“But I’ve always called you Natters.” Will glanced at the sea, then back at him. “Don’t you see, Nat? By running west, we’ll be on a reach and go faster. Running south for Jacksonville, the wind will be in our faces, and if that storm is bearing north, we’d run right into it.”

Of course he saw, now. Self-pity shrouded him. He was trying so hard! He was the one who lay awake on his off-hours, listening through the normal groans, creaks, and thuds of the ship for the groan, creak, or thud that wasn’t normal. Was the one who checked the bilges to make sure the seams were tight, who walked the deck looking for frays in the lines, who insured that the logbook was kept up to date. He was trying so hard to complete the task his father had set for him, or that he had set for himself, or that they had both set together in a kind of partnership. Now there was a hurricane lurking out there somewhere, and he wasn’t sure what to do, because he wasn’t sure what the storm intended to do. Gazing southward, over the ominous swells, he could sense its presence, and it became a living thing to him: inscrutable, prowling the seas for prey.

13

FOR MOST OF the morning, Double Eagle labored up and down the ever moving hills. Clumps of sargussum weed, carried northward from their native waters, continually fouled the log. When clear, it registered a speed of three knots; only with the greatest luck would they reach Savannah in thirty hours or less. Turning to Nathaniel, Will said that since he was the most religious, it was up to him to pray that the blow head westward, or if it must come north, that its center pass well out to sea; then, at worst, Double Eagle would only have to contend with the weaker winds at its edges.

Light, capricious airs played about the vessel from all directions. The phrase “dirty weather” took on a literal meaning, as the murk on the southern rim of the world grew darker and climbed higher; it was as though an unseen hand were drawing over the sky a blanket of soiled wool. High cirrus, speckled and feathery, coiled up from the clouds and spread directly overhead. The sun shone through them as a brassy wreck, and the mounting swells assumed a leaden color.

“ ‘Mackerel skies and mares’ tails, tall-masted ships lower their sails.’ ” Will murmured the old sailor’s axiom. “What do you think, Natters?”