Prologue

They told him to leave.

Not in anger or haste, though the decision had been made long before the words were spoken. They told him with the calm certainty of men who believed themselves right, and more than that—appointed.

He stood before them without lowering his gaze.

The room held no warmth, though a fire burned at its center. It was not the cold of winter that settled there, but something more deliberate, shaped by judgment and reinforced by agreement. These were men accustomed to being heard, and more importantly, obeyed.

“You have spoken beyond your place,” one of them said.

Hodge did not answer at once. He had learned, long before this moment, that silence unsettled men who expected submission. He let it remain between them as a refusal to rush toward their conclusion.

“At what point,” he asked at last, “does a man’s place end and his conscience begin?”

The question did not sit well.

It moved through the room like a draft no one could close against.

“You mistake yourself,” another replied. “Conscience does not stand above order.”

Hodge’s expression did not change.

“Then it is not conscience.”

A murmur followed, brief and restrained, though it revealed more than the words themselves. These men had heard arguments before. They had settled them, shaped them, and when necessary, silenced them. What stood before them now was not unfamiliar—it was simply unwilling.

“You have been warned,” the first man continued. “Your words divide. Your ideas invite disorder.”

“My words,” Hodge said, “invite a man to stand before God without another man standing between them.”

“That is not your place to decide.”

“Nor is it yours.”

That was where the patience ended.

They had crossed an ocean to build something pure.

That is what they told themselves.

A place set apart. A people set right. A city that would stand as an example to the world, not because it welcomed all things, but because it rejected what didn’t belong.

Hodge had believed in that once.

He had come willingly.

He had spoken among them.

Walked beside them.

Trusted that what they sought and what he believed could exist within the same ground.

He had been wrong.

“You will leave this place,” the first man said.

This time, there was no discussion beneath it. The decision had been shaped already, the words now serving only to give it form.

Hodge inclined his head slightly, though it was not submission that moved him.

“Then I will take my leave.”

The ease of it unsettled them more than resistance would have.

“You will go,” the man repeated, “because you have no place here.”

Hodge met his gaze.

“No,” he said quietly. “I will go because I will not take one given to me by another man.”

Outside, the wind carried the last edge of winter.

It moved through the settlement with a sound that spoke of distance rather than shelter, of land yet shaped, of space yet claimed. Beyond the narrow paths and clustered dwellings, the wilderness stretched outward without boundary, indifferent to what men believed they owned.

Hodge stepped into it without looking back.

Behind him stood authority.

Before him, nothing promised or certain, only land.

And the freedom to stand upon it without asking leave.

They believed they had cast him out.

What they had done—

Was set him loose.

Contents

Copyright 3

Prologue. 4

Contents. 7

Author’s Note. 9

Hodge. 10

Chapter 1 — The Boarding. 11

Chapter 2 — Beneath the Deck. 39

Chapter 3 — The First Night at Sea. 60

Chapter 4 — The Sick Boy. 85

Chapter 5 — The Burial 108

Chapter 6 — The Sick Spreads. 120

Chapter 7 — The Child and the Sea. 142

Chapter 8 — Judgment at Sea. 166

Chapter 9 — The Days That Follow.. 182

Chapter 10 — The Passing Weeks. 200

Chapter 11 — The Long Stretch. 220

Chapter 12 — The New World. 234

Chapter 13 — The Shape of the Place. 260

Chapter 14 — What Lies Beneath. 285

Chapter 15 — The Weight of Order 310

Chapter 16 — The Summons. 324

Chapter 17 — The Fracture. 359

Chapter 18 — The Charge. 379

Chapter 19 — Into the Wilderness. 405

Chapter 20 - The Return Path. 435

Chapter 21 - Seekonk. 460

Chapter 22 - Across the River 508

Epilogue. 519

About the Author 523

Other Books by R. E. Smith. 523

Historical Fiction & Historical Horror 523

Horror & Supernatural Fiction. 523

Fantasy & Dark Epic Series. 524

Science Fiction. 524

Romance. 524

Nonfiction. 524

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Author’s Note

This novel is a work of historical fiction inspired by the life and writings of Roger Williams, a man whose ideas about liberty of conscience set him at odds with the religious authorities of his time and helped shape the founding of what would become Providence.

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While many of the central figures in this story are drawn from history, including John Cotton, Edward Winslow, and Massasoit, their conversations, private thoughts, and many events have been imagined to bring the narrative to life.

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The character known here as “Hodge” reflects both the historical man and a more intimate portrayal of him, allowing the story to explore not only what he did, but why he may have done it. The relationships, hardships, and moments of daily life depicted in this novel are shaped by historical context, though not bound strictly to recorded detail.

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Care has been taken to remain faithful to the spirit of the time, particularly in the portrayal of early colonial life and the interactions between English settlers and the Native peoples who already inhabited the land. Where the historical record is silent, incomplete, or debated, the story fills those spaces with interpretation.

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For the sake of narrative focus, certain historical movements, timelines, and events have been compressed or shaped to serve the story. Roger Williams’s actual journey involved several communities, disputes, and years of developing conflict before his banishment and the founding of Providence.

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This novel preserves the spirit of that struggle while allowing the story to move with the rhythm of fiction rather than strict chronology.

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At its heart, this is a story about belief: who has the right to define it, and whether it can ever truly be governed by another.

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—R. E. Smith

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Hodge

Where No Man Commands Belief

Chapter 1 — The Boarding

The dock stank of salt, wet rope, tar, horse piss, muddy river water, and fear.

It was early. The place was already busy, like the day was too short and people were too unhappy. Men on the wharf held big hooks. Barrels rolled across the planks. A pig in a crate screamed. Somewhere under the noise of the seagulls, a child was crying, so tired nobody was paying attention.

The ship waited there.

It did not look like it was going to save anyone.

It was big and black, rising out of the brown water, its wooden beams covered in tar and shiny, its masts sticking up into the morning fog. Men moved around on it like ants on a dead animal. The sails were all bundled up, hanging limp. The carved lady on the front of the ship used to be pretty, but now her face was worn away from rain and salt, so she looked more like a warning than a protector.

Polly stood very still next to Hodge, her gloved hands clutching a small package she had wanted to carry herself.

Her mother had already told her twice to give it to someone else.

Polly had said no both times, softly.

That was enough. Her mother did not say anything else.

Polly’s little brother Thomas, who had round cheeks and was missing one front tooth, held onto her skirt.

“Will the ship sink?” he asked.

Polly’s mother made a sound like she was hurt. “Thomas.”

The boy just kept looking at the ship.

Hodge’s father stood apart from the others, like he did not want to be near them while they were so sad. He was a man with a hard jaw, dressed in simple but clean clothes. His hands were rough from work. He stood like a man who had decided his sons would not have to do the same hard work he had done.

He looked at the ship, then at Hodge.

“Bigger than I thought,” he said.

“Aye,” Hodge answered.

“Bigger things break louder.”

Polly glanced at him.

Hodge did not smile. “Then we shall pray it does not break.”

His father’s mouth tightened.

“Pray,” he said. “Mind the timber besides.”

A crewman ran past them with a coil of rope over one shoulder, cursing at a girl who had stepped too near the gangway. She shrank back at once, nearly dropping the bundle in her arms. A gentleman in a cloak complained that his trunk had been placed with common baggage. No one listened.

Polly watched everything.

The gentleman’s rings. The girl’s bruised wrist. The sailor who laughed when the girl flinched. The woman near the wagon who kept touching the purse beneath her bodice to be certain it remained there. The two boys in plain clothes whispering beside a crate of iron tools, both pretending not to be afraid.

Hodge watched the ship.

That was one difference between them.

He looked toward what waited.

Polly looked at what stood beside them.

Her father stepped closer. He was rounder than Hodge’s father, softer in the face, though the morning had carved him into something else. He held his hat in both hands.

“Mary,” he said, then stopped.

Polly looked up at the sound of her name.

Her mother’s eyes filled at once.

Polly’s father began again.

“Thou wilt write?”

“As often as ships allow,” Polly said.

“That is no answer.”

“It is the one I have.”

Her brother tugged her sleeve. “Will there be wolves?”

“In the land?”

He nodded.

“I expect so.”

“Will they eat thee?”

“If they are foolish enough to try, I shall give them mother’s recipe for eel pie. Let them perish of that.”

The boy’s mouth opened, shocked into a laugh he tried to hide. Their mother pressed a hand over her lips, though whether from grief or laughter even she seemed unsure.

Hodge looked at Polly then. For a moment, the dock thinned around them.

She did not give him a smile. Only the smallest lift at one corner of her mouth, private and gone as soon as it appeared.

A bell rang from the ship.

The sound moved through the crowd like a blade.

Passengers tightened their grips on bundles. Mothers kissed children. Men began speaking more than needed. Somewhere, a dog barked madly from inside a cage. The gangway thudded under boots.

Hodge’s father reached into his coat.

He drew out a book, dark-covered, worn at the edges, tied shut with a plain strip of leather. He held it for a moment before offering it.

Hodge looked at it. Did not take it at once.

“Father.”

“Take it.”

“I have Scripture.”

“Then take this also.”

Hodge accepted it.

The leather was warm from his father’s body.

“What is it?”

“Notes,” his father said. “Debts. Names. Some counsel I thought wise when I was younger, and some I know now was foolish.”

Hodge ran his thumb over the cracked cover.

His father looked away toward the river. “A man should know the difference before he dies. I was late in learning it.”

No one spoke.

Polly’s mother began crying then without drama, as if tears had simply become another duty of the morning.

Hodge’s father looked back at him.

“Thou art clever,” he said.

Hodge lowered the book. “You have said otherwise enough.”

“Aye. Clever men need it said otherwise, else they turn unbearable.”

Polly’s father huffed once through his nose. Polly looked down quickly.

Hodge’s father stepped closer, his voice lower now.

“Do not mistake thy learning for wisdom. Do not mistake thy conscience for God’s tongue. Do not let men with softer hands than thine tell thee what hardship is.”

Hodge held his gaze.

“Nay,” he said.

His father searched his face as if trying to find the boy who had once sat at a table with ink on his fingers and hunger in his eyes.

Then he nodded once.

“Good.”

Another shout rose from the gangway.

“Passengers for the crossing, come forward,” a man yelled.

The crowd started to move.

Polly’s brother grabbed her skirt with both hands.

She got down in front of him and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Thou must let go.”

He shook his head.

“Thomas,” she said.

“If thou goest, who will tell me when mother lies?” he asked.

Their mother gasped. “I do not lie.”

Polly leaned in close to the boy and whispered, “When her left eyebrow rises, trust nothing.”

The boy turned to look at their mother’s face.

Her eyebrow, showing her grief, twitched upward.

He pointed. “There.”

For a moment, they all laughed.

Then the laughter stopped quickly.

Polly’s mother pulled her into her arms.

“My girl,” she said.

That was all.

Polly let herself be held. Her face stayed calm over her mother’s shoulder. Her fingers tightened once in the fabric of the older woman’s sleeve.

Hodge saw it.

He looked away, giving her some privacy.

The ship groaned against the tide.

A sailor shouted again from above.

The morning was ending, though the sun had barely risen, and every soul on the dock seemed to know it.

The press of bodies tightened as they moved nearer the ship. What had seemed chaos from a distance resolved itself into patterns once within it. Divisions held firmly as walls, though none had been built.

To the right, near the planks laid for easier passage, the better-dressed passengers gathered in a slow-moving line. Trunks bound in iron. Chests with corner fittings. Bundles wrapped in clean cloth.

A man in a fur-lined collar spoke loudly of acreage, as though he had already set his boots upon it.

“I am told the soil yields thrice what it does here,” he said, not to any one man but to the air around him. “Untouched land, waiting for the hand bold enough to claim it.”

Another answered, “Aye, and timber enough to build ten Londons, if a man has the wit to take it.”

Polly’s mother slowed at the sound of them. “Hear how they speak,” she murmured. “As though no soul yet lives there.”

Hodge’s father did not look at the men. “Men speak easiest of what is not before them.”

“And what if it is before them?” she asked.

“Then they speak of it differently.”

To the left, where the planks were narrower and bowed beneath the weight, the rest gathered. Bundles tied with rope and cloth. Children carried because they could not keep pace.

A man with one hand argued with a sailor over the space allowed him, his voice already fraying.

“I paid what was asked,” he said.

“And thou hast been given what is owed,” the sailor snapped. “Move, or I shall have thee moved.”

The man did not move.

Another sailor stepped closer. The matter ended without further words.

Polly watched the exchange, her gaze steady, her expression unchanged.

“They do not measure men the same,” she said quietly.

Hodge glanced toward her. “Few do.”

“They measure by weight of purse.”

“By weight of need.”

She considered that. “Which weighs heavier?”

“For those with much, the purse. For those with little, the need.”

“And for thee?”

Hodge did not answer at once.

“For me,” he said at last, “it must be neither.”

Polly’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer than before.

Ahead, the line slowed again.

A servant boy struggled beneath the weight of a chest as large as himself. His master walked paces ahead, not once turning to see whether the boy followed.

The chest slipped.

The boy caught it against his knee, teeth clenched, breath sharp.

No one stepped forward to help.

Polly shifted as if she might. Hodge’s father spoke low.

“Leave it.”

She looked at him.

“If he cannot carry it, he must learn to set it down,” the older man said. “Else he will break himself for another man’s comfort.”

The boy managed another step. Then another.

Polly did not move to help him. She did not look away either.

A woman near them clutched a purse in both hands, her knuckles pale beneath the skin. Her eyes darted from face to face as though she feared each man might reach for her at any moment. When a gentleman brushed past her without so much as a glance, she flinched as if struck.

Polly leaned closer to Hodge.

“She has something she fears to lose.”

“Most here do.”

“Nay,” Polly said softly. “Most here fear losing what they have not yet gained. She fears losing what she already holds.”

Hodge followed her gaze, then gave a nod.

Behind them, Polly’s brother stumbled on the boards.

Hodge reached back without looking and steadied him by the shoulder.

“Mind thy step,” he said.

“I am minding it,” the boy muttered, offended.

“Then mind it better.”

The boy said no more.

The bell from the ship rang again, sharper this time.

“Make way there,” a voice shouted. “Keep the line moving.”

A group of men in coats began pressing forward, ignoring the slower pace ahead. One of them brushed past Hodge’s father with a curse, not even bothering to meet his eye.

Hodge’s father did not step aside.

The man stopped, more from surprise than respect.

“Thou standest in the way,” he said.

“I stand where I am placed,” Hodge’s father replied.

“Then be placed elsewhere.”

For a moment, it seemed the man might push him.

He did not.

Something in the older man’s stillness held him. He turned instead, forcing his way past another obstacle.

Polly watched him go.

“He will not remember thee,” she said.

Hodge’s father gave a breath that might have been a laugh. “I do not need him to.”

“But thou wilt remember him.”

“Aye.”

Polly’s gaze followed the man until he vanished into the press.

“Then he is already at a loss,” she said.

Hodge looked at her, a flicker of something like approval in his expression.

The gangway loomed now, its boards dark with damp, rising toward the open mouth of the ship. Sailors stood at its base directing the flow, their patience thinning with each passing moment.

A man ahead began arguing over his place in the line, insisting he had been there first. Voices rose. Hands lifted.

For a breath, it seemed the thing might spill into violence.

It did not.

A single shout from above cut through the noise.

“Enough,” a man yelled.

The word cracked like timber under strain.

Even those who had not seen the speaker felt it.

The line stilled.

Polly lifted her eyes toward the deck.

“Him,” she said quietly.

Hodge followed her gaze. He had not yet seen the man clearly, only the shape of him against the rigging, but there was no mistaking the authority in the voice.

“Who?” he asked.

“The one they heed,” Polly answered.

Below, the sailors straightened as if a cord had been pulled through them. The arguing men fell silent, each suddenly aware of the eyes upon them.

The moment passed.

The line began moving slower now, but steadier.

Polly’s brother tightened his grip on her sleeve.

“Must we go there?” he asked.

“Aye,” she said.

“It is too high.”

“Then thou must grow taller in the moment.”

He frowned, considering whether that might be possible.

Hodge’s father stepped closer as they reached the foot of the gangway.

“Once thou art aboard,” he said, “there is no stepping back.”

“I know it,” Hodge replied.

“Do not say thou knowest a thing until thou hast lived it,” Hodge’s father said.

“Then I shall say I go to learn it.”

Hodge’s father studied him, then gave a nod.

“Better.”

The boards creaked under the weight of those ahead. The river lapped against the hull with a patient sound, as if it had seen this all before and would see it again long after they were gone.

Polly drew a breath.

“Now it begins,” she said.

Hodge looked toward the rising plank, then back once at the shrinking space behind them where family still stood.

“Aye,” he said.

The gangway creaked under the weight of many people and too much uncertainty. A sailor at the bottom pushed a man forward with his hand.

“Move, or get out of the way. I care not which.”

The man stumbled, grabbed his hat, and hurried up the plank without saying a word.

Hodge and Polly reached the step when a voice called out from above.

“Hold.”

The word cut through the noise. Even the river seemed to quiet. Those on the gangway froze. One man wobbled before finding his balance. The crowd below stopped moving. Confusion spread through them like wind through grass.

Hodge looked up.

The Captain stood above them. He was only a man, but he seemed to own the deck. His coat was dark and worn but neat. A sword hung at his side, a tool, not a decoration. His gaze was sharp.

He said nothing for a moment. He only looked. The chaos on the dock seemed to fade. A man near the front cleared his throat. The Captain’s eyes stopped him.

That was enough.

The man said nothing.

“Passengers,” the Captain said finally. “Those with tickets will come forward. Those without will step back. I will not have this deck crowded with goodbyes. Say farewell here, or not at all.”

A murmur rose, uncertain.

The Captain did not raise his voice.

“Here,” he said again.

This time there was iron in it.

A woman started crying. A man tried to push past the sailor. The sailor held him back.

“Back,” the sailor said.

The man tried to argue. The sailor held firm.

Hodge felt Polly’s hand brush his sleeve.

The Captain’s gaze swept over the crowd. It landed on Hodge for a moment. There was no recognition, no curiosity. Just assessment.

Then it moved on.

“Make it quick,” the Captain said. “The tide does not wait upon your sorrow.”

The line did not move. Not yet.

Polly’s mother gasped.

“They cannot mean to…”

“They do,” Polly said gently.

Her father stepped forward.

“Mary.”

Polly turned to him.

There was no crowd, no ship, no noise. Only this.

“Thou wilt write,” he said again.

“I will.”

“If thou art sick or in need?”

“I will write.”

“If no ship comes?”

Polly’s mouth opened and closed. She put her hand over his.

“Then thou must trust that I endure it,” she said.

Her mother hugged her tight.

“My girl, my girl.”

Polly closed her eyes briefly. Then she pulled back.

Hodge’s father did not hug him. He stepped closer.

“Thou hast chosen this,” he said.

“Aye.”

“Then spend not the trip wishing thou hadst not.”

“I shall not.”

His father studied him, searching for doubt. If he found it, he did not show it.

“See that thou makest something of it,” he said.

“I will try.”

“Do more than try.”

Hodge nodded.

“I will.”

For a moment, they only stood there. Then Hodge stepped back.

That was all it took.

A small space opened between them.

“Forward,” the sailor shouted.

The line started moving.

Polly’s brother clung to her.

“Do not go,” he said.

She kissed his hair.

“I must.”

“Then come back.”

“If God allows it.”

“That is not enough.”

Polly smiled, though her eyes shone.

“It must be.”

She gently pried his fingers loose and put his hand in their mother’s.

Hodge did not look back.

Polly did. Once. Twice.

Then she turned.

The first step on the gangway creaked under her weight. The river moved below, thick and patient.

The Captain watched as they boarded. He missed nothing.

When Hodge reached the top, the Captain spoke again.

“Leave what thou hast left behind,” he said. “There is no room for it here.”

Hodge met his gaze.

“I have left nothing that cannot be carried,” he said.

The Captain’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“See that it does not burden the rest of us.”

Hodge stepped onto the deck. Polly followed.

The space closed.

The world they knew was left standing on the shore.

The deck did not feel like land.

It moved. Not enough to throw a man, but with a slow living sway that made you uneasy before you could figure out why.

The boards underfoot were smooth in some places, splintered in others.

Tar stuck to everything.

The air smelled sharper here, like salt mixed with men, rope, and old wood.

A sailor grabbed Hodge’s sleeve before he could take more than a few steps.

“Go below,” he said, jerking his chin toward a hatch near the center of the deck. “Find thy space. Stay in it.”

Polly stood close to Hodge.

Around them, others hesitated, unsure whether to look around or obey at once. Those who waited too long were pushed and scolded.

“Move.”

“Down with you.”

“No lingering. This is no market square.”

Hodge put his hand lightly on Polly’s back and guided her toward the hatch.

They passed close to the Captain.

The man’s presence felt like a change in weather.

He stood with one hand near the hilt of his sword, not gripping it, but close enough to show he could use it without thinking. His eyes followed each move.

When a man tried to step aside to speak to those below, the Captain’s voice cut in calmly.

“Thou wert told.”

The man stopped.

He did not turn.

He went below.

No more needed to be said.

The hatch opened, a square in the deck swallowing light. A narrow ladder led down into it, slick with damp and worn from use. A lantern hung inside, its flame low and unsteady, casting more shadow than light.

Polly paused at the edge.

Not from fear. From thinking.

The noise of the dock had already faded above them, replaced by the sounds of the ship. The creak of wood. The groan of rope. The steady lap of water against the hull.

Hodge felt the change too.

Above, the world had been wide in its chaos.

Here, it narrowed.

“Shall we?” he said quietly.

Polly nodded once.

He went down first.

The ladder gave slightly under his weight, the wood damp beneath his hands. The air grew thicker with each step, warmer and closer, carrying the smell of bodies gathered below.

When his boots met the boards, he stepped aside to make room for those behind. Polly followed.

The lantern light hit her face for a moment, then shifted as another body passed between her and it, casting her into shadow again.

The space below deck was low-ceilinged and crowded already, though not yet full. Rough beams crossed overhead. Hammocks were strung where space allowed, though many would not have the luxury of them. Crates and bundles filled the gaps between.

Voices overlapped in layers.

“Here. This is mine.”

“Nay, thou hast no claim to it.”

“I was told this space.”

“Then thou wert told poorly.”

A child cried somewhere in the dimness, the sound constant. A woman hushed it with a trembling hand. A man near the wall knelt beside a trunk, muttering to himself as he counted and recounted its contents, as if numbers might anchor him.

Hodge stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.

Polly did not stand still.

She moved a pace to the side, then another, finding spaces others missed. Her gaze moved over faces, hands, and the way people held themselves.

“This way,” she said softly.

Hodge followed.

They came upon a stretch of open boards near the curve of the hull, just enough space for two to sit if they kept close. Above it, a beam ran low enough that a taller man would need to bow his head.

“It will serve,” Hodge said.

“For now,” Polly answered.

A man across from them looked up at the sound of their voices. His clothes were plain, his hands marked by work, his eyes sharp despite the fatigue in them. He studied Hodge a moment longer than courtesy required, then looked away.

Hodge noted it.

Polly noted it more.

Around them, the air shifted again as more bodies descended. The space tightened. What had been cramped became close. What had been close began to feel shared.

A servant girl struggled down the ladder with a bundle too large for her. She reached the bottom, turned to move, and found no space open to her. She stood there uncertain, her eyes moving quickly from face to face, seeking permission where none had been given.

No one moved.

Polly watched her.

Then, without a word, she shifted her bundle closer to the wall, narrowing their space further.

“There is room,” she said.

The girl looked at her as if unsure she had heard right.

“For thee,” Polly added.

The girl moved quickly then, slipping into the offered space with a quiet thanks.

Hodge glanced at Polly.

She did not return the look.

Above them, boots crossed the deck. Voices called. The ship creaked, a low sound like something waking unwillingly.

The light from the hatch shifted. Dimmed.

For a moment, it seemed to Hodge that the opening above them had grown smaller, though no man had touched it.

He looked up.

A figure crossed over it, blocking what little sky could be seen. Then another.

Then none at all.

The light remained. The sense of open air did not return.

Polly sat beside him, her shoulder brushing his.

“It is a world,” she said.

“For a time,” Hodge answered.

She did not reply.

Above, the Captain’s voice carried faintly through the boards.

“Cast off.”

The word moved through the ship like a command given to bone. Ropes strained. Wood answered.

The vessel shifted beneath them, not as it had before. With purpose now.

Around them, voices stilled. Even those who had been arguing fell quiet, as if each man suddenly felt the unseen line snap behind him.

Hodge placed his hand over the book his father had given him, still tucked within his coat.

He did not take it out.

He only felt its presence.

Polly leaned her head barely against his shoulder. Neither spoke.

Above them, the world began to move.

The movement of the ship began softly enough that some people did not feel it at first. Only a change in the sound of the water against the hull could be heard. The water shifted from idle lapping to a pull. The wood of the ship creaked under the strain.

Above, a rope snapped taut with a loud crack that made more than one person look up.

Then the floor beneath them tilted. Not sharply. Just enough to remind everyone on the ship that they no longer stood on solid ground.

A murmur passed through the gathered people.

“We are off,” someone said.

“Already?” another asked.

“God preserve us,” someone else said.

A child began crying as if the motion of the ship had found a hidden fear and shaken it loose.

Polly lifted her head from Hodge’s shoulder. She listened, not to the voices of the people, but to the space between them.

“They did not wait long,” she said.

“The tide would not,” Hodge answered.

The man with work-worn hands, sitting across from them, braced himself against the wall as the ship shifted again.

He gave a breath and said, “No turning it now.”

Hodge met his eye. “Nay.”

The man looked at Hodge, measuring him.

“Thou speakest as one already given over to it,” he said.

Hodge rested his hands loosely before him. “Would certainty change it?”

The man considered that, then shook his head.

“Then I have none to offer thee,” Hodge said.

The man’s mouth twitched. “Fair enough.”

The space grew tighter as the last of the passengers were driven below. Boots thudded overhead. Voices barked orders that none of the people below could answer.

Then the hatch above moved.

The light narrowed.

For a moment, the outline of the sky was visible, gray and distant, already belonging to another world.

Then it was gone.

The hatch closed with a heavy sound.

Something in the room changed at once. The air that had been close became confined.

A woman near the beam began to pray under her breath, her words tumbling over one another too quickly to be understood.

A man beside her told her to hush.

She did not.

The ship lurched again, stronger this time, and a crate near the center shifted.

“Hold that,” someone snapped.

“It is not mine,” another person said.

The voices sharpened, and a shouldered man stepped forward, planting his foot against the crate to stop its movement. He looked around, his gaze landing on a man clutching a bundle of tools.

“Thine,” he said.

The smaller man shook his head. “Nay, I…”

“Thine,” the larger man repeated, louder now.

“It was set there before I came.”

The larger man leaned in, not striking, but close enough that his intent was plain.

The smaller man’s grip tightened on his bundle, and for a moment it seemed he might yield.

Then his jaw set.

“I will not take what is not mine,” he said.

The larger man’s hand closed on the front of his coat.

“Then thou wilt take what I give thee.”

Before things could break further, a voice cut through the tension.

“Enough of that.”

The voice was not loud. It carried, and the larger man paused, his grip still tight.

The voice came again from the edge of the space, where the shadow gathered thicker.

“There is room for all if none claims more than his due.”

Hodge had not raised his voice. He had not risen. He had only spoken.

The larger man turned toward him, irritation flashing quick.

“Who art thou to speak of what is due?”

Hodge met his gaze without challenge, without yielding.

“A man who must share the boards same as thee.”

The larger man looked around, seeing not allies, but watchers. Men who would not step between them, but who would remember.

His grip loosened.

Not from agreement. From calculation.

He released the man’s coat with a shove.

“Keep it from my feet.”

The smaller man nodded quickly, dragging the crate closer to his space, his hands shaking.

The moment passed.

Polly leaned closer to Hodge.

“Thou hast marked thyself,” she said.

“It was already done,” Hodge answered.

“Aye,” Polly said softly. “Now they see it.”

The man with the work-worn hands watched Hodge again, this time with more intent.

Above, the ship groaned as it found water. The motion changed, less hesitant now, more certain. Somewhere, something heavy was secured with shouted curses.

The air grew warmer, closer, and time did not pass as it had on land. It stretched, then folded in upon itself, measured not by sun or shadow, but by the rhythm of the hull and the slow settling of bodies into a space none could leave.

Polly drew her knees in slightly, making room where none existed.

Hodge leaned back against the curve of the hull, feeling the push of water against wood through it.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Polly said quietly, “They believe they go to claim a world.”

Hodge closed his eyes briefly. “Aye.”

“What believest thou?” Polly asked.

Hodge opened his eyes again. “That we go to be tested by it.”

Polly considered that, then gave a nod.

Above them, unseen, the shoreline slipped away with each passing moment. No one below could see it, but all of them felt it.