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cracking violence that turned day into near night. Captain Ortiz stayed at his post for the first two days, eating by the wheel and shouting commands through his horn. He played his ship in the storm as a musician does his instrument, riding the tempo of the waves, gauging every movement and pause, and taking advantage of any weakness in the winds to better his position. Hanging on for life, the able-bodied seamen went into the upper rigging to reef sails and tighten lines. Cargo was lashed down in the holds, and the horses were blindfolded to keep them in place in the event of panic. Casca stayed on the upper decks, not wanting to be below if the ship was driven under.
    The main sails were being ripped into shreds and had to be retied to keep them from being torn completely away. A cry from aloft was barely audible over the scream of the wind through the humming lines. The seaman's body was ripped from the rigging to fly with the winds, bouncing off the center mast, until his spine cracked. The body was blown away with a sheet of torn sail to be lost in the froth-driven waters of the Atlantic. Ortiz screamed for another man to take his place in the swaying, rain-lashed heights above the ship.
    "You, hombre!" He pointed his horn at the lower deck. "Get aloft and help secure those sails!"
    Holding on to a stanchion, a diminutive figure tried to keep from being thrown over the side. It was to him that Ortiz had made his command. Juan de Castro turned his eyes to the swaying, dizzying heights of the storm-lashed upper mast. His stomach started to turn in on itself at the thought of climbing up those thin, wet, slippery lines. The winds were beginning to shift, trying to turn the caravel sideways where the deep, green-black waters could wash over her sides. Ortiz lashed at the helmsman, straining against the wheel with two ordinary seamen helping to control the rudder under his direction. The ship slipped sideways and rolled as de Castro grasped wet lines to begin hauling his thin body up into the rigging. He was barely able to get his feet on the ropes and hold on, much less climb. A hand grasped his leg, jerking him back to the deck. Its eyes nearly blinded by the beating rains, a square face looked down at him.
    "Stay here. If you go up, you'll just get yourself killed and someone else will have to go anyway."
    De Castro would have protested, but the man already was clambering up into the lines. With practiced hands and feet, the climber balanced himself against the movement of the ship. Ortiz watched the exchange but couldn't move to do anything about it. The man, now high in the yards, was not one of those who were working their way across. He was a paying passenger and had no right to interfere with his lawful orders as commander of this vessel. If the smaller man had died, it would have mattered little, for that was part of his bargain. If one signed on as a seaman, it was not unreasonable to expect that person to perform the duties of one, no matter what the risk, for that was in the hands of God.
    Hanging on to the spars, Casca had a vision of being blown off the rigging to be lost in the heaving seas beneath him. He cursed himself for being a fool and giving in to a whim of the moment. Beside him, in the same condition, were others of the crew, their feet resting on swaying lines beneath the spars. They bent over and hauled the heavy, wet sails back up to tie them down again. Fingers bled from the wet lines as flesh peeled off the palms of hands and fingers. Faces blinded by the winds and rain, they worked for over an hour to get the last of the sails properly secured. Only then could they come down. If they failed to perform their task, it would not be a much worse fate to let the winds and seas have them rather than face the wrath of the ship's master and his lash.
    Taking his time, arms and legs trembling from the strain, Casca began the climb back down to the deck. No sooner had his feet touched down than the second