Martine felt relieved to be on dry land once again: but this was foreign soil, and she was wary. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were restless as they plodded up the hill. Her dark gaze parried every passing glance. The storm-coat that she wore concealed the mannish clothes beneath, and the firm, curvaceous figure filling them. It also hid two pistols that were holstered at her belt. The valise she carried on her shoulder held a sawn-off Thonon fowling-piece.

Beside her, Nell was walking just as slowly, as if she were a stranger here herself.

"So this is England!" Martine said. She glanced at Nell’s wan face. "You don’t seem overjoyed to be back home."

The blonde girl shrugged, preoccupied. Martine gave a slow smile. She touched Nell gently on the arm. "How long’s it been since you last saw him, then?"

"Years and years," Nell murmured. She was nibbling at her lip. "Not since the day I ran away from home." Since then, the well-bred daughter had become an army whore: a sullied English rose with sharpened thorns. She wore a soldier’s cast-off coat beneath her heavy cloak – together with her pistol and her blade.

The buildings had grown fewer now. The street became a track. It skirted round a graveyard on the hill. The fields beyond were steep and green. The breeze flicked at their hair. A lone house overlooked the graves, with the warm glow of a lantern at one window.

Nell stopped short, and then shrank back against the grassy verge. Her cool blue eyes were almost haunted now. Martine moved close and petted her. "It’s all right. Take your time." She cast a wry glance at the house. "It’s going to be a shock for him, as well."

"He’s a parson," muttered Nell. "His daughter is a whore – a murderess. You think that I can tell him that? You think that he won’t see?"

Martine put down her valise and hugged the fair-haired girl. "So why have you come back?" she wondered calmly.

"He was always strict. He stifled me. But I still love him, Martine. He only wanted what was best. I want to tell him that I’m happy now."

Martine kissed her on the cheek. "And what’s he going to say, when he finds out that your lover is a girl?"

Nell smiled fondly back at her. "I’m not ashamed of you." She brushed Martine’s lips with her own – and then they heard a rustling in the grass.

They stiffened in each other’s arms, then twisted round to see. There were figures in the graveyard, creeping past. As the girls watched through the rusty railings, an urchin rose on his hind legs and flung a stone towards the parsonage.

They heard it bang against the door and skitter off the step. Another scamp stood up and threw a stone. The sound of breaking glass cut through the twilight. Nell sucked an angry breath between her teeth.

More stones arced towards the house and shattered other windows, but the lamp in the front room was not put out. The ragamuffins paused, as if expecting a response. No-one emerged to shake his fist at them. Sniggering, they scuttled back between the tilted gravestones. The first one climbed over the fence, and Martine’s gun butt slammed into his jaw.

The Thonon’s heavy walnut stock dislodged one of his teeth. The boy sat down abruptly, spitting blood. "It’s not just windows we can break," said Martine equably. The other urchins scattered, but Nell caught one by the coat and hauled him back.

He squirmed and tried to bite her, till she drew her bayonet and laid the slender blade across his throat. Then he went pop-eyed, and Nell saw just how young he was. Still seething, she withdrew her blade. "You little runt! Why break an old man’s windows?"

"We was paid to do it. Honest, Miss! A shilling each from Mr Garrett’s man."

She twisted the boy’s collar. "Mr Garrett, eh? Who’s he?"

"You must know Mr Garrett, Miss. They say that he’s the richest man in town."

Nell gave Martine a puzzled glance, then turned back to the boy. "So what’s he got against my … well, against the Reverend?"

"Mr Garrett owns slave ships, Miss. The Reverend says slavery ain’t right. He’s one of them abo-lishonists. The slavers don’t take kindly to such talk …"

"No, I guess they don’t," said Nell. She let him wriggle free. The urchin took off down the road. The other boy was mopping at his mouth.

"Go on – get along," she said and kicked him on the rump. "The next time, you’ll get this right up your arse." The boy fled with a muffled curse. Nell sheathed her bayonet. And then they heard the house’s front door open.

Nell flinched and clutched at Martine’s sleeve. "Oh God," she hissed, "I can’t see him right now." They scurried down the road until the graveyard was behind them. But Nell couldn’t keep from glancing back, as the lamp-lit window dwindled in the dusk.

* * *

Back in the town, they had supper in a tavern – in the furthest corner, where the candlelight was dim. With their hair pinned up beneath their hats, they could pass as fresh-faced youths. "But watch out for the sailors," grinned Martine.

Nell just smiled reflexively and took a sip of wine. The clamour of the inn washed over them. The redcoat’s pale eyes caught the light. "How dare that bastard persecute my father. Maybe we should find his house – return the compliment …"

Martine tore a chunk of bread, her own gaze mischievous. "We came to England for a rest, not to start a revolution here as well!" But she saw how troubled her friend was, and didn’t tease her further. "You think he needs a lesson, then?" she said.

"Maybe," murmured Nell. "But men like him have influence. I bet he owns the local magistrates." The tavern cat rubbed past her leg. She reached down absently. But its fur slid through her fingers as the cat went padding up to someone else.

Somebody was standing in the entrance to the alcove. Nell looked round, her blue eyes narrowing. The figure wore a mud-stained cloak and battered tricorne hat. The face was just a shadow, but she thought she could detect a female poise.

Then the newcomer crouched down to stroke the purring cat. The candle on the table lit her face. The girl was handsome, young and black, her skin like varnished teak. She eyed Martine and Nell appraisingly.

Martine stared back, still chewing. Her left hand slid off her lap. The valise was open at her feet, the Thonon shotgun ready to be grasped.

The black girl straightened up again. She held a jug of wine in one gloved hand. "Maybe I can top you up?" she asked sardonically. Nell wavered, and then pushed her glass across.

"I saw you on the hill," the girl said, pouring. "You stood up for the parson, didn’t you? You know this is a slaver’s port. He isn’t popular. I went up there to keep an eye on him."

"So what are you, his guardian angel?" Martine wondered dryly.

"My name is Marsha," said the girl. Her accent had a Caribbean lilt. "I’m free now, but my people aren’t. We need the faithfulness of men like him."

Nell frowned and gestured her to sit. The girl pulled up a chair. The firelight in the barroom made this corner all the darker, and they hunched like plotters round the candle flame.

"I was born a slave," said Marsha, with its glow in her dark eyes, "but I’m never going to bow to them again." She spread the collar of her cloak, and Martine caught her breath. There was an iron ring round the girl’s neck.

Martine touched her own throat without thinking. The lace cravat around it hid the weal a noose had left in her soft flesh. But other, older memories were darkening her eyes. Marsha’s stare grew quizzical. "You’ve been a slave yourself?"

Martine dropped her gaze and shrugged. "I was in Barbary a little while ..." For a moment she was nude again and waiting for the whip. Nell reached across and took hold of her hand.

Marsha drank out of the jug. "I guess that none of us love slavers, then. I came here with the thought of trying to burn one of their ships … but the harbour is well-guarded, day and night. Then I thought, why waste time on the vessels? The owners are the ones who make the trade."

"Owners like a certain Mr Garrett?" murmured Nell.

The black girl nodded solemnly. "He’s got the blood of hundreds on his head."

"No doubt he’s well protected," said Martine after a pause. "You’ll need our firelocks to back you up."

"I’d welcome them," said Marsha. "But I won’t be empty-handed." She glanced around, then held open her cloak. Her full breasts strained against her shirt, but it wasn’t that which made both girls’ eyes grow wide. A chain was fastened to her iron collar. It trailed across her bosom and attached her to the pistol which was tucked between her belly and her belt.

* * *

As they crept towards the house, they heard a piano and a girl’s sweet voice.

Martine went forward in a crouch and waited by the wall. The nearest window glowed with candlelight. The waning moon was yellow too, above the darkened bay. The Garrett house looked down upon the port.

She’d shed her bulky overcoat in case it hampered her. Her dark blue frock-coat had a tighter fit. Her linen shirt was knotted underneath her rounded breasts – a habit from her time in Barbary. She gestured with her shotgun, and the others moved to join her. The bushes rustled, but the song trilled on.

Marsha raised her pistol with a clinking of its chain. She sidled up beneath the parlour window. Nell took up position on the far side of the pane. Her red coat looked as dark as wine – or blood. Martine pushed her tricorne back and peered into the room. A group of poised young girls had gathered there.

One of them was playing on the piano, and the singer stood beside it, looking rapt. Two others watched attentively, distracted from their sewing. A girl with glasses sat apart and pored over a book.

They all had a complacent kind of beauty. Martine guessed they were sisters, with an age range from late teens to middle twenties. An older woman sat with them, her dark eyes on the singer. Her splendid looks and regal air announced she was the mother of the brood.

"So where’s the master of the house?" said Marsha thoughtfully. Martine shrugged and caught Nell’s eye. The blonde girl chewed her lip.

"It’s not right to kill someone in front of his family."

"No, it’s not," said Marsha. "But they do it all the time." She touched the redcoat’s arm, and then drew back. "We’ll settle with him privately: it’s business, after all. He must be in his smoking room, or study …"

They stole away, around the house, and found an unlatched window which let them climb into an empty room. With the girl’s song in the background they emerged into the passage and began to prowl the dimly-lit ground floor. The atmosphere was warm and close. Martine reached up to tug at her cravat. Nell’s heavy coat hung open: there was no shirt underneath her leather vest.

The ballad was concluded in a patter of applause. Ignoring it, they moved towards the study. A line of light showed round the door. Nell caught a sour whiff of alcohol. She frowned and raised her multi-barrelled pistol, while Marsha turned the doorknob and pushed through.

The door swung open with a creak, but the man behind the desk remained inert. He was slumped across his papers with his horsehair wig askew. The three girls surged into the room, but he didn’t raise his head. The decanter at his elbow was half empty.

"Name of a dog, the bastard’s drunk," said Martine through her teeth. The anticlimax left her feeling peeved. She glanced around the study, which was all in disarray. There were bills of lading on the floor and ledgers everywhere. Then she saw the chest in the far corner, and an avaricious gleam lit her dark eyes.

Marsha crouched and picked one of the bills up. "I don’t read," she told Nell, "but I guess every line on this is someone’s life ..."

She straightened up, grim-faced, and put her gun to Garrett’s head. The slave-trader kept snoring drunkenly. Martine looked on, but Nell clutched Marsha’s shoulder. "Hold on," she said, "you can’t kill him like this."

The black girl breathed out slowly as her rage went off the boil. Her finger slackened in the trigger-guard. Martine moved round the desk and started sifting through the papers. "However could a drunk become the richest man in town?"

"Good question," murmured Nell. "His business crosses half the world, but I don’t think he could find his chamber pot!"

"It’s fortunate," a calm voice said, "that I attend to both."

The girls turned with a start and froze, their weapons still half-raised. The regal woman watched them from the doorway. One of her graceful daughters stood beside her on the threshold. The girl had bright eyes, glossy curls, and a blunderbuss gripped tightly in both hands.

"Pistols on the floor, you sluts," the woman ordered sharply. "Or Kitty here will show you she can shoot." The daughter smiled with small white teeth, excited by the prospect. Whatever skill she had, the gaping weapon wouldn’t miss them at that range.

Nell stooped carefully and laid her pistol on the carpet. Martine put down her shotgun and discarded the two pistols from her belt. Marsha waited where she was, her brown eyes smouldering. Then she tipped her own gun up. "I can’t relinquish this one, as you see."

The woman saw the chain and smiled with thinly-veiled contempt. "Empty the powder from the pan," she said. Marsha did so grudgingly. The dark grains fell like snuff. She pushed the pistol back into her belt.

"May I shoot the slave, Mama?" asked Kitty with disdain. She’d been sewing when Martine had seen her last.

The woman stepped into the room. She moved with confidence. A lady of good breeding, grown mature in power and wealth. "Not here, Kitty, dear," she sighed. "It would make such a mess." Her daughter pouted like a spoilt child. She adjusted the big gun, and Martine’s eyes flicked to the desktop. A paperknife lay just within her reach.

"My husband lacks self-discipline," the haughty woman said. "I run his business, with my daughters’ help. We’ve dealt with thieves like you before. You’ll hang within the week." She broke off as another girl appeared.

This one had been singing by the piano. The sight of the intruders made her gasp. But then her mother’s words sank in, and her cheeks began to colour. She sidled up behind her sister. "Will you let us watch, Mama?" she asked.

"Certainly, Jane, darling. We shall hire an upstairs room. No need to mingle with the common herd ..."

Kitty wet her lips, and Jane breathed in excitedly. Their mother gave them an indulgent smile. "We’ll turn the harlots over to the magistrate," she purred. "But the black’s not worth the trouble of a trial. Watch over them, my dears, while I call Aubrey from downstairs. We’ll hang her in the stables, as a treat …"

Marsha stiffened at the words, and Kitty braced her firearm. Her sister was more timid, but she darted forward and picked up a gun. It was one of Martine’s pistols and she aimed it with both hands. Their mother smiled and swept out of the room.

"More entertainment, girls!" they heard her calling. "Your father has some uninvited guests. Mary, take your head out of that book and call Mr Aubrey. Tell him to bring William, and a length of good hemp rope ..."

Jane and Kitty smirked with self-importance, and kept their weapons pointed at the thieves. They wore high-waisted cotton gowns with bows beneath their breasts. Each girl had a firm bosom, which the square-cut necklines framed enticingly.

Nell stared at them, stony-faced. "You seem like sweet young things – so why get mixed up in the Trade of Hell?"

"That’s abolitionist talk, you bitch," said Kitty haughtily. "It’s just like selling cattle, after all."

Oblivious, Garrett mumbled in his stupor. Jane gestured with her pistol. "Move away from father’s desk." Marsha stalked towards them and both girls took aim at her, while Martine palmed the silver paperknife.

The French girl ambled forward and Jane brought her pistol round. "My father taught me how to shoot," she warned.

"It must have been while he was drunk. That gun’s still at half-cock …"

Jane frowned at the French accent, then her eyes flicked to the gun. Martine lashed out and knocked it to one side. Then she jabbed the paperknife into the girl’s pale throat. "A shame to spoil that singing voice," she said.

Jane choked and dropped the pistol, then clutched vainly at the blade. A squirt of crimson speckled Martine’s sleeve. Kitty’s eyes grew huge and she began to turn her aim, forgetting Marsha till the black girl pounced. Marsha drew her gun and looped the chain round Kitty’s neck. The slaver’s daughter squirmed in her embrace.

Martine ripped Jane’s throat open, spilling blood between her breasts. The girl’s warm body flopped against her own. Kitty’s bosom heaved for breath as Marsha throttled her. Her swollen tongue poked out as she went limp. The two dead sisters slithered to the carpet. Their drunken father mumbled in his sleep.

The girls scooped up their fallen guns and hurried from the room. Nell was first into the hall, and found a hard-faced servant in her way. He wore a wig and livery and carried a horse-pistol. She raised her Twigg and shot him in the chest.

The man reeled backwards with an oath, rebounding off the wall. But he caught himself and hauled his gun back up. The English girl aimed Kitty’s blunderbuss with her left hand and triggered it with an explosive thud. The brutal recoil jarred Nell’s wrist, but the servant was flipped over. This time he didn’t try to rise again.

A lanky youth dodged sideways. He was carrying a noose. Nell dropped the empty shotgun and gave cover as her two friends crossed the hall. Marsha primed her pistol while Martine went on ahead. The girls still in the parlour squealed with fright.

She aimed her fowling-piece and watched them scattering like birds, then darted through to check the farther door. An ostler in his grubby shirtsleeves lurked in the next room. He raised his musket jerkily, and Martine felled him with a blast of shot.

One of the girls saw Marsha and shrank back into a corner. "Oh!" she sobbed. "Don’t touch me, you black bitch!" Marsha eyed the panting breasts beneath her muslin robe. She curled her lip. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

She brought her pistol up and fired. The smooth bore held a charge of rabbit shot. The pellets punctured the girl’s tits like red-hot fishing weights. She screamed in agony and clutched herself. Then her pierced lungs collapsed and she slithered down the wall, her white robe splashed with crimson poppies now.

Out in the hall, the lanky servant made a try for Mr Aubrey’s gun. Nell shot him and he spun around. A plume of scarlet spattered on the tiles. The pistol still had two shots left, but she needed to adjust the mechanism. She backed into the parlour, and another of the daughters sprang at her.

Nell lurched round and dropped the gun. The girl was spitting, clawing for her eyes. Nell fought her off one-handed while she drew her bayonet. Then she drove the slender blade beneath the girl’s plump breast.

Her victim shuddered and grimaced. Nell gave the blade a twist. The doomed girl made a mewling sound and crumpled loosely to the polished floor.

The slaver’s wife stood rooted at the centre of the room. Her hands were clasped, her face as pale as wax. Marsha was still ramming a fresh load into her pistol. She fixed the woman with a baleful glare.

"Your business must have ripped a hundred families apart. It’s only justice that you’ve lost your own!"

"You negro slut," said Mrs Garrett, venomously calm. "I’m glad to know your kind are whipped and raped. Go on – do your worst to me. The slave trade will go on. Our race will always triumph over yours ..."

Another gunblast shook the room. Her bodice filled with holes. She reared backwards with an anguished grunt. Blood spilled from her wounds as she collapsed onto a couch. Her mouth fell open, slack with shock, and then her eyes glazed over and she slumped.

Marsha stared towards her corpse, then looked round at Martine. The French girl’s levelled shotgun drooled with smoke. "If that’s the case, then count me out," said Martine huskily. Her face was very pale and filmed with sweat.

Lowering the gun, she glanced at Marsha. "I know what being whipped and raped is like." She crossed the body-littered room. Nell tried to touch her shoulder, but Martine went out into the hall again.

She headed back towards the study. Garrett was still snoring on his desk. Ignoring his dead daughters, Martine poured herself some whisky and tossed the peaty liquid down her throat. She leaned against the desktop for a moment, then wiped her mouth and moved towards the chest.

The other girls were waiting in the hallway. Martine rejoined them, carrying a bulging leather bag. "So what’s that?" Marsha asked, already knowing. The contents made a muffled chinking sound.

"Expenses," Martine said, and sauntered past her. The black girl frowned, remaining where she was. "That’s blood money," she called after a moment. "My sisters and my brothers bled for that."

Martine had reached the door. She looked around impatiently. Marsha’s eyes had narrowed now. "You reckon you can profit from his trade?"

She drew her gun deliberately and lowered it to dangle by its chain. The weapon nudged against her thigh. The brass-capped butt was ready to be grasped. The French girl stared at her, then turned and dropped the moneybag. She brushed her coattails back behind her hips. The butt of her own pistol curved against her naked stomach. The weapon was already at half-cock.

Dismayed, Nell glanced from one face to the other. "For God’s sake, Marsha: don’t do this," she hissed. The black girl looked regretful, but she didn’t change her stance. Martine’s right hand had settled on her belt.

"We’ve finished Garrett’s business," she said flatly. "You want the tax collectors to have this?"

"Why not?" Marsha murmured. "They’re blood-suckers, after all."

Martine stayed impassive. Nell reached down reluctantly and cocked her gun. The moment seemed to teeter on a knife-edge. Then something tipped the balance, and Martine and Marsha snatched their pistol butts.

As one, they swung and fired towards the parlour, where the last of Garrett’s daughters had appeared. It was the girl with glasses who’d been studying a book. She was struggling to aim a musket now. The twin shots ruptured both her breasts and made her gawp with pain. She rebounded off the doorpost and went spinning back into the bloody room.

Nell winced, then waved her hand as stinking powder-smoke engulfed her. Martine and Marsha lowered their spent guns. The ex-slave eyed the French girl for a moment, then slid her pistol back into her belt. "Now you have the advantage," she said dryly. "I’d walk away with it if I was you."

Martine nodded slowly and picked up the moneybag. Nell moved across to join her at the door. "I’m grateful for your trouble," Marsha told them. "My brothers and my sisters owe you that."

"Good luck," murmured Nell. "Stay free." She followed Martine out into the dark. The air smelled fresh after the reek of powder. When they both looked back again, the doorway of the Garrett house was empty.

* * *

The first grey light of morning tinged the graveyard. The parsonage was silent and unlit. Nell slipped out through the garden gate and lingered in the roadway. The smashed panes had been boarded up. The house’s other windows seemed to watch.

Garrett’s moneybag lay on the doorstep, an anonymous donation to the cause. Biting her lip, she waited till she saw a gleam of lamplight, then scurried down the lane to join Martine. Her friend said nothing, merely squeezed her shoulders. They went on down the hill towards the harbour and the bitter cry of gulls.