Hell Around the Horn

2. Lady Rebecca, Cardiff, Wales

The steel windjammer Lady Rebecca lay alongside Bute Dock in Tiger Bay, Cardiff. Her three masts gleamed white, rising from her black hull, soaring up over the dock walls, the cargo cranes and warehouses, seeming almost to reach the wispy clouds in an otherwise deep blue summer sky.

Will Jones, all of 14, a "brassbounder," wearing a snug blue tunic, closed with a row of shiny brass buttons, dropped his heavy sea chest and looked up at the ship in speechless wonder. He stood like a half-tide rock, oblivious to the traffic of sailors, riggers and longshoremen that surged around him on the dock. The young man, with closely trimmed fair hair and a freckled nose, stood up straight and proud as an admiral. He had never actually been to sea, but had studied for two years at the Trinity School of Navigation, so he thought of himself as highly experienced, despite his lack of sea time. His parents had paid the considerable sum of thirty pounds for his apprenticeship aboard the Lady Rebecca.

Before leaving home, he had memorized the ship's characteristics from a borrowed copy of Lloyd's Register of Ships, until he could recite them by heart. The Lady Rebecca—steel, three-masted, a full-rigged ship, 309 feet long, 44 feet of beam, 25 feet of depth. 2,530 tons register, 4,000 deadweight. Main yard—105 feet long. The masthead—180 feet above deck. Now, the figures became wholly inconsequential before the towering mass of the ship herself.

The bowsprit and jib-boom jutted out boldly, reaching high over his head. Will's gaze followed the line of the forestay as it soared up the dizzying heights to the top of the foremast.

The Lady Rebecca thrilled and terrified him. She was so massive, so powerful. Standing before her, Will felt very, very small. He wondered whether he had the strength to sail on such a ship. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure. His only comfort was the beautifully carved figurehead of the ship's namesake, a young woman in modern attire wearing a plumed hat, who looked down on him with a gaze that was not entirely unkind.

Will was so caught up in considering the towering ship that he did not notice the man wearing a black coat and a bowler hat standing on the dock a few paces away, watching him with a somewhat wry expression on his deeply tanned face.

“Well, young man, from your jacket you look like the new apprentice. Are you going aboard or are you going to just stand there and gawk?”

The boy jumped. "No, sir. Going aboard, sir.”

“Well then, I suggest you do. See the mate. He'll show you where to stow your kit. Then come see the captain. I'll want a few words with you." The man half smiled and with a nod walked down the dock to the gangway.

The apprentice shuddered for an instant in the realization that he had just spoken to the holiest of holies, the captain of the ship. He watched for a moment as the captain ascended the Lady Rebecca's gangway. Will Jones shouldered his sea chest and stumbled down the dock, following the captain's example. Once he reached the main deck, he stopped to catch his breath.

“And who might you be, young sir?" A tall slender man with light brown hair, whose voice was larger than his stature, called down from the poop deck.

The boy straightened up. "William Jones, sir. Apprentice.”

“Second Mate Atkinson, pleased to make your acquaintance, Apprentice Jones." He looked the boy up and down. "Well, come along then, I'll show you to your accommodations." The mate dropped down the ladder and walked to a deckhouse just forward of the poop deck. He pushed open the starboard side door to a dark space. "Find a bunk and stow your gear.”

“Yes, sir," the boy replied.

Will stepped into the darkness of the half-deck, which smelled of smoke, paint and lye. A dim light filtered through four deck prisms and two dirty portholes. He could just make out a narrow space with two sets of upper and lower bunks on each side and a long table in the middle.

A deep voice boomed, "Who goes there? State your name and rank.”

Will jumped and let out a sort of squeak, which was answered by a high-pitched laugh. A young man, in an upper berth, swung his legs out and jumped down to the deck, shaking with laughter. He strode over to the quaking Will and held out his hand. "Jack Pickering.”

Will shook the offered hand and said, "You startled me. William Jones." Jack was at least a head taller than Will and considerably broader.

“Well, stow your trap and then let's see if the doctor's got anything for us.”

“The doctor?" Will replied.

Jack looked at him sideways then broke into a grin. "You are 'bout as green as grass, aren't you? The cook is called the doctor. You never heard that? I could use a biscuit right about now. Let's see if there's any left." Jack headed out the door to the deck.

Will stood there for a moment, embarrassed. Of course he knew the cook was called the doctor. He'd just forgotten for a moment. "Green as grass, my arse," he thought. He shoved his sea chest into an empty bunk than stumbled out onto the main deck.

Rigging gangs carried blocks, coils of wire and hemp rope across the deck, while riggers aloft inspected, overhauled, refit or repaired the miles of halyards, bunts, braces, clewlines, sheets, topping lifts, outhauls and all the other running and standing rigging in preparation for long months at sea. At the forward hatches, a cloud of black dust rose as cranes dumped vast bucket loads of coal into the gaping holds.

Will looked around. He couldn't see where Jack had gone. The captain had asked to see him when he got aboard. He would have preferred following Jack and trying for a biscuit, but he turned and walked aft.

Will stood outside the captain's dayroom door for a moment before daring to knock. Captain Barker smiled as Will stepped across the threshold. The captain motioned him to a chair and Will sat up as straight as he could be.

The captain's eyes on him were steady and unwavering, the eyes of a man who would stand no nonsense. Still, he wasn't quite as frightening as Will had expected. Not even as frightening as he had been on the dock.

“So, William Jones, you are our new apprentice. A first voyager, I see?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain sat in a chair across from him and leaned forward. "Are you quite sure that you want to be a sailor?”

“Yes, sir," Will replied after a moment's hesitation.

“It is a hard life, m'son. Do you know that?”

“Yes, sir." Suddenly, when challenged, the doubts he felt on the dock vanished.

“I wonder if you know how hard it can be? It is hard work day and night. We'll be rounding Cape Horn in the winter. It will be cold and fearsome tough. You know, you can back out if you wish. Cancel your indenture. It's not too late, if you are not entirely sure.”

For a moment, Will tried to imagine the worst that it could possibly happen at sea. He could be washed overboard and drowned or be eaten by a shark. He could fall from a yard in a storm or be killed by falling rigging. He could die of some terrible tropical disease or be killed in a pirate attack. Oddly, each of these seemed preferable to the shame of returning home, turned away from the ship as unsuitable. He would not back out. Not under any circumstances.

“No, sir. I am entirely sure, sir. I want to sail with the Lady Rebecca, sir.”

The captain smiled again. "Very well, young man. Then sail you shall. I expect you to work hard and to apply yourself. You are to jump cheerfully to do your duty at all times, even when you are cold, wet or tired. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir," Will replied with determination.

“Then that will do, son. Get to work.”

“Yes, sir," Will replied as he scooted out of the cabin. Only when he reached the sunlight on the main deck did he wonder again exactly what he had gotten himself in to.

When the apprentice left, Captain Barker changed into his best shirt with a high starched collar, and a pair of well-pressed trousers with cuffs. After tying his four-in-hand tie and securing it with a silver pin, he put on his vest and jacket and inspected himself in the mirror. A dashing gentleman, indeed. Or as close as you are likely to come, young man, he thought.

Still only thirty-two, captain of a fine ship and now part owner, he was pleased with the image in the mirror. He looked to all the world like a young merchant, as properly he was. This was his third voyage as captain of the Lady Rebecca, but it was his first trip as part owner of both the ship and the cargo. When the ship's majority owner, Mr. Shute, couldn't find rates that suited him, he bought coal for his own account, just like in the old days. Shute was his partner now, as well as his employer, and they had agreed to sail without a penny's worth of insurance. His one and only job was to bring their investment around Cape Stiff and to deliver the fine double-screened Welsh coal to a Chilean nitrate port. This trip was his chance. It could either establish or ruin him. All in one roll of the dice.

He looked at his pocket watch, put on his coat and bowler hat and grabbed an ebony walking cane with an ivory handle. He had a crew to sign on.

Fred Smythe, an American sailor of nineteen, of medium build and height, with a full shock of dark hair, tumbled off the Taff Valley train in Bute Station, Cardiff, stiff and sleepy, having spent two days in third class from Liverpool via London. He hoisted his sea chest on his shoulder and headed down Bute Street toward the docks. He was looking for a ship.

At New York's South Street, he had signed aboard the Shooting Star, a rather ironically named lumbering Kennebec barque, for a round-trip voyage to Liverpool; but the old ship had opened a seam in the mid-Atlantic causing a leak that kept the crew pumping day and night, sending her to the dry dock for repairs on their arrival. The entire crew was signed off, leaving Fred at loose ends. He had heard that there were ships in need of sailors in Cardiff, so to Cardiff he had come.

Even at ten in the morning, Bute Street teemed like an Asiatic bazaar. The sidewalk bustled with sailors, railway men, shipwrights, boatmen, foundrymen, longshoremen, tavern keepers and doxies of all sizes, shapes and colors. Fred could identify a half-dozen European languages being spoken, but his ear also caught what he thought was Chinese, Arabic, Urdu and Russian.

Every nation and race seemed to be represented, a Cardiff cauldron, a melting pot of souls, jabbering and yelling at each other boisterously. There was a fair share of Welshmen, speaking a blend of Welsh and such heavily accented English that it might as well have been a foreign language. Indian Gujuratis and Bengalis wore softly colored linens, just a bit more rumpled than the Arabs, who seemed to favor white. Africans with skin as black as coal blended in with the local coal-blackened tippers, trimmers and hobblers who worked loading the coal ships.

Fred wondered what his classmates at Yale would think of this crowd. They would no doubt be horrified at the mixing of so many races and creeds with so little care for decorum, yet they might be impressed by the relative harmony evident in all the chaos.

Fred had finished his first year at college when his father died and the family business collapsed. With just enough money to support his mother but none for tuition, Fred did what he had always dreamed of doing. He ran off to sea. He was sick of desks, stuffy classrooms and starched collars anyway. He was sure that what he could learn on the deck of ship mattered more than the ancient history that he was learning in a classroom.

One thing that he had learned for certain was the truth in the old proverb, "be careful what you wish for." There was less romance to the endless toil and miserable conditions that were a sailor's life than he had imagined as a boy. Then again, he had gone to the places of which he had dreamed. He had sailed schooners from New England to the Caribbean and square-riggers back and forth across the Atlantic. As hard as the work was and as miserly the wages, he had few real regrets.

And now, he stood on the street in the famous Tiger Bay, Cardiff's polyglot sailor town where anything was possible, any pleasure or diversion was for sale, and a man could be whatever he wished to be, so long as a crimp didn't dope his drink or a bully boy didn't crack open his skull to steal his purse.

An impressive row of bars and taverns lined the street, all having either opened early or never closed, as both music and drunken sailors spilled from the doors as they swung open and shut. Carts and carriages dodged the inebriated men tumbling off the sidewalks, and Fred was surprised not to have seen any fatalities.

A young lady, heavily painted and perfumed, cruised out from the Anglesea Pub and plotted a crossing course for the young sailor. She grabbed Fred boldly by the arm.

Such beautifully red lips, the exact color of desire, Fred thought. She demanded, "Come, my handsome. Let's have some fun," tugging insistently on his arm.

Fred looked her over. She had bright eyes and a lovely smile, but his glance immediately shifted. Her flowered frock was only partially buttoned in front, displaying her charms to maximum advantage. Ah, the fair orbs of Aphrodite, Fred thought to himself, and it required great presence of mind to not be drawn away.

“Not right now, my sweet," he replied. "I need to find a ship. I shall return this evening. What's your name, my lovely?”

“Lucretia," she replied. "And yours?”

Fred laughed. "Lucretia! Mother of the Roman Republic! How could I stay away? My name is Frederick, dear lady. Until this evening, Miss Lucretia of the Anglesea.”

Having failed to slow his progress, the fair maiden released her towline, letting go of her grasp on his arm. "Don't forget me now, Freddy.”

“Never, Lucretia, never," he called out, without looking back.

As he walked toward the docks, the street became more boisterous while the buildings became darker with layer on layer of coal dust. Coal made Cardiff one of the largest ports in the British Empire. Fred recalled reading somewhere that eight million tons of the Welsh black diamonds moved through the port every year.

When he finally reached Bute Dock, it didn't take long before he found a ship. Perhaps the ship. She was a steel, three-masted windjammer with lines that reminded him of a clipper ship. Her name was the Lady Rebecca. She was deeply laden, with two hatches still open and a black cloud of coal dust rising from each, as carts of coal were tipped in. The wharfinger told him that the ship would be signing on a crew that very afternoon. And best of all, she was bound for Chile via Cape Horn.

Somehow, Fred had gotten it into his head that he wouldn't be a real sailor until he took a trip or two around Cape Horn. The Horn was like no place else on the watery globe and any Jack who had rounded it under sail was indeed worthy of respect. And now here she was, a Cape Horner in need of a crew. It was time to find his way to the shipping office. Fred hoisted his sea chest back on his shoulder and headed off.

Captain Barker bounded up the granite steps of the Cardiff Shipping Office. The building was a series of large rooms on either side of the main hall. Sunlight filtered through the high windows as hundreds of sailors milled in and out, checking the chalkboards with the listings of ships and voyages. The crowd ranged from hearty tars in their shore-going rig, eager to get back to sea, to dissipated souls bearing the signs of too much drink, under the watchful eyes of crimps or boardinghouse masters, who would make sure to claim the month's advance owed to their tattered charges, in repayment of debts, real or imagined.

A clerk directed Captain Barker to a room where the board read:

Several men stood near the board and one spoke up loudly, "Who's going to sail around Cape Stiff on that old windbag? Not me, I'll warrant ya." The sailor spit a stream of tobacco juice at the chalkboard.

Captain Barker clenched his right hand around his cane. If he had been on the deck on his ship, he would have knocked the man down, but ashore, the rules were different. He looked over at the man, sallow with dull eyes, and decided that he was no real sailor in any case.

“And what are you doing here anyway, you stinking cur? You don't look like any sort I'd ever want on my ship. Now, go back to your smoke box, you damned fireman.”

The man spun around and looked at Captain Barker, who stood holding his cane in one hand and his bowler hat in the other. The man began to speak, but then just snorted, turned and stomped out of the room. The captain heard chuckles from sailors behind him.

There were many like that steamboat drudge who believed that the days of sail were over. Freight rates had fallen and times were getting tougher, but the wind wagons weren't dead yet. As long as there were winds that blew, there would be sailing ships to sail. Captain Barker had a fine ship and all he needed was a crew.

In a few minutes, a rotund shipping master in a faded blue jacket, waddled in and sat at a large desk at the far end of the room. He bellowed, "Lady Rebecca! Lady Rebecca!”

The din of chatter stopped and sailors drifted in. Captain Barker scanned the milling crowd. He needed twenty good able seamen. The Rebecca was a heavy ship and needed strong and experienced hands. This was his one chance to pick a crew worthy of the ship, a crew that could sail her and who wouldn't be broken by her. It was like picking out cattle at a stockyard, except that this beef had to know its business.

He looked each sailor up and down and asked a question or two. He kept a running track of how many Englishmen he had chosen, as well as how many other nationalities he had sent to stand with the chosen men. He wanted a thoroughly mixed crew. Better that they fought one another rather than unite to fight his authority. When foreign sailors stepped up, the captain confirmed that each had a rudimentary grasp of English. When he had chosen twenty, he nodded to the shipping master.

The shipping master cleared his throat and began reading the preamble to the Articles of Agreement, then moved on to specific terms and conditions, wages and allotments. Captain Barker walked over and stood next to the master, scanning the chosen sailors with a calculating eye. When the shipping master stopped and put down the agreement, it was the captain's turn to speak.

“Men, I am Captain James Barker. We are embarking on a long voyage by way of Cape Horn. By the looks of you, many here are Cape Horn snorters, so there is no reason that we shouldn't have a happy crowd. All I expect is that you jump to with a will at my orders. Beyond that, it's one hand for the owner and one hand for yourself. All right now, line up over here, one at a time." The captain took a chair beside the shipping master at the table.

The first up was a large man with dark hair that hung across one eye. He had a crooked grin, which he tried to suppress for the serious business of signing articles.

The captain looked up. "Name, age, and nationality.”

“I'm, Harry, sir. From Cornwall. I think I'm around thirty.”

“Your last name, Harry?

“Yes, sir," the sailor replied.

“Your last name," the captain repeated.

“Yes, sir. My last name is Harhy. I'm G.H. Hahry. That's H-A-H-R-Y. But everyone just calls me Harry.”

“Well, I imagine that they would," the captain replied, raising an eyebrow. He handed Harry the pen. Harry bent down and with great care drew an anchor for his signature. With a self-satisfied grin, he turned, nearly knocking over the man behind him. The sailors took no offense as Harry careened back through the line.

Rolf Jensen, next in line, was a red-faced Dane with a tattoo of a naked woman on his right arm and a ship in the grasp of a giant squid on his left. He grabbed the pen as if it was a marlinspike and left a blotched X as his mark. Behind him came Tony-the-Chileano, Jerry-the-Greek, and Gabriel Isaacson.

Hmmn, the captain thought as Isaacson signed. He had never known a sea-going Jew. Lots of bumboat traders but never a deep-sea sailor. Well, there was Noah, he thought. Isaacson looked fit enough.

The usual assortment of Finns, Norwegians, a Frenchman and a few Liverpool hard cases followed behind.

A young sailor, strongly built with dark hair, added his name among the various Xs and illegible scrawls. In a clear and graceful hand he wrote, Frederick Anthony Smythe. The captain looked down at the signature, and then back at the young sailor. "You look like you've had some education, young man.”

“Yes, sir,”

“Where did you go to school, pray tell?”

“A year at Yale, sir.”

The captain cocked his head. "I've heard of it. Good school. And an American to boot.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You sail as ordinary?”

“No, sir," Fred replied adamantly. "Able, sir. Discharge papers to prove it, too, sir.”

The captain waved them away. "Very well. Able, it is. Next.”

When he had twenty signatures or marks on the articles, the captain stood up. In his best quarterdeck voice, he bellowed, "Crew of the Lady Rebecca, you are expected to be aboard tomorrow at seven, breakfast at eight and turn to at eight forty-five, ready for duty.”

He turned to the shipping master. "Their month's advance can be drawn on the account of Merrick Shute. I'll send my officers and warrants to sign articles later this afternoon." They shook hands and the captain folded his copy of the articles, put them in his jacket pocket and left the shipping office. There was much to be done before tomorrow. Overall, he was pleased with the crowd he had signed on, though only time and sea miles would tell him what sort of crew they really were.

Mary Barker smiled, watching her six-year-old daughter, Amanda, bouncing with excitement as she looked out the train window as the Welsh countryside rolled by. The lush green of farmland had now given way to coal mines and factories. Amanda's two-year-old brother, Tommy, was slumped against the seat, sleeping soundly. Amanda was too excited to sleep. She had done nothing but talk about going to sea on Daddy's ship for weeks and now they were on their way.

Mary wished she shared her daughter's enthusiasm. She had been on three voyages before but had never taken to the sea. A ship captain's daughter, sister to a sailor and now a ship captain's wife, she would have liked nothing more than to live in Chester on the River Dee, in a small cottage with her children, waiting for her husband to come home. She hated leaving her mother, with whom she was very close. Her mother was not a young woman and Mary wondered darkly if they would ever see each other again.

But James had his heart set on sailing with his family. This was an important voyage for him and for them as well. So if James asked that they go, she knew her duty. Whither thou goest...

She looked at herself in her pocket mirror. She had just turned thirty but feared that she looked older. The sea aged everyone but was crueler to women than men. She put the mirror back in her handbag and tried to think no more of it.

When James met them at the Cardiff train station, Mary smiled as Amanda and Tommy shrieked and leapt to greet their father. He stooped down to grab them both as they charged at him, laughing. His stance was wide, as if he was on the quarterdeck on his ship, braced against a rolling sea. He scooped them up and spun around as they screamed with joy.

A carriage was waiting for them. "I've booked rooms in the Angel Hotel until the cargo is finished loading and your quarters are ready." Mary took James' hand as he helped her into the carriage. The children clambered aboard and they were off to the hotel.

As the carriage clattered along, the captain looked at Mary with concern. She looked tired and somewhat sad. Perhaps she was just weary from the travel by train. Mary was still so pretty, with dark eyes and her hair pulled back in a bun. She had obviously dressed to please him, wearing a new blue dress, not too fancy and quite suitable for travel, but better than day-to-day wear. He began to worry that she was unhappy already and they had not even made it aboard the ship. Nevertheless, he was excited to get under way and would not let feminine fears interfere. All would be well, once the ship sailed.

“We have a new cabin steward. A man named Walter. He comes with good references, so I hope that he will be able to make you and the children quite comfortable. I have also ordered livestock, so that we may have eggs and milk.”

Her eyes brightened. "We shall have a cow?”

“Sorry, my love. Cows don't do well aboard ship. We will have goats, as well as chickens." She smiled but he could see the disappointment in her eyes.

“There is one matter that I must discuss with you, however, before you go aboard. You know that I am most pleased to have your brother Thomas sailing with us as second mate. He is a fine young man and a good officer from all that I can tell. Aboard the Lady Rebecca, nevertheless, we must maintain discipline. When the voyage is done, we will again be Thomas and James, but until then he is Mr. Atkinson and he will address me as Captain Barker. I do not wish for you to think that I am being brusque with him. That is just how it must be. When he has free time off-watch, he does have my permission to visit with you and the children, but his first duty is to the ship and her crew. As is mine.”

Mary smiled broadly. "I may be no sailor, dearest, but I understand well enough." She glanced out the carriage window and then turned back toward him and with a grin. "Do you know what I have taken to calling the Lady Rebecca? Your other wife. I am not sure what her owner would think of that. Merrick Shute did name his ship after his daughter, did he not?”

The captain snorted. "An owner's prerogative. He may name the ship for whomever he chooses. I, or rather, we, now own a quarter share of the ship and of the cargo. Ships always seem to own part of their captains. On the Lady Rebecca, it is about time that her captain and his family owned a part of her too. I know how hard it is on you to raise a family on a captain's salary. If this voyage goes well, perhaps it will establish us.”

She knew that in his dreams James saw himself owning a fleet of fine ships, but that he dared say nothing out loud. One voyage at a time. That is as far as any man could see. James went on to tell tales of steady winds and cerulean seas, of flying fish and sea foam as white as the clouds. This wasn't her first voyage, yet she appreciated his efforts to put her at ease and felt a bit of his enthusiasm about the great venture ahead. Perhaps this voyage would be fine, Mary told herself. Blue skies and fair winds. A dream perhaps, but a nice one.