Prologue

Cape Horn

Looking aft from the quarterdeck rail, Mary Ann Patten saw the helmsman at his post, feet apart to steady himself on the wet and rolling deck. His tanned hands, red with cold, gripped the ship's wheel. He stood alert, watching the sea and the sails for the effects of the wind. A new gust came across the waves, manifesting itself by blowing the frothy foam from the tops of the white capping waves. The helmsman watched the sea to judge the wind's arrival at the ship, where it would whip the straining canvas and deliver yet another surge of seawater across the deck. Just before the gust arrived, he spun the wheel, making a preemptive correction.

Overhead, the masts were mostly bare, with minimum sail out to maintain directional control and provide a hint of forward progress. Still, as the gust hit, the ship gave in and leaned away from the wind, tilting the masts and deck at aberrant angles to the sea. With the wind came the water, in yet another twenty-foot surge. It broke over the bow and port rail in what had long ago ceased being spray and foam and was now the ocean itself, tons of soaking Antarctic water coming on board like an unruly and uninvited guest. It washed over the deck, ready to carry away anything or anyone not secured to the ship.

Mary Patten gripped the rail above the steps leading down to the main deck. The long bowsprit of the clipper ship Neptune's Car reemerged from the smothering wave and rose again toward the cold gray sky, riding up the crest of the swell. The deck cleared as the seawater ran amidships and out the starboard scuppers. Mary saw a man dressed in an oilskin coat leave the foremast rigging and move forward to the bow, where he bent to some task as the ship fell into the next trough. The bow crashed into the oncoming swell. Mary watched the sailor drop to one knee and wrap his arms through the jib rigging, hanging on for his life. A second later he disappeared under the overrunning wave. She anxiously waited—then the ocean subsided to reveal the kneeling form, his pose unchanged.

The water ran away from him across the slanted deck, and he went back to work.

The dim figure in the bow was wet, but so was Mary. So was almost everyone on board. Her dress, once new and pretty, was now fit only for rags, but she saw no benefit in putting on anything else. Like the crewmen working before her, she would only be wet again. And cold. Water swept endlessly over the ship, and the spray of every breaking wave added another layer to the ice coating the lines and rigging, like a candle dipped repeatedly into wax.

The ship rose and fell, straining to beat its way through the frigid sea and endless gales. So far the vessel was holding together, and the crew steadfastly resolved to carry on despite the hardships of the weather.

Mary was trying to do her part. The crew of Neptune's Car was a good one, but they were still only common sailors, many of them foreign at that, and required someone to be their captain. Mary deplored the role. She deplored her situation. She deplored Cape Horn and its weather. She hoped the Pacific would live up to its peaceful name.

She wondered again about their position. There had been no sun or stars for days, and without the light of other worlds she could not know where they were on this one. She felt someone beside her and turned to see the young second mate, his hat pulled low over his eyes, hiding most of his expression. His face was wet, with water trickling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin. His lips were blue with cold, and when he spoke, his words came out stiffly.

"What do you think, ma'am, of coming a couple of points to for a while?"

Mary looked at him. The mate was only twenty-one, just two years older than she, but his time spent at sea had left him with the tanned and weathered skin of a seasoned sailor. His eyes, though, still shined with youthful exuberance. He had proved eager to aid her as she struggled against the misfortunes that had put her on this windswept deck, and she admired his character. He was her link to the crew and to the ship. Without him, the situation would be untenable. She relied upon him and upon his practical knowledge. If he wanted to come into the wind, that was good enough for her.

"Yes, Mr. Hare, let's do that."

The second mate turned to the helmsman and delivered the order. The big wheel spun counterclockwise, and the bow, nearly two hundred feet ahead, turned slightly to face the swells more head-on. On this new heading, the ship was more stable, with less rolling and wallowing. It would also move through the water more slowly, but when the seas were as high as had been experienced for the past few hours, the amount of forward progress on any heading was, at best, debatable.

After a few minutes Neptune's Car settled into her new course and took the swells a little better. There was less rolling now, but the ride was still rough as the bow rode up the face of the swells only to drop more sharply into the following trough. Mary felt better about the ship's ability to withstand the beating it had been taking. Perhaps this latest storm would soon abate and they could resume speed.

Mary sighed. She had been hoping that for days now. She looked at the clouds hanging low and ragged over the ship. There was no sign of a break. The first mate spoke again.

"I can watch things here. Why don't you go below for a while. Tend to the captain."

She wanted to go below. She wanted to go below and not come back up. She wanted to sleep, and she wanted to be dry. She wanted her husband to stand here on the quarterdeck and guide this ship and crew. She wanted many things.

"Yes. Maybe I will." Her words came out in a monotone. "You have the ship, Mr. Hare."

Below deck the still air was damp and chilled. The wind was banished from here—banished, but its effects were still felt and heard. The waves beat against the hull, and the wash ran over the deck boards. The thick timbers and planking creaked and groaned in long wooden moans. Nothing loose stayed in place, and lanterns swayed from their bails.

Mary stepped into the cabin she shared with her husband, steadying herself in the doorway for a moment as the ship rocked through a swell. Then she moved to the side of the bed and knelt upon the floor. She took her husband's hand and held it tightly. He stirred under the blanket and a sound escaped his lips, but for the third day in a row he did not open his eyes. Mary watched him for a while, then slipped off her coat and slid into bed beside him.

How, she wondered, had they gotten into this situation? How had a voyage with her husband the captain, meant to be so sweet and wonderful, turned so fearsome and deadly? She wished she were at home in Boston. She wished she could turn back time to before they had left New York. That July day had been so warm and pleasant, not at all like the wintry gales through which the ship was now struggling.

She rubbed a curious hand over her belly, feeling the faint beginning of a new roundness. Worry filled her mind. Exhaustion pushed away the worry, and she slept.

Excerpted from The Captain's Wife © Copyright 2012 by Douglas Kelley. Reprinted with permission by Dutton. All rights reserved.