but looking pale. Henry was more or less himself, albeit sweatier than normal. Boucher looked like he was on Puckâs heels. And Puck, he looked like death. âWorking sick men like youâre suggesting could kill someone. We need to fix the radio and call for help.â Puck groaned and raised a hand to protest his weakened state. It was the first true sign of life Noah had seen in the man. His hand dropped back into his lap like someone cut the string lifting it.
Brewster glared at Noah with a mix of hostility and cool ill intent. He said, âYouâd know something about getting people killed, wouldnât you, Noah? Being the only person in this room whoâs actually done it.â
Noahâs ears and cheeks went hot with blood, and all the bravado drained from his body. The words hit like a slap in the mouth. He took a step back, looking around the room at the faces of the other men. Jack and Kevin stared down at the table in front of them, leaning away, trying to distance themselves from Noahâs shame. Theoâs eyes grew wide while Henryâs narrowed with contempt. Only Boucher appeared to enjoy the repartee with a sweaty-faced smile. Noah felt perfectly alone, like heâd been left standing on the ice after all and was watching the ship sail away.
âThat wasnât my fault,â he said, not fully believing it.
âIâm sure Connor MacAllisterâs gal will love to hear you explain that to her when we get home. Until then, sit down and shut the fuck up. You donât get a say here.â
The sting of the dead manâs name made Noahâs heart pound, and his mind reeled at the memory of standing at his shipmate and best friendâs funeral, trying to look his girlfriend, Sheila, in the eye and tell her how sorry he was. Sorry heâd shirked his duty, sorry heâd asked Connor to perform a task heâd been ordered to do. He was sorry for a lot of things. Most of all, at that moment, he had been sorry for not being the one in the box they were about to lower into the ground. And not just because of what had happened to Connor.
Noah shook his head, trying to clear away the stress and confusion of the last couple of days. Brewsterâs condescension wasnât anything new. Neither was his outright hostility and contempt. But his openness about it was. Noah had been pushing him, up in the wheelhouse and now, hard, in front of the crew. He knew he shouldnât be surprised when the Old Man pushed back. Noah wasnât master of the ship, William Brewster was. Then again, Noah hadnât been the one to steer them into an arctic hurricane and almost cripple the vessel by overtaxing the engines. He wasnât the one responsible for a broken man lying in a drugged stupor one deck below, and he sure as shit hadnât driven them into the middle of a field of thick âtwo-yearâ sea ice. None of that, however, meant he knew how to get them out of danger. And none of that meant he owned any less responsibility for Connor MacAllisterâs death a year ago.
Breaking the silence that had fallen over the room, Brewster resumed. âHowever we got here, weâre in a bad way, and we canât sit and wait for things to get worse. Iâm the master, and the call to keep going in this shit was mine. I made it, and ⦠it was ⦠it got us here. I am not going to burn out the engines. Even if we did lose one, thatâs why they built this ship with redundant engines. We got no choice but to try.â He looked at Puck, and for a moment, Noah thought he saw the Old Manâs self-assurance crack. âOn the other hand, this is a special circumstance. Iâm not going to ask any of you to put your lives at risk or do anything I wouldnât get down beside you to do. Iâm asking for volunteers. If none of you want to chop ice, then I guess thatâs a vote to focus on the radio and wait for help to come to