Trembling with fear, Taylor Craven glanced toward the gangplank of the Carleena where James Rawlings had gone to speak to the captain. A cold May wind flapped Taylor's long, gray cape about her slender body. Lifting her hand up to her bonnet, she secured a stray wisp of light brown hair back into place. Ships with their enormous masts and spars stabbing the overcast sky lined the Liverpool dock. The smell of the sea overpowered the reeking odors of rowdy, muscled workers and sailors, barrels of fish, and stacks of goods.