With a broody sulk, Crenshaw clenched his jaw and informed him of the wind direction and the latitude and longitude.
“Very good,” said Will as Crenshaw turned and walked toward the center hatchway.
A strong wind danced its way through Will’s hair, and a bit of briny spray grazed his cheek. He sucked in a deep breath, letting the fresh air warm his insides. He was where he loved to be again—directing a ship from an upper deck. He’d wondered, when sick, if he’d ever get this chance to sail again.
By God’s good grace, it had happened. With any luck, the wind would continue to blow, and Crenshaw would function as second mate without any more challenges.
As the day progressed, Will learned it was the twenty-fourth anniversary of the passengers’ church. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they called themselves.
The captain had told President Garn that he and his mates would attend the service once again, and though he’d noticed the stern faces of some of his compatriots, Will enjoyed hearing President Garn teach.
Now the passengers were joining in songs and recitations, and Will and the captain stood at the edge of the poop deck.
The captain looked at him. “I can’t believe it—and at the same time I can’t say I’m surprised that you are here. Never had passengers like these. Nothing—not sickness, hunger, or slow sailing—shakes their attitudes or their faith.” He glanced toward the crowd gathered behind them. “I’m glad we’ve made up some of the distance, but we will still need a steady pace not to run out of food.”
“Aye, sir,” said Will.
“And one more thing,” the captain continued. “Crenshaw became a favorite while you were ill, what with the wind and all. I’m of a mind it’s the praying that made the wind, but the sailors think otherwise.”
Will blew out a long breath, his heart telling him it was a miracle too.
“It’s up to you to win back the favor of the men,” the captain said. “Some aren’t happy you are healed. You must prove to me that you can earn their respect, if you desire to be a captain.”
Will closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them wide and glanced at the captain. “I understand, sir, and will do my best.”
“Good. I’d like to discuss your future plans for a captaincy soon. Perhaps tomorrow after your evening watch.”
“I’d be honored, sir.”
The captain surveyed the ocean one more time and then snapped his spyglass shut. “Now, it will still take us a few weeks to make shore. Our provisions are our greatest concern. We will have to start rationing in three days if we do not see a ship.”
“That will weaken the crew. And the passengers. They need their strength with smallpox aboard,” Will said. He glanced down to the lower deck where the boatswain was instructing Scotty Rollins and another boy on how to angle the sail.
“We have no other alternative.”
Will nodded.
“There haven’t been too many new cases. Perhaps the worst of it is behind us.” The captain attempted to stand taller, though Will could almost feel the invisible weight he carried.
“I hope you are right.”
The captain heaved a steady breath and then gave instructions on how to adjust the course and took his leave.
Once more alone and supervising the sailors, Will scanned the area below him, and his gaze met Jack’s for a moment. The man smiled, but Will knew him well enough to know that the shrewd pull of his eyes meant something was on his mind. Jack gave one more instruction to the boy next to Scotty Rollins and then shimmied up one of the rope ladders until he reached Will.
“Yer pretty Miss Fowles left out the fact that ye were saved by some fantastical magic prayer, but the scuttlebutt around the ship says otherwise.”
“And if it was a prayer—a blessing, they call it—what’s the matter with that?”
“So it’s true then?” Jack’s look turned stern.
“It is.”
“Are ye committed to be ‘one’ of them now? I told ye they’ve cursed this ship with all their false pretenses of following God—”
“Nothing they’ve done around me has been untoward in the slightest.”
Jack dashed his hand against the rope ladder he’d just jumped down from. “I can’t believe it! Yeareone of them! The men have been talking. The poorer the food gets and the closer we get to rations, the more they blame the passengers. I know the passengers seem cheery and such, but when we run out of food and half the ship has smallpox, mark my word: The crew will turn on ye if ye follow them. Ye’ll lose all credibility. Then how will that look for a promotion?”
