Hell Around the Horn

12. Fighting the Westerlies

The barometer fell steadily and the westerly gales continued to blow. There was nothing to be done but shorten sail and fore-reach south until they got a favorable slant. When any favorable wind shift came, as it must sooner or later, they needed to make as much westing as they could before the westerlies tried to drive them back again. It was neither complicated nor elegant but it was the only way to round the Horn in the winter.

They had already spent forty-four days before being driven back to Staten Island. How many more days would it take to outlast the prevailing winds? Captain Barker stared at the chart as if there was some secret to be revealed, but he knew the only secret was to hang on, to endure at whatever cost.

He grabbed his dreadnought coat from the hook and climbed the ladder to the deck. He took his place to windward. Mr. Rand, the mate on watch, was just forward by the leeward mizzen shrouds, a dark shape across the windswept deck.

By now, Captain Barker was sure that the crew must hate him as the cause of all their misery. He couldn't change that under any circumstances, so at least he would spend every waking hour, when he was not otherwise attending to ship's business, there on deck. If he asked them to face the wind and storms, so would he. The wind and the spray were bitterly cold but he was their equal. Let the crew look aft and curse his name. That was their right as sailors. As long as they did their duty, their opinions were rightly their own.

He glanced over at Mr. Rand. Now there was a puzzle. There was no doubt that the man was a skilled sailor. He knew his job and he did it well when he chose to. He worried that Rand was plotting against him. That was usually the source of mutinies—an officer who turned the crew against the captain. A mutiny always needed a leader who would goad the crew on and then step up to take command. Was Rand that officer? Did he have the nerve and the backbone to try and take over? That was the real question. So far, he had always backed down. Would he continue or would he finally show some courage?

If it came to that, Captain Barker was sure he had Mr. Atkinson on his side and, in all likelihood, the apprentices. Two men and four boys might just be enough, if it came to a head.

He had worried about signing on Tom Atkinson. He was a young man, inexperienced and being his wife's brother might cause complications in the rigid discipline that had to be maintained aboard ship.

Cape Horn could age a man and Mr. Atkinson had learned quickly. If he ever spoke more than a word to Mary, he did so discreetly, which is all one could ask. Mr. Atkinson had turned out to be his strong right arm. He was sure he would make a fine captain when his day came.

It was early in the afternoon watch in the gray half-light of the Southern Ocean. A squall was coming. He could see it in the darkening of the horizon and the steady rising of the wind in the rigging that progressively stepped up by a half an octave or so. Captain Barker looked out to see if any sailors were exposed but saw that the watch was all huddled abaft the fo'c'sle house—as protected as they could be, given the conditions.

When the squall hit, the Lady Rebecca staggered. She rolled deeply to leeward, scooping up tons of water on her broad deck. A wall of water surged aft as she rolled back, sweeping the deck and breaking against the poop. Captain Barker turned his head so that he wouldn't be blinded by the flying spray.

There was a boom like a cannon blast and the main upper topsail exploded into streamers and shredded rags. For a moment they all stood and looked at the naked bolt-ropes and strips of canvas being lashed by the breeze. Then Mr. Rand shouted, "The watch on deck—cast off the sheets and haul bunts and clews." He bounded down the main deck ladder and continued shouting orders until he was at the mast.

Captain Barker watched his back. Now that was the sort of mate that he could use a few more of. And the mate who refused orders and tried to turn the crew against him, he could use one less.

Will sat shoulder to shoulder with his watch mates in the mess room. It was the largest place below deck to spread out canvas, and it was barely sufficient. Pugsley had a roll of 44-pound, 24-inch by 38-foot No. 1 cotton duck canvas that he was cutting into panels for a new topsail. Their spare set of sails was depleted and the westerlies kept reducing sails to tatters.

The more experienced sailors sewed the seams while the apprentices sewed the bolt-ropes to the canvas under the watchful eye of the sail maker. Will wore a sailor's palm on his right hand, a heavy strip of leather that fitted around his hand with a hole for his thumb. A steel grommet was fastened in the palm, which was where Will placed the end of the threaded heavy needle and, with all the force he could muster, pushed the needle through the two layers of canvas and the hemp bolt-rope. He would then yank the needle free and begin another of the countless stitches it would take to anchor the bolt-rope to just one side of the new sail. He was careful to judge the stitch spacing with his thumb so that Pugsley would not make him cut out and the redo the hard-fought stitches.

Will's hands, arms and back ached. His hands were cracked and bloodied from climbing icy rigging, and with every stitch he winced. Still, being belowdecks was better than being in the weather. The packed-in sailors, working around the sail, warmed the mess room with their body heat, and so while it wasn't warm, neither was Will freezing, which was indeed a welcome change.

Harry was sitting across the table, sewing a well-rubbed seam with perfectly symmetrical herringbone stitches. He looked up and said, "This weather, worst I've seen in all my years at sea. And that ogre of a wave. Aach. I tell anybody 'bout that wave, they call me a liar, for sure.”

Frenchie, across the table, laughed. "You are a liar. All sailors are liars.”

Harry smiled. "Maybe so. Maybe so. At least we've missed the ice. So far anyway. An old shipmate of mine sailed on the Florence out of Glasgow. Ever told you this story?”

He paused for a moment and getting no response carried on. "Well, they was homeward bound and got set way south when the fog set in. Couldn't see nothing. The wind was too light to blow it way. So the mate sends the bosun to the fo'c'sle head with the foghorn. An' the bosun starts cranking and horn blows loud and long, then he stops and listens and sure enough way off in the distance, he hears another foghorn. Calls back to the mate that there is a ship out there.

“So he keeps cranking and then listening and the ship seems to be getting closer, and pretty soon everybody can hear the other foghorn. The mate sends a boy down to tell the captain that there is a ship in the fog. The captain sends a message back to call him when it is in sight. Course, with that fog, they might never see him. And the bosun keeps cranking the foghorn and the other foghorn keeps getting closer, till suddenly, the captain rushes up on deck. 'You idiot,' he yells at the mate. 'That's no ship, that's ice.' He orders the wheel hard over.

“Only a few minutes later, what had looked like a solid wall of fog turns out was a solid wall of ice. A bloody ice island, tall as the maintop. The other ship they'd been hearing was the echo of their own bloody horn off the ice." Hanson across the table nodded his head. Ice could do that.

“They'd just begun the turn, but the wind was so light they barely had steerage. The jib-boom crunches into the ice and is torn clean off. The sudden yank on the forestay brings down the fore t'gallantmast too. They get swung around so they are right alongside the ice wall, pretty as you please, just as if they were tied up on the Mersey docks with the gates open at high tide.

“Once they cleared away the mess of rigging, they launched the boats and towed the ship away from the ice. I hear tell that that was a bloody long row. They say that that wall of ice seemed to run on forever. When they finally found clear water, the captain set a course for the Falklands and they limped into Port Stanley. The ship was sprung forward, so they were pumping for their lives the whole way in. The underwriters condemned her right then and there. Not worth the cost of repair.”

“Least not at Port Stanley prices," Frenchie piped in.

“Sure, sure enough. Sold her as a coal barge. Still there, for all I know. They all got a steamer ride home.”

“Wouldn't mind a steamer ride home, myself," Hanson mumbled.

Will just shivered involuntarily and hoped that the Lady Rebecca never sailed that far south.

Fred was two bunks down from Jerry the Greek, who, with his leg crushed, was insensible half the time and moaning in agony the rest. The captain or the carpenter checked in on him every few days for what good they could do. It didn't take long for the smell from his berth to tell the tale. The leg was infected and becoming gangrenous. Everyone knew that odor.

Gronberg took off his cap when he entered the captain's dayroom. Captain Barker looked up from the chart. The light from the lantern above the chart table swung in an arc with the roll of the ship.

“Captain, Jerry the Greek is gonna die unless you do somet'ing right quick.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Well, sir. He's feverish and the leg is stinkin'. If it doesn't come off soon, he a dead man. The gangrene is set in, and it'll spread. I've seen it happen.”

Captain Barker looked down at the chart again for a long moment, before looking back at the carpenter. "Have you ever amputated a leg, Mr. Gronberg?”

The carpenter blanched. "No, sir.”

The captain thought, Well, neither have I, but saw no need to say so.

“All right. Get your sharpest saw. Take it to the cook and have him sterilize it in boiling water. And have him sharpen his best knife. Make sure it is really sharp. Have him sterilize that, too. And get the sail maker. I may need Mr. Pugsley's sewing skills for the stitches. Have him heat up a can of tar on the cook's stove. I'll meet you in the fo'c'sle.”

When the carpenter left, the captain pulled down his copy of the Ship Captain's Medical Guide, to consult the appropriate sections. After reading what little there was, he put the book back and sat, suddenly painfully aware of the motion of the ship as she rolled and pitched in the running seas.

He stood, grabbed his coat, and unlocked a cabinet next to the chart table. He took out a flask of strong rum, which he slipped into his pocket.

Captain Barker was struck by the smell of rotting flesh as soon as he stepped into the fo'c'sle cabin. Gronberg, Pugsley and Jeremiah the cook were waiting for him. Jerry was in his bunk, barely conscious, covered by a blanket.

“Get another lantern over here," Barker said. "I need to see what I am doing." He pulled the blanket back. The sailor's lower left leg was shades of mottled blue, black and green to just above the knee. The stench almost turned his stomach and he wanted nothing more than to turn and run out of the cabin back into the wind. He steadied himself. As captain, he was the only medical officer aboard the ship. This was his duty to perform. He could be sick once it was over.

“I need a pile of blankets to raise up the leg." Pugsley handed him several folded blankets and he reached down and lifted Jerry's thigh and slid them underneath. He looked over at Pugsley, Gronberg and Jeremiah, who were looking back at him expectantly.

“Mr. Pugsley, I'll ask you to secure a tourniquet, right about here," he said, motioning with his hand across Jerry's thigh. "Once I cut away the leg, you'll tie off the large veins and arteries with twine. Any additional bleeding once the tourniquet is released you will cauterize with hot tar. Please strap him down as well as you can.”

Pugsley stepped forward with a length of hemp rope and wrapped it around Jerry's thigh.

“Mr. Gronberg, you will assist me. Please stand by to hand me the saw after I cut the flesh and muscle.

“Jeremiah and you—Fred, isn't it?”

“Aye, sir.”

“You and Jeremiah hold him down the best you can. I want him absolutely still." Barker looked up at the lantern swaying as the ship rolled. "Well, as still as possible, at any rate.

“Jeremiah, the knife." The Jamaican cook handed him a large butcher knife that flashed in the lantern light.

“Did you sharpen it as sharp as you can possibly make it?”

“Yes, sir, Cap'n. That could cut the whiskers of Satan hisself.”

“As long as it cuts flesh cleanly." Barker inspected the blade and then handed it back to the cook. He took the flask of rum from his coat pocket, opened it and handed it to Gronberg.

“If you will do the honors," he said, holding out both hands.

For a moment the carpenter looked confused.

“Pour some rum over my hands.”

“Ah yah, of course, sir." He poured a dollop as Barker rubbed his hands together quickly.

“Now pour some over the knife. Good. That should do. Mr. Pugsley, is the tourniquet ready?”

“Aye, sir.”

Baker took a deep breath. Nothing more to be done but to start cutting. He considered taking a drink of the rum, but thought better of it. He looked at Jerry's face, pale and drawn, and wondered whether the amputation might kill him anyway. He took another deep breath and braced his legs so that he was pressed against the bunk to resist being tossed about by the roll and pitch of the ship as much possible.

“The knife, Jeremiah.”

He worked as quickly as he could, first slicing and peeling back a strip of skin that could be sewn over the stump. As he cut, Jerry cried out but Fred and Jeremiah were at his shoulders pressing him down against the bunk.

“I think he's passed out, sir.”

The captain kept cutting into the leg, slicing through muscle, tendon, arteries and veins, using his full strength until he hit bone and then moving around to slice away beneath the femur until all the muscle was cut and only the white bone remained. The tourniquet reduced the flow of blood from the severed arteries and veins to an ooze.

Captain Barker realized that he had been holding his breath. He exhaled deeply and then inhaled again. "Mr. Gronberg. Splash the saw with rum and hand it to me, if you please." He passed the knife to the carpenter and took the small handsaw.

He sawed as quickly as possible. The femur is the largest bone in the body—he had read that in the medical guide. He would probably have never had thought of it were he not cutting through the unfortunate sailor's leg. His arm was sore when finally he was through and the severed leg dropped on the bunk.

“Mr. Pugsley.”

“Aye, sir." The sail maker held out his hands to be doused in rum, and then stepped forward and deftly began tying off the larger arteries and veins. The flow of blood slowed.

“Jeremiah, get the hot tar from the galley stove and be quick about it." He motioned to the leg. "And someone throw that over the side, please.”

For a moment no one moved. Jeremiah took a step backward. Then Fred snorted, "Get out of my way," grabbed the mangled leg and made for the cabin door, returning a few minutes later, with one fewer limb.

Captain Barker realized that he was drenched in sweat, which began to drip into his eyes. He took a rag from his pocket and wiped his face and hands.

When the cook returned, Pugsley eased the tourniquet and dabbed the bleeding stump with the tar. He then took a rum-soaked needle and thread and sewed the flap of skin over the stump.

“You have a fine hand with a needle, Mr. Pugsley," the captain commented.

“Why, thank you, sir.”

The captain looked at Fred. "Is he still breathing?”

“Yes, sir, he is.”

“Nicely done, sir," Gronberg said.

Barker exhaled deeply. "Thank you all for your assistance. Clean up a bit here. Jeremiah, boil some cloth for dressings. We'll want to bandage him up in a few hours. Then Gronberg, Pugsley and Jeremiah join me in the mess. Perhaps we can find a better use for a tot of rum.”

Fred returned to the fo'c'sle as the captain was turning. "Fred, you are off watch, are you not? Why don't you join us in the mess in a few minutes as well.”

Fred had ventured into the cabin, the realm of officers and apprentices, only twice, once to help pitch an errant stove overboard and once when stitching a new sail. The mess room seemed larger when it wasn't filled with canvas and sewing sailors. When he arrived, the captain was pouring large tots of rum for the carpenter, the sail maker and the cook. Fred gratefully took a glass when offered.

“Well, we should know in a day or two if Jerry is on the mend or not," the captain suggested, apparently trying to make conversation. He remark was greeted with four "Yes, sir's," to which the captain responded with a wan smile and said no more.

“James." They all turned. At the other door to the officer's mess stood Mary Barker. She wore a simple dress and her hair was pulled back from her face. Fred had seen her only at a distance, a figure on the poop deck. Now, up close, he was struck by how pretty she was and also how tired and worn-out she seemed. Just like everyone else aboard the ship.

He wondered what it must be like for her and her children to be stuck in the cabin for weeks on end. As hard as his life as a sailor was, he wondered what that sort of confinement must be like in a small cabin in heavy seas. He searched his memory for a line from Samuel Johnson. "Being on a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned.”

“I'm, sorry, James, I didn't realize that you were entertaining.”

“No need to apologize, dear. Come in and join us.”

“Oh no, I must look a fright.”

“You look wonderful.”

“I should see to the children. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

That evening, Fred couldn't help wonder what sort of man would bring his wife and children to sea, in waters such as these.

At dinner that evening in the mess room, Mary was amazed by her husband's appetite. She thought that the amputation might have lessened his desire to eat. Just hearing about it had lessened hers. Still, he ate the stewed canned beef and potatoes with a will. Her brother, Thomas, was dining with them and ate heartily as well.

“What will the poor sailor do with only one leg? How will he live?" she asked.

James looked up. "Let us first pray that he does live. If the leg gets infected, he may yet die.”

“Oh," Mary replied.

“I think he will pull through," Thomas said. "The captain did a fine job and was ably assisted by Pugsley and Chips.”

“Thank you, Mr. Atkinson," the captain replied. "Only time will tell.”

“Those poor sailors," Mary commented, looking down at her plate. "I hear that some are suffering from frostbite.”

“Unfortunately so," the captain said. "Several are not fit for duty. Too many sailors would rather spend all their pay on drink and debauchery than decent clothing to protect themselves against the weather.”

“The pierhead jumpers are the worst," the second mate added. "They came aboard with the least and are suffering for it.”

“And most are too proud or too bullheaded to take any help," the captain said. "On a past voyage, I recall seeing a sailor at the helm, shivering terribly. His coat was thin and totally unsuitable. I offered him a spare overcoat and was ready to call for a relief at the wheel while he put it on, but he just brushed me off. 'No, sir. No need.'

“You know, my dear, I've sailed half my life and I still find deep-sea sailors to be an odd lot. Some of the best lack any ambition, whatsoever. They spend their money as fast as they can ashore, drinking themselves insensible, then go and find another berth. Their only home is the ship they are on at the moment. They are as fond of routine, as ribbon clerks ashore. They will keep working like plow horses as long as they get their full whack, but don't give them anything but sailor's grub. On the Devonshire Hall, I once sent a whole chicken forward for the crew, only to have it sent back. A surly sailor returned it saying, 'This ain't proper sailor food. All's we wants is our salt junk and Harriet Lane.'”

Harriet Lane had been murdered and dismembered near the docks in London in 1872, and ever since then sailors had called canned meat by her name. An odd sort of immortality.

“Poor Harriet Lane," Mary murmured.