Briggs strains to hear.
It is singing he can hear, singing after a fashion anyway. Light,
compelling and ethereal, coiling through the air like smoke from a
tobacco pipe, and it's getting louder. He feels himself begin to
relax, muscles visibly relaxing as he listens. He snaps back into
full attention when the sounds of a commotion from the deck drowns
the singing out.
“Wait here,” he
tells his wife before going to investigate. Opening his cabin door,
he immediately sees one of the German boys, young Gotlieb, standing
on the edge of the port side, using the main sail to steady himself.
He's reaching forward, trying to grasp something Briggs cannot see
through the evening gloom. Below and behind him, two of the other
Germans grapple with his legs, seemingly trying to pull him back.
“Lass mich gehen,”
Gotlieb cries, “Sie
ruft meinen namen.”
