Spooner Briggs sits in
his cabin, his fingers drumming impatiently at the maps and charts
spread on the table before him. His wife Sarah sits opposite, toying
carefully with some fine needlepoint.
“Calm yourself
Benjamin,” she scolds, “'Lest you wake the child.”
“I'd gladly endure
her crying,” he replies, “If I thought it would waken the winds.”
He stills his hand nonetheless, knowing his wife to be right: the
last thing he wants is his daughter's plaintive cries filling his
cabin.
“Four days,” he
complains, “Four days and not a single puff.”
“Complaining,” she
replies, “Never helped to mend a...”
“Hush
woman,” he cuts her short as something untoward catches his ear.
“Is that... singing... I can hear?”
