February 9, 1910
“WE’RE TACKING!” JACK SHOUTED. “Ready about!”
“Tacking, yes,” Philip said. “Tacking …”
The sail suddenly swung around like a gate. The large horizontal block of wood hurtled toward Philip’s cranium.
With a shriek, he ducked.
Duck was what they meant to say. Duck. Why were these sailors so obtuse?
And why, out of all the men left behind on that dark satanic shore — all professional sailors of great distinction — was Philip chosen for this trip?
They wanted to kill him. That was the only plausible explanation.
The recent catastrophe had affected their minds. Perhaps that hideous cave contained noxious gases. Winslow and son had indeed become a bit strange after cleaning it out — wan and morose, as if they’d discovered the remains of some long-lost relative.
The boat was turning hard, rising up on one side. Philip clutched the edge to keep from falling.
“Father, it’s sucking us in,” Colin said.
“Sucking?” Philip squeaked.
“Hold on tight, Philip!” Jack warned.
Philip looked over his shoulder. He wished he hadn’t. He wished he’d had the sense to curl up under the deck and cower.
The boat was at the edge of a maelstrom, a whirlpool of such viciousness that it sloped downward like the open maw of a malevolent underwater creature.
“Get us out of here!” Philip shouted. “Tack … or something!”
The two Winslows fussed with the sail, pulling and changing angles, but it did no good.
“Stop, Colin!” Jack cried out. “It’s no use! Slacken it!”
“You’re not giving up, are you?” Philip asked.
“No!” Colin loosened the sheets and the sail went slack. “Once we’re in the pool, the sail does more harm than good. It’ll make us heel!”
The Horace Putney was in the pool, all right. She tilted toward the center, gaining speed. Philip’s sight blurred. The water’s deafening rush sounded like a massive industrial machine.
He could no longer hear Jack’s or Colin’s voices, but he could see them both on the tilted foredeck, struggling to stay upright. The sail’s bottom edge was blowing in the breeze, the wooden thing — the boom? — flailing wildly against the shins of both men.
That wouldn’t do. Philip slid forward. Fighting dizziness and nausea, he clutched the boom and held fast.
Colin gave up trying to lash the sail. He grabbed the mast with one hand, his father with the other. They were yelling something to Philip, but he couldn’t hear them.
The mast bent with Colin’s weight. Philip pushed the boom aside and reached up toward him.
With a crrrrack that resounded even over the surging waters, the mast split.
Colin vaulted off the deck, over Philip’s head, and into the boat, pulling Jack with him.
Philip cringed, covering his head with his hands. He heard a thud.
When he looked up, Colin was leaning over his father’s inert body, listening for breath, shaking him.
He was out cold. Dead, perhaps.
One down, two to go.
Philip closed his eyes. This was it, wasn’t it? This was why God had spared him when he’d fallen through the ice. A quick demise wouldn’t be proper for a wretch like Philip Westfall, would it? Better a slow, cruel death spinning in an ever-quickening gyre.…
“I STOLE THE MONEY!” Philip cried out, casting his eyes heavenward. “I DID IT, BUT I WAS PUT UP TO IT BY THE OTHERS! OUR GUNS WERE TOYS — TOYS, DO YOU HEAR? I WILL TAKE FULL RESPONSIBILITY AND REPENT! TAKE ME, DELIVER ME FROM THIS PLACE, BUT AT LEAST SPARE COLIN AND HIS FATHER!”
Philip felt himself sobbing.
He sounded ridiculous.
Fortunately Colin hadn’t heard a word of it. He was trying to stanch a wound on his father’s head with a wet strip of cloth he’d ripped from his own coat.
The boat was still miraculously afloat. If Philip wasn’t mistaken, the whirlpool was flattening, too. Losing a bit of strength.
Philip snatched up two oars from the boat floor. He jammed them in the oarlocks.
And he rowed.