"No, dear. Gunpowder only explodes if it's contained-like in a pistol barrel or a rifle or a bomb ... or in that magazine there," I explain. I ready my flint striker. There is a small pile of loose powder next to the end of the fuse.

"Rebecca. Back up top," I order. She reluctantly goes out and up on the Balcony, but she still keeps an eye on us down below. She is to be there if any of the crew on deck happens to smell the burning powder, in which case she'll go into her Oh-Lord-I-just-saw-the-Black-Ghost!-Oh-Lord-please-save-me-from-the-demons-of-Hell! act yet again. We all have our duties.

I strike the flint and the spark lands on the loose pile. It flares up and the end of the fuse catches. Dorothea points her finger to the burning part of the fuse and follows it along as it burns, counting, "One one hundred, two one hundred, three one hundred, four..."

When the fuse burns to the end of a link, the burning slows down as it hits the constricted pinch between the links, and then flares up again ... one hundred, five one hundred, six...

"All right," says Dorothea, and she pours the cup of water she had at hand over the fuse to extinguish it. "It looks like it's burning at a rate of six inches per second, with a slight pause between the links."

"So, it's easy then," I say. "Six-inch links, with a little bit of leeway between 'em. So make a fuse with a hundred links."

"We'll need cloth," says Ruth, looking about at the strips of rag hanging above her.

I get up and go for my seabag. I reach in and pull out a tightly wadded bunch of cloth. Clarissa is seated near the Rat Hole and looks up as I toss it to Ruth.

"Will that do?"

She catches it and opens it up. It is the red petticoat that once was placed on my bed back at the Lawson Peabody.

"It will do just fine," says Ruth, snickering. She and Dorothea set to their work.

Clarissa says nothing, but only smiles to herself and stares off into the distance.

Somewhat later, I sit with Dolley and Clarissa discussing the state of things. I recount to Dolley how I went out last night and dropped the message bottle gently into the water. It went in with a tiny plop, not enough to alarm anyone, as it sounded like a small fish jumping. Not that any man of the watch was on the bow. No, they were all huddled back on the quarterdeck, very glad of each other's company in light of all the scary tales that have been told. Stand by, mates, there's more to come.

Clarissa already knew about me going out last night, as she insisted on going with me partway. She maintains, and rightly so, that all three of us should know how to get out of the outer storeroom door and up to the next deck. Tomorrow I shall set the wedge and take Dolley, and then Katy, for they will be the first ones out. As time allows, we will show some of the others.

We are discussing these things when we hear the call, "Lord, save us!" and we freeze and look about to see that all is concealed. Then we hear, "Nettles, with a book," and we relax.

In a moment Constance Howell comes down to see us, the Bible clutched to her breast.

"Now that we have this precious jewel, I would like to have a time set aside each day for a reading of several passages," she says, breathlessly.

I look at Dolley and Clarissa and they both shrug, and I say, "Of course, Connie. How about at three forty-five, just before the flaps come down? We will have had our dinner and the scriptures shall give us further sustenance. You'll know the time from the bells."

She nods and turns away.

"Bag down!" I hear as she walks away. I smile in anticipation and go to open our wine cellar.

It is fifteen minutes till four in the afternoon and we have had our afternoon burgoo and water. Our water, however, is not totally drunk-no, each of us pours a portion of our water ration into an empty wine bottle and it is recorked and put back into the powder magazine, to wait for our departure, when it will be sorely needed. There will be no more bottles used for messages.

Constance Howell steps out onto the center of the Stage. All the rest of us are arrayed on the Balcony, resting from the day's labors. I sit with my back to the hull, with Annie's and Sylvie's shoulders touching mine on either side. Rebecca is curled up next to me, her head in my lap. There is wine, cracker, miller, and burgoo in my belly and I am as content as I can be, under the circumstances.

"Today will be our first reading from the Holy Gospels. Does anyone have a special chapter or verse that holds particular meaning for her that I might read it now?"

Oh, Connie, you are such a poor and trusting soul, and such an easy target!

Back when I was on the HMS Dolphin as a ship's boy, Deacon Dunne, the ship's chaplain, would require us boys to memorize a certain amount of scripture each week, and what we learned would be recited back to him on Sundays after the service. Since I had the time, and much mischief in my soul, I used to delight in gleaning the Bible for passages that seemed to mean nothing in a religious sense, like maybe one of those old Hebrews counting his goats, like-"Yea, and he did count each of his goats and they did number fifty and five and he did say unto his wife, Wife, I have counted my goats and they are verily five and fifty and she did say, Mighty art thou among shepherds to have goats fifty and five," and so on, to get the Deacon steamed ... And then there was the other stuff, like...

I wriggle away from my friends and stick my head over the edge of the Balcony and say down to her, "Hey, Connie! How about the Song of Solomon, verse 7? That has always given me great comfort in time of need."

She looks up at my head hanging over the edge of the Balcony. "All right," she says, warily. It's plain that she had a different religious upbringing than did I, for it's equally plain that she doesn't know what's coming. She finds the passage and begins.

Behold, thou art fair, my love,

behold, thou art fair!

Your rounded thighs are like jewels,

the work of a master hand.

Your n-n-navel is a rounded bowl,

that never lacks for wine.

Connie falters a bit there, and many other faces have joined mine in hanging over the edge, grinning down at her. There are a few snorts and titters of laughter, but Connie squares her shoulders and soldiers on.

Your belly is a heap of wheat,

encircled with lilies.

Your two b-b-breasts are like...

She closes the book and falls to her knees and starts bawling.

"I just knew you'd mess it up! I just knew you'd ruin it!" she wails. "You have to make everything a joke, oh, you do, you doooo-hoo-hooo-hoo! How could you buh-buh-be so mean, oh, how could you be so meeeeean?"

Uh-oh.

She's got her face turned upward, the tears streaming out of her eyes, plain for all to see. There is no more laughter from the girls. Once again, I've gone too far.

I get up and jump down to the Stage and kneel down next to her and put my arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Come on, Connie ... Please, Connie, I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please stop crying. Please. I won't do it again. I'm sorry, I really, really am."

And it's true. I am sorry. I have never before thought of myself as mean. Stupidly impulsive, yes; sometimes thoughtless, yes; vindictive and vengeful, oh, yes. But mean, no. Now I realize that I can be mean and petty and hurtful and I have been that to Connie. I resolve to be better.

Connie starts to quiet a bit.

"That's better. Now dry your eyes, Sister, please. Know that Anything-for-a-Laugh-Jacky is truly sorry."

She looks at me through tear-brimming eyes. "Are you really?"

"Yes, I am, Connie. It's just that I wasn't brought up proper like the rest of you. I promise to be better. Now, show that you have found it in your heart to forgive me by reading Psalm 137 before they drop the flaps." I take the Bible and open it to that passage and hand it to her. "Please, Connie. Stand up. Read it. It's not another trick. It speaks to our condition. Please."

She stands and reads.

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down,

and yes, we wept, when we remembered Zion.

We hung our harps, our lyres, upon the willows

that on the banks there grew.

For they that carried us away in captivity,

required from us a song;

And they the wicked who hurt us and tortured us,

required mirth, saying,

"Sing to us a song of Zion."

But how can we sing the Lord's song

in a strange land?