Hell Around the Horn

14. Rumors of Mutiny

Mr. Rand turned to on the poop deck at the start of the morning watch. He appeared haggard but stood ramrod straight when he presented himself to the captain.

“So, Mr. Rand, are you fit for duty? Have your aches and pains subsided?”

“I am fit as I am likely to be, Captain. My back still hurts like the very devil, but laying up hasn't made it any better, so I figures that getting back to work might take my mind off the pain.”

The captain looked him up and down for a moment. "Very well. Paul Nelsen has been appointed acting third mate. He is in your watch. Utilize his services as you see fit.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Mr. Rand climbed down the poop deck ladder to the main deck. Captain Barker could hear him bellow even above the wind. "Starboard watch. On deck with you.”

The next evening, the barometer began to drop. For weeks it had been hovering between 27.50 and 28 inches of mercury but now it fell to 27.3, lower than Captain Barker had ever seen it in his years at sea. The falling barometer foretold an increase in the wind, but if the reading could be trusted they would soon face a hurricane's blast. He ducked down and unscrewed the inspection cap on the barometer to make sure that the chamois bag that contained the mercury wasn't leaking. It was fine and tight. After all the storms and gales, now the wind would really blow.

When he came on deck, Barker found that the wind had indeed strengthened. The ship was having a bad time of it. Looking forward, through darkness in the blinding spray, he wondered how long the fore course would last before being ripped to shreds in the wind. He shouted to Mr. Rand, "The fore course.”

Rand nodded and bellowed above the wind, "All hands, all hands! Haul up the foresail!”

Both watches scrambled across the heaving deck, slipping in the rolling water and howling darkness to find the clew garnets and buntlines. Atkinson and Donnie were sent to the fo'c'sle head to tend the tack and Fred and Frenchie stood by the capstan to slack off the sheet.

On the mate's signal Fred and Frenchie slacked off a couple of fathoms on the sheet. The surging of the wire cable against the capstan drum reverberated through the deck. The mate shouted to each watch. They could only just hear him over the wind, but knew what to do. The starboard watch hauled away on the weather clew garnet and the port on the weather buntlines. Fred and Frenchie kept slacking the sheet as Atkinson and Donnie eased the tack.

With the wind howling at seventy knots and the sail and lines strained to almost breaking, the fores'l was hauled up to the yard in good order. No wild out-of-control canvas or snarled lines.

“Now get up there and furl it," Rand bellowed.

Barker shook his head. It was as pretty a piece of sail handling as Captain Barker could recall. He had to give that much to Mr. Rand. He was a consummate seaman. Barker wondered if he would ever fathom the various sides of his mate.

Over the next week, the westerly winds continued to howl, yet the Lady Rebecca was making slow but steady progress in her westing all the same. The crew, however, seemed different. They were either reaching the limits of their endurance or something else had happened. Their glances aft at the poop deck seemed more hostile. Captain Barker sensed an anger building in the exhausted sailors.

On one hand, he was afraid that he was beginning to imagine things. The burden on him was as great as that on the crew. All the days and nights looking for the slightest shift in the wind, the countless hours in the icy cold wind and spray, were taking their toll on him as well. He kept pushing back his own doubts and uncertainties until his resolve had hardened to steel, yet now he was afraid of letting it blind him to something that he didn't quite grasp.

At the end of the second dogwatch, Mr. Atkinson stood outside the captain's dayroom.

“Sir, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

“Come in. Have a seat.”

Thomas Atkinson sat down and took off his cap. He looked considerably older than he had when they set off from Cardiff. Perhaps it was just the constant windburn that had darkened his face and deepened the lines around his eyes. Or perhaps it was the burden of command settling on the young man's shoulders.

“Sir, I have been hearing a rumor. I don't usually bother myself with such things but I've heard it more than once. Crew seems to believe it.”

“All right," Captain Barker replied, "What is it?”

“The rumor is that we buried Harry . . . alive.”

Captain Barker sat back, stunned. "But that makes no sense. How could anyone believe such a thing?”

Atkinson shrugged. "I agree. It is crazy talk. Why would they believe it? I think everyone is just so worn out that they might believe anything that someone told them.”

“And who might have told them something so outrageous?”

Atkinson shook his head. "I couldn't say, sir.”

“But you do have suspicions, do you not?”

The second mate paused for a moment before answering. "I would rather not say, sir.”

“Consider where your loyalties lie. With your shipmates or the ship?”

Mr. Atkinson sat silent for another moment. "I think Rand is spreading the story. He still thinks that we should square away and run back east. I have heard him say as much when I passed by the fo'c'sle.”

It was the captain's turn to be silent. Earlier in the voyage he would have exploded in rage. That seemed a very long time ago. Now, he was merely thoughtful, calculating.

“Go get some rest, Mr. Atkinson. And thank you for your candor. I'll take matters from here.”

Captain Barker waited until the first dogwatch the next day so as not to disturb anyone's rest. He called all able hands to the mess room, where he stood at the far end of the table. The ship's log lay open before him. His pistols were on his belt but he wore his coat to cover them. He wanted them close by, just in case, but would rather not be too provocative. As the men filed in, they lined the far bulkheads. They all looked thin and haggard, as weather-worn as the old ship herself. There was silence as the captain looked at his crew and the crew, their captain.

Then Captain Barker spoke. "What's the nonsense I hear about Harry being buried alive? That is a serious charge and a damnable lie. Who believes it to be true?”

The only response was silence.

He turned to the sail maker and the carpenter. "Mr. Pugsley, you sewed Harry into the shroud. What say you?”

Pugsley took off his hat. "He was dead, sir. No doubt about it.”

“Mr. Gronberg, you assisted in the burial.”

“Ya, he was gone. Dead and gone.”

“So who believes that we buried Harry alive? Speak up now, damn you," the captain said, raising his voice more than he intended.

Jensen shook his head. "We are all used up, cap'n. We're all so tired. Gets easy to believe anything you hear.”

The captain looked around the room. "And who told you this damnable lie?”

There was silence. Some sailors stared straight ahead. Some averted their gaze.

“Who told you that Harry was buried alive?" the captain demanded. "I will have an answer!”

Fred looked around the mess room. No one was willing to speak. But who were they protecting? Standing fast for another shipmate was one thing. Protecting an officer was something else entirely.

“First time I heard it, it was from Mr. Rand," Fred replied.

“Rand?" the captain roared. "Where is Mr. Rand? Where is the mate? ”

Will spoke up. "Believe he is in his cabin, sir.”

“Get him, now," the captain growled.

The apprentice hurried off.

The captain opened the logbook. "I will not have the charge stand that we buried a shipmate alive. I've entered into the logbook that Harry died of an accident and was buried in accordance with the practices of the sea and all pertinent regulations. I want every man to step forward and enter his name or mark in the log that he witnessed this and knows it to be true. I will not tolerate such monstrous lies on my ship. Now step up, each and every one of you.”

The sailors shuffled forward, one by one, without a word, and signed or marked the logbook. Then they fell back where they had been.

When they were all finished, Captain Barker demanded, "And has he been telling you any more lies?" His question was again met with silence. "What has Mr. Rand been telling you?”

Jensen finally spoke up. "He told us that if we all told you to square away, sir, that you would have no choice.”

Captain Barker shook his head. "Is that what you think? That we should turn around and sail before the wind?”

Again no one responded.

“That is no choice and you are all good enough seamen to know it yourselves. You should know what would happen if we squared away and ran back east in these seas. We are too deep in the water. The stern would never lift to the waves. We would be pooped and worse. The ship would sink and we would all die. I have my family aboard this ship. Do you think that I would keep on if I thought we had any other choice?”

No one spoke. The worn and weary men at one end of the mess room stared back at the captain. Then a shadow appeared at the mess room door. It was Rand.

“So you have finally joined us, after telling so many filthy lies to these men," the captain said, struggling to keep his voice even.

Rand ignored him but turned toward the men. "Here's your chance, boys. Grab him.”

No one moved.

“That is mutiny, men, and this is a British ship." Captain Barker opened his coat, putting his hand on the butt of one of his pistols while the crew glared at him in unfocused anger.

“Come on," Rand yelled, but again no one moved. Mate Atkinson moved closer to the captain and was now facing the crew, as were the apprentices. Pugsley and Gronberg stood between the two groups, not joining either side.

Fred didn't know what to do. For weeks now, he had decided that he hated the captain. Hated him with all his heart and soul, yet now, looking at Rand glowering in the doorway, he felt an even greater contempt for the mate. Rand was still hanging back. He seemed to be waiting for the crew to rush the captain and take his guns away, but he himself was standing still. If he wanted a mutiny to make him captain, he lacked the courage to lead it.

Time seemed to have stopped. No one moved or spoke. The captain looked ready at any instant to pull his guns and shoot the first man that approached him. Fred glanced at his shipmates. At least some of the crew appeared ready to rush him across the short length of the mess room. Otto appeared to have taken a step forward before fading back. Jeremiah glared but waited for someone else to take the first step. There were several grim faces that Fred could not read.

The only sound was the howling of the wind and the clanking of a pot in the steward's pantry that slid back and forth as the ship rolled.

Then a small voice came from the side door that lead to the captain's cabin.

“Mr. Puglsey, Mrs. Murphy is sick. Can you make her better?”

It was little Amanda, the captain's daughter, holding the canvas and oakum doll that the sail maker had made for her at the beginning of the voyage, which now seemed an age ago. The stitching had come loose and most of the oakum had fallen out. The little doll's face was oddly flattened and one arm looked about ready to fall off.

Pugsley looked over, startled, and then smiled. He stepped over and bent down. "I'll see what I can do, Miss Amanda.”

The look of concern on the little girl's face turned to carefree glee. With two hands she carefully handed the precious doll to Pugsley. "Don't you worry, missie. We'll have her right as rain in no time.”

Other sailors were smiling as the little girl left the mess room.

The messroom was silent again.

After a moment, Captain Barker raised his voice. "So, men, will you keep sailing? We are bound to get a slant soon. These westerlies cannot blow forever.”

Jensen shrugged. "We just want to get to port, captain. I guess Pisagua is as good as any.”

Captain Barker turned to Rand. "Mr. Rand, you are confined to your quarters until further notice.”

The big man looked like he was about to speak, but simply turned and left the mess room.

Captain Barker turned to the crew. "Mr. Atkinson, would you speak to the steward. Direct him to serve out tots of rum in the lazarette. I do believe that we all could use one." He was greeted with a smile or two, but mostly just grim nods of agreement. As the crew shuffled out of the mess room, Barker thought, God bless you, Mrs. Murphy.

An hour later, Mary and the captain ate alone in the mess room. The second mate was on deck. Mr. Rand was in his cabin. Tommy was asleep and Amanda was happily playing with the newly repaired Mrs. Murphy, which, as promised, Pugsley had quickly re-stuffed and stitched. Walter served and removed the dishes without saying a word. Few words passed between the captain and his wife until coffee. Mary had heard most of what had happened earlier in the mess room and Walter had filled her in on what she had missed.

She looked at her husband and asked, "Is it worth it, James?”

At first she saw a flash of anger in his eyes, but it soon faded to resignation. He was so tired. She could see that in the lines in his face. He had had such hopes for this voyage and now it had almost ended in a mutiny.

“We have no choice but to keep at it. All we need is a slant. Just one good favoring slant of wind.”

Mary stirred her coffee with a spoon. "But what if it doesn't come? Or what if you have too few men left to sail the ship when it does? What if we run out of food, water and men before we get the favoring slant?”

She immediately wondered whether she should have spoken. She knew that there were no answers to her questions. What was worse—a mutinous crew challenging his authority, or a doubting wife?

James sat still for a moment, staring out into space. He seemed lost in thought or perhaps he was just letting the sound of the wind on deck carry his thoughts away. The tension around his eyes seemed to ease. After a moment he turned to Mary and reached out to put his hand on hers.

“My dear, we must keep on. It is simply too dangerous to turn before the wind. We are too deep in the water. The westerlies cannot stop us forever. We will get the slant. What we must not do, is to give up. Then all will be lost. We all just have to hold on." He smiled. "Just you wait. We will round up into the Pacific and we'll all be complaining that it is too hot. Imagine that.”

The next day the wind shifted to the north and they hardened up on an almost due westerly course. The sun even broke through and Captain Barker managed his first sun sight in weeks. They were finally west of Cape Horn again, a fact that Barker made sure Second Mate Atkinson relayed to the crew.

The wind stayed fair for three days before the westerlies filled back in and another series of gales drove them back, taking much of the distance that they had gained.