Superstitious crew members shouted to one another that Poseidon himself must be outraged, perhaps unhappy with the mythological god-influenced outcome between warring ships. Sixty sailors on the Aquarius worked desperately to get the sloop up to windward, but they were losing in a race ahead of the storm and running out of sea room. To come to shore too quickly would be the worst that could happen, for that's where ships wrecked and lives were lost. Smaller, stronger storm canvases strained against the roaring wind, spectral against wicked fingers of lightning. The salty black Atlantic doused the ten guns. It was impossible for the crew to hear their captain's shouted commands, but they all recoiled at a shivering crack that rent through all other sounds and sent despair to the core of their souls.
King was a great swimmer and might survive if the unthinkable happened. But would the well-trained retriever leave his station of guarding an ominous old chest to save himself?