paul was already sitting, his back turned, shoulders easy as if he had been awake for some time.

“How long you been up?” Johann asked.

Paul glanced back, squinting slightly. “Long enough.”

Johann smiled.

He swung his feet down and sat on the edge of his bunk, the wood planks rough even through his socks. Someone nearby cleared his throat. A belt buckle clinked. Snatches of talk passed between the men.

Johann craned his neck to see where Georg should have been.

Still empty.

He looked away again, more slowly this time.

Paul stood and stretched his arms once over his head. His eyes lifted to the bunk above, then moved on. “Feels different today,” he said. “Like we’re properly out now.”

“Smells better too,” Johann said, surprising himself.

Paul huffed a quiet laugh. “Give it time.”

Johann nodded, reaching for his boots. As he bent, Georg’s absence stayed with him.

“You see Georg come back?”

Paul shook his head. “Not after we went on deck yesterday.” He paused. “There ain’t many places he could’ve gone.”

Johann tugged at the end of his mustache.

“If a man takes sick,” Johann said, “would they move him?”

Paul rose. “Depends how sick.” He set a foot on the framework and caught the iron rail above, pulling himself up.

“His blanket’s still folded like it was,” Paul said. “Tin’s here. And his bundle.”

Johann remained seated, one boot braced against the floor.

Paul climbed down again and stood, brushing his palms against his trousers.

“Looks like he meant to come back.”

Johann watched the lantern sway with the ship’s lift, then stood as a slight roll followed, feeling it in his legs.

A crewman passed along the aisle at a brisk pace, head down, carrying buckets. The smell followed him.

Paul stepped half a pace into his path. “You see a man from that bunk?” he said, pointing. “Name’s Georg.”

The crewman glanced up. “Wasn’t my watch.”

“Would he have been moved?” Johann asked.

The man shrugged. “If he was, it’d be put in the book.” He stepped around them and went on.

Paul called after him, “Who would we ask?”

The man didn’t turn.

Johann watched him go.
“I didn’t think much of it yesterday,” he said. “Georg missing supper.”

“Nor I,” Paul said.

Johann hesitated before opening his mouth.
“He did say he was alone now…”
He shook his head. “Never mind.”

Paul glanced toward the stairs where a few men were already making their way up.

“He won’t have stayed up there all night,” he said, “but we can have a look.”

Johann followed at Paul’s heels. Cold air met them as they reached the top.

Men stood along the rail, collars turned up. Two women lingered at the edge of the deck, shawls pulled tight, skirts snapping in the wind.

Rigging cut the deck into sections, lines running overhead and down to the rails. A low deckhouse sat forward, its sides streaked with soot. Johann looked past it to the lifeboats. Georg wasn’t there.

Paul scanned the rail, then the stretch of deck beyond the deckhouse. He shook his head. “I didn’t think so.”

Johann glanced back toward the stairs. Near the rail, a crewman stood coiling a line. Paul stepped closer.

“Our bunkmate’s missing,” he said. “Haven’t seen him since yesterday. If a man’s taken off the list—where would it be noted?”

The crewman straightened. “That goes to the purser.”

“And where would we find him?”

The man nodded toward the deckhouse. “When he’s about.”

Paul turned to Johann.
“If they’ve written it down,” he muttered, “it won’t be where we can see it.”

The bell sounded below.

Men began turning back toward the stairs.

Johann stood a moment longer, looking along the rail. Then he went with Paul.

The passageway was already crowded with men, shoulders brushing, tempers close.

They returned to their bunks with their tins. The food was no better than the day before, hot and thin, gone too quickly to satisfy.

Johann drank it down anyway.

Voices rose further down the passageway. A hard thud sounded.

Johann glanced up at Paul.

“Keep it moving,” someone barked. “This isn’t the place.”

The noise faded as Johann wiped his tin clean.

The air had gone foul again.

Paul set his tin aside and stood. “We can try the purser. If he’s about,” he said over his shoulder as they made for the stairs, stepping clear of the stairhead into the wind.

The deck had filled. Passengers lined the rail. A couple of children edged along the deck until a woman caught one by the sleeve and drew them both in. A crewman passed, wiping his hands on a rag.

The deckhouse sat forward, low and square, its door shut, paint dulled by smoke and salt. Paul angled toward it without hurry.

They hadn’t gone far when a crewman came to a stop in their path. He didn’t raise his voice or his hands—just stood there, solid as a bulkhead.

“Passengers don’t go in there,” he said.

Paul stopped. “We were told to ask the purser.”

The man glanced at the door, then back at Paul. “He’s not on deck.”

“When would he be?” Johann asked.

The crewman shrugged, already turning away. “When he’s about.”

He stepped aside, the path closing behind him as another man crossed in front of them.

Johann lingered a moment longer, eyes on the door.

Paul crossed to the rail, leaning back against it, pulling his hat down low.
“If we hear anything,” he said, “it probably won’t be before tomorrow.”

Johann frowned. “Tomorrow? We just wait?”

Paul’s mouth tightened. “They’ll come to it when they come to it.”

Johann adjusted his grip on the rail, fingers tightening.

He watched the water break and settle, the chop no different from what it had been that morning. A man nearby struck a match and tried to light his pipe; the flame guttered, went out, flared again, then failed. The smoke tore away as soon as it rose.

The ship moved on beneath a blanket of low, unbroken cloud, the wind easing but not gone.

The bell sounded from below as the light dulled.

Paul and Johann stayed at the rail until most of the deck had emptied. Then Paul turned; Johann fell in behind him.

Below, the passageway was already filling again, voices loud, the smell of boiled grain thick in the air.

They stopped long enough to pick up their tins.

Georg’s blanket was gone. So was his bundle.

*

“Paul,” the man said, adjusting the bundle under his head.

“Johann,” he said, pushing himself up on his elbow to meet Paul’s eyes.

He lay back again, the wood rough against his back. The vibration ran steady beneath him, a low working sound through the timbers.

Somewhere along the compartment, a man laughed sharply. A hacking cough followed, then a muttered curse. Footsteps passed overhead, heavier than before.

“You ever been on a ship?” Paul asked.

Johann shook his head. “No. Only the river.” He paused. “A few days ago, steamer.”

“You’ll feel it more once we’re clear of the harbor,” Paul said. “Or less. Depends who you ask.”

Johann lay still. “You’ve been on one, then.”

“Often. Southampton,” he said. “Family there.”

Johann nodded, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk. He bent and pulled on his boots, the thrum deeper beneath his feet. Close by, someone snored.

A crewman passed without stopping. The air stirred as he went, lifting the damp, sour smell that clung low in the compartment.

Johann drew a breath, on the verge of standing. He shifted, his back stiff, his stomach hollow in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

Voices began to rise and fall, men speaking over one another, asking the same few questions repeatedly. Something clattered to the floor, followed by a brief burst of laughter.

“How long to Southampton?” a man called out.

“Long enough,” someone answered, and a murmur went through the men.

Johann listened, then glanced toward Paul. “You stopping there?”

Paul reached for his boots. “Ja. Only that far.”

From the bunk above, a man with a graying beard leaned partway over the edge. “Family there?”

Paul looked up. “Uncle.”

“Mine too,” Johann said. “An uncle. Homestead.”

The bearded man leaned back slightly. “Georg,” he said. “New York. Son’s there.”

Paul drew his legs in as someone passed.

Talk drifted on as people stirred awake, then broke off as an unmistakable sound cut through the space.

Someone was heaving. A bucket scraped along the floor as it was dragged. A man swore.

There was no place the sound didn’t reach.

The smell followed.

Johann drew a breath and wished he hadn’t.

“God help us,” Georg muttered, lifting his sleeve to his face. “Air’s got to be better topside.”

Paul glanced toward the stairs. “If they’re letting people up.”

Johann hesitated. “We can’t just… go up?”

Paul rose, shrugging. “Not always.”

A loose cluster of men stood at the foot of the stairs, a few with hands near their mouths, all of them facing the same way. Others leaned back against the bulkhead, faces gone pale.

One man stepped out of the group and went up the stairs. No one moved to stop him.

A cool current of sea air drifted down the stairs.

“Bucket!” someone called, and more men edged toward those already gathered at the foot of the companionway.

Johann hauled himself upward behind Paul and Georg, one hand on the rail, the stairs more ladder than steps.

Light widened ahead of him. As they emerged, a crewman glanced their way and turned back to his work.

At the railing, Johann looked out over broken water. The sea below cut into short, hard-edged waves, the ship driving through them rather than riding over. The water lay dark beneath the gray sky; the horizon blurred where sea and cloud met.

Paul leaned on the rail. “North Sea,” he said. “Always looks like this in winter.”

“Better than down there,” Georg said, filling his lungs with the cold air.

The wind turned on them, fouled suddenly with coal smoke spilling back from the funnel. Georg coughed and turned away.

Johann moved clear of the smoke with the others; a shoulder brushed his as men and women pressed toward cleaner air, the deck already crowded.

On the other side of the ship, he heard a woman cry out. She leaned into the wind, gripping the rail with one hand, the other on her bonnet as the gust worried at her skirts.

A faint bell sounded from below, barely carrying over the noise.

Some men turned toward the stairs.

Paul straightened. “That’ll be food,” he said.

Georg leaned close to Paul’s ear. “Ja.”

Johann glanced back to find Paul and Georg already moving with the others, and fell in behind them. As they went down, the air turned warm and used, the lingering reek of sickness not yet gone, the smell of cooking grain rising.

A line was already forming along the aisle, tins and cups in hand.

Johann looked again. All men.

Paul and Georg stopped at their bunks, each taking up a tin.

Johann paused, twisting the end of his mustache.

“You got a cup?” Georg asked, glancing back.

“No,” Johann said. “I didn’t—”

Georg reached back for a tin, knocking it against the boards before pressing it into Johann’s hand.

The line bent around the bunks and posts, stopping and starting as men shifted to make room. The man behind Johann leaned in, breath warm at his neck.

When his turn came, the crewman at the front of the line dipped the ladle and tipped it into Johann’s tin. Mostly hot water, thin with grain, the cup scarcely filled.

He followed Paul and Georg back, edging past the line, careful with the tin as it grew hot.

Johann sat on the edge of the bunk, feet planted as the ship almost shuddered underfoot, making room without looking as Georg paused, then sat.

The heat spread through Johann’s chest as he tipped the tin and swallowed.

He looked up to see Paul run a finger around his empty tin before wiping it clean with his sleeve.

Johann lifted his brows. “No water?”

Paul shrugged. “Does well enough.”

Johann glanced at Georg.

Georg shook his head with a faint smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

Johann looked down at his own sleeve, then wiped his tin clean. He rubbed the wool between his fingers; it was damp and sticky.

He held the tin in his lap, hesitating.

“Keep it,” Georg said.

Johann placed it where it wouldn’t roll, his hand slow to let go.

Georg wiped his beard with the back of his hand and climbed back up to his bunk.

“How long’s your son been in New York?” Johann asked.

“Since ’63,” Georg said, his voice carrying down.

“You going to stay?” Johann asked.

A man’s foot brushed Johann’s leg as he hurried past, cursing under his breath. He pulled his feet in and lay back, the ship’s vibration rougher than before.

“Ja,” Georg said, finally. “I’m alone now.”

Johann closed his eyes. The ship groaned around him, a low working sound carrying through the hull.

Paul glanced toward the stairs. “No sense lying here yet.”

The sound of Georg’s breathing, already deepening, drifted down.

Paul shifted. “I’m going back up. You coming?”

Johann opened his eyes and swung his feet down. “Los.”

Pulling his coat close, he stood. “Ja. Let’s go.”

They came up into the wind and moved away from the stairhead toward the rail, where fewer people lingered now. A man ahead tugged his hat lower, bracing his feet as the deck lifted.

Paul leaned on the rail and pointed toward the water. “See there.”

Johann followed his gaze. A low, dark hull moved across the gray at a distance, a broken line of white stirring behind it.

“Trader,” Paul said.

Farther off, another ship shouldered through the sea, heading back toward the coast, its water breaking heavy along its sides before it passed from sight.

The wind drove hard across the deck. A young mother drew her two sons close and steered them back toward the stairs, heads bent against the wind.

Paul looked up. “Gets cold quick.”

A sailor passed behind them, unhurried, collar turned up, knit cap pulled down tight.

Paul shifted his weight, watching the crewman. “I nearly signed on the year before.”

Johann turned his head, shielding his eyes, a question half-asked in his mouth, but the wind took it.

The smoke tore away faster now, flattened by a wind that needled through wool and cotton.

Others were turning back toward the stairs. Johann looked to Paul who nodded, already moving.

They went back down the stairs, shoulders easing as the warmer air took hold, coats coming loose, voices rising around them. Johann followed Paul along the narrow passage, bodies brushing past in lantern light.

Paul slowed. Johann looked past him up to Georg’s bunk.

It was empty.

Previously…

Johann waited on the docks at Bremerhaven, working while watching for the next passenger ship. When the Union finally came in, he risked stepping away to send word home. By the time he returned, the passenger line had tightened and the process was underway. When his papers were examined, Johann was told to stand aside.

*

The clerk folded the papers as Johann watched, tucked them against the back of the ledger beneath his arm, and returned his attention to the line.

Johann shifted his weight and looked back.

A child cried out. His mother drew him close, answering softly, her voice swallowed quickly by the noise of the dock.

Johann stepped aside, and from where he stood, he could still see the edge of his papers.

The family who had been behind him waited now, their attention fixed on the shipping clerk. The mother held the child on her hip; its face pressed into her shoulder. Her foot pinned a bundle just inside the rope.

Eyes brushed Johann, then fell away as they moved past him toward the gangway. Johann kept his gaze on the clerk.

“Papers,” the clerk said, holding out his hand.

Two young men alike enough to be brothers stepped forward. Paper changed hands. The clerk wrote, tore a corner free, and motioned the next forward.

Johann watched in silence.

Another family stepped forward. More papers changed hands. The gangway answered with the hollow sound of climbing feet.

A gull screeched overhead, sharp enough to draw Johann’s eyes up.

A fine drizzle began to fall, cool on his face. People passed close enough that he felt the air shift. The smell of damp wool and linen came again and again.

Johann stopped following faces. Only the rhythm remained.
Step forward. Papers passed. Questions asked. Writing followed.

An older official stepped in beside the clerk, his coat cleaner than the others, his cap set back rather than pulled down.

The clerk glanced up once. A word passed between them, too low for Johann to hear.

The ledger shifted as the clerk freed Johann’s papers from beneath his arm and handed them over.

The official took them without comment and stepped a few paces aside, lifting them toward the light. He ran a thumb along the softened edge, flipping them over.

The official came back toward Johann, papers still in hand. Johann had to lift his gaze to meet the taller man’s eyes.

“From where?”

“Remscheid,” Johann said.

The man studied Johann’s face.

“Ja?”

“Remscheid,” Johann repeated a little stronger.

The official looked down at the papers.

“Occupation?”

“Laborer.”

Johann waited, twisting the end of his mustache.

“Age?”

“Nineteen.”

The official’s eyes narrowed. “How did your papers come to be wet?”

Johann glanced down, then back up. “I fell into the river. The papers were in my pocket.”

The official looked at him a moment longer.

“You fell into the river...” He ran his thumb once more along the softened edge and did not look up.

The words came before Johann could stop them.
“I was pushed.”

The official turned the papers once more, then handed them back. His mouth tightened briefly before he motioned Johann toward the gangway.

The rope, rasping where many hands had gripped it, dipped to let him through. Johann stepped onto the gangway behind a man already climbing, a pipe clenched between his teeth.

The planks gave under his step. He adjusted without thinking and went on, the boards narrow and worn smooth, grit ground into the grain.

The ship’s hull rose close ahead of him, dark and streaked along its seams, shutting out the sky as he climbed. Water struck the iron below with a rhythmic, hollow sound, the low note carried upward through the planks.

He followed the man ahead, close enough to see the worn seam at the shoulder of his coat. A child brushed against his leg as the line slowed.

As Johann reached the ship, he touched the hull, the side tacky with tar beneath his fingers. The drizzle continued to fall.

A crewman stood at the gangway port, guiding them through as Johann stepped over the threshold and inside. The light dimmed. The low ceiling, beams crossing overhead, pressed closer than the sheds along the quay where he slept. Iron walls narrowed the passage. Footsteps inside sounded muted.

A seaman spoke briefly, words Johann did not catch, and pointed him on. Johann followed the others down the steep stairs, one hand on the rail, watching the feet ahead of him. A man lifted his daughter as she began to fuss, settling her against his shoulder as they went.

With each step, the air grew damp and warm, carrying the smell of bodies shut in together, old wood, and the faint sourness of bilge.

The light thinned further. Lanterns glowed unevenly, swinging slightly with the ship’s movement. Shadows slid along the walls, crossing the beams overhead.

Below, steerage widened only enough to admit them. Rows of bunks, three high, filled it from floor to beam, leaving little room to stand. People were settling in—papers tucked away, coats folded, a place claimed by sitting.

A crewman in a hurry pointed as he turned away. “There.”

Johann stepped clear of the stairs and sat on the edge of the lowest bunk where directed. The wood was hard beneath him.

The ship lifted slightly, a slow, restrained motion that carried through the boards and into him.

Johann sat a moment longer, then reached into his pocket and broke off a piece of bread. He ate slowly, staring at the floor, the taste dry and familiar. Brushing the crumbs from his fingers, he leaned back against the wall.

The bunk above him was nearer than expected, boards rough and pale, the space between measured in inches rather than comfort.

People continued to come down the stairs in ones and twos, then in small clusters. Each arrival brought a brief stir, shuffling feet, a bag set down, a murmured exchange.

The bunks filled unevenly. A tired-looking woman sat, then lay back. Another stood waiting until there was room.

Johann folded his hands once, then let them rest on his knees as others went past.

Time loosened its hold. The press of arrivals slowed. The sounds above faded, becoming water against the hull, an occasional voice carried down, rope creaking and pulling under strain against the river.

A crewman moved through the compartment without stopping. No orders came. No urgency followed.

Johann settled more fully against the wall, the wood cool through his coat.
He listened as breath and movement around him eased.
When nothing else changed, he stopped waiting for the ship to move.

After a time, Johann stood and followed the movement of passengers along the length of the compartment. The man ahead of him in line glanced back once.

“That way,” he said, tipping his chin. “You’ll breathe better once she’s moving.”

Johann nodded and waited his turn. He sat on the dark, smooth, worn boards, fixing his eyes on the wall across from him. The damp air lay close and heavy.

When he finished, he returned without hurry and took his place again on the bunk.

The man beside him shifted to make room.

“You just get on?”

“Ja.”

“Where to?” he asked, propping himself on an elbow.

“Minnesota.”

The man nodded. “Southampton first, anyway.”

He lay back again.

The ship kept its slow, gentle motion.

Johann closed his eyes. Nearby, someone snored.

~

Johann woke to the sound of footsteps moving above him, more frequent than before. Voices passed overhead, breaking off as they went. Something metal rang out, loud enough to carry through the ship.

A low vibration gathered beneath him, traveling through iron and timber together.

Johann lay still, listening. When the pull of the ship came, his breath went with it.

The man beside him shifted and glanced toward the stairs.

“Feels like we’re moving.”

Johann nodded.

“Ja.”

Johann arrived in Bremerhaven by river steamer in the afternoon, pressed among emigrants. Carrying nothing of his own, he found work on the quay for food, taking in his first measure of the harbor’s ways before sleeping in the sheds beyond the docks.

*

Several days had passed in a rhythm of lifting and waiting. Work on the dock left its mark on Johann, the give of wet planks underfoot, the rasp of rope against his palms, salt stinging into old cracks. Hunger came early and stayed.

He stood near the water when the man they called Behnke straightened, weight easy on his heels, tar darkening the cuffs of his trousers. He shaded his eyes. Others followed his gaze.

“She’ll come in on this water.”

“Pilot’s already out,” the man beside Behnke answered, chewing the words.

A crate settled back against the planks with a dull knock.

“If the river holds,” Köhler said, his cap flattened by years of weather.

Johann shifted his grip on the rope. “Will there be work once she’s in?”

Behnke didn’t lower his hand.
“There’s always work,” he said. “Question is whether you’re looking to keep at it—or get aboard.”

Johann didn’t answer at once. He tightened the rope where it crossed his palm and looked back toward the water.

Behnke followed his gaze and gave a short nod.

“Then keep your bread on you,” he said. “Once she’s in, hunger makes men careless—and others bold.”

Köhler adjusted his cap. “And they don’t call twice. Step out, you lose your place.”

Johann did not look away from the water.

The harbor mouth darkened.

A shout went up farther down the dock, just sharp enough to carry. Another answered it. A basket was set down and left. The steady work along the dock came apart as men held where they stood.

Johann adjusted his footing as the quay shifted beneath him, the water working against the pilings. The far end of the harbor blurred in the haze, then cleared as the dark mass moved in with the tide.

The shape continued to fill the waterway, its outline sharpening as it came on. Men bent again to their work, though more slowly now, glances breaking off and returning to crates and rope.

“Move that,” Köhler said, nudging Johann with his elbow.

Johann took up the load and shifted it down the line. He kept his eyes on the work in front of him, the approaching hull pulling at his attention.

“Steamer,” a fisherman called from a rowboat riding the edge of the channel.

It took effort not to look up. Each sound from the water tugged at him—the deeper note of the ship, the way smaller boats shifted aside. He had risked too much to be seen idle now. A crate passed through his hands and was gone; another followed close behind. Only then did he allow himself a quick glance before the work claimed him again.

The elder Köhler squinted toward the water.
“Union,” he said. “That’s her.”

Johann held the name in his mind as the crate left his hands. He waited for another to take its place before speaking.

“If a man needed to send word,” he said, not looking over, “where would he go?”

Köhler looked up. “Post office is back toward the square.”

“Saw a fellow step off once,” Behnke said. “Came back too late.”

“They won’t wait for letters,” Köhler said.

Johann hesitated before picking up his crate. “How soon after she’s in do they start taking men?”

“Once she’s tied up and cleared,” Köhler said, wiping his brow. “Soon as they’re ready.”

“Soon enough you don’t want to be gone,” Behnke added.

A rope came whistling in from the water. Men moved to catch it. The hull came in with a low, jolting thud, and the dock answered with a groan. Lines slapped the planks; men surged to meet it.

With the ship fast alongside, the dock shifted into another rhythm. Cargo came off. Coal went aboard.

Johann watched passengers step down the gangway and move away, their bundles already claimed.

The name Union sat in his mind like a weight he could no longer carry. He set the crate down where he stood and stepped out of line.

He had gone only a few steps when a voice called after him.

“You there—”

Johann let it land between his shoulders and kept going as a man stepped forward to fill the space he’d left. The work went on.

Coal dust hung thick in the air now, blackening hands and collars as it went aboard. Men moved faster, heads down. A shipping clerk took a place near the gangway; a ledger braced against his forearm.

“Won’t be long,” a voice said.

No one answered.

A passenger near the gangway set his bundle down at his feet. Others drifted closer behind him.

The clerk looked up and began to write.

~

“Union,” Johann said, leaning closer as the post office clerk dipped his pen. “Bound for New York.”

Johann stayed where he was, hands tight on the counter’s edge, watching the pen scratch and lift, scratch again. He waited for the clerk to look up before speaking.

“Write this,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Tell her I have reached Bremerhaven.”

The pen paused. A man stepped in beside him, breathing heavily, the sound close in Johann’s ear, fingers tapping on the counter.

Johann glanced sideways and turned back again. “Tell her the ship is called Union. That I will be aboard her, God willing.”

Ink darkened the nib as the clerk dipped it again.

“Ja,” the clerk said, already writing, unhurried. When he finished the line, he looked up.

“And where is it to go?”

Johann leaned closer. “Elisabeth Bauer,” he said. “Veronika, Kreis Flatow. Province of Prussia.”

He listened for the scratch of the pen to begin again before adding, “Tell her I will send word when I land.”

“Ja.”

The man beside Johann huffed softly as he shifted his weight, the counter giving a faint creak beneath his hands.

Johann slid the coins onto the counter. “That’s enough.”

The clerk took them without looking up.

Johann turned, already moving before the clerk’s pen came to rest. He caught the door on his shoulder as it swung inward, the cold rushing in off the harbor, and brushed past a man coming in.

“Sorry,” he muttered without slowing, taking the steps two at a time.

Outside, the street ran downhill toward the water. Wagons clogged the way, iron rims ringing against stone. Johann cut between them, head down, barely clearing the wheels. A woman shouted. He was already past her, breaking into a run.

The quay came into view in a sudden narrowing. Lines had been hauled tight, rope drawn across the open space and cinched to iron rings. Men, women, and children stood along it, bodies spaced where the rope allowed, leaving no room to drift.

Bundles and small trunks lay at their feet, their faces turned the same way toward the ship’s dark side rising close above the pilings.

Coal dust thickened the air, bitter on the tongue. Water struck the hull with a deeper beat. Voices rose with purpose.

Near the gangway, the shipping clerk stood with the ledger open, already marked. A name was spoken. He wrote again.

Johann slowed long enough to catch his breath, his chest burning as he scanned the line of passengers.

He saw Köhler first, the flattened cap pulled low where he stood among the men working. Behnke was a few paces closer to the gangway now, shoulders squared. Behnke did not look back.

Johann’s eyes went to the rope, then along it, searching for its end. He stepped in where the space allowed, tipping his head back to see the ship’s side rising above the line, dark and close enough to touch.

Another traveler pressed close behind him.

Johann felt the weight of his coat pocket; the bread was still there. He craned his neck, trying to see ahead, but shoulders and hats crowded the view.

A name carried back from the gangway.

No one moved.

A few places ahead, an empty-handed man ducked under the rope and tried to shoulder into a gap between bodies.

“Nein!” a voice snapped.

The rope jerked tight.

The line moved at last — two paces, then held again.

A woman, turned away at the front, came with a child tucked close at her side, papers folded in her hand. She did not look up as she passed.

A breath went through those waiting. No one spoke.

The people ahead of Johann stepped forward, enough to steal a foot of ground. He followed, moving when they did until it held again.

A name was spoken.

No one moved.

Just ahead of him, the clerk repeated a name and wrote it down. Johann tugged at his mustache.

When the line settled again, the shipping clerk stood only a few paces ahead, the ledger open.

The family in front of him shifted toward the gangway, and Johann found himself in front.

The clerk held out his hand. “Papers.”

Johann drew them from his coat.

The clerk unfolded the papers, turning them once, glanced to the ledger, then back again.

He pointed away from the line.

“Stand there.”

*

The river steamer bound for Bremerhaven in the morning lay along the quay, smoke hanging low above it. Johann stepped onto the plank as it took the weight of those ahead of him, people and bundles jostling in a slow, impatient flow.

Cold air cut across the deck, carrying the smell of fish lingering in the damp wood.

There was no finding a seat. When a man dragged his sack closer, Johann took the space that opened and stood with one hand on the rail.

People settled in where they could. Sacks and rolls drew close. Coats folded became pillows. Children were lifted onto laps and hushed. The light drained away without ceremony, leaving only the river lapping against the hull and the quiet stir of people at rest.

Johann stayed where he was, his weight sagging against the rail. A woman beside him broke a piece from her cheese and pressed it into his hand without comment. He murmured a soft thanks and ate slowly, aware of her eyes on him.

Fog crept in off the water, softening the lights along the shore and dulling the river’s edge. The vessel’s gentle rocking held him there until his head tipped.

When day returned, the engine took hold, its vibration felt through the deck as the vessel eased away from the landing.

A man moved along the rail, stopping now and then. A hand held out. Paper changed hands. Johann had his ticket ready.

“Bremerhaven,” the man said, not looking up as he glanced at, marked, and returned it without a word.

The river slid past in gray bands. Warehouses and cranes fell behind, their outlines blurring as the steamer took way. Johann drew his coat tighter, the smell of dark water and coal smoke trailing long behind the vessel.

Around him, families turned to their food. Paper tore as bread was unwrapped. A knife passed from hand to hand. Crusts broke. Some children leaned against knees, eating where they stood. A murmured word passed only to those close enough to hear.

Johann kept his eyes on the river, knowing how little he had left.

Hours slipped past without marking themselves. The banks flattened. The water widened. The engine held its note, while the light softened in the river haze.

Johann shifted his weight at the rail, fingers tightening on the iron before he let his gaze drift back from the water.

A young man stood a few paces away, his cap pulled low, hands tucked into his coat sleeves, the wool worn at the elbows.

“Bremerhaven, then?” he said.

Johann nodded.

“America after?”

They stood a moment without speaking, both moving as the deck swayed beneath them.

The man shifted his footing, scraping at the deck with his heel. “From where?”

Johann hesitated.

“Remscheid.”

The man drew his hands deeper into his sleeves and turned his gaze back to the water. Johann did the same, taking in the number of men his age along the rail, two deep in places. Some shared food between them.

Low voices carried words he nearly caught, familiar to his ear though not his own. His thoughts drifted home, to voices he might not hear again for some time.

A gull cried somewhere above the deck, the sound pulling his attention back.

Men moved among moored craft along the banks, hauling lines and hanging fenders over the boats’ sides as traffic worked past.

A second gull wheeled low over the water. Others answered it farther off. The river no longer pressed in at the banks, but spread wide and busy, vessels moving against them in slow, deliberate lines. Dark coal smoke lay thicker in the air, together with the smell of fish and wet rope. The engine’s note shifted as the steamer checked its pace.

A forest of masts stood over the water, packed so closely that the sky seemed broken by rigging and lines. Dark hulls lay pressed together, their sides streaked with tar and river grime. Low rowboats bumped among the larger craft, nets piled in their bows. Lines hung in loops and coils along the docks, some trailing into the water, others already taut as men leaned into them.

The noise came in layers—iron ringing against iron, shouted orders crossing one another, the hollow knock of barrels rolling along the planks. Steam vented from nearby vessels in sharp bursts, answered by the steady breath of engines farther along the waterfront.

Johann stayed at the rail, his eyes moving without settling. Men in heavy coats moved fast, stepping without pause. Boys darted between them, coiled lines slung over their shoulders. Small groups stood already ashore, hands closed around what they carried.

He searched the water around the steamer for a passenger ship. The vessels nearest were wrong—too low in the water, too busy with cargo, their crews moving as if they would still be here tomorrow.

The engine’s note dropped. The water churned once more beneath the stern, and then the quay drew in alongside, close enough now that he could see the wear in the planks and the dark polish left by countless feet.

“Easy there—Weser’s running high today,” a man called as the lines were taken in. The deck jerked as they took hold, then steadied as the sound died away.

Bodies waited impatiently. Hands closed on sacks. A bearded man cleared his throat. Wood struck wood as the gangplank came down with a thud.

People surged before there was any call to move, taking Johann with them, packed close on all sides. A hand came to his back, firm and impatient, urging him on.

He stepped as the deck shifted beneath his foot, jarring him as the hard resistance of planks replaced the river’s motion.

Johann looked up in time to see a child stumble ahead of him.

“Mind the gap there!” a voice yelled.

Stepping onto the gangplank, Johann breathed in fish and brine, sharp beneath the smoke. Clipped voices carried from the dock, calling prices and names he didn’t stop to sort.

The crowd behind him kept pushing. Someone knocked Johann’s shoulder as bodies moved past. A child was lifted ahead, legs swinging briefly; a shoe slipped free and dropped. A young woman bent for it and vanished from sight. Another youngster tripped, dragged forward by the hand.

Johann edged out of the flow and took the space beside stacked crates on the dock, where the traffic split. His hands hung loose at his sides as he took in how men moved at a word.

“You,” a voice called from nearby. “Got hands on you?”

Johann turned at once. “Ja.” The man’s hands were dark with fish blood, rope tar ground into the skin.

The man looked him over, not unkind. “Can carry?”

Johann nodded. “Ja.”

“Then carry. That one.”

Johann bent and took it from the planks. It was heavier than it looked, wet seeping through at once. He followed the line of men moving toward the boards set on barrels and put it down where they did, stepping back as another was already being pushed into place.

Another basket came into his hands. Then another. The work settled into him, his steps falling in with the others.

Voices moved around him as he worked, the words close to his own but set differently in the mouth—near enough that he almost reached for them, but didn’t.

A basket tipped as he turned.

“Easy,” someone said at his shoulder.

Johann caught it against his hip, fish sliding against the slats, and kept moving.

When the run slowed, the man handed Johann a piece of bread and a strip of salted fish wrapped in paper slick with fat.

“That’s yours,” he said, his voice hoarse from calling all along the dock.

Johann stepped aside to eat standing up. After a few bites, he wiped his hand across his mouth.

The baskets came through farther apart. Men set them down and did not reach for another. Light slid lower along the quay, shadows stretching across the planks.

The man who gave him work glanced Johann’s way, held his gaze a moment, then turned back without a word.

Nearby, two men stood over an empty crate, looking past the quay toward the river’s mouth.

“Another one in a day or two,” the gray-haired man said.

“About time,” the younger man answered, his chin tipping toward the open water.

Johann hesitated, then spoke.

“Passenger ship?”

The younger shrugged. “So they say.”

Johann tugged at his mustache.

“Any place a man might sleep?”

The elder man slowed. “Sheds along the harbor,” he said. “Or the bunkhouse by the fish market, if you’ve coin.”

Johann nodded. “Danke.”

He sat on an upturned crate as the voices drifted away, watching the dock sort itself for the night.

His eyes moved without settling—caps and bare heads bent over knots and baskets, straightening what had been left behind—pausing where he expected a uniform and found none.

Johann stood and fell in with the line of men moving on. A woman with a bundled child turned the other way, toward the lights. He passed the bunkhouse without slowing, light spilling from the already crowded doorway, and kept on toward the sheds beyond.

Drawing his shoulders in, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The air was heavy with damp wood and the sour edge of bodies shut in together. Much of the floor was already covered with men stretched where they had dropped, boots still on, coats pulled up over faces. A few lay shoulder to shoulder; others with a little space between them.

Breathing rose and fell unevenly in the dark. A snore caught and broke off. Farther in, two voices murmured low, then faded. The harbor came through the walls—water lapping, rigging creaking, a bell sounding.

Johann moved carefully, stepping over an outstretched leg and past a coil of rope that served as a pillow. He found a place near a post where the boards were dry enough and sat, drawing his coat close.

Martin brought Johann by wagon to the small station at Sadki, having found him near death along the road days earlier. In the journey’s course, Johann admitted he was fleeing conscription and being hunted by a constable and dogs. Martin bought him a ticket west and sent him on alone, instructing him to follow the crowd at the junction on the way to Bremen.
*

The whistle cut sharp through the air as Johann stepped up into the carriage.

He flinched at the sound, gripping the iron rail as the floor shuddered under his weight. Warm air and coal smoke pushed in behind him, thick enough to catch in his throat as voices rose and fell in overlapping bursts.

As the door slid shut, the carriage air closed around him—wool coats damp from the cold, the smell of oiled wooden benches, air warmed by bodies, the faint tang of iron. Johann paused just inside until the motion settled, then edged along the bench and sank back against the wall, letting it take his weight.

Around him, bodies shifted and resettled. A basket thumped onto the floor. Someone laughed, the sound lost almost at once.

Johann turned his head toward the window.

Through the streaked glass, he saw Martin step away from the platform and cross back toward the wagon. He gathered the reins, gave the horse a quiet pat, and took his place on the wagon seat without looking back.

The station fell away as the train lurched forward; the village soon followed.

Broken jolts smoothed into a steady sound as the wheels took up their run. He braced his feet, feeling the motion through the bench and the wall at his back, and settled into something he could ride.

His gaze drifted to the window. Fields drew out and fell back in long, pale stretches of stubble and frost, hedgerows and lanes taken up and left behind in the same measured way.

Johann pressed the folded ticket flat in his coat pocket, then let his hand drop away. The train kept its pace, bearing them west along the line.

Voices broke off at the bench ahead, as bodies shifted to make room. An arm extended. Paper changed hands. There was a short, metallic click.

Johann had the ticket ready when the man stopped before him. The slip was glanced at, marked, and returned without a word.

The run held. Johann’s eyes closed and opened again, heavy, as the motion carried him on. He shifted once against the boards and did not move after.

Johann woke to the changed sound. The wheels had lost their long, even note. The run broke into shorter beats as the train eased, iron answering with a low groan. He lifted his head. Around him, bodies stirred. Coats were pulled close. Hands went to bundles and baskets, to caps and collars.

The carriage leaned and slowed. A whistle sounded nearby, sharper than before.

People were already on their feet when the train came to its stop. Johann rose with them, drawn into the crush as they moved toward the door. Cold air cut in as the door opened, carrying the smell of smoke and voices from outside.

He stepped down and let the crowd carry him across the boards. The press tightened near the steps, shoulders brushing his, coats rasping together, bearing him without check. There was no pause—only the push on, boots on wood, and another train waiting along the line.

Johann climbed up with those ahead of him. He found a place along the bench as the door slid shut. The whistle sounded farther off now. The train took up its run, the pull firmer, the motion holding longer before it settled.

He braced his feet and let it take him.

Johann drew the small bundle from his coat and unwrapped it, keeping his elbow close as the train swayed. He ate slowly, the bread dry but filling, the cheese sharp against his tongue.

Outside the window, the light had thinned. Fields darkened at their edges, the sky paling toward ash-gray, reflections gathering in the glass, his face emerging where it had not been before.

He would soon have to step down again. The country he knew had fallen away without his noticing when it happened.

His eyes closed. The woodpile by the shed at home stood before him, stacked against the coming cold.

The train took him on. Johann opened his eyes when a child tugged at his sleeve. A little girl stood beside him, brown hair braided neatly down her back, looking up at him with a small, unguarded smile.

Her mother’s hand reached in at once, drawing her back. The woman met Johann’s eyes and gave a small, apologetic nod.

The wheels rang differently as the train crossed a bridge, water showing dark and flat beneath before fields closed in again.

As the sky deepened toward charcoal gray, the fields lost their color, then their detail, their shapes falling behind as the train went on. Smoke lay heavier here. Buildings gathered tighter beside the tracks, sheds and stacked timber set close along them.

Crossings drew closer. The train no longer ran without interruption. It slowed, gathered itself again, then slowed once more.

Voices stirred around him. Someone stood, reaching up for a bundle from the rack. A coat was put on. Another man bent to lift a basket from the floor.

Johann straightened, tucking his feet in as the train checked its pace. Outside, the buildings pressed closer now—rows of darkened windows, brick walls sliding past at arm’s length. Lamps appeared along the line, their light smearing briefly across the glass before falling away.

The whistle sounded again, longer this time, answered by another farther off.

The train slowed in earnest. Iron answered iron with a low groan as the motion bled away. Johann rose with the others as the carriage lurched and settled, the press tightening once more.

When the door opened, night air rushed in, laden with smoke and coal dust. Voices carried from the platform—calling, answering, the scrape of boots and the hollow ring of boards underfoot.

Johann stepped down into the light and noise together, the train breathing out as it came to rest.