"Did they hear it?"
"They should have, First Mate." The sailor licked his lips. The freezing horn had just peeled away a layer of dry skin, and the sensation was like being bitten by cast bronze.
He looked at the first mate's face, stiffer than frozen meat, and suddenly thought of something. In a mischievous tone highly effective at making fists harder, he seemed to "realize" something offhandedly:
"Oh, no, that's wrong. I should call you captain now. Hey, Captain Oliver—what a great title. How does it feel?"
Oliver clenched fists harder than frozen rock. In the past, he would have taken some time to help this fellow properly recall where the first mate's authority came from.
But not now.
Now he was the Iceberg's acting captain, and a steady captain would not literally get into a brawl with the sailors.
He stood beside the helm, his hands far from the ropes that had once been most familiar to him, yet still unable to find a suitable place for them on the wheel.
The twelve polished wooden handles were either too slick or too rough. Not one fit his hand. It was as though they had grown accustomed to their old master's sure grip and could not tolerate even the slightest difference in palm lines.
Every first mate had imagined what it would be like to take the helm. They knew the routes, understood the winds, and could even recite the water depths of ports in different seasons. At least eighty percent of them believed they knew no less than the captain did.
But his appointment had not come step by step. Overnight, because of William's sudden whim to buy a ship, the key to the captain's cabin had been tossed into his hand as casually as assigning an ordinary