RELIEVED OF AN UNGAINLY CARGO OF POWDER AND SHOT, YUNIS PROVED to be a lively and well-found vessel. Her foremast was canted charmingly over the bow and supported a huge lateen and even a trysail. In his years at sea Curran had never sailed such an eclectic rig, and it took one of the older hands, once a Maltese fisherman, to show him the workings of the brails, martinets, and bowline tackles. Once their mysteries were comprehended, Curran found that his new command steered, tacked, and went to windward like a charm.
Yunis had been purpose-built as a privateer. Her entrance was narrow and her beam was wide, making her hull roomy enough to carry a large crew and a generous cargo of loot. An old-fashioned stern castle gave her a benign, even obsolete appearance. Even in her present ballast she could be steered within three points of the wind, and her innocent looks and dash were the perfect attributes to combine in a corsair ship. Yet for all her sprightliness, Yunis could not hope to match the frigate’s towering pyramid of sail—but in light airs, or sailing on a bow line, Yunis was a match for any ship that swam.
As they neared the Bight of Benin the sea became increasingly green and shallow. The charts of the coast were nothing to swear by, and the strain of Curran’s first command coupled with exacting navigational calculations made him a bit more quiet than usual. He had aboard twenty hands from Enterprise, including Padeen and Kanoa, but he also had a hundred freed slaves to care for and twenty prisoners to watch. This made the decks crowded. Nothing hampers a ship like spectators, and the milling about made it difficult to simultaneously work the ship and keep an eye on the prisoners. It had been Nolan’s idea to ask Enterprise for a file of Marines, and they proved invaluable for keeping the prisoners apart from their former captives.
At night, Curran and Nolan slung their hammocks in the xebec’s great cabin. The space would have been called rectangular had it not curved in a pair of smooth, converging lines to the ornately engraved gallery. In the aftermost part of the cabin, a padded locker arched below the five inward-sloping stern lights. The carriages of a pair of 4-pound brass cannon flanked the locker. These were fine, British-made chasers, fitted to Royal Navy carriages. Like the thick Persian carpet under their trucks, the guns were the proceeds of piracy.
Well after midnight, Curran came below to work out a sight and mark the chart. Through the stern windows the wake glowed green, lighting the cabin in a pale, wan light. Nolan was in his hammock and stirred as Curran put away his night glass.
“How goes it?”
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Curran said. He put down a two-candle lantern on the table and opened his notes. “I have a few jottings to make.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” Nolan yawned.
“I never met a man who said he was,” Curran smiled. He unrolled the chart and held it down with the lantern and the case holding his dividers.
“I did a bit of poking around the cabin this afternoon,” Nolan said. “I found some flags in the stern locker, satin and silk. They are very grand and make capital blankets. I put one on your hammock.”
Curran glanced over. The wake and a band of moonlight made the cabin seem lit by a low fireplace. There was a red piece of silk draped across his berth: it was bisected by a wide green stripe, also of silk: the merchant ensign of the Ottoman caliphate.
“Thank you. I have never had such a blanket.”
“Mine is a bit more morbid,” Nolan said. His was also of silk, but deeply black, possibly the darkest thing in the ship. “Am I wrong to think this is some sort of badge of piracy?”
“Some might agree, even among the Muslims. It is one of the flags of the Prophet—the al-Uqab. In western eyes, the black flag was flown by buccaneers and signaled no quarter. For the corsair, that is only a happy coincidence. The black flag is an object of piety. Though I must say it pleases the Arabs that a symbol of their belief should strike terror into the infidel.”
“The infidel?” Nolan considered the word. “Then I reckon I am one of those.”
Curran rubbed his eyes—he did not know what he was. But more pressing, he did not know exactly where he was. Before the clouds covered the moon he had taken sights on Arcturus and Deneb, and had added to them a decent series of lunar altitudes. All of these data had to be ground through the requisite tables, calculated, and plotted onto the nautical chart. Once separated from the mind-boggling cosmic principles, it was a relatively simple twenty-two-step task of transposition and arithmetic calculation.
Nolan watched Curran open the thick volume of celestial tables, flip through a couple of pages, and then close the book on his finger. Curran closed his eyes for a moment.
“I hope you’ll not think I am being presumptuous, but if you’d like, I might be able to help with the calculations.”
“Help me?” Curran asked. “How?”
“This may sound odd, but I can reduce a celestial sight. I am not as versed in the use of a sextant—taking the actual observations—but I can do the calculations and the spherical trigonometry. I can also plot courses and offsets.”
Curran might have been less astounded if Nolan had said he had learned how to make gold out of olive pits. “How did you come by your skill?”
Nolan shrugged. “I learned mathematics as an artilleryman. Though most of it was parabolic and statistical, I found that I had an interest. Aboard Holyoke I became friends with the navigator.”
Curran leaned into the chart table, his weight on his elbows. “You knew Captain Pelles,” he heard himself say. Had he not been so tired Curran would have checked his tongue and not simply blurted what he knew.
“I did,” Nolan answered, “Lieutenant Pelles, he was then. We shared an interest in calculus. Pelles used to call them ‘infinitesimal problems.’ He wrote a paper on them. We talked a lot about infinity. I guess all young men must, and I was interested in the stars. It was not considered proper for me to be seen using a compass or sextant. It might have been interpreted as preparations for an escape, but I learned very well how to use the tables and make calculations. And also to draw and plot a survey chart. When one of the master’s mates was swept overboard at the Horn, I was allowed to check the plots and eventually even reduce them myself. For a while I had my own dividers and parallel rulers, given to me by the wardroom.”
“Poor Mister Pybus has had an ally all along,” Curran said. “He never knew he had help in the computational line.”
“I couldn’t exactly tell the master that I could navigate. He would surely have asked how I learned. In any case, no one asked, and there was no occasion to mention it.”
Curran looked across the desk at the pile of tables and scraps of paper. “It would be a great help to me if you could assist in reducing these plots. I find I have all I can do on deck. I am not at all familiar with this rig. It is . . . ”
“Exotic.”
“I am still almost baffled by the lateen forward.”
“Then I will be happy to help.” Nolan pushed back his covers and dropped out of his hammock. “There is cheese and biscuit for midrats,” he said. “Soft biscuits like the angels eat. Gubbins brought wheat flour aboard and a great wheel of cheddar. If you would care for a bite, I will plot these while you eat.”
Curran did not remember when he last ate. “Midrats would be capital,” he said. Curran stood and offered Nolan his hand. “Thank you. I will go and eat something.”
Nolan returned Curran’s grip and slid behind the chart table. “Don’t thank me yet. We may still bump into Africa, but if we do, it will not be because I have failed you arithmetically.”
Curran did his best to smother a yawn.
“Get some victuals,” Nolan said, taking up a pencil. “You can check my plots when you have eaten. Then it will be dreams wrapped in the banners of the righteous.”
WHEN DAWN BROKE ON THE MORNING OF THE FOURTH DAY, ENTERPRISE WAS hull down in the south-southeast, a white nick in the darkness. Aboard Yunis, Nolan went forward to the elm-tree pump in the bow to wash his face. Thunder had been grumbling and crashing since the middle watch, though not a drop had fallen aboard. The sky in the east was saffron, and widely strewn thunderheads put up oblong towers between the last fading stars. To the west, a silver piece of moon drifted low on the horizon. At sunrise, Nolan usually stood in line to use the pump, but this morning he found himself alone. Ordinarily, a dozen believers crowded between the fore and main masts to pray, but the forecastle was empty.
Nolan sensed a mute restlessness among the Africans on deck; to this were added the shifty, hostile glances of the prisoners, who were gathered in a knot by the foremast chains to starboard. As he shaved, Nolan heard whispering and the distinct clink of metal from the forepeak. There were murmurs in Portuguese, which he understood, and orders given in Arabic, which he did not comprehend. Pulling his shirt over wet skin, Nolan calmly folded his razor into his towel and walked back to the quarterdeck.
Curran was at the taffrail, looking into the wake at the boat towing astern.
“Good morning, Philip,” Curran said.
“It may not be,” Nolan answered quietly. “The slavers are preparing to take back the ship.”
Curran glanced forward. On deck, the freedmen were clustered around the mainmast, but the usual orderly line for breakfast had degenerated into a sullen clutch of bodies. Crowded into the bow were a dozen of Yunis’ former crewmen, the slavers, none of them looking aft, a few of them incongruously wearing cloaks. In the middle was the Syrian merchant, Abdur Rahman; on his head was a voluminous black turban. Curran was suddenly furious with himself; he had underestimated this man completely.
“There are a dozen on deck,” Curran said. “Where are the others?”
Nolan calmly tucked in his shirt. “I noticed that they have gained access to a compartment in the forepeak. I think it may be some sort of hidden armory, or a cache of weapons overlooked in our search. Several have slipped their leg irons.”
The thunderheads rumbled distantly and echoed off the hull. It was just then four bells, the middle of the watch, and the sand turned out of the glass. Curran said to the quartermaster, “Bannon, strike eight bells.”
“Eight, sir?”
“Calmly and deliberately, Bannon.”
Bannon did as he was told, striking twice as many strokes as required, and as Curran expected, half a dozen Enterprises came up from below looking to see what was wrong and who it was on watch that had idiotically mistaken the bell.
Curran’s ominous expression quickly caught the eyes of Padeen and Kanoa. On deck, neither the slavers in the bow nor the freedmen lined up for breakfast had recognized that an alarm had been sounded. Curran watched as Abdur Rahman continued to harangue the men on the bow.
“What gives, sir?” Padeen hissed.
In a conversational tone Curran said, “Mister Nolan has discovered a plot to retake the ship.”
The Irishman looked appalled, but calm, and Kanoa grinned crookedly. “Padeen, please go below and have Corporal Hackman send his Marines to the quarterdeck break. You may serve out pistols and cutlasses to the men below. Gather every man who can fight and put yourself forward of the fireplace. Make a barricade up of hammocks and tables, and do not under any circumstances let the slavers pass aft.” Padeen started away. “And Padeen,” Curran said, “please send Mister Nordhoff to the quarterdeck.”
“Aye, sir.”
Curran turned to the Hawaiian. “Petty Officer Kanoa, do you have your club aboard?”
“How come I wouldn’t?” he replied, smiling.
“You will arm yourself with it and join me at once.”
The skylight opened from the great cabin and Padeen handed up a pair of pistols and cutlasses. Curran armed himself and passed a pistol to Nolan.
“You remember how to use those things?”
Nolan clicked back the pistol’s lock and checked the frizzen. The weapon seemed heavy and alien in his hand. “I might,” he said. Memories came back to Nolan of the duel at Bloody Run. He remembered the bullet that skittered past his ear, and the one that struck down Colonel Bell. The death of his antagonist and his own wounding seemed to be events from a distant age. Padeen handed Nolan a battered hanger and a second pistol; putting them on, Nolan seemed suddenly abashed, almost shy. “I think my fencing might be a bit old-fashioned.”
“Good enough for the likes of them, sir,” said Padeen confidently.
The youngster Nordhoff tromped up the ladder. He’d been told what was afoot and carried in his hand a large cutlass. The weapon dwarfed the boy.
“There you are, Mister Nordhoff. I have a job that requires a brave and discerning hand.”
Nordhoff looked forward. The boy was barely as high as the quarterdeck rail and had to lift his chin to see over it. He was smaller even than Wainwright had been—not a hundred pounds or anywhere close to it. Curran knew that although Nordoff was resolute, the child would be of no use in the man-to-man fighting to come.
“I want you to relieve Stephen Bannon at the conn,” Curran said. “There will soon be a bit of business forward.”
“I know that, sir.” The boy’s words clicked in a dry mouth.
“And I know you are not shy, Mister Nordhoff. But I will need the muscle of Bannon and the others. For us it will have to be all at once, and the first time or never. We still may have some small modicum of surprise, which will make up for our reduced numbers and the confusion on our decks.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. You understand. Take the helm. You will do us a great service to hold the ship steady until such time as the prisoners attempt to fire a volley into us. Then you must jink the helm and upset their plans.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I know you do; now steady up.”
The Marines arrived on deck. Silently and eagerly they fixed their bayonets. It was time. The boy took the tiller under his arm.
“Easy does it,” Curran said. “And watch is the word. When the time comes, we will need an earthquake, Mister Nordhoff.”
Nolan nodded and said, “You will be our Jehovah and smite our enemies.”
The boy tried to smile. “Jehovah it is, sir.” Nolan and Curran went down the ladder and Hackman ordered his men forward.
On deck, the Africans sensed instantly that violence would soon spill over them. Some scurried below or cowered next to the guns, but many others, indeed most of them, surged back toward the quarterdeck. As the foredeck cleared, the assembling slavers made their move. A hatch opened in the forepeak, and a dozen scimitars and matchlock muskets were heaved up into the conspirators’ hands. It was obvious that their plan had been accelerated, for though they now had miquelet rifles, only a few of their matches had been lit. Until they had fire, the corsairs’ rifles were good only as clubs.
Curran and Nolan moved forward, one starboard and one larboard, with the Marines arrayed between them. Nolan drew his cutlass, transferred it to his left hand, and then drew a pistol. Crowded before the foremast were about a dozen sick women and children. They could neither retreat nor advance, so the slavers pushed among them, lifting them by the arms and shoving them in front as shields. Mixed in now thoroughly with women and children, the slavers surged aft.
In front of Nolan there was a general clash, stab, and thrust, but Corporal Hackman yelled repeatedly, “Bayonets, bayonets,” and the Marines held their fire. If the leathernecks would not be provoked, Kanoa showed he could be. Driven to rage, or pretending it flawlessly, the Hawaiian waded through the hostages, shoving them down and swinging the pahoa through the air. He beat down one of the slaver musketmen, and then another. The corsairs parted before the shark teeth on the club, reeling backward and falling. In a short span of time Kanoa had clobbered his way all the way to the foremast, and Nolan had to pull him back before he could be surrounded and cut off.
Passing a match between them, the corsairs could only fire haphazardly, one after another; bullets fired high and wide hissed across the deck, cutting through a pair of lines and punching a hole in the brass lantern atop the binnacle. Pistols answered back, and one or two of the Marines fired when they had clear shots: none of them missed.
Nolan caught sight of a corsair dragging a female captive by her hair. The sight enraged him, and a violent sort of revulsion burst in his breast. He hacked his way toward the woman, beating her assailant back: a quick pass, parry, and then a balestra disarmed the slaver. As the corsair’s scimitar flew away from his hand, Nolan’s blade went home point and shaft, as deep as the guard. Nolan kicked the dead man from his blade and waded deeper into the fight.
Thrust and riposte, slash and stab, Nolan had by now lost control. A blinding, all-consuming fury devoured him. Decades of sorrow and frustration now exploded in a tantrum of lethal violence. The deck was filled with bellowing, struggling men—black, white, and brown—a furious battle fought mostly hand to hand. One of the corsairs jumped upon the hammock nettings and made it to the quarterdeck break. As the slaver lunged for Nordhoff, Nolan turned and fired. The bullet struck the corsair in the back, and Vanhall brought the wounded slaver down with a Bowie knife.
Nolan ducked a slicing cut and tumbled backward, tripped up by a child darting behind his heels. As he fell, Nolan fired a pistol and his attacker disappeared in an opaque jet of smoke. Nolan clambered to his feet as the child scampered away from him, confused and bawling. A scimitar flashed down, and Nolan lifted his cutlass; there was a grating of metal, a shout. The shaft of his sword shattered at the fuller and the pommel was ripped from his hand.
Disarmed, Nolan crabbed backward against the mast. He ducked another cut as a dark form leaped forward—the child’s mother, pouncing like a tiger. Nolan watched as the woman clawed at the corsair’s face with her bare hands. The man looked astonished, and as he threw her off, Nolan put his head down and charged, toppling the corsair onto the main hatch cover. Grappling, they tumbled together, fighting hand over hand for the hilt of the scimitar. The corsair’s strength was astonishing; Nolan could not wrest the sword away, so he quickly latched onto the man’s wrist, holding on and twisting for all he was worth. In an instant, dozens of freed slaves appeared on all sides, shouting, screaming, and armed with whatever had come to hand: belaying pins, sweeps and boat oars, even buckets and swabs. They beat the slaver on every exposed point, but the corsair shrugged off their blows.
Out of the throng, Padeen struck with his cutlass, the blade ripping through the corsair’s open mouth. It went through as far as the jaw joint—an appalling wound—but the big man did not fall. Turning quickly, Nolan kicked out with both feet, toppling the corsair from the hatch cover just as Hackman lowered his shoulder and plunged forward with his bayonet transfixing the slaver to the bulwark.
At the mainmast, Curran’s uniform had made him a conspicuous target; for a long while it was almost impossible to reckon time in such a struggle. Finally he was able to cut across a parry; Curran lunged, his point went home, and the corsair fell. Before he could turn upon his second opponent, Kanoa’s club, in a perfect helix, cut the slaver across the throat and then lay open his abdomen.
By the main hatch Nolan was again on his feet; he armed himself with a corsair’s sword and moved toward the bow. The fight was swirling but beginning to turn. Three and four deep the Marines shoved back at the corsairs, stepping over the bodies of the fallen.
As Curran went forward, he saw that a dozen corsairs were poised in the bows, leveling their weapons and preparing to fire a deadly volley. Previously lacking lit matches, they had only been able to fire at random. Curran’s eyes found Nolan’s. Were the corsairs to succeed in laying down a volley, they would sweep the deck with lead. Nolan turned his head and whistled loudly.
Through the smoke, tumult, and clanging came a high, peeping shout in answer—Nordhoff’s voice cracking with exertion: “Jibe ho!”
The English speakers had a vital instant to prepare for the great heave and pitch. The deck staggered up as Curran and the Marines grabbed shrouds, pintles, and gammons to stay upright. Nordhoff shoved over the tiller and Yunis lurched like an upset cart. The corsairs did not anticipate that the ship would suddenly roll, and half were thrown down. The corsairs in the bow fired, but their bullets went astray. The freedmen fell on them instantly, beating at them with belaying pins and swab handles.
Overhead the sails beat wildly, topsails gone aback, the great lateen banging like a judgment drum. The corsairs tried to re-form, but the Marines aimed and fired their own volley, each shot aimed true. Ten of the slavers went down, and one tumbled over the rail into the sea. The Marines charged, driving the corsairs into a compact mass.
Curran tossed Nolan a loaded pistol, raised his cutlass, and advanced on the leeward rail. “At them!” Curran yelled. “Once and they’re done!”
When Yunis paid off, Nordhoff again jagged the tiller, bringing the ship around on her heel, again making the deck a treachery for the slavers. Their weapons fired to no purpose; they now tumbled together in the bow. As Curran and Nolan led the Marines forward, a guttural noise like the bellowing of a bull came from the main hatchway. Fante lumbered onto the deck through a nimbus of powder smoke. The huge black man appeared even more terrible when it was seen he was dragging the beaten and bleeding Abdur Rahman up the ladder by his hair. Within a minute, Nolan and the Marines had shoved the last of the slavers below, and the fore hatch cover was pushed down. Curran ordered the pumps manned and a hose put into the scuttle. Water soon doused the slavers, and their plans and powder.
In the brawl Fante and Abdur Rahman had been forgotten, and when Curran turned he was appalled to see the Arab being hoisted skyward. Fante had looped the black turban around Abdur Rahman’s neck and was hauling him to up to the yards on a halyard. Kicking and twitching, the Syrian was purple by the time Curran slashed the line. Abdur Rahman fell to the deck in a heap, gasping and choking. Panting, Nolan made no move to stop Fante from exacting his revenge.
Curran stepped between the Mozambican and Abdur Rahman, yelling, “Let him go!” But it was only the threat of a bayonet that restrained Fante from stomping out the man’s heart.
“The son of a dog! Why protect him?” Fante panted.
Curran shouted, “I will decide who gets hanged on this ship.”
Hackman came forward and Abdur Rahman was dragged into the bow. The hatch was pried open and the ringleader thrown into the hole.
“Nail it shut,” Curran said. As corsairs were dragged forward, Curran turned to Nolan and saw that he was bleeding. “You have been cut.”
Nolan put his hand to his arm and was astonished when his fingers came away red with blood. “I hadn’t noticed.” Nolan again touched his fingers to the arm of his shirt. “It is a trifle.”
Curran, looking closely at Nolan, saw that he was gasping and his eyes were wild.
Enterprise had by then come alongside; the gunfire had carried clearly, and Pelles had put about in an instant. The red cutter hooked onto Yunis’ main chains, and twenty Marines swarmed over the rail armed with carbines, pikes, and tomahawks. They were dejected to learn that the fight was over.
From Enterprise, Pelles pointed the speaking trumpet at Yunis: “I gather you are in one piece, Mister Curran?”
“I am, sir. The former owners attempted to take back the ship.”
“Did you hang them?”
“I tried,” Fante bellowed. “This child would not let me.”
“Go below at once,” Curran growled.
Fante opened his mouth, but the look on Curran’s face brooked no disobedience. Scowling, Fante made his way down the companionway, muttering as he went past, “Nancy boys.”
Pelles barked from Enterprise: “Where are the prisoners?”
“They are nailed into the forepeak, sir. About a dozen of them. I don’t think they will be any more trouble.”
“What are the casualties?”
“Fourteen of the slavers are dead, sir. We have a few wounded.”
From Enterprise came Pelles’ disapproving voice: “I hope this has taught you something about keeping prisoners. Now, if you are finished with your little mutiny, we shall continue on to Sierra Leone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have been lucky,” Curran said quietly to Nolan.
Nolan made an absent nod; it occurred to him that he had expected to die, and now felt slightly let down that he had not. Curran went forward to see to the placing of fresh guards and arranged for one of the surgeon’s mates to tend the wounded. Nolan made his way aft and stood on the quarterdeck with Nordhoff, who still clutched the helm under his arm. The boy was unharmed but had somehow been spattered with gore.
Nolan heard himself say: “You did very well, Mister Nordhoff. Just the thing.”
“I thank you, sir. It was nearly run,” the boy swallowed. Then in a half whisper he said, “To tell you honest, Mister Nolan, I was scared to death.”
“To tell you honest, Mister Nordhoff, so was I.”
Nolan felt suddenly exhausted, and although he had said differently, his arm hurt him very much. He walked to the scuttlebutt on deck, dipped the ladle, and drank deeply. When he had had his fill, he sat back against the combing of the main hatch—the same place he had just fought for his life. Oddly, where there had moments ago been rage and tumult, the wind now blew gently. Nolan ripped a strip of linen from his shirt and bound up the gash on his arm, tying the last knot with his teeth.
A hose was played on the bloody decks, and the freedmen helped to throw the bodies of slain corsairs over the side. Around Nolan the victors, white and black and brown, smiled and chattered; the differences that existed between them before had now vanished. They had no language in common, barely half a dozen words, but together they had shared danger; now they laughed and joked and congratulated one another for their bravery and survival.
Sitting apart and alone, Nolan wiped the sweat from his eyes and breathed deeply, his thoughts heavy as clay. This morning, when the slavers came aft, Nolan had given battle with the fury of a wild animal. That violence and his own ferocity now astonished him. He detested the corsairs for the misery they had brought to those they enslaved and for killing Wainwright. But never in his life had he fought with such loathing and hatred.
The fight aboard Enterprise had been different. The technical requirements and standard commands used to direct a naval battery in combat placed ritual between act and execution. A gun was served by almost a dozen men, all of whom played a part in making it ready, laying it in aim, and initiating fire. When the gun fired and the ball went home, all of them shared equally in the moral responsibility of what they had done. Whether a ball had taken out a mast or a round of canister swept enemy riflemen from a top, the gun’s crew, together, shared both glory and guilt. But the fight on the deck of Yunis was different. There were no rituals of command. No teamwork refined by practice. From its opening seconds the fight with the slavers had been a life-and-death affair—a battle that offered only two options: success and life or defeat and death.
When he entered the mêlée, Nolan fought not only to prevent the slavers from taking the ship but also to destroy them. Parry and riposte, cut and thrust, Nolan had taken a full measure of revenge for the death of Wainwright. He had aimed each shot deliberately and placed each cut to do maximum harm. Now, as he watched the dead being cast over the rails, he felt no sense of triumph, only an aching sort of emptiness. He’d expected no quarter nor would he have given any, and now the slain were nothing to him, merely broken and bloody bits of debris. What had made him so callous? Why had he taken pleasure in killing? As he watched the last, bloody, limp corpse splash over the side, Nolan was stirred at last by a nagging sense of conscience—he had watched Fante’s attempt to hang the Syrian with flat apathy. That he could have observed a deliberate act of murder with such indifference now shamed him. How impenetrable was the boundary that separated him from other men? What had he become?
When Nolan at last glanced up he saw a little child standing close to him looking solemnly into his face. For a long moment they stared at each other. There was a sore in one corner of the child’s mouth, and the dark little eyes that looked back at Nolan expressed almost no emotion. There were no thanks in them and certainly no joy, nor was there judgment or reproof. Nolan wondered what horrors the child had already witnessed, what sorrows the eyes had beheld. He reached out his hand, but the child fled, bare feet pattering on the wet deck.
The pain in his arm came again and he stood. Looking over the rail Nolan was amazed to find the sun still low in the left hand of the sky and a sliver of moon perfectly visible in the west. It seemed equally preposterous, but the thunderheads that had crowded around the ship at dawn had suddenly vanished, and likewise the clouds that had stretched to the horizon. Enterprise was just away to larboard, her towering stern rising and falling in the swell. Above the frigate and above Yunis the morning was suddenly blue from rim to rim, quite as if the fight had occurred on some other morning and in some distant age.