"What do you suppose Mother meant when she said death is on this ship?" Margaret wondered aloud.

She and her brother and sisters had been confined to the cabin by their parents, who had gone to the deck presumably for air, though Margaret suspected it was to speak about things not suitable for their children's ears. She understood their concern for little Caroline, but Margaret was a woman. Yet they, especially her mother, often treated her as though she were still a young girl. She was the second oldest, after all. She deserved respect!

"You have an annoying habit of reading too much into things," Thomas said, bouncing a small ball of Caroline's repeatedly against the cabin wall.

Margaret turned on her brother, mouth agape. "And you have an annoying habit of . . . of . . . being annoying."

Thomas laughed. Even Eliza snickered. "You're losing your touch for witty banter, Meg," he said. "Perhaps the sea does not agree with you."

"That is enough," Eliza chided, though without force. "Mother was obviously talking about whatever illness took that poor baby and its father. I will not be surprised if the mother is next." She shuddered. "The sooner we get to America, the sooner we can put this wretched journey behind us."

"Do you think it is catching?" Margaret said.

"Well, it has to be," Eliza answered, somewhat exasperated. She narrowed her eyes then, fixing her gaze on her sister. "Do you think otherwise?"

Margaret glanced at Caroline, who was playing in the corner of the cabin with a trio of wooden laundry pegs she was pretending was a family. She was humming softly to herself as she danced two of the pegs about, one in each hand.

"Mother's comment . . . about not liking Miss Abbott . . . and then her ominous remark about death."

Thomas caught the ball and held it still in his hand. Sitting up abruptly on the edge of the bed, he said, "Are you suggesting Miss Abbott had something to do with those deaths?"

"I'm not suggesting it," Margaret clarified. "I'm merely stating that Mother's observations were a bit odd."

Eliza shook her head. "I think you are bored, Meg. They're only words."

"Words can be powerful weapons," Margaret replied.

"Are we going to die?" Caroline asked suddenly from her spot on the floor.

The three older siblings looked at each other, shocked into momentary silence. Margaret rose from the stool on which she had been sitting and went at once to Caroline's side. She knelt on the floor next to her sister. "Of course not, kitten," she said, running her hand down the back of the girl's head. "We're only talking nonsense to fill the time. Go back to playing with your toys."

Margaret returned to her stool, and nothing more was said about Abigail Abbott or whatever disease may or may not be onboard the ship.

Later that night, however, when the Abernathy family was asleep, Margaret rose from her pallet on the floor and dressed quietly, pulling her dress over her shift and fastening the buttons by the sliver of moonlight squeezing in through the small window. Then she opened the door just enough to slip quietly outside. She closed the door behind her and stood with her back pressed against the wall, taking in deep breaths of cool, salty air. She placed her hand on her pocket to check that the apples were still there and then, with a nod, began making her way to where Artemis and Apollo were kept, crossing her fingers she would not come across any drunken sailors in the meantime.

Fortunately, luck was on her side tonight. Descending into darkness, Margaret remained still just long enough to allow her eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Still, she could see the dim flicker of an oil lamp and hear the soft snickers of the horses. Artemis whinnied suddenly, sounding anxious. They no doubt sensed her presence. Treading lightly, careful not to trip over anything, she picked her way among the cargo, but paused momentarily when she heard voices, one which she recognized as the groom and the other as . . .

"Abigail?" she said, surprised to see the girl out this late and below deck.

The groom removed his cap and bowed slightly. "Good evening, Miss Abernathy. Come to see the horses, have we?"

"It's morning by now, and why else would I be down here?" she said irritably. She immediately regretted her temper. "How are the horses?" she asked quickly to cover up her embarrassment.

The groom didn't seem to notice her bad manners. "Very well, Miss. Healthy and sound."

"Well, I have you to thank for that, I am sure. I will see that you are well compensated once we make it to shore."

The groom beamed. "Thank you, Miss."

"Provided nothing comes amiss, of course."

"Yes, Miss."

"Good. Now run along for a while. I'd like to be alone with my horse."

"Of course, Miss," the groom answered and, with another bow, turned and left. Margaret removed the apples from her pocket. The horses, sensing a treat, advanced at once.

"Would you like me to leave, too?" Abigail asked.

"Of course not. This is your ship, after all."

The girls were quiet for several moments as they listened to the horses' munching. "She's a magnificent creature," Abigail finally commented.

"Yes, she is," Margaret answered. "Though it breaks my heart to see her confined as she is. A girl with spirit should be allowed to roam free, to do as she pleases. Don't you agree?"

Abigail laughed. "You sound as though you understand her well."

"Perhaps a little too well," Margaret admitted with a laugh of her own.

"I sensed that about you," Abigail said. "Your spirit. From the first time we met."

"Oh?"

"You must be careful," Abigail warned. "It could be your greatest asset or your biggest downfall."

"Speaking from experience?" Margaret asked.

"Perhaps," Abigail replied, though she said nothing more on the matter.

Artemis startled suddenly and Margaret leaned forward to capture her head. She rubbed the mare reassuringly and whispered words of comfort in her ear. After several tense moments, the horse settled. Margaret glanced at Apollo. Though he appeared outwardly cool, she sensed his unease. She would not rest easy until they were on land with the horses grazing in open pasture.

Margaret cleared her throat. "How is that woman, the baby's mother?"

Abigail tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear. "Oh, I expect she will succumb."

"Does this not sadden you?" Margaret said, taken aback by Abigail's lack of emotion.

Abigail reached out to stroke Artemis, but the horse whinnied and shied away. "I have seen death come for many. It does not affect me as it does most."

Margaret nodded. "Do you ever wish for a life other than the one you have? I mean, surely your father cannot expect you to live your entire life on a ship."

Abigail sighed. "I do long for different companions."

Margaret laughed. "I don't imagine sailors are adept at the art of conversation."

"It's not conversation I am interested in," Abigail said.

Margaret's eyes widened. "Pardon?"

"You wicked girl!" Abigail teased, jabbing her finger into Margaret's side. "Your thoughts must be with Willy."

"They are not," Margaret insisted haughtily.

Abigail gave her a look but desisted with the teasing. "I find that conversation is often tedious and unfulfilling. What I am interested in is true companionship, that which transcends social convention."

Margaret stared at Abigail, not entirely sure what to make of this admission. Companionship that transcends social convention? What even did that mean? "Well, I do hope you find what you are looking for," she said at last.

Abigail smiled in return. "I believe I will." 

*****

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