Sam, whose job it was to bend the sails to the yardarms, called out in a mocking voice, “Laddies, laddies! Git on yer ’ands and knees and make a cushion fer me wee lassie so’s she kin walk acrosst the deck on yer backs. And if’n yer backs ain’t soft enough fer ’er tender feet, then ye jist bare yer backs an’ ready ’em fer me cat, ’cause a good lashin’ is wot ye’ll git!” Sam’s imitation of Captain Ross’s Scottish brogue met with peals of laughter that quickly turned into sarcastic catcalls. Standing on the bow of the ship, out of sight of the working crew, Nathaniel Greenway pulled a dingy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across the heavy brow of his salt-crusted face. He frowned and lowered the sextant with which he had been measuring the angle of the sun, and he contemplated his options. As a young lad in Liverpool, the thought of traveling the world had been the height of excitement for him. But Nate had passed his thirty-seventh birthday on the coast of Africa, an age most sailing men never lived to see, and he was feeling his age.
