They saw land.
At the end of the blizzard and the waves, it was like a lonely knot sewn wrong between the folds of cloth, making one think of the stitches it might be connected to.
An island.
At sea, that was more or less equivalent to a raised seabed, reefs growing in clusters, and perhaps shoals and sheltered waters.
"Boss, should we head over?" The second mate came closer, voicing the question everyone cared about most.
The ship was slowly turning right with the changing waves. At this rate, they would sweep past the island along an arc, watching helplessly as it slid from the front-left to directly left, then finally to the rear-left.
If they wanted to try approaching, they had to start preparing now, because the current would not allow him to force a left turn and put the ship broadside to the waves.
The proper course was to risk unfurling part of the sails and let the wind slowly push the ship left. By this awkward method, while keeping the bow angled away from the island, they could bring their route as close as possible.
If they were lucky, the sea conditions near the island might be different, and they might find somewhere to drop anchor.
If they were unlucky, or failed to get close enough, once they missed it, there would be no turning back.
The second mate looked expectantly at the only man who could decide their course. The old sailor had already gripped the sail-rope winch, waiting only for a word.
William pressed his lips together.
His eyes, blurred by snowmelt, narrowed. He straightened his arm, raised his thumb, and lined it up against the silhouette's right edge.
To be honest, he did not expect to measure it accurately. He merely wanted to