“We will ride in the stern, you four in the bow, where I can see you. That will be agreeable?”

“We have walked for almost two days,” said Will. “Anything you ask will be agreeable.”

Francisco, grinning at Will’s remark, set the patched sail to the southeasterly breeze, tugged the pendant to the centerboard, dropping it, and ran offshore for a quarter of a mile, where he sheeted in and came up, the little skiff reaching westward, her freeboard reduced to inches by the weight of her seven passengers. The boat was making two knots at best, it needed a good hosing down, and the heat was crushing, but the four boys were joyful to be off their feet and grateful for the water jug that Rosaria handed them.

“De dónde en Estados Unidos son ustedes?” asked Francisco, leaning into the transom, the tiller under his arm.

“Tu sabe Boston?”

The boy shook his head.

“Somos de Boston. Está un ciudad en el norte. Tu sabe Cayo Hueso?”

“I have heard of it. It’s across the Straits.”

“Sí. We had sailed from Cayo Hueso when we were struck by the hurricane.”

“José Marti went to Cayo Hueso for money and guns to fight the Spanish. He was our great poet, our great patriot.”

“Cuba Libre!” said Will, toasting with the water jug.

“Cuba Libre!” Francisco echoed.

“Looks like our luck’s changed,” Will said to Nathaniel, who did not reply. “That girl is really something to look at, isn’t she?”

Nathaniel, who was squeezed against the port gunwale, remained silent.

“Something wrong, Natters?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Leaving you on deck like I did. I went yellow on you. No other way to say it.”

“Is that what’s been bothering you the last few days?” Drew interjected.

“Wasn’t talking to you.”

“I’m sitting a foot away from you. It’s a little hard not to hear you.”

Will laid a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder in the manner of an older brother. “I don’t hold that against you. None of us do. You shouldn’t hold it against yourself.”