Hell Around the Horn

15. Crazy Dane and a Favoring Slant

The ship, which had been difficult to handle with twenty sailors, was now being sailed by six and the four apprentices. There were so few sailors fit for duty that Captain Barker finally ordered the second mate to fire up the donkey boiler and use the steam winch for hauling, now that muscles were no longer adequate to handle the sails. Keeping the boiler topped up with fresh water proved almost as difficult as the sail-handing itself.

A tot of rum became a daily ration. Captain Barker had hoped it would be viewed as a reward, but at best, it seemed only to help everyone left just hold on, which perhaps was enough.

Five men were down with frostbite, but three were suffering simply from exhaustion. The oldest three sailors—Hanson, Lindstrom and Schmidt—had nearly worked themselves to death and were all now in their bunks, barely hanging on.

One westerly gale followed the next. Captain Barker resumed his vigil on deck, watching for the slightest hint of a favoring wind shift. The few remaining sailors watched the stony-faced captain on the poop deck and swore softly as they turned to. Captain Barker knew the men were cursing him and hardly blamed them. He cursed at the westerlies. Beneath his best stoic exterior, he raged against the winds. All they needed was a slant.

Jensen waited outside the captain's dayroom.

“Yes, Jensen," Captain Barker said, motioning him in. "Have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir." He took of his cap. "Captain, my head is paining me again. From when I was hurt on the Daniella. When the shackle hit mine hoved.”

“If you are sick, I have medicine." The standard medicine dished out was a strong laxative.

“Nah, that won't do me no good, sir. Don't think that there is any medicine that will help.”

“Then what is it, Jensen?”

Jensen pulled a sheaf of papers from beneath his coat. "If you could put these in the ship's safe, sir, I would be grateful.”

“What are they?”

“Just my discharge papers. Nothing really, but they are all I have. My sea chest is afloat half the time. I just want them to be safe.”

Captain Barker took the papers, and smoothed them with his hand. "I'll take care of these, Jensen, and give them back to you at the end of the voyage.”

“Mange tak, Captain." The big man got up and left the cabin.

Barker sat for a moment before turning back to his desk. Jensen was the best sailor left on the ship. He only wished that the demons that haunted the man would finally give him peace.

The wind shifted again, clocking a point to the northward and dropping in intensity. They set the t'gallants and made good distance to westward for a day until, maddeningly, another line of westerly gales drove them back again.

From the poop deck, Captain Barker could see the dark shapes of the crew bent double over the yards, furling the main t'gallants. He heard a loud crack like a rifle's shot and saw the sail billow up wildly like some mad beast. An instant later he heard the cry, "Man overboard." Barker murmured a prayer under his breath for the soul of the man carried off by the wind. There was nothing else that he could do.

The remaining sailors fought the flogging canvas until at length they tamed it and tied the gaskets. The captain could see that there were three men climbing off the yard, where not long before there had been four.

In a few minutes Mr. Atkinson climbed wearily up the poop deck ladder.

“Who did we lose?" the captain asked.

“The Dane, Jensen. A gasket broke. The sail pitched him off the yard.”

The captain just shook his head and paced off to windward. He thought of the puny stack of paper sitting in the ship's safe. The only record of a man's life. How could Jensen have known? He had fought both the sea and his demons for so long. Somehow he knew the end was close at hand.

The next morning the wind shifted northerly again and the Lady Rebecca sailed along on a beam reach. It was Fred's turn to fetch the tea and bread barge. He tumbled from his bunk in the crowded fo'c'sle and went on deck. At the galley door, Jeremiah was beaming as he passed out the pantiles and steaming pots of tea.

“Nobody listened to me, when I tol' ye that he was a Jonah. Nobody listen to old Jeremiah but I tol' ye, didn't I? And now he's gone, the debil has his due and the wind is so fine and fair. I tol' ye.”

“Shut your trap," Fred growled. "Nobody wants to hear your blather.”

Jeremiah scoffed. "But I was right, don't ye know. Debil had his due.”

Fred put down the bread barge on the galley doorsill, pulled out his sheath knife and in one quick motion brought the point up under the cook's chin. "If I hear you say another word about Jensen, so help me God, I'll cut your throat from ear to ear. You understand me?”

Fred saw anger in the cook's eyes so he jabbed the knife closer. "You understand me?" he repeated.

“Yes, suh," the cook responded. Fred wasn't sure whether he sensed resignation or defiance in the tone but didn't care. As he made his way back to the fo'c'sle, he marveled at how close he had come to killing the cook.

When he delivered the bread barge and the tea to the watch, it was clear enough that Jeremiah was not the only one relieved at the death of their shipmate. The mood had lifted in the fo'c'sle. Donnie was talking about the whores of Chile again and how glad they would be to see them.

Frenchie opined, "Things be right again, now that ze Dane is gone." Several others agreed.

Fred seethed. "He was fine a sailor, a shipmate and a friend.”

After a moment's silence when Fred wondered whether he would be in the center of a brawl, Donnie murmured softly, "Well, never do to speak ill of the dead. Mind you, I do think our luck has changed.”

Fred just snorted and left the fo'c'sle, stepping out on deck with his bread and pannikin of tea. The wind was on their beam now. Every sail they could carry was set. Instead of the roar of green water rushing down the deck, Fred could hear the hiss of the bow wave as the Lady Rebecca shouldered the swells. Sunlight, shining through breaks in the clouds, made the spray that still broke over the bow shine like a shower of diamonds, before it disappeared off to leeward. Fred raised his tea to the wind and said softly, "Farewell, Jensen, you damn, crazy, son-of-a-bitch Dane." For whatever reason, their luck had changed and now they had a favoring slant. That was all that mattered.

Three days later they rounded 50 degrees south latitude and sailed north by west into the wide Pacific Ocean.