On the icy deck, under a pewter sky, the captain and his mate lashed a plain wooden cross to a shrouded corpse. They stood at the rail, sleepless and numb, and tried to pray for the soul of their brother seaman. But they had already buried twenty men at sea in five days’ time, and the words they used to call on God began to seem like a mockery. “Mercy on his soul,” the captain mumbled, and they picked up the corpse and heaved it overboard. Dully, they watched it hit the water, float for a moment in their wake, and sink. “How many are we now?” the captain asked. “Six,” the other replied. But they both knew the four sailors still alive were already sick with the fever. They lay in their hammocks in the stinking space belowdecks, where the air had turned rotten like a charnel house. “I implore you, Captain,” he said, his voice near breaking, “we must turn back. Or at least seek shelter in the nearest port.” “Out of the question,”
