Cyrus, meanwhile, trooped the boat, his discriminating eye tracing every inch of the standing rigging and the sheets and halyards, belayed in figure eights around the pins in the pinracks. He spun sheaves to make sure they were turning freely in the lignum vitae blocks, plucked stays to test their tautness, checked the hatches battened over the two cabin skylights, then went below, by way of the forward cabin. The boys heard him down there, opening and closing lockers and drawers and storage compartments, rattling about to see if everything that should be on board was on board: the coal and lamp fuel Nathaniel had just stowed away, the foodstuffs he and his brothers had brought on board yesterday, and a roster of other items, from marlinespikes, spare blocks, and spare battens to sailmaker’s twine; tar, oakum, chronometer, sextant, parallel rules, main anchor, kedge, sea anchor, fresh water butts, kegs of shark oil for use as storm oil, light lists, pilot books, fishing tackle, and a shotgun for shooting game, in case they got stranded and needed fresh meat. Not a likely possibility, but Cyrus prepared for a cruise among Maine’s bays and islands no less thoroughly than if he were crossing the Atlantic. Good sailors were pessimists by nature, he often said; they expected the unexpected and provided for the worst, which was sure to come, if not today, then tomorrow, if not tomorrow, then the day after. Small things—say, a sewing palm, needle, and canvas patches for repairing torn sails—could spell the difference between a pleasant voyage and a miserable one, even in extreme circumstance between life and death. At sea, the little kingdoms that were vessels really could be lost for want of a nail.

He returned to the afterdeck with a tin of salt cod and a pilot cracker. Double Eagle’s tender, slung from the taffrail davit, received his inspection, and then Nathaniel was given the same critical scrutiny, from tousled black hair to bare feet.

Then Cyrus, pointing at the shoe on the cabin top: “What’re you planning to do with that?”

“Don’t rightly know, sir. Figured since I went through so much trouble to save it, I might as well keep it.”

His father lowered his gaze, appeared to be reading the label on the tin. POSEIDON BRAND SEAFOODS, GLOUCESTER, MASS. FINEST QUALITY, it said, alongside a picture of the god of the sea, trident in hand.

“Can’t think of too many things more useless than one shoe for a man who still has two feet,” Cyrus said.

Was that just an observation? Or did it mean that Nathaniel was supposed to deep-six the shoe?

“No, sir. Don’t suppose there is.”

“Had shipmates on the Brooklyn that wasn’t true of, after Mobile Bay. One shoe did them just fine and there was the gunner’s mate—”

“Yes, sir. Tim Lockwood. You’ve—”

Nathaniel fell silent, having received a sleety stare for interrupting.