La Esperanza was a strongly built boat of some thirty-two feet, singlemasted, and so beamy that she was almost round—a true tub. She had a cramped cuddy forward, where her skipper slept, a long tiller pinned through the head of a massive rudder, and a cargo hatch amidships, immediately abaft the mast. Into this opening, roughly the size of a storm cellar’s door, Will and the Braithwaites dumped coconuts from high-sided handcarts. Luis Figueroa wasn’t charging them for their passage, but he was making them work for it. He lay below, distributing his cargo evenly in the hold.

“Más rapido!” he commanded, poking his head out of the hatch. He was a tall, brown-skinned man with a flat nose and brows that perpetually scowled, as if he were plagued by some persistent worry. “The tide makes in half an hour.”

Will translated for his shipmates, then they pushed their empty carts down the sagging, guano-spattered wharf to the quay, where the coconuts were stacked in pyramids. Twenty minutes later, while Nat and Eliot were helping Luis make ready to cast off, Will and Drew filled a cart with the last load. The labor caused Will’s ribs to throb again, and he grimaced each time he stooped to toss a coconut into the cart.

“Y’know, this whole operation would’ve gone a heck of a lot faster with a derrick and a cargo net,” said Drew.

“Well, why don’t you bring that up to Luis? I’m sure he’ll be impressed with your engineering genius.”

“What’s gotten into you?”—Drew, frowning. “You’ve been mean as a snake all day. You sound like Nat when he’s in a bad mood.”

“Hurting again,” said Will, pointing to his side. “And the heat,” he added, indicating the dried sweat that made white rings on his dark jersey. “Sorry.”

“Nat says you’re all flummoxed by that colored girl.”

“Her name’s Elvira.”

Drew dumped the last armload into the cart.

“You’re not really sweet on her, are you, Will?”

“No, I’m in love with her.”

Drew blinked.

“How could you be? We haven’t been here a week. You must be crazy.”

“That’s possible. How about you push this thing back to the boat. My side aches like hell.”

Drew got behind the cart and wheeled it along the wharf, Will following.

“Ohe! Yanqui!”

Turning, he saw Francisco calling from the quay behind him. Misbehaving locks of his curly hair tumbled across his forehead and an unlit cigarette dangled from a corner of his mouth, so that he looked one part urchin and one part waterfront ruffian.

“I came down here to say goodbye, tú sabes? I heard you’re leaving for Havana today,” he said, starting toward Will.

“And how did you know that?” asked Will, walking to meet him.