In his right hand Guillermo carried a silver flask filled with brandy. His mother had given it to him before he left Bilbao for the New World. On the outward voyage he’d left the brandy untouched, hoping to savor it upon homecoming. Two years later, he was as close to home as he was likely to get, nearing the Azorean Islands. The flask felt warm and greasy in his hand; the brandy burned his throat. He was grateful for the pain because it reminded him he was alive. Juan, eyes closed, face gray, stood at the ship’s wheel.

Guillermo again descended below decks, where everything smelled of sickness. At the captain’s door, he listened at the keyhole. Two times before he’d tried, and failed, to coax the captain to leave the cabin. Now he heard a soft rustling from inside the cabin and a low sigh. He knocked on the door. The sounds stopped.

"Captain?"

Silence.

"I have some brandy I’d like to share with you."

There was no answer, just the creak of the ship as it rolled with the swell.

After a few moments Guillermo made his way to the galley. As he entered, the ship rolled to one side and back again. A container of olive oil fell from a high shelf, careened across the floor, and bounced off a cask of spoiled water. It was water that had sickened the crew. He reached for rum and ship’s biscuit and took them to Juan.

Juan drank the rum in one long gulp and then motioned to Guillermo to take the wheel. "Keep an eye on the swells," he said. "It won’t take much to sink us."

The wheel tugged against Guillermo’s unpracticed grip. "The captain’s still alive."

"And useless," Juan said. He bit into the biscuit and swore. Reaching into his mouth, he jiggled his hand and pulled out a blackened molar. He threw the tooth and the biscuit across the deck. "Rum will do."

Guillermo held out the flask. "Brandy?"

"No, gracias."

The haze was lifting, and weak sunshine glanced off the sea. A school of mackerel, belly-up, floated past the ship. A few minutes later a turtle swam by.

"We’re drifting away from the eruption," Juan said.

"Then we’re out of the worst of it?"

Juan spat blood on the deck and laughed. "The worst of it! This is the worst of it, God help us—drifting at sea on a ghost ship!"

"It’s a punishment."

"For what?"

Guillermo frowned. "You know."

"They were heathens."