“Here! We are here!”

“It’s the lifeboat,” said the captain, aiming the searchlight toward the voices. “There, at two o’clock!”

“I see it,” said the helmsman, at once adjusting course. He throttled up, guiding the bow through drifts of burning fuel. As they drew closer, Trott could hear the joyous shouts of the survivors, a confusing babble of Italian. How many in the boat? he wondered, straining to see through the murk. Five. Perhaps six. He could almost count them now, their arms waving in the searchlight’s beam, their heads bobbing in every direction. They were thrilled to be alive. To be in sight of rescue.

“Looks like most of the Havelaar’s crew,” said the captain.

“We’ll need all hands up here.”

The captain turned and barked out the order. Seconds later the Cosima’s crew had assembled on deck. As the bow knifed across the remaining expanse of water, the men stood in silence near the bow rail, all eyes focused on the lifeboat just ahead.

By the searchlight’s glare Trott could now make out the number of survivors: six. He knew the Max Havelaar had sailed from Naples with a crew of eight. Were there two still in the water?

He turned and glanced toward the distant silhouette of shore. With luck and endurance, a man could swim that distance.

The lifeboat was adrift off their starboard side.

Trott shouted, “This is the Cosima! Identify yourselves!”

“Max Havelaar!” shouted one of the men in the lifeboat.

“Is this your entire crew?”

“Two are dead!”

“You’re certain?”

“The engine, she explodes! One man, he is trapped below.”