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Gillander looked up at Monk. “Weather’s rising again. We can’t get two ships back in this.”
Monk was praying over and over in his mind: Please God, we can get one back! He spoke to Scuff. “Make that as good as you need to so we can get back on the other ship. Do the finishing bits afterward.”
“I know,” Scuff said quietly. “It’s fine. We’ll be ready.” He turned for an instant and gave Monk a beautiful smile.
Monk was choked with gratitude. He felt the tears prick in his eyes as he went through the galley and the outer cabin and up the steps to the deck.
The wind was high, whipping spray up onto the deck, the whitecaps racing past. Gillander was right. They could not save both ships. With no one at the helm, two dead men on board, and one lost in the sea, the Spindrift would founder in the storm and go down, all hands lost.
But Aaron Clive had been lost for a long time, perhaps since Zachary had died.
Five minutes later, Gillander helped Miriam up onto the deck of the Spindrift, then over the side to the Summer Wind. She was pale, but quite composed. Scuff had stitched her wound and there was barely any new blood on the bandage.
They unlashed the ropes and pulled the grapples back. With sail half-raised, they let the sea pull them apart.
Miriam went below, and Scuff came back up on deck to take the wheel as Monk and Gillander raised a short, tight mainsail. They turned the ship back into the storm, heading westward and home, unaware of anything except a deep abiding victory within.
