The captain has been at sea for twenty days, going north instead of west, in wild winds, flying light in sleet and snow and a terrific sea, to avoid the Algerian pirates. Two leagues out from the lighthouse called the Tour de Courdoaun, he has been obliged to change course. More than the terrible equinoctial gales, more than the French men-o'-war, more than starvation, he fears the Algerian pirates. He has heard of what they do to their captives: tongues cut off, other parts removed. He knows they prey particularly on American ships, as the American government, unlike the French and the British, has no treaty with them. This is his first command, this sloop, the Diana, a wretched 150- tonner, one mast, wooden latches to the doors, not a bit of brass about it, and the only cargo, the twenty-five cases his French passengers have brought with them. It rolls horribly even in light seas. He can barely stand upright. It is mid-afternoon, but the seas are so high and the swirl of fog so thick, it is impossible to see the bowsprit. The dead-lights have been put up. The captain is used to high seas and fog. He and his first mate come from Newfoundland, that watery and fog-weary place, but he has always feared the sea, has never learned to swim, and has had only a short apprenticeship under Captain Loxley on the Pigow. He has had to order the mainsail furled in this strong wind. Boyd, one of the sailors, has been up the mast to grapple with it. His crew consists only of the first mate, a cabin boy, and three common sailors, since his fourth caught his loose clothing in the rigging and took a terrible fall on leaving Bordeaux, and was lost at sea. The captain doesn't like to think about that, though he dreams of it. He sees the man falling through the twilit air, arms flailing, hands reaching for the rigging. In his dreams the man is somehow keeping himself afloat in the sea. He shouts after the ship that has been his home, fixing his gaze on the lantern at the stern, a speck of light which comes and goes with the waves. Excerpted from Bluebird, or the Invention of Happiness by Sheila Kohler All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.