Hell Around the Horn

13. Reaching the Limits

One morning, the wind shifted slightly more northerly and eased just a bit. All hands were called to make sail, and for the first time in a week they set the topsails and t'gallants. For a few hours, at least, the helmsman steered more west than south. By that nightfall, the gales had returned and the wind veered back to where it had been for countless days.

“All right, you lazy bloody farmers. Furl the upper fore t'gansail," Mate Rand bellowed. Fred walked toward the ratlines in the darkness to furl the sail. He once would have run but he was wearing out. They were all wearing out. Behind him was Gabe Isaacson, a merchant's son, another misfit like himself who had no more business going to sea than he did. For that alone, he liked Gabe.

Fred and Gabe climbed the windward ratlines up to the foretop, up the topmast ratlines to the crosstrees and up the t'gallant ratlines to the t'gallant yard. The sheets had been eased and the bunts and clews hauled so that the sail was partially gathered up. Their task now was just to finish the job, to tie the gaskets and properly furl the sail. The wind, however, tossed the sail wildly and Fred and Gabe, who laid out to starboard, doubled over with their stomachs on the yard and their feet jammed in the footropes, reached down to grab the dancing heavy sail, slick with spray and cold and slippery as ice.

Fred would just get two handfuls of sail under control, bunched up under the yard, when a gust would yank it from his grasp. "You motherless son of a bloody whore, come back here," he screamed for no other reason than it felt good.

When he finally got the outer portion of sail bunched up, he fed the gasket, a six-foot-long canvas sail tie, between the yard and the sail and then threw one end forward. If he was lucky the wind would blow it back and he could catch it and tie the sail tightly in a bundle. It took several tries but he finally got the gasket tied.

Gabe was working closer to the mast and was struggling to tie the gasket as well. Fred had moved down the yard to help him when a mighty gust hit the ship. Just at that moment Gabe was reaching down to grab the gasket. The ship rolled and the wind pulled the sail from Gabe's hand. He grabbed for the jackstay on the yard, but missed.

Fred hung on unbelieving as he saw Gabe slip. He didn't fall so much as he was carried away by the wind, like a leaf on an October breeze. He just disappeared into the darkness and was gone. Fred shouted, "Man overboard," though for what reason he wasn't sure. Gabe was beyond their help. There was nothing to be done.

For a long while, all Fred could do was stare at the place on the yard where Gabe had been. Then below him, he heard the mate. "Finish the job. The sail won't furl itself.”

Fred moved down the yard, wrestled the thrashing canvas and tied in the gasket. When he finished, he moved to the mast and helped Donnie and Frenchie, who had laid out to port, roll the bunt of the sail up over the yard and tie it tightly.

Their job done, they climbed down the ratlines to the deck.

The mate was waiting. "Who'd we lose?”

“Gabe," Fred replied.

“Damn shame. A good sailor.”

“That he was.”

With considerable reluctance, Captain Barker opened the Official Log Book. It was nothing like the daily log, where the mates recorded the wind, temperature, daily course and any other thoughts that might be pertinent or be useful. In accordance with the Merchant Shipping Act of 1894, the Official Log Book was the legal document that he would present to the British consul within forty-eight hours of their arrival in Pisagua, Chile, to be reviewed, judged and certified. There was something galling about being judged by a clerk who had never been aboard a ship save alongside a dock, but such was the way of the world.

Like most captains, Barker wrote as little as he could in the Official Log Book. No need to trouble the consul with unnecessary details. Recording deaths, however, was an absolute requirement. Santiago's name was already recorded. Carried away by a monstrous wave. To this he added, Gabriel Isaacson, carried away from the yard, lost overboard. That and the date was the entirety of the record of a life lost. Later, Isaacson's possessions, which probably were few enough, would be sold to the crew, which would be logged as well. All neat and tidy for the consul's review.

There had been no attempt to rescue Isaacson. To launch a boat at night in such seas would be suicide and, in any case, they had no boats. Captain Barker had heard his cries for help from the poop deck, but could do nothing for him, except to murmur a prayer for the Jew's soul.

Barker looked at the crew list. Of the twenty sailors he had signed on, two were lost overboard. Two were crippled. Jerry the Greek might yet live and Whitney was mending, but neither were of any use in working the ship. Five more were not fit for duty with frostbitten fingers or toes.

They had been fighting the westerlies for close to fifty days now and only about half the crew was fit to carry on. Sitting alone in his dayroom, the doubts crept in. How much longer could they take the beating from the Southern Ocean and survive? Were they beaten already? Every year, stout sailing ships simply disappeared in the water south of the Horn. Would the Lady Rebecca's name be added to the list? Was it time to admit that they had lost the fight?

The other choice was to turn and run before the wind, to sail east, the other way around the world. It was the long way, but the wind and the current would be behind them. It would take another 40 days at least, but there would be no more slogging into the relentless westerlies.

There were two reasons not to square away and run before the wind. The contrary winds would not blow forever and they would round up into the Pacific and on to Chile when the westerlies eased. That would probably be weeks faster than turning east. The other real and absolute reason why he wouldn't even consider going east was that that the Lady Rebecca was too low in the water. She still had two feet of water in her hold in addition to 4,000 tons of coal. She just didn't have the freeboard to lift her stern in a following sea. As heavily laden as she was, there was every chance that she would broach to, to be overwhelmed by a wave and rolled on her beam-ends. She had survived one monster wave already. She wasn't likely to survive a broach.

Captain Barker closed the Official Log Book and returned it to the shelf. He looked at the chart and the barometer. There was nothing left to do but carry on. "All we need is a one good slant," he said to himself. "Just one good slant." They weren't beaten yet.

Every sail change was now accompanied by the call, "All hands!" Too few sailors were fit for duty in each watch to hoist and haul, so off watch or on, every one dragged himself from the fo'c's'le, night and day tend the sails. Fred had just slipped off to sleep when he heard the call. He clambered out on deck, grumbling and swearing. The only thing that brought a smile to his face was to hear Harry begin to belt out a shanty. The sound of the deep voice rising above the wind always lifted his spirits. As long as Harry was singing, Fred would fall in and haul with a will.

“Oh, they calls me Hanging Johnny," Harry sang out.

“Oh hang, boys, oh hang boys hang," the crew sang in reply.

“They says I hangs for money," Harry sang.

“Oh hang, boys hang," sang the crew, hauling in time on the brace.

“Now let's hang all mates and skippers.”

Fred sang in full voice to endorse the sentiment. "Oh hang boys, hang.”

With a grin, Harry sang out, "Oh, we'll hang 'em by their flippers.”

“Oh, hang boys hang.”

The line was taut and the Mate Atkinson shouted, "Belay.”

Once they had the line coiled the mate, shouted, "The off-watch is relieved." Fred glanced at the mate and then back at Captain Barker, standing like a statue at the break of the poop, and sang to himself, "Oh, let's hang all mates and skippers." But he was bone tired and hanging the officers felt like too much work. He heard Harry laugh, joking with one of the other watch. Fred wasn't sure how he kept his spirits up but was grateful that the Welshman managed. He seemed to be carrying the entire crew now. Fred sang again softly as he dragged himself back to his bunk, "Oh, hang boys, hang."

“Captain." The captain had come on deck after logging their position and checking the barometer at the change of watch. The weather was unchanged.

“Yes, Mr. Atkinson.”

“Mr. Rand is in his cabin, sir. Says he is too sick to stand his watch.”

“I'll speak to him. Would you mind taking over his watch while I am below?”

“Aye, sir," Atkinson relied.

Captain Barker wondered whether he should fetch his pistols, but decided against it. He went below decks straight to Rand's cabin and pounded on the door.

“Rand, it is your watch.”

“Come in, Captain," came a voice from behind the door.

Captain Barker carefully turned the knob and opened the door. He found the mate lying down on his bunk.

“I'm sorry, Captain, but I can't turn to. I've got a pain in my back that is hurting something horrible. I can't half stand up.”

Barker stood silent for a moment. Was this Mr. Rand's form of personal mutiny or was he really hurt? Or did it matter? If the mate, a licensed officer, swore that he was not fit for duty there was very little a captain could do beyond recording it in the log book. In the old days, a master might adjust a mate's attitude with a belaying pin, but that wasn't his style nor did he suspect that it would be particularly effective.

He took a breath and kept his voice low and even. "What is hurting you, Mr. Rand?”

“Feels like somebody stuck a marlinspike in my upper back. Hurts like hell.”

“May I see your back?”

Rand grimaced as he sat up, pulled off his shirt and turned his back to the captain.

“Hmmp, looks like a pimple to me.”

“I don't know, sir. It hurts like the very devil.”

“All right. If you are not fit for duty, rest in your cabin. Let me know when you recover.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He turned and left the tiny cabin, closing the door behind him, disgusted, but dismissing Rand from his mind. He climbed the ladder to the poop deck and shouted, "Mr. Atkinson! Please ask the senior apprentice to see me in the cabin!”

In a few minutes, Paul Nelson waited at the threshold to the captain's dayroom.

“Come in, young man. Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Paul Nelson looked at him straight in the eye, unlike many shellbacks, who would avert their eyes in the presence of the captain. He was a good-looking young man, with jet-black hair and deep blue eyes. The senior apprentice reminded the captain of himself at nineteen.

“Well, Paul, by the end of this voyage, you will have completed your apprenticeship, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. It is.”

“Mr. Rand has taken ill and I could use an acting third mate. Would you be interested in the position?”

“Why, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Captain Barker smiled. "Don't be so quick to thank me, young man. You'll still be expected to haul and go aloft like any other sailor. You'll be casting off the weather braces rather than hauling on the braces to leeward. Other than that your duties will be the same, with a few more added.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I understand.”

“You are in the mate's watch. Your watch now. How do you get along with that crowd?”

“I've no problem with any of them, but…”

“Yes?”

“Well, sir, I like him fine, but some of the watch are bothered by Jensen. He's not even in our watch but some think he is crazy and bad luck.”

“And what do you think?”

“Well, he may be a bit crazy. He keeps saying that the sea is crushing his soul, and that sort of foolishness.”

“Do you think he is unlucky?”

Paul Nelson shrugged. "He is a good sailor, sir. And lucky or unlucky? I don't know. I'm not superstitious like some of the rest.”

“Does Jensen have problems with his watch mates? Do they work together?”

“Well enough, from all I've seen. Jensen's biggest problem is the cook. He is a poor enough excuse for a cook and he's always talking about gri-gri and the devil. I've told him to put a stopper in it more than once.”

Captain Barker sat back in his chair. "Ah, cooks are a bad bargain in the best of cases. Do you think I should have a word with him?”

“No, Captain. I think we can keep the cook in hand.”

Captain Barker smiled. "Very well, then. Now understand, if Mr. Rand recovers, he will take over his watch. You'll still be acting third. I am sure we can find duties for you to perform.”

Captain Barker stood up and a grinning Paul Nelson jumped to his feet as well. The captain held out his hand, which the young man shook with enthusiasm.

“Very well then, Mr. Nelson. Get back to work.”

“Thank you, Captain Barker. That I shall.”

There was always a few inches of water sloshing about in the apprentice cabin in the half-deck. There were two doors to the half-deck, port and starboard, where the cabin extended out from the break of the poop deck. Opening the door to windward let in a blast of wind and spray. The door to leeward was more sheltered, except when the ship rolled the lee rail down and scooped up a deck-load of water that came crashing back against the break of the poop.

The apprentices had worked out a signal at the change of watch to get the timing of opening the door just right. The apprentices coming off watch would signal those coming on that it was clear to open the half-deck door by stomping on the poop deck above the half-deck. When the apprentices heard the stomp, they knew it was safe to come on deck, in the long trough between the breaking waves.

Will was about to go on watch. He put the letter that he was writing to his mother away in his sea chest. The chest was tied with marline to the mess bench to keep it out of the water sloshing around on deck. The half-deck had bunks for twelve, but, as there were only four apprentices aboard, their sea chests on the benches didn't get in anyone's way.

He heard a thud on the deck above him and he pushed open the lee door, but hadn't taken a step out before a wall of water knocked him back, head over heels. He crashed into Jack Pickering, who was just behind him, and bounced over the table and benches until he hit the back cabin bulkhead with a crash.

“Son of a bitch." They were both thrashing about in the icy water. Will pulled himself up. Nothing seemed to be broken or too badly bruised. George Black ran in through the door.

“Are you all right?”

“What happened?" Will demanded. "Why did you stamp all clear when a wave was right on us?”

“I didn't," George replied, lending a hand to pull Jack up to his feet. "The ship rolled and I slipped and fell on my ass. That must have been what you heard.”

“Useless bastard could have gotten us killed," Jack grumbled.

Before anything else could be said, they heard Mr. Atkinson calling for them. "Apprentices turn to!”

Will and Jack trudged out onto the deck and clambered up to windward before the next wave hit. The mate sent them up the mainmast to shake out a reef in the upper topsail.

When the watch was finally over, Will was tempted to give George Black a taste of his own medicine, but thought better of it. He stomped on the poop deck during the lull, and then ran down the ladder and got the door shut behind him before the next wave.

In the guttering lamplight, Will saw that his chest had broken free from the lashings and was on its side, open, in the sloshing water. He might have knocked it down himself when the wave washed over him. He grabbed it by the handles and drained it. All the letters he had written were a sodden mass. His other clothes were soaking wet and his blue linen jacket with the fine brass buttons was ruined. The buttons had started to turn a sickly green and the fabric was wrinkled and discolored.

For reasons he didn't fully understand, he began to sob and then to cry, holding the jacket that he had once worn so proudly. It all seemed so long ago, a lifetime at least, or more like a silly dream that wasn't real, that had never really been real. The wind howled just beyond the cabin bulkheads and he heard the next wave hit the half-deck door like a hammer blow. The past was a pretty dream and the present was only exhaustion and pain that never seemed to end.

He folded the blue jacket and put it in the bottom of the chest. He hung his spare trousers and shirt up on a bulkhead peg, to let them dry out at least a little, though encrusted in salt, they would never really dry. He took the letters and his notebook and shook them gently. He put the notebook on top of the blue jacket and smoothed the letters out as best he could on the bench and then put them away as well. With a roll of marline, he lashed the chest back on the bench before crawling into his bunk, hoping that he would feel better with a few hours of sleep.

“Captain, a ship on the horizon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Atkinson, I'll be up presently.”

When the captain came on deck, Atkinson pointed toward a shadow that rose and then disappeared in the seas off to the southwest.

“Not carrying any sail from what I can see. Seems to be lying a-hull." The ship drifted sideways to the seas. Waves in succession broke over the deck, which seemed perpetually awash. The strange ship rolled wildly, her bare mates and tattered sails scribing arcs against the sky.

Captain Barker squinted out through the incessant spray. Mr. Atkinson was right. Definitely a ship. What sort of madman would lie a-hull in seas such as these, he wondered. In a bit, with his binoculars, he could see that the ship had a reefed spanker set. The aftermost sail helped to hold her bow closer toward the wind.

They were on a crossing course, or near enough to one. The Lady Rebecca was fore-reaching on a starboard tack and the unknown ship was on the port tack, drifting toward them.

They hadn't seen another ship since they left Staten Island. Word spread among the crew and soon everyone able, on watch and off, was on deck trying to catch a glimpse of the strange ship. Slowly the distance between the two ships diminished until finally the Lady Rebecca crossed the strange ship's bow. Captain Barker could read her name, Clan William.

There were several blown-out topsails fluttering from the bolt-ropes still bound to the yards. The fore royal mast was shattered and hanging by the halyard, caught in the t'gallant shrouds. Other than that, there did not seem to be anything too terribly wrong with her. Yet, she appeared to be abandoned. Not a soul could be seen. No one was on deck and her boats were gone.

“Mr. Atkinson, would you be so kind as to get the Very pistol and two flares from my dayroom?”

When the mate returned, Captain Barker chambered a flare, took aim and fired. The flare passed in a high arc directly above the Clan William. He took the second flare and aimed slightly lower so that this time, the flare almost hit the ship. He stared at the empty deck, looking for any sign of life, but saw none. Abandonment was the only explanation. But why?

For a fleeting instant Captain Barker thought of her value as salvage. He chuckled bitterly to himself. All he needed was a few spare crew and sound boats, the two things he unquestionably lacked. Maybe some other captain would be luckier.

On deck, Jeremiah the cook started praying loudly in a language that Fred couldn't decipher. Harry shouted over to him, "Aw, shut your gob.”

Jeremiah glared. "Can't you see? That's the debil's own ship. The Flying Dutchman come to take our souls to the watery hell. You can mock all ye want but the debil'll hear you an' maybe come getcha. You mark my words.”

Harry only laughed. "She looks abandoned to me. No Dutchman sails without a crew.”

They all watched the derelict ship drifting off astern until the waves seemed to swallow her up.

“She be the debil's ship. Mark my words. The debil come. That Jonah man, he . . .”

Harry strode over to the ranting cook and knocked him down with the back of his hand.

“For the last time, shut your damned trap.”

Jeremiah hoisted himself up, glaring at Harry but not saying a word. Only when Harry rounded the cookhouse on the way back to the fo'c'sle did the cook mumble to himself, "You mark my words.”

When the squall struck, Fred was soundly asleep. His body reacted before his mind to the call for all hands. He rolled from his bunk and stumbled out the cabin door into the pitch black darkness. A shape that he took for Jack was just ahead of him and just above the wail of the wind, he heard Harry's voice behind him, saying something to Donnie.

Fred had only taken a step or two on the deck before he heard a voice cry out. He turned to see the breaking wave, the boiling white crest just visible in the night. Along with Jack, he dove for the leeward lifeline, hitting the heavy line with his chest, knocking the wind from him. He grasped desperately for the line with both hands as the icy water tried to wash him over the side. As the breaker passed, the ship rolled down and scooped up a deck-load of water to leeward. Fred gasped for air as the surging green water rushed aft, submerging him again, trying to pull him off the lifeline that he held onto with all his might.

When at last Fred got to his feet, still holding tightly to the lifeline, he saw Jack and Donnie, but Harry was gone.

Mr. Atkinson appeared at the door, his oilskins dripping on the cabin sole. It was past three in the morning but the lamp still burned and Captain Barker stood at the chart table.

“Captain, we have an injured man. He was caught by a breaking wave. Struck his head on the poop deck ladder. ”

Captain Barker grabbed his coat. "Who is he?”

“It's Harry, sir.”

Captain Barker stopped for a moment. Why Harry? Harry was the best sailor on the ship. He never complained, worked hard and did his job, and his shanties kept the others hauling along as well. Why did it have to be Harry, of all men?

“Is he hurt badly?" Barker almost didn't need to ask the question from the look on Atkinson's face.

“Yes, sir. I think so.”

Barker followed the second mate to the messroom where Harry was laid out on the table. Paul Nelson, the apprentice Will and Fred were standing next to him.

Harry was bleeding from his scalp. His breath was shallow. The captain examined his head carefully. "His skull seems to be crushed. See how it is indented near the gash?”

The second mate looked over his shoulder. "Is there anything we can do?”

“Pray, perhaps." Captain Barker closed eyes. He didn't know of anything else to do. The old ship surgeons used trephination to relieve the swelling but that was beyond his skills or tools.

“All we can do is wait and see," the captain said. "If he survives the swelling he may be all right. If not … Well, we shall just have to wait and see. Put him in the spare cabin.”

Harry survived a week before breathing his last. Pugsley sewed him into a sailcloth shroud and weighted the feet with several links of heavy chain. In the second dogwatch, the crew assembled for a burial at sea. They clustered at the poop deck rail as Captain Barker read from the Book of Common Prayer over the white bundle that had been their shipmate, resting on a grating.

“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased.”

Captain Barker looked up from the prayer book. "Harry was a good sailor and a fine shipmate. No higher praise can be said of any man. Join me in prayer.

“Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name." At first there was only Captain Barker's voice carried on the bitter winds. "Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven." Progressively mumbles and murmurs grew as the men said the prayer themselves. "Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; But deliver us from evil." Every man aboard joined in on the last word. "Amen.”

Barker nodded. Atkinson and Jensen lifted the inboard end of the grating and the body slipped into the sea. Jensen looked down and said, "Goodbye, shantyman." Fred looked down at the rolling water. Harry's body left no mark. He was simply gone.

Captain Barker put the prayer book into his jacket pocket and turned to Mr. Atkinson. "I believe that we could use a reef in the upper main t'gansail.”

“Aye, sir. Reef the upper main t'gansail.”

The moment of mourning was lost in the familiar rhythm of heavy labor, but this time, at least, the hauling was done without a song. They worked in silence in the memory of the shantyman.

At dinner that evening Fred went to pick up the mess pot and bread barge from the cook. Jeremiah was scowling.

“I tole ye. That man Harry mocked the debil and the debil came up and got him. I tole ye true.”

Fred exploded. He reached out and grabbed the cook's collar. "Shut your mouth, you foul son of a bitch. Don't you ever speak of Harry again or I'll take your knives and slice you up into your own stew pot, not that anyone but the sharks would eat your worthless stinkin' hide. Do you understand me, you worthless bastard? I am sick to death of both your hoodoo and your rotten cooking.”

Fred could feel the blood in his face and he realized that he was close to lifting the cook off his feet with his hands on his collar. "Do you understand me?" he repeated.

“Yes, suh," was the cook's only reply.

Fred let go of his collar, grabbed the mess post and bread barge and went back to the cabin.

The next day, Fred stood huddled with Frenchie and Donnie at the break of the poop deck. There was nothing to do but wait for the end of the watch. As Captain Barker's infernal rules said they had to stay on deck regardless, they hunched down behind the canvas weather cloth for what little protection it offered.

Fred was tired, worn out, used up. His muscles ached. He was always hungry, often thirsty. Salt sores on his wrists, ankles, elbows and knees tormented his every move. But he kept on because there was no other choice. His body seemed to move by rote, more by habit than thought.

All he could do now was watch the long and endless rollers, the mountainous white-crested waves that slammed into the ship, lifting them, rolling them, sending green water breaking across the decks and leaving a rime of sparkling ice clinging to the rigging and the house front.

Fred finally understood a saying what he had heard in a Liverpool pub years before. An old sailor had said, over too many pints of porter, "There ain't no law below 40 south latitude. Below 50 south, there's no God.”

He had acknowledged it intellectually, but now he knew its truth in every atom of his being. It coursed in his bloodstream and had seeped into his bones, tendons and muscles. Looking out over the Southern Ocean with the bitter westerly wind screaming in his face, it was obvious. There was no room for God on this ocean. The westerlies would blow him away or the crashing waves would have crushed him and pulled him under.

God might live in the chapel at Yale, where the swell of the organ and raised voices filled the chamber with sublime song. It was easy to feel the hand of a God there, warm and dry beneath the glow of stained glass.

There just might be a place for God even in the sailors' chapel on the East River by Water Street. The floating chapel, built onto a barge so that it was even closer to the ships than the brothels, bars or the boardinghouses. Beyond the hectoring sermons, in the rough singing of the psalms by men just off deep-sea ships, there was a sort of peace that felt almost, if distantly, divine.

South of the Horn, there was only the howling wind. Organs, hymns and psalm singing had no business here. They would not survive the gales.

One ship might make a fast passage around the Horn, while another, equally sound and strong, could be crushed and disappear in the icy depths. It was all as one. They were not in a struggle with an evil sea, nor would they be saved by its benevolence. That was all for the poets on shore, who never ventured closer to the ocean than the sand of the beach, who spun their fancies into poems to amuse patrons drinking brandy sitting beside a warm and glowing fire.

Fred finally understood the true horror of this place. The monstrous waves and the howling wind were neither cruel nor kind. There was no good or evil in the Southern Ocean. It was far, far worse than that. The wind, the sea and the sky were simply and completely indifferent. Nothing mattered. Ships and men—their hopes, dreams, fears and aspirations—were of no consequence whatsoever. They mattered less than the flotsam or the foam.

In the distance, he saw the great swooping flight of an albatross, rising up above the swells and then dropping down into the shelter of the troughs. Some sailors said that albatross were the hosts to the souls of lost sailors, so it was unlucky to kill one. Other sailors scoffed, catching and killing the birds to make tobacco pouches from their leathery feet. Were those the souls of friends out there, carelessly wheeling in the wild westerly wind? That seemed too much like the stories his mother once told him at night, soothing tales that helped him sleep but meant nothing in the light of day. And if his shipmates were not carried aloft on the albatross wings, where were they? The heaven or hell of the chapels? Davy Jones' Locker or Fiddler's Green? Or were they just carried along in the icy waters? Food for fish and crabs.

He realized that he could have slipped from the rigging just as easily as Gabe, or been swept overboard like Santiago or had his head stove in like poor Harry. It didn't matter how good a sailor he was, how educated or how ignorant, how virtuous or how craven. The wind and the sea didn't care. There was no God to pray to below 50 south latitude. No God at all.

Second Mate Atkinson appeared from below and shouted, "That'll do the watch.”

Fred, Frenchie and Donnie trudged down the ladder to the main deck and worked their way along the weather safety line to the fo'c'sle.

Fred knew that Mr. Rand was sick and not fit for duty, so he was surprised to see him in the fo'c'sle, sitting on a sea chest by the bogie stove, talking quietly with some of the crew. The day before, Fred thought that he had seen him heading for the other cabin as well. It was hard to tell. Fred had been furling a sail when he saw the shadow moving across the deck below, indistinct in the spray in the near dark.

Fred didn't care to listen to what was being said. His one and only concern was to rest when he could, eat what little there was to eat and to turn to when his watch rolled around. All the same, it bothered him that a mate would invade the fo'c'sle, which was sailors' territory. The mate had no business being there, and if he was strong enough to make it forward he should be on duty, like the rest of them. Fred threw himself fully clothed in his oilskins into his bunk and slipped gratefully into a dreamless sleep. In four hours, if he was lucky and no one called "All Hands," his watch would start all over again, in the endless cycle of what seemed an endless voyage.