Unlike Poppinclerk, Captain Cross’s boots were stained and scuffed. His coat was clean but threadbare. His cocked hat sagged atop white hair and a weather-beaten face whose lines indicated he never smiled. He drew up before Rourke. “I’m sending my men over to patch the hull and pump the bilges. Once we get her afloat, you can haul her off the reef.” Hadn’t the man heard John’s report? “You can’t patch that large a hole. My diver said it’s breached from stem to amidships.” The master’s gaze narrowed. “You expect me to take the word of a darkie?” So that was what this came down to. Rourke glanced at John, who had pasted on the blank expression that effectively concealed his feelings before those who refused to see him as a man. John, who had experienced the bitter end of slavery under a cruel owner, showed greater restraint than Rourke would have. Rourke squared his jaw. “I expect you to take the word of my chief mate. I trust this man with my life.” “That’s your mistake,”
