“Feels like the hinges of hell,” Nathaniel said, pulling at his sweat-spotted jersey.

Will wiped dampness from his upper lip and lit a cigarette; then, as the boat rose and fell with a long, slow ponderous motion, his body tensed and he cocked his head aside, as though listening for a faint noise. Going to a porthole, he said, “Those are damn big swells. When did they start coming in?”

“Maybe half an hour ago. What’s the matter?”

Will did not say anything, peeked at the barometer, and then checked the last reading in the logbook.

“Dropped a tenth since Drew and I went off watch,” he said, and quickly went on deck.

All around, high broad ridges heaved and dropped with a grave motion, like the chests of sleeping giants. The swells were rolling up from the south, where an eerie, milky white haze hung just above the horizon; the sky directly overhead was clear, except for one or two high, wispy cirrus. A solitary shearwater, now white, now brown, wheeled fine on the bow; otherwise, there wasn’t a living thing in sight, nor a smokestack, nor a sail. Ships had been sighted nearly every day, but now the little schooner appeared to be alone on the vast, the isolating sea.

After taking a good look around, Will dropped down the companionway, returning ten minutes later, holding a sheet of paper with calculations written on it.

“Bring her west by quarter north,” he said to Eliot, speaking calmly but with an undertone of urgency. “Nat, you and Drew better make sure our lines are free for reefing or dousing, whatever we have to do. Better have storm oil handy, too. Then we should all turn to and lash and batten whatever needs to be. Storm hatches on the skylights.”

Saying, “West by quarter north, aye,” Eliot started to bear off. Nathaniel grabbed the wheel and stopped him from making the course change.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said to Will. “I don’t remember any change-of-command ceremony.”

“There’s a daisy of a storm brewing somewhere to the southard. Very probably a hurricane, and very probably headed in one of two directions—west or north. West, we should be okay, north, we’ll want to be in Savannah when it hits, nice and snug.”

“Savannah! Thought I said no more detours.”

“This isn’t tourism. This is running for safe harbor.”

“Just how do you know it’s a hurricane? Some little bird tweet in your ear?”