The sea captain began his tale:
    "Off the Tobago coast we was, where the bottom's so deep only Davy Jones could tell ye what bides there." Most of the saloon's other regulars listened enthralled. One of the exceptions was a hawk-faced man at the bar whose countenance implied he had heard this one before, or a hundred like it. His face stood in sharp contrast to that of the young man beside him, whose cheek was flushed with excitement. At his elbow stood a young woman whose attention wandered every few minutes to the clock on the wall.
    "Strange waters are those," the captain went on, "where the gales will crack your bowsprit before ye've unbent your backstays." He paused to sip his whiskey. "A lovely spring mornin' it was, sea smooth as glass–"
    "No gales, then," the hawk-faced man interjected without looking at him.
    "Eh?" The captain was lost for a moment. "Ah, no, y'see, this was the balmy season." The hawk-faced man showed the ghost of a smile. "We was layin' becalmed," the captain resumed, "prayin' for a breath o' wind, when the ship commences to shiver, then heels over on her beam-ends. To starboard rises a gigantic green prow covered over in scales, with two great flashin' eyes and two long rows o' teeth. 'twas no ship, me buckos. It was the great sea serpent himself, there to bring down the wrath of Saint Anthony on the heads of a hundred worthy seamen."
    "A hundred?" questioned the hawk-faced man.
    "Another instant and he'd be after preyin' on us like a grey reef shark. A southerly'd riz up, but he was takin' it from us. So I gives an order I hopes I may never give again the rest o' me seafarin' days. 'Give him the grog!' says I, and a dozen hands rolls the barrel to the rail and pries it open, with that great snake hangin' over 'em all the while. No sooner does he get a whiff of it than he dips his nose in and commences suckin' it up till he's drained the barrel dry. And afore ye know it he's swayin' like a pendulum"–thus reminded, the young woman consulted the clock again–"and may Himself strike me dead if he don't fall back and float away in utter drunken abandon. The mains'l fills and we're off like a bolt–not referrin' to the present company," he added, with a nod at the young man–"and that is how I lived to tell the tale." He drained his glass. "Which puts me in mind of another time–"
    The young woman pulled at the young man's arm. "I have to see the brides to bed."
    He put her off with a gesture. "Clancey, was that true?" he asked. "About the sea serpent?"
    "Jeremy," said the young woman.
    "Jeremy," said the hawk-faced man, shaking his head.
    Clancey stared at him in surprise. "True?" He rubbed his chin. "I'll tell ye this–it's as true as most of the things ye hear"–he winked at the young woman–"of an evenin' at the alehouse."
    Jeremy's face fell. "So there are no sea monsters?"
    "Now, I won't say as much as that. The sea was the first woman o' God's creation, older'n Eve, and with all a woman's secrets. The wonders I've seen–strange lights, shapes in the night...." He leaned closer. "D'ye know, in these very waters–"
    Unexpectedly a hand clutched his shoulder. "Clancey, enough!" said the hawk-faced man. "We don't want to excite the boy too much."
    The words seemed to carry an unspoken meaning. "Eh?" Clancey said, and then, "Ah, no, Mr. Stempel's right."
    "Time you turned in," said Stempel. Clancey's intended protest sputtered out in a sigh of submission.
    "But he was about to–" Jeremy began.
    "Another night," said Stempel.
    "Yes," said the young woman. "We have to leave, too."
    "But, Candy–"
    "This minute," said Candy, and Jeremy knew he had no choice.
    "See you to your ship," Stempel said to Clancey. By the door, in a voice not quite low enough to avoid their hearing, he added, "You old fool!"
    The rest of the crowd dispersed, and the proprietor made ready to lock up for the night. Her lights were the only ones still burning, not counting those from Stempel's mill at one end and the brides' dormitory at the other. Toward the latter the young couple picked their way, avoiding the craters that lurked in the dark. Jeremy was only half-attending to them, still musing over the last exchange. "Never knew Aaron to care whether Clancey got home safe," he said.
    "Probably afraid he'll fall into a pothole," said his companion, daintily skirting one so big she had remembered it from last time, "and spend the night in the street."
    "He has before," said Jeremy. He paused in his steps as he glimpsed, or fancied he did, a figure slipping between two buildings on the wharf side. It was only visible for a moment, if it had been there at all, and under a moon that had waned almost to nothing he had been unable to make it out in detail, except that it had seemed abnormally small. "Did you see it?" he cried.
    Candy had not, and was of the opinion that Clancey's story had him seeing things. He agreed vocally while keeping to himself a different view. "You wanted it to be true," she said. "And coming from the family you do! Haven't you heard enough tall tales?" She was alluding to his eldest brother Jason, who had been known to stretch the truth at need, while Jeremy, as even she had to admit, was almost pitiably earnest.
    "Sea stories are different," he said as she pushed him on.
    "Mm-hmm," she said slyly. "They're wet!" She fluttered her fingers before his face, shocking it with cold water lifted from the rim of a rain barrel. They were now within the circle of the dormitory lights, and she could safely run for it and he could run after, threatening to get her back, till they reunited on the steps. "Caught you!" he crowed.
    "I let you catch me," she said.
    He regarded her with a kind of wonder. "You did, didn't you?" Both knew they were not only speaking of this evening. "How'd I come to be so lucky?"
    "Well," she said, running her finger along his cheek, "it had something to do with those big blue eyes, that smile–and that glow." Jeremy repeated the word as a question. "Jason has the flash," Candy explained, "Joshua the spark–but you've got the glow."
    "Saint Elmo's fire," said Jeremy. The words came as a surprise to both.
    She laughed. "You're still at sea," she said, not chiding him. She kissed him lightly on the lips. "Let me know when you regain dry land." He returned her good night, a little sheepishly, and they parted, she to tuck in the young women under her care, he to take the long lonely walk back up to the lumber camp he owned with his brothers.
    His destination changed at the foot of the path. He was still lost in his thoughts–half seas over, as it were–when chance turned his eyes to the row of storefronts. He did not at once log what he was seeing there, which was what he had seen before: a figure, little more than a shadow, of a child's height, but moving too heavily somehow for a child. It darted along one building, then across to the next, and so by fits and starts to the mill. Jeremy, sure by now of what his eyes were telling him, followed at a distance.
    Stempel always kept a light burning outside his office. The practice was at odds with his habitual frugality, and Jason had laid it to superstition, but Jeremy saw it had a practical use, for by the ghost light he could clearly see the man he was following. He was about three feet tall and dressed in a suit that was dandyish by Seattle's standard and perfectly tailored to his proportions. From his vest he took a ring of keys and fitted one of them to the door. With its turn the door squeaked open. Skeleton key? Jeremy wondered. Moving as swiftly as he could without being heard, he stole up the steps far enough to peer in.
    The little man lit the lamp, unlocked a side drawer of the desk, and lifted out an oilskin envelope. From this he slid out a paper which he unfolded and held to the light. Jeremy saw that it was a map. The man returned it to the envelope and extinguished the light. Jeremy hopped down and hid against the wall. The man came out envelope in hand. As he paused to lock the door Jeremy debated what to do next. Probably he should find out where the man was bound and who his confederates were. On the other hand, he could easily grab him alone, not so easily a whole gang. But if he could get a look at them–
    Luckily or not, the question was settled when his foot slipped on a rock. The scrape was enough to alert the man to his presence. He ducked under the banister, jumped down, and took off at a run for the harbor. Jeremy took after him. "Stop, thief!" he shouted. There was no one to hear, at any rate no one who came out. The man must have been a prodigious athlete, for although his legs were half as long as Jeremy's he kept up a lead of several yards and negotiated the rutted ground with ease. Nearer the dock, where the ground was smoother, he increased the distance, and where it dipped down at the landing he disappeared altogether.
    Jeremy came up panting. The salt smell penetrated his nostrils. The little man reappeared, and Jeremy saw with amazement he was running onto Clancey's ship. Jeremy reached the gangway in time to see him disappear into the companion hatch. Stepping onto the deck, he felt a momentary conviction that it had sunk under his weight, but knew immediately it was only the ship's normal sway at anchor.
    He ran to the companionway. A dim light showed below. He took the stair in two jumps and rounded it to face the captain's cabin, which was the source of the light, now partly shuttered by the small figure in the entranceway.
    Jeremy ran up behind him. "Gotcha!" he shouted. The little man scrambled away behind Clancey, who Jeremy now saw was sitting at his desk. The man cowered by one of the portholes. Clancey regarded Jeremy with dismay. "He robbed Aaron," said Jeremy. It sounded foolish here.
    The little man looked across to the bunk, where Jeremy became aware of another figure standing–a familiar one, he sensed. "Sorry, Mr. Stempel," the man said. Jeremy's eyes met Stempel's. They were dark and questioning. He had the envelope in his hand. Seeing that Jeremy saw it, he moved to slide it into the inner pocket of his coat, and when it would not fit hid it behind him. "He's the one who spotted me," the man said, unnecessarily. The others stared at Jeremy as if wishing him gone. His embarrassment kept him from noticing how odd their behavior was, to say nothing of their meeting there so late. That oddity he felt as an uncertainty what to say next. If not egotistical, he had at all times an acute awareness of himself and all he did and, especially, said: a holdover from a childhood of unsuccessful struggles to speak as other children spoke, without fear of humiliation. Many girls had drifted to him, drawn by his looks and his soft quietude, and then drifted away once he had dared to speak, or not dared. Now he could do it of course, but when in over his head he still hesitated, and his throat did the same. "You, you, you know him?" he asked.
    Stempel, nearly as uncertain on his side, had Jeremy but known, recovered the composure to normalize the situation, to the extent possible. His first step was to make introductions. "Jeremy Bolt, General Tom Thumb–of the Barnum Circus," he added.
    That was too much for Jeremy to swallow in the circumstances. "And I guess you're P. T. Barnum," he rejoined with heavy irony.
    He was answered at once by a new voice, mellifluous and precise. "That honor, sir, is mine."
     Jeremy turned to the corner between the bunk and the door, where he saw to his surprise a round figure with a round beaming face surmounted with a fringe of brown curls. His black suit and waistcoat set off a stainless white shirt front. He introduced himself more formally, and Stempel did the same for Jeremy. "Bolt!" Barnum exclaimed. "Not–"
    "Brother," Stempel said wearily.
    Barnum rubbed his hands together. "Your sibling is a man after my own heart. A man of imagination, of bold assertion–"
    "Of blarney," Stempel interjected.
    Barnum smiled. "As you say."
    He addressed Jeremy with the evident intention of asking a question. Clearer-eyed than before, Jeremy saw that this would be the first of a battery contrived to lead him away from the one he had been about to ask. He was not to be so easily sidetracked. "What, what are you doing in Seattle?"
    If the question was unwelcome, Barnum did not show it. "Mounting a–" He appeared to consider momentarily. "–hunting expedition."
    "What are you hunting?"
    Barnum stepped closer. "The silkie, young man, the silkie," he said. His voice was wrapped in mystery. "The seal that goes in the shape of a man. You've heard the legend, surely?"
    Jeremy's breath had stopped for a second. "But that's just a story." He looked at the others. "Isn't it?"
    Barnum upraised a finger. "It is a shallow philosophy that says the existence of this or that is contrary to the laws of nature." He pointed toward the envelope. "Produce the documentary evidence." With seeming reluctance, Stempel brought it out and took from it a newspaper cutting, which he handed to Jeremy. Under the headline FABLED BEAST SEEN IN WASHINGTON STATE, it offered the representation of a squat, owl-like body with a seal's tail and a human face. It was less beautiful than Jeremy had imagined, indeed rather grotesque. "Transmogrifying, you see," Barnum explained. A caption disclosed that the original drawing had been brought in by a sailor who had sighted the creature in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which separated Washington from Canada's western islands. Jeremy realized with growing excitement that that was only a day's sail away.
    "If it exists–if," said Barnum, "it will make a magnificent exhibit for the Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, Hippodrome and Circus I am presently at the business of assembling. Like the Seven Ancient Wonders–"
    "Can I come with you?"
    The question came so suddenly it took them by surprise. "No," Stempel said at once. The others were silent. "No!" he repeated.
    Stung, Jeremy appealed to Clancey. "It depends," Clancey said, wriggling a little. "When ye boarded now, which foot did ye set down first?"
    "Left," said Jeremy. "I think."
    Clancey shook his head. "Bad luck. I concurs with Mr. Stempel."
    "Not so hasty," said Barnum. He grasped Jeremy by the shoulder rather hardly. "Now Mr. Bolt has been apprised of our endeavor, it appears to me he must join us." He laid stress on the "must." Jeremy said he would have to ask Jason. Stempel looked even worse pleased than before.
    "You can't," Jason said simply. He was too busy overseeing the work of the camp to give the request much more attention than that. As he strode from cutting to cutting, barking the occasional imperative, Jeremy dogged his heels. "Why not?" he persisted.
    "Look about you. Hundred and fifty thousand board feet due by the first. Got the men workin' day-round, and I need a brother to oversee each crew startin' tonight."
    "Only be for a couple of days."
    "Not a couple of hours." He stopped in a shaded thicket away from the bustle. "Cash is short," he said in a low voice. "Put most of it into the new landing. Yesterday I started issuing scrip on my promise it'll be redeemed before long. If the men are to trust us, you and me and Josh have to be seen to be workin' alongside 'em. Else–well, I don't know." It was a rare possibility that defeated Jason's powers of description. "You see now?"
    Jeremy nodded. Jason kept staring at him till Jeremy met his eyes. He nodded a second time. "It's only–Mama used to–" He stopped. How could he expect Jason, even Jason, to understand what this meant? He dared not betray a hint to his partners, who already regarded him a mere boy. Of all the stories his mother had told, that had been his favorite: the tale of the silkie and the fisherman who captured her, but lost her when the call of her people proved stronger than her love for him.
    Jeremy remembered his mother as very beautiful, and her portrait showed she had been so. And never more beautiful to him than when she played the silkie rising out of the sea, tossing her hair to shake off the foam. She would pick him up and, holding him tight, dive under and jet down, down, down to the bottom, and then up, up, up to the surface. Then they would laugh. Then one day the laughter was gone and the stories were gone and Jeremy was alone, not to the eyes of others but in the place where it mattered most. And now, all these years later, he had a chance–had had, nearly–of finding the silkie again.
    Jason guessed much of what he was thinking. He remembered the silkie, too. "It was only a tale," he said gently. "A fine tale, but–" He thought of something else. "Look here, a scheme hatched by P. T. Barnum–doesn't that give you to wonder?" Jeremy could not help smiling. "Besides," Jason went on, a little too heartily, "how do you hunt a silkie? Can't be done." Jeremy mentioned Stempel's map.
    Jason's jaw fell. "Stempel! Stempel's mixed up in this?"
    "Might belong to Barnum," said Jeremy, on more consideration, "but–"
    "Stempel!" Jason repeated. "De Fuca Strait, you said?"
    "S'pose you're right. Map wouldn't be much use."
    Jason's eyes shone. "Not if it's silkie they're after." He put his arm about Jeremy's shoulder. "You know what, I believe you should go. Josh and I can take over your shift a day or two." He winked at him. "You might find something to your profit, at that."
    Jeremy was astonished, but was not about to give Jason time to change his mind. "I'll tell 'em! Candy, too!" He headed off at a run. He was almost out of earshot before he remembered to look back and thank him.
     Leaving the thicket, Jason met Joshua, whose presence he had not noticed before. He jerked a thumb after Jeremy. "'pears you and I will be doing double duty."
    "Why's he always the favored son?" said Joshua, with a fury that caught Jason by surprise. He did not wait for an answer. It was always something, ever and forever.
    Joshua woke before first light to find Jeremy dressed, with a ditty bag at his side. It was a souvenir of the time he had planned to go to sea. He noticed Joshua watching him. "Wish me–" Joshua rolled away from him. "–luck," he finished hollowly.
     He stepped out into the cool morning and took in the mountain air. He would be depriving himself of it for two days; odd that it should feel like years. He met Jason coming in from his night's work and thanked him again.
     "Only two days, mind," said Jason, loud enough for Joshua to hear. Jeremy slung the bag over his shoulder. "And one word more," Jason said. Jeremy smiled: with Jason it was always one word more. "When a man has dealings with Aaron Stempel, it's always wise to turn up the light. I'd have a good look at that map if I were you."
    Jeremy promised he would. Farther down the hill, he wished he had not. That was odd, too, for he was eager to see the map himself; perhaps he was trying to justify the apprehension he felt. He decided he was only anticipating the seesaw he knew he would soon be riding.
    He felt nonetheless the mariner as he passed through town with his bag on his shoulder. Only the early hour prevented him from whistling a chantey as he went. He lengthened the route by way of the brides' dormitory. As he had hoped, a girl was waiting at an upstairs window to add one more goodbye to those of the evening before. "Come give me a kiss," he whispered.
    "It wouldn't be decent!"
    He grinned. "That's the idea."
    "You!" She waved him off, and then waved him back. "You still won't say where you're going?" He shrugged helplessly. "Then shoo!" She waved him off again, and then back again. "You will take care?"
    He hefted the bag. "Don't I always?"
    She drew her head in and leaned against the papered wall, eyes wide with unspoken fear. "No," she said, and she shivered a little.
    It was after four bells when Jeremy climbed on board. The Sound lay gurgling under a slack tide. A faint halo overtopped the lower hills. He found Stempel awaiting him on the forecastle. "Here's our laggard," said the burly man beside him, who Jeremy soon learned was the new mate, Mr. Frye. He had been hired at the insistence of P. T. Barnum, who had judged the former one too lax.
    "High time," said Stempel.
    About them moved the crew, dispatching what appeared to Jeremy's unpracticed eyes a confusion of tasks. As always, they looked like a different race, with their ruddy faces, thick forearms, and rolling gait, the last accentuated by their wide-bottomed trousers. With clawlike hands they lifted the ropes off their pins and laid them along the deck. Jeremy tripped over one and then, backing away from it, bumped his head on a dangling wood block. Stempel and the mate stared at him.
     Clancey was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the rest of the hunting party. Jeremy had no occasion to ask about them, for Frye fell on him at once. "When the old man says four bells," he said, "four bells is when you're expected. There's sitchyations where five minutes' delay'll cost the ship."
     He returned his attention to the deck and ordered all hands to the windlass. "Don't see what we had to leave in such an all-fired hurry for," Jeremy muttered.
    "It's the 12th," Frye answered, surprising him. "Ill luck to cast off tomorry. Besides, tonight's the dark of the moon. That's what we want."
    "Why?" Jeremy asked. Again Frye heard, but this time chose not to reply. He stopped the second mate, a Mr. Selden, and told him to show Jeremy to his quarters. As they descended the companionway they heard Frye bellow, "Heave, now! Put your backs to it!"
    The emptiness of the lower deck felt a relief from the strenuous activity proceeding above. It was not altogether quiet, for they could hear the tramp of feet at the windlass, the clank of the chains, and the windlass as it began to groan. Jeremy felt the wind that always surprised him here. The portholes were kept open, perhaps to combat the scent he fancied he could still detect from her days as a mule boat. When she was refitted to carry timber and passengers, the stalls had been removed, except for one row where the crew continued to hang their hammocks out of habit.
    The afterguard had their quarters to starboard. Across the way were the passenger cabins. "You'll bunk with the General," said Selden. Not till Jeremy saw the small figure writing at the desk in a compartment shared with the next cabin did he understand who was meant. Laying his bag on the upper bunk, he asked where Barnum was.
    "Mr. Barnum won't be accompanying us," said the General. "He has delegated me to look after his interests."
    "Lubber," Selden opined.
    From above they heard Frye's roar. "Mr. Selden!" With a grin Selden vanished, and Jeremy found himself looking across the cabin opposite, where Clancey was sitting over a chart with a set of parallel rulers, glancing occasionally at what Jeremy judged by its size and folds to be the map from the office. Above, more orders boomed out. "'vast heaving, now!"–and the windlass stopped. "Clear the jib!"–footfalls, and the scrape and slap of line and sail.
    One of those sounds, or an instinct, caused Clancey to lift his head. He took up the map, crushing a hope that had sprouted briefly in Jeremy's breast, and departed for the upper deck. The General made to follow, with a look back at Jeremy that left no doubt he was expected to do the same.
    Clancey was met by Frye. "Cable hove short and ready to weigh anchor, sir," he reported.
    "Weigh anchor, Mr. Frye," came the expected reply.
    "Up anchor!" The men returned to the windlass and pulled hand over hand till the fluke lifted, unseen, and the ship began to move. Jeremy felt the wind stronger at his back.
    Now came another battery of orders, and the sailors labored to carry them out, falling into pace automatically like the parts of some elaborate clock. "Rig the cat! Man the cat! Walk away! Belay, now! And haul taut! Rig the fish! Man the fish! Walk away! Belay, now!" Straining at the tackles, the men hoisted the huge black iron anchor up over the side and secured it to its bed on the gunwale.
    The two largest sails were furled for the moment. They were not a match: Clancey's was a hermaphrodite brig, a designation Barnum relished and repeated as often as possible, but all it meant was that the foresail was fore-and-aft, the mainsail square. Joshua knew more of this than Jeremy, having as a boy noticed the differences in rigging as ships began to visit the harbor in increasing numbers and having pestered the sailors with innumerable questions about them till he had had every one explained to his satisfaction. Jeremy lacked that sort of curiosity. All of it excited him, the whole romance of seagoing; had when he was younger, and did still.
    Now began the real business of setting to sea. "Hoist the jib!" the mate cried. "Haul out spencer!" A pair of triangular sails at and near the fore rose into position. The ship leaned a little. Jeremy could hear the splash of water under her bows as she gained headway. "Anchor's aweigh, sir," Frye informed Clancey, who could not have been unaware of it.
    "Thank you, Mr. Frye," said Clancey. "Prepare to make sail."
    "Aye, aye, sir," said Frye, and then, turning back, "Aloft sail loosers!" At once a team of men hopped onto the ratlines and began scaling them like monkeys, much as the Bolt loggers scaled their trees. Those on the foremast swung themselves with frightening speed around the inverted shrouds at the top, like hill climbers swinging around overhanging rocks. Jeremy could only gape at their lack of fear. "Loose tops'ls!" Frye shouted. "Loose t'gallant!" Men ran onto the upper yardarms and, straddling them, undid the bindings. "Let fall!" The masses of canvas dropped against the masts.
    Without pause, Clancey took over. "Lead along sheets and halyards! Sheet home!" Men ran down the deck carrying the lines. "Hoist away!" They drew the sails full out against the counter-pull of the wind, and then made the lines fast. "Set courses!" Men ran to the last two large sails. The one was lowered, the other hoisted into place, and their sheets belayed. The Seamus O'Flynn was truly underway. "Haul down jib and spencer!" Those sails were lowered, furled, and lashed. Clancey turned to the helmsman beside him on the poop deck. "Set course nor'-nor'west."
    "North by northwest, sir," the man acknowledged. Guided by the binnacle next to him, he brought the wheel a little to starboard. The ship responded in the opposite direction, so gradually Jeremy barely noticed. As the hubbub subsided, his thoughts returned to the map. Clancey had it now; who would have it next? He resolved to keep an eye on it if possible.
    He watched the town slide slowly away, as Candy, at her window, watched the ship retreat up the Sound. Now she understood a little of how it must feel to be a sailor's wife. When Jeremy had gone to bid on the logging contract, it had not worried her like this. Maybe she had been too young. Or maybe–she tried to push away the thought–maybe that time there had been nothing to worry about.
    She downed at a gulp three-fourths of the sarsaparilla Lottie Hatfield placed before her. "Little early for you," Lottie remarked. "You're usually sweeping down the porch about now."
    "Can't work," Candy said dolefully, "can't think, can't anything. Sugar!"
    That was as strong an oath as Lottie had ever known her to utter. "Is it Jeremy?"
    Candy described a dream of the previous night in which he and she had lost each other in a dense fog. "I knew he needed help," she said, "but I didn't know how to find him."
    She heard the doors shut and footsteps behind her. Barnum strolled up beside her and nodded cordially. He ordered what she was having. "Sarsparilla?" Lottie said doubtfully.
    "I have forsworn hard spirits before five o'clock," he said. "A tenet of my creed."
    "Admirable," Lottie pronounced, not without a tinge of wryness. "Bad for business–but still admirable." As Barnum sucked at his drink, he cast his eye over the objects on the walls, appraising them one by one. Candy started to address him and then closed her mouth again. "Ask," Lottie prodded.
    "Eh?" said Barnum, bestowing his attention on her. "Ask what?"
    "Her young man shipped out with Clancey this morning."
    "They're not in any danger, are they?" Candy was surprised at her own breathlessness.
    Barnum patted her sleeve, an act that would have aroused her ire under most circumstances. "Set your mind at rest, my dear," he said. "They're safe as babes in the cradle." The practiced smile she received with gratitude did not work the same spell on Lottie, who met it with one so obviously false a sensitive soul might have suspected an intent to ridicule. Barnum showed no such cognizance. "If I may inquire in return," he said, "does this locale, by fate or design, boast any curiosities deserving of my interest?"
    Brother, Lottie thought. She had heard a lot of smooth talk, but this took the cake. "What kind of curiosities?"
    "Oh, odd flora or fauna, freaks of nature–anything in that line." She was ready to tell him no when, by fate or design, Pilak walked in. To Barnum's eye he certainly qualified as a curiosity, as he would have to anyone who did not know him. He was an Inuit from somewhere up north who had sailed his kayak in one day and never left. That was all Candy was able to tell Barnum in answer to his questions, and indeed there was little else anyone knew.
    "Chopped your wood," Pilak reported. Lottie promised him breakfast would be right up. He nodded to Candy and took a seat in the corner. "Is he–ah–" Barnum asked, tapping his temple. Pilak appeared unaware he was being discussed.
    "He's not crazy," Candy whispered back, "if that's what you mean. He's like a child. Makes his living at odd jobs."
    Barnum studied his dark, immobile face. "I may have one for him." Candy suspected Lottie would not have liked the sound of that. She knew she didn't.
    Barnum's partners meanwhile were cruising at ten knots past Apple Cove. With the sails in trim, the men had been set to mending old ropes and braiding new. Jeremy took advantage of the lull to traverse the vessel from stern to stem. He looked out over the expanse of water on all sides, which looked exactly as it had when he had last checked, a few minutes before. Since the overcast had dissipated the day had turned warm. He remembered too late he ought to have brought a cap. He knew he could look forward to tender red cheeks by the time they got back. The reflections that would work that mischief flashed and glimmered on the rippling sea. He could feel it moving under him, though three decks and a keel lay between.
    He started back down the leeward side; the other, by custom, was the captain's. His walk took him past ropes of assorted thicknesses fanning out at angles between the huge stretches of canvas. Arriving at the quarterdeck, he heard the voices of his fellow conspirators from the opposite side. "All I propose," Stempel was saying, "is to send in a few men to take the lay of the land–"
    "I insist!" Tom shouted, his voice even higher in pitch than usual. "Mr. Barnum was emphatic I be included in the shore party!" Stempel was about to answer when Clancey nudged him. Jeremy had just come into sight around the boat davits. The group ceased conversation at once and regarded him with uneasy looks. The companion hatch beside him offered a quick exit; his instinctive reaction was to take it. "D-don't mind me, I'll just, uh, just–" No one ventured to stop him. As he started down he heard Stempel say, in a voice so low he thought he might have misunderstood, "Don't worry, we won't break ground without you."
    Below, he found himself alone among the scattered squares of sunlight that fell through the hatches. Here the rocking of the vessel was less pronounced, and walking easier. He stopped outside the captain's cabin. Here was an ideal chance to look for the map while the others were arguing above. He did not like to abuse Clancey's trust, yet he had promised Jason. He was working himself up to it, throat pulsing, when footfalls on the companionway startled him. A voice muttered, "Circus people!" He stepped back and hid behind the stair as Stempel walked past to his cabin. Forgetting the low entranceway, he struck his head and cursed. "How'd he fit a hundred women on this scow?" he grumbled. Jeremy almost laughed, but remembered himself in time. He was glad he had when Stempel turned down his blanket to reveal the envelope hidden beneath it. Satisfied, he flipped the fold back.
    Perhaps the sight caused Jeremy to draw an audible breath, or perhaps Stempel happened to look up just then. In any case he spotted Jeremy, and his face assumed a wary cast. Jeremy was now sure Jason had been right in his suspicion, whatever it was.
    Before either man could speak, they were broken in on by a shout from above: "Call out the watch! All hands!" There followed a clatter on the companionway and Selden poking his head in to inform them they were wanted topside. Both were reluctant to move. Jeremy forced himself to keep from looking at the blanket. "You heard him," Stempel said gruffly. He waited till Jeremy started up the stair before proceeding himself. A sudden tilt made both grab the rail.
    Stepping on deck, Jeremy was surprised to feel the wind strike his cheeks from a direction opposite what he had expected. A fifteen-knot northerly was blowing out of the Strait. The sun came and went through tears in the white blanket above. The men were hurrying to take up the lines. Frye's eye fell on the new arrivals. "You two–three," he corrected, noticing Tom behind them, "man the heads'ls."
    Jeremy began to protest he had never sailed anything larger than a skiff. "No excuses, now," said Frye, sweeping them forward. "We're a small crew with no leeway for idlers. Being green hands, I shan't send you aloft–yet," he added, seeing Jeremy's look of alarm as he lifted his eyes to the impossibly high topyards. Frye smiled to himself. "Heads'ls!" he repeated, and then, turning to the more seasoned men, "Lee fore brace!"
    "Sharpen t'gallant and tops'l yards," Stempel said promptly, to Frye's astonishment no less than Jeremy's, "and bring her full and by–am I right?"
    "You've sailed before," said the mate.
    "Three years, merchant marine."
    "That qualifies you for an efficient deckhand. You're in charge of this party. Man sheets and brails."
    "Aye, aye, sir." Jeremy noticed how natural the response sounded. Aaron led him and the General forward, edging around the other men on deck. Jeremy blinked as they came into the wind. Aaron directed him to take up the nearest sheet. Jeremy clutched a fold of canvas. "The rope," said Aaron. This drew a derisive laugh from Tom. Vexed with himself, Jeremy did as directed. Always before on this ship he had been a passenger; now he was a part of it. The respect he felt for Aaron's experience, a determination to prove his worth, and the excitement of the voyage, with the chance it promised of finding what he had never imagined it possible to find, temporarily removed all thought of the map from his head.
    Joshua was feeling less happy over his share. He had risen soon after Jeremy and gone out to manage the cutting before breakfast. By resolving an argument over the amounts of scrip to be issued, which had required him to recalculate the entire schedule, he had succeeded in arriving at the chow table after all the eggs, ham, flapjacks, and biscuits were gone. He would be working into the night, too, through the hours that would have been Jeremy's.
    His head full of discontent, he was not paying as much attention as he should have been: that was the charitable explanation for what happened. A rushed order, a misjudgment as to which of two opposing cuts was deeper, an insufficient consideration of where the big spruce was located–at the crest of the hill overlooking the base camp–these were reckoned to blame when the tree fell on the wrong side, hurtled end over end, and slid down the rest of the way into camp, bringing a dust storm with it. That and the rumble of its approach alerted those in its path to clear aside. One of them was Jason. As the dust cleared, he saw Joshua on the ledge high above studying the scene. A few seconds later he walked away.
    "What in blazes you up to?" Jason demanded, when after some toil he had reached the top and tracked him down. Joshua was back working as though nothing untoward had happened. "You mighta kilt somebody!"
    "Jeremy should be here to keep lookout." Joshua glared at him. "But he isn't, is he?"
    Jason started to raise his hand. What that boy needed– He saw the men watching and thought again. Better to let Joshua reprimand himself, as he would once he came to his senses. "It's each man's duty to look out for all," said Jason, "no matter his grievance." The change in Joshua's eyes showed the message had struck home. Tonight, when he was willing to listen, Jason would explain everything.
    The two of them barely figured in Jeremy's present thoughts. He had heard Clancey warn the mate to look sharp now they were coming up on the Point. Inquiring, Jeremy learned this was Point Wilson. The headsails being hoisted, he was free to stand by and watch the approach. They were sailing close-hauled. As she rounded the headland Clancey backed the foresail, brought the mainsail round, and then sharpened her up again to bring her into the strait. Far to either side lay a range of woody hills.
    The new tack also revealed a turmoil of foam where a stiff westerly from the Pacific fought the northern pull of the ebb tide. Breakers tossed at each other by the currents met and broke and dissolved into the spiraling waters. The only patch of calm lay square in front of the point, too close in to negotiate safely. But Clancey had expected these conditions and immediately gave the order to reef the mainsail.
    The ship plowed through the choppy sea, her prow slamming down on and into the high breaking waves. She rose and fell, rose and fell again, always rolling, as she had done since setting sail, but more steeply now, port to starboard, stem to stern. Standing by the bows, Jeremy got the salt spray full in the face. He did not mind.
    At his side, Selden was hauling in a headsheet. "We're making her, aren't we?" Jeremy shouted over the wind. "We're making the Point?"
    "No fear, lad," said Selden, "we've weathered her a thousand times." His unconcern was a bit disappointing. "We'll harbor at Dungeness before nightfall. And you know what that means." Jeremy did not. "Crab supper!" Selden said with unexpected fervor.
    Splashing across the bear-colored flats after the elusive delicacies, Jeremy felt inclined to doubt the prophecy. They scrabbled this way and that amid the gleams from a myriad small pools and bubbles that caught the light of the low, crab-colored sun. Also, they pinched, as he found out too late. While he sucked his wound Selden demonstrated how to pick one up single-handed and transfer it to a pail. But first he held it up to address it directly. "Won't you be tasty, though," he said, "with lemon, parsley, a dash of capers...?"
    That was what he served that night in Clancey's cabin, where Jeremy was among the invited guests. Selden doubled as cook in the tiny galley. Jeremy asked if that were a second mate's usual duty. "Lost me last cook when he jumped ship in Acapulco," said Clancey. "Mr. Selden took over on the instant–and I've not had cause for regret since." He picked between his teeth with a crab claw.
    After supper they repaired to the deck, where the men relaxed on the forecastle, swapping yarns to the strains of "We'll Go No More a-Rovin'" on a concertina. It gave all the stories a sad cast, and they called for something livelier. This they got in the form of "I'll Go No More a-Roving with You, Fair Maid." The player had recently been disappointed in love, and that no doubt accounted for his choice of airs.
    The ship was moored in mid-channel, a little nearer the south shore. The only sound out to sea was the occasional cry from one of the black long-necked birds that perched and pranced and occasionally wheeled above a cluster of low bare rocks bedaubed with white. On the largest of these stood a hundred-foot granite tower painted in alternating bands of white and black: the Race Rocks light. A mile beyond it, the mist-swathed face of a small island stood out from a wall of cloud.
    Tom and Frye were talking together by the forward ladder. Frye appeared to be undergoing an inquisition. More than once he shook his head firmly. Clancey and Aaron were looking across to the rocks. "This fog will be a godsend," said Aaron. Again Jeremy wondered if he had heard right.
    He joined them at the rail. "What are those?" he asked.
    "Race Rocks," said Aaron.
    Jeremy had known that. "The birds, I meant."
    "Cormorants," said Clancey. "It's where they nest."
    That was all either would say. Plainly they were waiting for him to leave. He obliged them by slipping below. This time their eyes followed him.
    Having missed breakfast, Joshua had also slept through supper. As Jason retired to the tent for what he considered a well-earned rest, a campstool flew past his ear. Joshua was clutching the shin he had just banged against it. "'stead of throwin' things," said Jason, mildly enough in the circumstances, "I'd sooner you got it all off your chest."
    "Would it matter?" Joshua challenged.
    "Might save someone an injury. Me, principally."
    Joshua was silent for a space. Finally he came out with it. "He's not a baby any more, Jason! Time he stopped getting special favors. You wouldn't have let me go. And all on account of some fairy tale Mama told him. Time he grew up and forgot about–" He stopped.
    "Forgot our mother?" Jason said softly.
    "I didn't mean that." Joshua's voice was softer, too, now. But he would not surrender the main point. "He has to shoulder his part of the load. It's only fair."
    Jason sat beside him. "He is, in his way. Just ain't aware of it yet."
    Joshua stared at him. "You're as much of a mystery as these woods, you know that?"
    "I didn't let him go out of sheer softheartedness, or softheadedness. There's a chance–just a chance–he may find a cure for our pecuniary ailment."
    This was the story: Jason had been at the general store the day before to talk Ben Perkins into accepting their scrip. Clancey's mate was there, too. Jason had paid him little mind, but on the way home it struck him that the mate had carried out a set of digging tools, which Ben had special-ordered from Olympia. Still Jason had thought little about it, but together with the secret map, the information that Stempel, who only ever involved himself in any undertaking for one reason, was bankrolling the enterprise–"Does that sound to you," he asked, "like a quest for a mythical beast?"
    As the light dawned over Joshua, it crept up on his younger brother, as well. Jeremy found the envelope where Stempel had secreted it, carried it to the desk, and spread out the map under the lamp. In the little cell with its curving wall, he felt as if he were inside a bowl. He leaned forward to examine the map. It was yellowed, with tears along top and bottom. The legend was in French. The area pictured was obviously the one they had been looking at before. At the top was a large body inscribed "Īle de Vancouver." Below was a smaller body, and further below and a little apart, the rocks. His first impression was that they looked unlike what he had seen of them, but he knew maps often did look odd. His eye was drawn to the smaller island, the northeast end of which was marked with a cross. French notwithstanding, that gave up the secret. "This–this is–"
    "A treasure map," Aaron finished. "Quite so." He was standing at the threshold. The others, including Frye, were with him. Jeremy realized they must have expected this; at any rate Aaron had. "Gathered the Bolts were short of cash," he said, in the ironic drawl he knew got on people's nerves, "but really, I didn't think you'd taken to burglary."
    Besides being embarrassed, Jeremy was outraged he should be the one accused. "You tried to cheat me!"
    "Nobody's cheated anybody. You'll get your fair share of anything we find. We were planning to let you in on it tonight, anyway. Didn't before," he said, anticipating the question, "because we couldn't have the whole town finding out." Meaning Candy, thought Jeremy. He could not contest the logic.
    They repaired to Clancey's cabin, and Aaron set forth their plans. The partners numbered six, counting Frye. The two investors and Clancey, as supplier of transport and labor, would receive double shares. Those of the crew who aided in the digging and carrying would earn what proportion the partners deemed fair. Of their purpose the others would be kept ignorant but in the event of success would each receive a bonus whose explanation he probably would not seek.
    By estimate the treasure might amount to as much as $400,000 in gold eagles. The story of its laying had been famous sixty years before, but the territory had been too unsettled then for many people to come in search of it. Those who had had given up, and were probably now dead.
    It was the lifetime acquisition of Jules Fournier, a Canadian. Pressed into the British army during the War of 1812, he deserted to the United States, where he volunteered his services as a privateer. The calling suited him so well he continued it into peacetime, earning the title of pirate. But as he averred to his death, he never changed allegiances; if by mischance he stopped an American vessel he let her go untouched, and insisted all hands salute the flag as she departed. He and his surviving crew were eventually captured and hanged but as far as was known never revealed where their plunder was hidden. On some island, no doubt; those waters were rife with islands. Bentinck was thought the most likely, and the map proved that out–if it were real.
    Aaron had not believed so at first. The more Barnum strove to persuade him, the tighter he shut his ears. Not till Barnum had vouchsafed the map to his keeping with the urging that he investigate it himself had he begun to consider its authenticity as barely possible. He tried to put it out of his mind, but it kept burrowing its way back in, as Barnum had foreseen, and in the end he was unable to rest till he had made every effort to satisfy himself about it one way or the other.
    He never did satisfy himself fully. Barnum's account of its provenance he rejected out of hand: a vaguely described stranger in a waterfront saloon, whispering a promise of riches. The facts were doubtless more prosaic, but that mattered hardly at all. The paper and ink, he had examined by an expert, who attested they were of a suitable age. In the end he could discover no evidence against it, and calculated the odds to be about sixty-forty that it was the genuine article. That was not the kind of chance he usually sank his money into, but the lure of buried treasure, appealing alike to his well-known avarice and a hidden romantic streak, he finally found irresistible. Two months after Barnum's initial proposal he wired that he was prepared to bear half the costs of the expedition.
    Barnum wired back acceptance at once, but almost queered the deal when he revealed the reason for his haste. Across the Haro Strait, the boundary between the two nations was in dispute. The Americans and the British both had garrisons at opposite ends of San Juan Island, and British men of war were likely to be seen patrolling around Victoria. On the other hand, while their attention was occupied with the possibility of a skirmish, the Seamus O'Flynn might sooner pass unobserved. Also, this would be their last chance to lay claim to the treasure. Although the boundary lay east of where they proposed to dig, Barnum thought till it was settled they might conveniently regard the entire area as up for grabs, whereas afterward the British would surely seize anything they would recover.
    Absorbing all this intelligence, Jeremy was slow to arrive at a disappointing realization. "There's no silkie," he said. "It was one of Barnum's fakes."
    Tom corrected him. "He was investigating that report when he fell across the map."
    "So we may find our gold," Clancey concluded, "and you may yet find your silkie."
    Joshua considered the treasure hunt as much a wild goose chase as the other, and said so. "Worth a shy," said Jason. "Pirates have been known in those waters." That made Joshua rather uneasy, but Jason assured him there was nothing to fear nowadays: the buccaneers of old were dead and buried.
    The trawler Amazon took up her nets and started home. With the advent of dusk a sea fog had rolled in, all but obliterating from sight the Vancouver coast. Off her starboard quarter the southwest end of what they knew to be Bentinck Island reached out from under its cloak of invisibility. Captain Blackett trimmed her two gaff topsails to pull the most out of a fitful quartering wind.
    A cry arose from the starboard side: someone was on the island. The captain came to the rail. On one arm of the shallow bay, on the outermost rock, reclined a small form just visible in the twilight: round face, black body, black tail–tail? "Bear nearer!" Blackett ordered. The man at the wheel said aye, but with strong misgivings; those rocks were perilous. Blackett strained to see better. At once the thing slid off into the water with a splash and was gone.
    "Heave to!" came a cry, in a voice richly accented. The captain searched the fog in vain.
     "Heave to, damn your eyes!"
    The voice was nearer now, and now its owner and his craft emerged to reveal themselves. Blackett's eyes grew round. This was stranger than the vision on the rocks. "About!" he yelled. "Hard a-port!" The men ran to the braces, but before they could act, the thirty-foot sloop was upon them. And the figure at its prow with a boot on the bulwark and a glove on his cutlass grip, to all appearances a phantom from a hundred fifty years gone by, shook his coiling black mane and roared with laughter. Blackett was terrified, and his men with him. But his chief fear was that he had lost his reason.

Part Two

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