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Updated: May 3, 2025
"The Blessed Virgin aise you, poor Mouse!" he mumbled huskily and slouched out through the door. At midday the San Gardo's captain got a shot at the sun. Though his vessel had been headed steadily northeast for more than thirty hours, the observation showed that she had made twenty-eight miles sternway to the southwest.
Far off the starboard bow floated a thin line of smoke from a tug's funnel, the first sign to the crew since the hurricane that the world was not swept clean of ships. Two hours later the tug was standing by, her captain hailing the San Gardo through a megaphone. "Run in to New Orleans!" he shouted. "I cleared for Galveston, and I'm going there," the San Gardo's captain called back.
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