The Sparrowhawk was pitching all her power against the tide now, and the tide was winning. The air was cold, the sky lowering, the sea still calm, but it was different from the calm before. Then the sea had felt asleep. Now it was swelling, gathering strength. And it was no use wishing for the peaceful canals, the green tranquillity of the English countryside, the relative safety of the London Thames as they flew into the sunrise, the calm coastline and the comforting presence of the Wilhelmina. All the Sparrowhawk crew could do was hold their course, and pray that they would reach safe harbor before the storm broke. Frank held the tiller now. Ben stood at his side. In the cabin, Lotti tried to comfort the panicking dogs.

Minutes passed, which felt like hours. Inch by fought-for inch, the French coastline grew closer.

“Calais,” breathed Frank at last, pointing to a white shape in the distance, more guessed at than seen.

The current had swept them off course. Frank brought the Sparrowhawk round to hug the coastline, heading east. Ben saw cliffs, trees, a church, and he willed the boat on faster.

The waves grew.

“No worse than the ones we had yesterday,” said Frank.

But the waves swelled higher. Lotti, her arms wrapped round the dogs, gave a moan. Federico was sick. Elsie burrowed deeper into her blanket.

The first drop of rain hit them within sight of the Calais harbor walls, followed almost immediately by a flash of lightning that ripped open the sky, then by a rumble of thunder. With a sudden, vicious gust, the wind whipped up. With an answering heave, so did the sea.

“Ben, go below,” ordered Frank. “Get a bucket and give it to Charlie. Tell her to go into the workshop and watch the foredeck. She’s to stay inside except if a wave breaks over the bow, in which case she’s to bail for all she’s worth. And tell her, if the Sparrowhawk goes over, to get the hell out and hang on to the hull and not let go, whatever happens. Whatever happens, you hear? She’s to climb on top of it, if she can.”

“What about the dogs?” Lotti whispered, pale-faced, when Ben delivered Frank’s message. “What’ll happen to them if the Sparrowhawk goes over?”

“She won’t go over,” said Ben, handing her a bucket from the galley.

“But what if she does? They can’t hold on to the hull, they’ll drown … And Ben, what if the Sparrowhawk sinks?”

“She won’t go over and she won’t sink,” Ben repeated stubbornly, but the Sparrowhawk was lurching badly now, and he almost fell as he came back out onto the deck.

He saw Frank’s face before he saw the wave. Frank the unmovable, strong, silent, dependable Frank was pale as a ghost, mouth open, eyes staring, frozen to the spot—still holding the tiller, but no longer steering.