All he thought was the advice Cudlip had given: Any idiot can crack it on, but it’s the wise man knows to shorten sail on time. But what did “on time” mean, in this case? If they shortened sail now, their progress would be slowed to less than a crawl; if they did not, and the first blast caught them with too great a press of canvas, they could be knocked down or dismasted. But he could not allow himself to appear indecisive, and so he said, with contrived firmness, “We’ll reef when we have to, not a minute before.”

They had to soon enough. At midday, the wind rose to twenty knots, topsails were lowered, and Double Eagle was cracking along at seven knots; the vessel herself seemed desperate to reach safety. Late afternoon, an unbroken dome of gray above, and far to the southeast, black plumes looming—smoke from a forest fire where no forest was. The storm was coming on. No swells now, but seas, right mean seas tumbling and surging, driven by a wind piping to thirty knots … main and foresail double-reefed … to thirty-five … main and fore shortened to the third reef point, jib reduced to a truncated triangle … nightfall, and forty plus … the last of the two big sails was doused, and only a staysail flying for steerageway. Nathaniel and Eliot, standing tiptoe on a cabin top glistening from spray as though newly varnished, flaked the sails with jackropes; Will stood to the helm, the froth flung back from the bow, crackling against his oilskin jacket; Drew, hopelessly seasick, had been sent below. Coming from due south, the waves struck Double Eagle on the beam—an endless pack of hounds tearing at her flank. She fought them off gallantly, but she was heeling thirty degrees at times, and one of the seas boarding her nearly sent Nathaniel and Eliot somersaulting over the main boom. The flaking done, they slithered aft on bellies and elbows, waited till the boat was between rolls, then got to their feet.

Will bent his head to Nathaniel’s ear and shouted that he figured they had at least thirty miles more to go, and then he spoke the words he did not want to speak and that his listeners did not want to hear: “We aren’t going to make it!” They could not stay on this tack any longer; Double Eagle could be rolled onto her beam ends. Of the two alternative choices—run with the seas or set the sea anchor and ride it out—the second seemed the wisest.

“We’re damned lucky!” he hollered.

Though the two Braithwaites indeed felt fortunate to still be on board, they thought Will’s assertion needed some supporting evidence. With a jerk of his chin, he indicated the sooty pall to the southeast.