The Dark Canoe by Scott O’Dell

pushed the life buoy, which Caleb called the dark canoe, down the sloping shore. It floated high in the water, now that all the barnacles had been scraped off save those that covered the bottom, on an even keel like the best of the little Nantucket boats. And like a boat we towed it back to the ship and moored it at the stern.
    We would have sailed that hour on the turning tide, with a good breeze at our backs, except that Captain Troll was not on board. He had rowed off soon after I had left the ship, Tom Waite told us, in the direction of Isla Ballena, saying that he would return around midnight.
    At midnight, as I went on watch, he had not returned, nor did he appear at dawn. When noon came and he still was missing, Caleb sent three of us—Judd, Tom Waite, and me—to search for him on Ballena and in the waters nearby.
    We were unable to reach the island because of the heavy current, but close to nightfall, as we were about to give up the search, Tom Waite spotted Troll’s wrecked boat, wedged in a crevice of the rocky headland. Troll we never found, though we went back the next morning, searched once more, and asked Chief Bonsig about him.
    With a thumb and four fingers, the little chief made the sign of a jaw, a shark’s jaw I presumed, then rapidly opened and closed his hand to describe Troll’s fate. My brother’s body I saw again, lying there on the headland. Tom Waite wanted to risk his life to carry it away, but Judd and I persuaded him not to.
    When we reached the ship I found Caleb at once and gave him the news of Troll’s death. He was in his cabin, standing at the high table, the lantern burning overhead and a chart of the coast he made on his previous trip spread out before him.
    Beside the chart lay his ebony protractor, which apparently he had been using to plot the ship’s course southward. I was surprised to see it there for during the whole of the voyage, from Nantucket to Magdalena Bay, it had been hidden from sight. With an embarrassed look, as if I had caught him in the act of pilfering the ship’s funds, he opened a drawer and put it away.
    â€œTroll’s left us,” he said. “’Twas somehow fated. Dost think the Indians will make him a god shouldst they find him floating about? No, unlike our Jeremy, he hath not the shape nor physiognomy for such a lofty role.”
    â€œWe have a problem,” I said. “The ship lacks a captain. Jim Blanton is next in line…”
    â€œBlanton!” Caleb broke in, giving me the impression that he had never heard of the first mate before.
    â€œThe tall, hungry-looking one or the round one of well-fed mien?”
    â€œNeither,” I replied. “Blanton’s bald and wears a beard.”
    â€œI’ve glimpsed him. What thinkest thou, Nathan, wouldst make us a proper captain? Doth he know the ship’s pointed end from the blunt end? Canst scan a sail and read the wind and limn the lurking shoal?”
    I hesitated with my answer, overcome because never before had he asked me a question of importance.
    â€œSpeak up,” Caleb said. “Thou hast seen a goodly part of the watery world. Thou hast seen men stand before their God and lie. Thou hast seen men die ignobly. Thou hast found a wondrous treasure in the sea. Unloose thy tongue, therefore. Thoughts unsaid clutter the mind and do in time make it bilious. What dost think of Blanton? Doth his manly beard conceal a coward?”
    Emboldened, I said, “From what I’ve seen of him Blanton would be a bad choice. He knows the ship but little about navigation. When there was talk of mutiny he and Troll were always the ringleaders. Also, the only man in the crew who likes him is the cook.”
    â€œHow doth Tom Waite strike thee? He seemeth a lively fellow. Perchance too lively, since the good captains I’ve known are more the sober-sided kind, those given to long thoughts.”
    â€œTom’s all right,” I