It was fall of 1892 and we were two days out of Las Palmas in the Canaries. All the passengers we ferried out of the Congo were gone, off to the aerodrome or looking for other passage to Europe, and we were just Red again and there was no reason I should feel this way. We escaped from the Congo, we got away. Better than got away. We had our cargo, and money. We won, even though they lost. They all lost everything, even their lives. The deck was surging under me and the wind was at my back as I stood in the worn spots, staring forward at the binnacle, checking her heading. She tossed, stretched out before me. 154 feet, riding low, the rising sea breaking over her bow, all blue in the morning light. I could feel the pull of the wind whistling in her rigging, her sails taught. I inspected them with a critical eye. We’d have to pull in the gaffs before she hits, I thought, but it could wait for breakfast. I loved that wet, cold wind, washing away the world.