The Flight of Sarah Battle by Alix Nathan

school. He’s arranged it with the headmaster. He must stay until he’s eighteen. It’s like sending him to prison.’ She breaks into sobs.
    He casts around for a handkerchief, sees only inky rags, the one in his coat pocket filthy, but she takes one from her travelling bag.
    â€˜What did they beat him for? How old is he? What in heaven’s name did he do?’
    â€˜Oh, Matthew is fifteen, a year younger than me. But we’re friends. We’ve always been friends. We never quarrel, unlike some brothers and sisters. I shall not live at home if Matthew is not there.’
    â€˜But what did he do that was so bad?’
    â€˜He hoisted a French flag on the White Tower on the King’s Birthday. They said it was a crime.’
    â€˜Oh lord! What an extraordinary thing to do! And how on earth…? Was it his idea?’
    â€˜Yes, but I helped him sew the flag.’
    â€˜Oho!’
    â€˜We found pieces of silk in my mother’s box of stuffs. A proper sized flag: three yards wide. Matthew attached it to rope.’
    â€˜You’re revolutionaries! Wonderful! I’ve known several myself, but none like you, for they’re all men. Lucy, you are the first revolutionary woman I’ve met.’
    He begins to sweat. Holds his fists hard on his thighs. Forgets his lack of sleep.
    â€˜I cannot claim that title – I’m not sure I believe in revolution.’
    â€˜I was once in the Corresponding Society. Have you heard of it?’
    â€˜No, I haven’t. All I know is that Matthew is angry the whole time. He hates where we live. Hates the school. Oh, poor Matthew! But it’s no use my crying about him, is it? I shall make a plan to rescue him. Though I don’t suppose … At least I can write letters to him. Do you think they’ll let him receive letters?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Perhaps not. I’ll help you, Lucy.’
    â€˜Will you?’
    â€˜We’ll secrete letters to him somehow. I have friends of all kinds. But where do you live that he hates so much?’
    â€˜The Tower. We live in the Tower. We already live in a prison, you see! The prison for traitors. My father is chaplain. The soldiers there must attend services; sometimes the King comes.’
    â€˜Heavens!’ He scrambles up heavily from the floor. ‘Then I salute Matthew. I salute you both. What a remarkable thing to do! What courage! And I have only ever posted bills and bored myself at interminable meetings! Oh, how feeble! Lucy, I am honoured to have found you!’
    He takes both her hands, pulls her to her feet.
    â€˜I must sketch you. Stand there. Just there!’
    He steps sideways, knocks her teacup and dabs violently at her clothes with the nearest rag.
    â€˜Oh! Have I ruined the gown? How careless of me. You shall have another.’
    â€˜Are you so rich, to buy food for two people and new gowns?’
    â€˜No, not rich. My father left a bit of money. I’m almost through it. I shall finish my apprenticeship next year. But I’m very good, you know. Digham says so and he’s the best engraver in London. I’ll draw you now!’
    *
    A while later, she watches him mix a ground of asphalt, resin, wax, spread it onto a plate of thin copper. The smell of resin speaks of unknown forests. He takes his etching needle, deftly reproduces his charcoal sketch in reverse, an image of herself cut into wax. With care she would not have thought possible from his previous clumsiness he dips the plate into a small bath, warns her not to touch the nitric acid, dilute though it is. Lifts it out, dabs varnish on the deepest grooves, dips again.
    Rags, more rags, discarded clothes. Under a pile of them she finds some finewed bread, grey and hairy, another cup, a hard-boiled egg half eaten, but doesn’t distract him with her finds.
    He removes the ground from the copper plate.
    â€˜And now to Digham’s’, he says. ‘Will you come? He has