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speaking this time for herself.
    "Then I’m--" he began. He gagged, mumbled words she could not hear. ". . . peace," he said clearly and then lay still.
    How long she clung to him Alitha never knew. Her numbness was not broken until the mate lifted her away. Her hand was still laced with her father's, and Malloy had to loosen the fingers one by one. The mate knelt beside the captain.
    "He's dead," he told her.
    "Yes," was all she could say.
    "Go below now, Alitha."
    She drew in her breath, quelling her sobs. "Who are you to tell me what to do?" she demanded.
    "I'm the master now," he said.
    She stood straight and looked him in the eye. "You're mistaken, Mr. Malloy. You are not the master of the Flying Yankee ."
    "If I'm not master, who is?"
    "I am, Mr. Malloy.”
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
    Amos Malloy stared at Alitha, not knowing what to say. He felt the tic begin at the corner of his mouth.
    "The Flying Yankee belonged to father," Alitha said. "Now that he's--" Her voice broke but she went on. "Now that he's dead, the ship is mine."
    "What do you know of sailing a square-rigger? Even if the crew was fit you'd likely run us aground on one of those God-forsaken isles off the California coast."
    "Perhaps I'm not making myself clear, Mr. Malloy. You're quite correct. What do I know of navigation other than the little my father taught me on the voyage around the Horn? I'm not intending to pilot the Yankee . I just don't want you to have any question as to who her master is."
    "And who shall captain the ship?"
    "Why you, Mr. Malloy, of course." She sounded surprised by his question. "You will, won't you?"
    He smiled at the doubt he heard in her voice. Damn her, he thought. Damn women, damn them one and all. A female master! Women had no place on board a ship. He'd said it before and he'd say it again. They brought nothing but trouble in their wake. Once a woman was aboard, bad luck followed. They were Jonahs. From the moment Nehemiah Bradford had escorted his daughter up the gangplank in Boston, the Yankee was a cursed ship.
    "You will captain the Yankee , won't you?" Alitha asked again when Malloy remained silent.
    "And why should I?" he said at last. "This ship is hoodooed, half the crew's dead or dying. Who'll be next? Me? You? There's naught to be gained from captaining a ghost ship."
    "The cholera is the will of God, not a curse," she said. Alitha reached out to put her hand on his arm, stopped, then touched him briefly on the sleeve before drawing her hand quickly away. "You've been my father's first mate all these years," she said. "He trusted you, he taught you all he knew. Now you're the man who must captain the Yankee. You're the only man who can captain her. The entire crew's depending on you, Mr. Malloy. And I'm depending on you."
    "I'll bring the Yankee into Yerbe Buena," he said stiffly, trying to hide the glow her words made him feel. "I only wanted it clear that I'm captain of this ship and my orders are to be obeyed. By the crew and by you. Is that understood, Alitha?"
    She frowned at his familiar use of her name. "Perfectly, Mr. Malloy," she said. The ice in her voice made his anger flare. He gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and looked down into her face. She started to twist away, then appeared to decide to suffer his touch. When he saw the dark shadows under her eyes, Malloy's anger softened.
    "You should rest," he told her, dropping his hand to his side. "You've been up most of the night with the men."
    She nodded, pulling out her handkerchief, then glanced across the deck to her father's body.
    "I'll see the captain's buried as soon as possible," Malloy said, following her gaze. Seeing the tears start in her eyes, he felt a rush of sympathy. She had suffered a great tragedy, losing her mother and father in the span of a year, and now she was alone, with no one to turn to. He wanted to help her, take care of her, tell her he understood her sorrow. He, Amos Malloy, would protect her.