June 1830
Five days upon the high seas had scrubbed the worst of grief from The Rescuer's timbers. Rain had threatened that morning, but had easily let up with a mild shower. Now the ship cut through the water cleanly.
Brand stood astride at the helm, hands clasped behind his back, feet planted wide against the roll of the ship, eyes on the dark cloud hovering yet in the distance.
Behind him, Stephen and Lawrence stood over the many parchments on the low table, arguing and agreeing as best they could.
"It may not be a total loss," Stephen said, brows furrowed. "Not if the insurers prove reasonable. We can save the manifests, and have Gibraltar's magistrate incline to hear us."
"Would they?"
"They ought to be kind."
Lawrence scoffed. "Kindness and generosity are not the same."
"No," Stephen evenly agreed, "but it may yet prove a helper. We will survive this. Mainecroft shipping has weathered worse."
