Ships were lost during these dark voyages, and said to have had the souls of criminals on board. I took the long way home, down south to London. First, I went to the old Easton Neston house, where my grandmother died. I remember her saying it was the most beautiful place she ever lived, and that she always intended to move back there after her widowhood. Her childhood house was full of the memories of her mother, and I loved being there, but I knew they were also tinged with loss. She had never quite lived in it. Then I went to Easton Neston, the house my great-grandmother left when she died. You're very welcome to live there if you want to, but it's no longer open to the public. I went back to Yorkshire and the house in Wakefield where my mother was born and brought up, and where, on a summer day, I took my first breath, on my mother's arm. I stood at the top of the hill to see my grandmother's grave. She was a beautiful woman, full of life and joy, my mother's and my grandmother's stories. I know the woman that her mother was, and the little girl she was when she left her mother's side to board the ship for the Isle of Man, where her father had found work. I stood and thought about my grandmother, and the great-grandmother who stood beside her, on the very first crossing of the Atlantic in a boat over the sea. The woman who, for reasons that we only understand now, made a decision to give up her life and her child in order to begin her journey back. To me, a life on the sea is much more than sailing to the ends of the earth and living on a boat. My grandmother went west, to America. She took her child and sailed into history. When I looked down on the sea, I could feel her presence beside me. Perhaps, some day, I will ask the wind, 'Are you her?' A life on the sea is more than navigating a boat over the ocean and arriving somewhere safe. My grandmother went west, on the boat across the sea. That journey is as important as any I have made. My grandmother was a woman who lived by her faith and chose her destiny. I will sail over a sea as dark as hers, in a ship of my own, and discover my own path across the sea. I've done some travelling since my childhood. Once, I went to see the grave of my grandfather, and the graves of my aunts. Then I went to America, to a city called St Petersburg, and I visited the place where my grandmother had lived, where she died. I went back to the old house in Easton Neston, and I stood beside my grandmother's grave. But, in a sense, I went to her place of death, as I had done at the end of the journey. I don't know what will become of this story. Maybe one day, someone else will find it and discover who I am, and why I was there. Maybe they will write a book and it will be published in the year my great-grandmother sailed into history. I sailed the Atlantic, in a ship made by my hands. It was a ship that would always reach the places of wind and tide, because it had come from the sea. Acknowledgements The original idea for this book originated many years ago, as a school project. I wrote it with my sister, Eloise, on a school notebook called a Grapeline, and our teacher, Chris Roberts, who was our English master, encouraged us to write our own stories on the project. It was a long journey into the unknown. This book grew from the memories of those two experiences, and it has been many years since I was fifteen, making those journeys. I had never known my grandmother, but I have always loved her memory, and felt an affinity with her because of my mother's relationship to her. I have thought about her story and longed to tell it for a very long time. While I was writing this, my mother died, and my journey became more about grieving and a deeper understanding of the past. In my memories and my family tree, my grandmother is all of my mother's relatives, so I see her death as a new chapter in my family's story. My publisher, Macmillan, provided much wisdom, help and support over the years I wrote this book. I could not have made the journey without their encouragement and expert guidance. In particular, I'd like to thank my editor for this book, Claire Beynon, my publisher at Macmillan, Helen Kennedy, and Jane Gazzoli and her assistants for their great professionalism and commitment. For her expertise in all things nautical and history, my friend and collaborator on the book, Sarah Bower, was invaluable. Sarah's writing and storytelling are unparalleled, and she made my journey a joy to follow. I am also grateful to our friends, John Goodbody and Liz Carron, for much practical help and friendship on this journey. My grandmother, Margaret, was much loved by us, but her legacy was complex. My late father was a doctor and a strong man, with many faults. He was also the opposite of my grandmother. He wanted to be the doctor, and he hated it when people said it was anything but a job he loved. I remember that some of the things he did were funny, but some were awful, for those who lived with him. I understand now that he was struggling to survive himself, a challenge even I have faced, but not with the consequences he experienced. My stepfather, Mike, was a good man who was also an outsider in the family. I have taken some of the things that were done to my grandmother, or in her name, out of the narrative and given them to Mike as his story to tell, as well as to all those friends who gave evidence about him, and wrote poems about him. He will tell you that it is a great relief to be able to tell the truth about what happened. The events described in this book are all true, in as much as I can know. I can't say for certain what became of the children who were on board the S.S. Montauk, or who survived. In a few cases I am only able to say that they died before the age of one. There are many such sad stories in this book, which is the true tale of the children of my great-grandmother. I would like to thank all the people who have helped to make this book possible. My stepfather, John, provided emotional strength and support for me, and for the people in my life, for most of the time this journey took place. He taught me about friendship and support when I needed them most, and I can't imagine having this book completed without his unwavering generosity. I want to thank my friend and soul sister, Margaret Thomas, who read and commented on the early versions of this book. John Goodbody and Liz Carron and her staff, for so much help and support over the past year. Sarah Bower, for her friendship and guidance, and always being there, ready to hear and reflect on what I was saying. I'd also like to thank my other sister, the literary agent Caroline Dawnay, who believed in this book from the beginning. I have a special debt of gratitude to my mum, and all the things we have shared. My mum, as my greatest teacher, I offer thanks for her patience and guidance, and all that she has been to me. I also want to thank my mother, Margaret, for all she has taught me. Introduction In the beginning, there was the sea. I have been writing this story for about twenty years. I started writing a school project when I was fifteen, called The Voyage. The teacher told us to make up our own adventures, but after making ours, he said we could change our stories if we wanted to. I had always loved the sea. When I was eight years old, I caught my first big sea fish, a very small one, by fishing the banks of the bay where we lived. I fished it with a net and caught it with a handline, and it was exciting when I got it and could watch it fight to get away. When it was big enough to eat, I cooked it, and as soon as I put it in the pot I saw it look at me, as if it knew what I was doing and wished I wouldn't put it in there. I loved the way the seagulls followed the boats, as they made their way to the sea. The gulls that nested in the roofs of the old dock buildings used to follow me down to the water and tell me stories. One day I went down to the water with some small bluebells I found growing on a wall, and I threw them into the sea. Before I reached the edge, I felt something strange come over me. I looked behind me to see two white gulls. They came close to me and cocked their heads, as if to say, 'What are you doing, throwing bluebells into the sea?' I did not feel afraid, but I wanted to get back to the others and hear what the gulls had to say. They seemed to know what I was doing, and a part of me wanted to stop, because of what they said, but the people who were with me were telling me to continue. After some