“It’s not about you!” Doyle roared. “I lost men, too, and that shouldn’t be wasted! If you’re so on about working together, you got to do more than talk about it! You got to listen to other ideas, maybe go with them. You’re not always gonna be right!”

“I . . .” Rousseau stopped, glanced around. Looking for Jake or Spunk? Without their routine loyal support, he seemed less certain. Vulnerable. I saw he’d taken in Doyle’s accusation and was grappling with it. Like, sharing leadership meant . . . actual sharing.

“Not sure he deserves all that,” Daniel said to me. “Not like Tommy’s so democratic . . .”

“Rousseau identifies with all of us,” I said. “He sees himself as our voice.”

But Doyle saw an opening. “Lose a lot more out there in the friggin’ storm than to a few Adders and Revs camped along the way!”

“My guess is, they blew their wad here,” said the skipper, though no one had asked him.

One of Rousseau’s lads stepped into the taxi to mutter the names of two more dead Joes, and one who wasn’t going to make it.

Rousseau said, “I need to go to him.”

He turned away, following the messenger out of the taxi.

“Nice way to lose an argument,” noted Daniel. “Walk away with the moral high ground.”

Doyle fumed in frustration as his win went unacknowledged. In the end, he bartered with his boats. The Tommy reinforcements would walk back to their den, leaving their powered craft to take on the raft crews and tow the laden rafts uptown. But only if they took the avenue.

So for the next hour, the convoy battled erratic winds and intermittent drenchings to slog up First Avenue, with Melville back in the rear. While Daniel piloted from his forward wheelhouse, I harnessed up in the stern, ready with the boat hook to clear the rudder or shove us off buildings when we got washed too close. I was glad of the foul weather gear he’d hauled out of yet another well-stocked storage locker. Jenn and Jandi stayed below, with the boy running occasional messages to and from the wheelhouse. In the cabin lee, Breakers watched for snipers, sending me the occasional are-we-there-yet glance. The front of the convoy was too far ahead to see if we’d caught up with Zephyr, leaving me to worry about Maxine and Jake.

The wind was in convulsions, like practicing changing its mind. The sea swell built steadily. I started counting blocks, so I had some idea of our progress, so much slower than we’d hoped for. Somewhere in the 90s, a roll of thunder echoed along the buildings, a bass vibration almost felt more than heard. Melville thrummed in sympathy.