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was starting to look worse and worse … was he going to be punishing me? Was he going to fire me?
    â€œWhen we arrive in Sydney, ya will no longer be employed by this ship as a cook’s assistant an’ cabin boy.”
    I couldn’t believe my ears. He was firing me! I felt like I was going to cry. How would I get back to Newfoundland, and what would I say to my sister, and—
    â€œYou’ll no longer be a cabin boy, because I’m givin’ ya a promotion. Seaman … third class.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    AUGUST 15, 1908
    I LOOKED UP . Every inch of canvas that could be hung from the three masts was bulging in the breeze and we were moving at a tremendous clip—that was good … but dangerous.
    Three days ago we had seen our first iceberg. It wasn’t much more than just a distant shape on the horizon—tiny, hardly noticeable—and then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. As it continued to drift south, we sailed north. The second one was different. It was a mountain of ice that appeared just off the port side. I stood there on the deck, looking up, up, up at the berg, which towered well above the tallest tip of our middle mast. If it hadn’t been so deadly I would have said it was beautiful, a dozen different shades of white and blue, and the way the light played off it was a sight to behold.We tacked well to the side but it was so massive that standingthere on the deck I could feel the change in the air as it cooled down dramatically.
    Since that first sighting the watch had been tripled—two men on the deck and a third up at the top of the tallest mast in the crow’s nest. It seemed like most of the time the man up top was Captain Bartlett himself—sometimes for ten or twelve hours at a stretch. He was up there now. I looked up through the sails. I could just see the outline of the Captain’s head above the barrel.
    â€œHey, Danny!” It was Angus, one of the crew. “Are you still the cook’s assistant or are you a sailor?”
    â€œI’m a little of both,” I answered.
    â€œHopin’ you’d be sayin’ that. Here,” he said, offering me a small canvas sack he was carrying.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked as I took it.
    â€œSupper.”
    â€œBut I’ve already eaten.”
    â€œNot for you … for ’im,” he said, pointing upward.
    For a few seconds I thought he meant God, but then I realized he meant the Captain.
    â€œCap’n Bob ’asn’t eaten yet. Bring it up to ’im.” “Me?”
    â€œUnless you’re ascared of heights,” he said.
    â€œI’m not ascared of nothin’!” I protested.
    â€œGood. Sling the bag over your shoulder an’ climb up the riggin’.”
    â€œNo problem. Nothin’ to it.” Without another word I turned and walked away, leaving Angus—and any worries I might show—behind me. I didn’t want to give anybody any excuse to say anything about me not doing my job.
    Ever since I’d been promoted to sailor, some members of the crew had given me an even harder time. Not all. Most were pretty good, but some had lots of comments—about my age and my size and how I didn’t deserve to be promoted. Funny how the emptiest heads can make the most noise.
    I walked along the deck and over to the rigging that led from the railing up to the crow’s nest. I looked up. Way up. I’d seen crew members moving along the rigging—some scrambled like monkeys—to work the sails. I’d seen it. I’d just never done it. How hard could it be, though? I’d climbed enough trees in my time. Then again, none of those trees were moving. I was suddenly even more grateful for the calm seas.
    I reached up and grabbed the rigging, testing it with my hand—strong, and securely fastened. I looked over the side. The water was rushing by. I grabbed the rigging and swung myself up.
    I took a deep