Chapter Eight
Sarah had never seen anything like this in her life. This bustling port of New York was enormous, stretching for as far as one could see in all directions. A forest of masts bobbed gently around them as the gig rowed closer to the pier. Brick and stone facade buildings, which appeared newly built, lined the docks, and the wharves teemed with laborers. And that pungent aroma of tar and dead fish, those scents distinctive to a busy, working port of call, was the same as in London and Liverpool. The cry of seagulls begging for any scrap of food was almost as constant as the wind. The heat was not something she’d counted on, though she wore her jacket for modesty’s sake. The warm weather and humid air made her uncomfortably sticky with perspiration.
Seeing Lucky’s boat nearby,
