“The passengers and crew, for their lives,” Nathaniel replied, with a theatrical lowering of his voice. “The Annisquam foundered in a westerly gale, and Dad saved everybody aboard, a hundred and one altogether.”

“Do I get to hear more?”

“Don’t know much more,” Nathaniel answered, and explained that his father had spoken of the incident only once, and very briefly, a reticence due partly to his Yankee taciturnity, mostly to his distaste for admitting defeat. He had not brought up the ship’s most valuable cargo, and one of his divers had gone blind searching the wreck while his chief diver, a Bahamian called Artemis Lowe, had lost sight in one eye. On top of all that, Dad had gotten into a big fight with another wrecker who had tried to salvage the ship; they ended up in court, and the judge revoked Dad’s wrecker’s license.

“It’s the whole reason he left Florida and came back north. Losing his license.”

“Wait a minute,” Will said. “He rescued a hundred and one people, they gave him this to show their thanks, but he lost his license? There’s a few big holes in that sea story that need filling.”

“Yeah. But you won’t get them filled by Dad. And Lockwood never said much about it, either. He was just a kid then, but he saw most of it happen.”

“What was this valuable cargo?”

“Candlesticks.”

“Candlesticks?”

“Special kind of candlesticks. Great big ones. Seven of them. They were supposed to be about four feet long, maybe five, and solid gold. The Annisquam was a fast packet out of Boston, and she was bound for Corpus Christi with some ordinary stuff, and then to Vera Cruz. The candlesticks were for the Catholic cathedral there. They were supposed to be delivered in time for Easter.”

“Paschal candles,” said Will.

“That’s what you call them?”

“Yup. How much were they supposed to be worth?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Dad nor Lockwood never said, but you got to figure a whole lot.”

Will resumed his plotting, drawing rhumb lines on the charts, but Nathaniel did not help him, his thoughts too unsettled for such exacting work. Then, looking through a porthole, he saw in a moment a purpose for the voyage. The clarity of it, the rightness of it, flooded his mind like a revelation. He called to Eliot and Drew, who were on deck, presumably doing their thinking, to come below. He had something to say; and he said it, driving his words fast and hard, speaking (he thought) like a captain, not a sixteen-year-old kid.

“Well, what’s your answer? Are you with me on this, or what?” he asked, when he was done, so persuaded by his own enthusiasm that he couldn’t imagine them responding in the negative. But they did not respond at all. Will spoke instead.