The next day, they took him to Salem to dispatch him in a coaster bound for Virginia. Through Dr. Trefusis’s kind intercession, I was permitted to ride with them, though atop the carriage, rather than within.

We reached the Salem wharves late in the day; I climbed down to open the carriage door and set in place the steps. As Mr. Gitney and Bono descended, I could see in the lineaments of their faces that the ride of hours had not been passed in idleness, but rather marked by contest of will.

Mr. Gitney having alerted the captain of the vessel to our arrival and arranged for two soldiers to conduct Bono to the ship, he returned to his charge.

He said to Bono, “You refuse still to tell me what you heard?”

Bono replied, “I don’t know what you think I know, sir.”

Mr. Gitney nodded and scowled. “Then I wish you enjoyment of the Southern Colonies,” said he, and with that, turned and climbed back into the carriage.

Bono and I faced each other. We embraced — or I should say, I embraced him, as his hands were shackled behind him until such time as the ship made open water.

He looked at me; I looked at him.

“Next time we meet,” he promised, “I’ll have a different name.”

They rowed him out to the ship. I stood upon the shore and waved.

He looked back once at us while they bundled him aboard; then he turned his face toward the sun.