The Dark Canoe by Scott O’Dell Page A

said.
    â€œWouldst trust thy life to him and the life of the crew and the ship’s life?”
    As I thought about his question, my eyes fell upon the chart spread out on the table. The straight line of the course he was plotting when I entered the cabin showed clear.
    â€œWhat say, Nathan? Dost thou wish to summon Tom Waite?”
    We looked at each other across the width of the cabin.
    There was no doubt at all that his question was sincere. If I had agreed upon Tom Waite as our new captain, he would have summoned him that instant, of this I am certain. But it was not the right choice and I did not make it. I took from the drawer the protractor, which Caleb had hidden, and placed it on the table beside the chart he had been working with only a few minutes before.
    â€œCaptain Clegg,” I said, “what are your orders?”
    My words sounded dramatic, overly so I suppose, for I felt embarrassed as I spoke them, and Caleb, tugging at his beard, looked away. He picked up the big white cat and put it down, walked slowly to the porthole, and gazed out.
    â€œHave the men on deck at once,” he said, in a voice that now had a different sound to me. “And stir thy stumps about it. We waste precious time whilst thou stand there gawking.”

22
    In high spirits I ran forward along the deck to give Caleb’s orders to our first mate, Mr. Blanton. He was not at the bow where I had seen him earlier or below, but I found him at last on the quarterdeck. He stood at the wheel, idly moving it back and forth, his feet squared and his cap set at a jaunty angle.
    â€œCaptain Clegg,” I said, “has given the order to sail.”
    I spoke twice before he heard me, so lost was he in his own thoughts. For a moment his hands tightened on the wheel. Then they dropped to his sides and hung there, two great fists with which he had been known to drive a nail into a hard pine plank.
    I was tempted to explain to him why he had not been chosen as our new captain, but watching the menacing, knotty fists that hung at his side, decided not to. “Caleb Clegg once was captain,” I said, “and is again.”
    â€œHe has no right,” Blanton said. “He’s got no captain’s papers.”
    â€œHe will have them when he reaches Nantucket,” I replied.
    â€œHe’s crazy to boot,” Blanton said.
    â€œAbout some things,” I answered, “but not about sailing a ship.”
    Blanton thrust his fists behind him. I felt that he was weighing the possibilities of mutiny, going over them step by step in his slow mind, balancing the rewards against the consequences.
    â€œWe are more than a thousand leagues from home,” I said. “We need an experienced captain. Without one, none of us is safe—neither us nor the ambergris.”
    It was the mention of the ambergris, the casks that were worth more than twenty thousand dollars, that I think brought him to his senses. As he thrust his fists into his pockets, I started for the ladderway.
    â€œAsk your brother about the thing,” he said surlily, “the thing that’s hanging to our stern. Shall I cut it loose or hoist it?”
    I was minded to tell Blanton to put the life buoy on deck, but not being sure what my brother intended to do with it, I said nothing and departed.
    Caleb was bent over the table with a chart spread out before him, the ebony protractor in his hand. He had taken the lantern down from its hook and it sat on a pile of books beside him, casting a strong light across the table. I saw at a glance that it was not the chart of the Pacific Coast which lay in front of him, which he had been working on before, but a new chart, one of the broad Pacific and the islands of the southern seas. Truthfully, I must say that at the moment, at the sight of it lying there, my blood ran cold.
    â€œHast given the order?” Caleb said, not looking up.
    My answer must have come forth in a mumble, for he asked