Hell Around the Horn

3. The Crew Comes Aboard

Captain Barker slept ashore with his family that night but rose early to return to the ship. He tried not to wake his wife or the children. Nevertheless, Mary reached out and squeezed his hand as he left the bed.

He reached the ship near dawn and took his place on the poop deck. Two hatches were open, the dock cranes ready to resume tipping the huge coal carts into the Rebecca's holds. In the same dock, the Susannah, a German barque, bound too for Chile, was also close to finishing loading. She was rumored to be fast. We shall see, the captain thought. The Rebecca was very fast as well, so long as her yards weren't braced around upon her stays. Might make a race of it, the captain thought. Wouldn't that be fine? A grand German ship against the Lady Rebecca, proudly flying the red duster. He'd show the Germans how an English ship could sail.

But they had to finish loading first and they were also still waiting on the last of the provisions and the slop chest order from Jacob the Goat to arrive. He wondered whether the Susannah would slip out ahead of them. But then, what did a few hours or even few days matter in race of 12,000 miles?

At seven a.m., a line of bleary-eyed sailors made their way through the dock gate, down along the railroad tracks, to the gangway of the Lady Rebecca, duffels or sea chests hoisted on their shoulders. Many appeared to have successfully turned their month's advance into liquid libation. Most barely looked up at the ship, laden as they were by their gear, the early hour and the celebrations of the night before. At least half were still drunk. Several hadn't slept at all since signing articles.

Soon the cranes would again start loading double-screened anthracite coal into the cavernous holds. The sailors trudged to the fo'c'sle house, just aft of the foremast, and tossed their gear onto the bunks. The cook's stove smoked and the sailors dug out their metal cups and utensils from their kit and lined up at the galley house for a breakfast of burgoo and biscuits. The cook, a black Jamaican named Jeremiah, eyed them warily before scooping out a serving to each.

“Send a boy back for de coffee," he said, once everyone had passed by.

A large sailor with a Liverpool accent pointed to Fred Smyth. "Yank, you're the Peggy, get the coffee.”

Fred put down his plate and almost said, "Get it yourself." But there was no need to start the trip with a fight, and somebody had to get it. Overall, Fred wasn't feeling too bad. His head hurt, but he had shown at least a modicum of restraint the night before. And the thought of the fair Lucretia brought a smile to his face.

He lugged back a large pot full of a steaming black liquid—sailor's coffee. Hot and bitter, mostly burned biscuit, it had a taste that suggested everything except the fruits of the coffee plant. Fred sat with the rest, finding a place on the deck behind the house, before they had to turn to. Most slumped against the deckhouse, though several lay down on the deck and went to sleep.

Fred looked around at his shipmates, as motley a bunch as ever he'd seen. Fred was one of the youngest of the hands. Some looked like experienced sailors. Some looked to be roustabouts or worse. Some looked too old to still be sailing. Whatever and whomever they were, Fred knew that he would get to know them better in the next few months than anyone he had ever known on shore. In the tiny society of souls aboard a small ship on a boundless ocean, it was unavoidable. Which of these men would he learn to rely on? Which would he stay away from? Who among them would try to become the "cock of the watch"? Who would become a close friend? Only time and sea miles would tell.

He had learned a few of their names at the shipping hall. Harry from Cornwall was large, strong and seemed affable enough. Obviously a sailor. Jensen the Dane also looked as though he knew the sea but was brooding and kept to himself. Fred did admire the tattoo of the naked woman on his right forearm. The kraken devouring a ship on his left had a certain artistic appeal, but seemed a poor choice at the start of a voyage. Fred wasn't superstitious but neither did he believe in tempting fate.

Fred guessed at the nicknames that some would acquire. He had already been called "Yank," which was fine with him. He'd been called worse. There was a Frenchman, François Arno, who would likely end up as "Frenchie" or "Frankie the Frog." Fred thought that a better appellation might be "Yes Arno," but was sure that would never catch on.

The Irishman, Shaemus O'Malley, hailed from Donegal, and was already being called "Donnie.”

The nicknames were generally gracefully accepted, although one could never be sure. On his last ship, he has seen a knife fight break out over whether "Squarehead" applied to Germans or only to Scandinavians.

Santiago was from Chile and was going to home to see his mother and sister, to help them run their shop in Callao.

“Lord have mercy," Donnie responded. "Who ever heard of a sailor tending a shop? What sort'a shop is it? Your mother's not Madame Cashee, is she?”

A dark look crossed Santiago's face. He obviously wasn't too sure how to take the suggestion that his mother was a legendary brothel keeper. Then he grinned, "Nah, me madre, she sells dry goods, not pretty girls.”

“If you are Chileno, what's she doing in Callao?" Donnie asked.

“She wein tto work for her uncle," Santiago said with a shrug.

“And what about you?" Donnie looked over to Gabe Isaacson, a skinny young man with a sharp and narrow face. "You look like you should be on a bumboat with the rest of the Jews.”

Gabe smiled. "And why aren't you diggin' praties or cutting turf, my Irish friend?”

Donnie shrugged. "Got tired of starving. Not that the grub on a lime-juicer is all that much better.”

“Well, I spent enough time on the bumboats. Heard all the stories from all the drunken sailors. Figured it was time I saw for myself," Gabe said.

Donnie laughed. "So you are the famous wandering Jew that we keep hearing about?”

“That's me," Gabe replied.

Frenchie looked over at the German ship Susannah, a four-masted barque, across the wet dock, then back up at the three soaring masts of the Lady Rebecca. He let out a low whistle. "Ze Rebecca is a brute, a ship for strong men. Can we 'andle her, I wonder?”

Fred looked over, "What do you mean?”

“Use your eyes, my friend," the Frenchman replied with a wave of his arm.

Fred looked across the dock. The Susannah was a four-poster, the sails spread across four masts. The Rebecca's three massive steel masts soared higher. Her sails and yards, on only three masts, were larger, requiring more muscle to raise. Fred looked up at her main yard, steel, like the masts. Gauging from the beam of the ship, the yard, extending well beyond the bulwarks on either side, had to be at least a hundred feet. The topsail, t'gallant, and royal yards above it seemed only slightly smaller.

Frenchie continued. "Ze Susannah, she's got four masts and a Liverpool deck, the midship house 'cross the whole beam, that breaks the waves, not like zees' old lady's wide open deck, to scope up all the Southern Ocean and send it crashing down on us, sailors.”

When Fred first saw the Lady Rebecca at Bute Dock, the ship had reminded him of the graceful clippers of old, just larger and built of steel, rather than oak and yellow pine. What a moment ago had seemed a lovely ship now looked to be a man-killer. He shook his head, wondering what sort of ship he had signed aboard.

“I wonder whether ze Susannah's got Jarvey winches?" Frenchie asked.

“What's a Jarvey winch?" Fred asked.

“You know the Jarvey Patent.”

Donnie piped in. "I believe he means the Jarvis Patent brace winch. Never seen one m'self, but I hear tell that they are a wonder. Two men can haul the braces and turn 'round a yard, where it would have taken ten hauling the brace with the Armstrong Patent.”

“Alright," Fred replied. "Now what's the Armstrong Patent?"

Donnie hooted. "Why you've never heard of the Armstrong Patent?" He flexed his bicep and pointed to it. That is the winch that hauls the lines on this old barky. Our strong arms. That's the Armstrong Patent.”

Fred laughed and shook his head, then finished the last gulp of the bitter coffee.

“Anybody know about the Old Man?" asked Tom, the large sailor from Liverpool. "He's a youngster, sure enough.”

Fred smiled. The captain was always the "Old Man" regardless of his age. Nevertheless, on the ships that he had sailed on, the nickname suited the chronology. But not on the Lady Rebecca. Captain Barker couldn't be too far into his thirties. Fred had heard talk in the shipping hall that Barker had gotten his first command in his twenties and was the youngest captain in all of British deep-water sail.

The Greek named Jerry spoke up. "Heard he's a driver, a bend it or break it skipper. Not afeared of man nor the devil. Says he once out-sailed the Preussen.”

“Bah," Donnie replied. "I'll not be believe'n that tale, now. This old bitch could never keep up with Preussen, much less show her her heels. Naught but a fairy tale, to be sure. If the Old Man out-sailed the Preussen, it was in his dreams. Or maybe the Kraut was at anchor.”

Fred had seen the Preussen once. Five masts, an immense cloud of snowy white sail, and nearly as fast as the wind itself. She was the largest and most modern square-rigger on the oceans, and the Lady Rebecca, smaller and almost twenty years old, wouldn't likely stand a chance against her.

Fred heard a rumor that the Old Man had bet the captain of the Susannah that the Lady Rebecca would beat them to Chile. Nothing wrong with taking pride in a ship, but hubris was just as dangerous for ship's captains as for the gods of antiquity.

“The Old Man's a fast passage maker anyway. A lucky captain, maybe," Santiago commented.

“We'll may just need some luck rounding Cape Stiff so late in the season," the Cornishman Harry replied. "Cape Horn winter can be a bitch, sure enough.”

“He's bringin' his family too. Might soften him a touch.”

“Not necessarily," said Tom. "Sailed with McMurry, you remember McMurry? Was a right bastard when his wife made the trip. Worse than when he sailed alone. An' she was meaner than he was. An' almost as ugly.”

Another sailor laughed. "Well, that's true enough.”

“Cook says that the second mate's the Old Man's brother-in-law. Wonder how that'll turn out.”

“Never good having that much family aboard ship. T'ings get so damned complicated wit' families.”

Their speculation was interrupted when a large man with gray hair lumbered forward. "Name's Rand. I'm the mate." He walked over and gave a swift kick to the ribs to one of the sleeping sailors. "Get your lazy arses off the deck, there's work to be done.”

Around ten a.m., a wagon rattled down the dock, dodging the cranes swinging their loads of coal. The man at the reins had a scraggly goatee and wore a battered captain's cap over a balding pate. Second Mate Atkinson had been watching out for the wagon and, on its approach, walked over to the half-deck to roust the apprentices.

“Come out, my flock. Jacob the Goat is here and we have slops to stow." He pounded his fist against the house door and the four apprentices trooped out on the deck. Their blue jackets were stored in their sea chests and they now all wore sailor's dungarees. "Down the gangway with you.”

While the mate looked over Jacob's tally of foul-weather gear, tobacco, clothing, blankets and soap—all the goods that would stock the slop chest, the ship's store, for the long voyage to Chile and beyond—the apprentices started to untie the canvas that covered the wagon. One second-voyager, George Black, stood back and started giving orders to Will. "Haul down that crate there, youngster.”

Paul Nelson, the senior, only a voyage away from completing his indenture, gave George a swift chuck to the back of his head. "And who made you King, George?" He chuckled. "King George. All right. We all work here together, every one of us. Nobody gives orders 'cepting the mates or the captain. So, jump to it, King George.”

Will tried not to grin as the elder apprentice, if only by one voyage, was shown his place. The apprentices unloaded the wagon onto the quayside as Second Mate Atkinson, with Jacob looking on, checked the bundles and cartons against the invoices.

“I can see why they call him Jacob the Goat," Will whispered to Jack, looking back at the wizened merchant.

Jack grinned. "I hear he's ornery as a goat besides.”

With the accounts in agreement, Atkinson shook Jacob' hand and turned to the apprentices. "Up they go, boys. Into the lazerreto.”

When they had finished carrying the slops up the gangway, through the deckhouse and into the lazarette, the provisions wagon had arrived and they turned to at the mizzen gantline, hoisting barrels of flour, molasses, salt pork and bully beef aboard. When Will was sure that they were finished, another wagon arrived, loaded with goats and chickens. "This a sailing ship or a barnyard?" Will wondered aloud. Jack laughed. "Captain's bringing his family along. That's their milk and eggs." As he fought to drive an obstinate goat up the gangway, Will hoped that goatherd would be the least of his duties on the Lady Rebecca.

That afternoon, Second Mate Atkinson bellowed, "Apprentices, turn to, the starboard rail by hatch three!" The four apprentices, who thought that they would have some time to catch their breath, lined up along the bulwark next to the hatch. The four boys, ranging in age from fourteen to seventeen, formed a jagged line of varying heights. Will was the shortest. Jack and Paul Nelson, the senior apprentice, towered over him, while George filled in the middle.

“Let's see what we've got here. How many of you have at least one voyage under your belt? Show of hands.”

Everyone's hand went up, except for Will's.

“And rounded the Horn?”

Two hands went up.

“OK. That's Paul and Jack. Been around more than once?”

Paul held up his hand.

The mate walked over and stood in front of Will, who immediately felt even smaller than he was.

“So you are our first voyager? Well, that's just fine. Everyone's got to have a first time.”

In the shadow of the tall mate, Will felt as if he was shrinking. Atkinson stepped back.

“Gentlemen, into the rigging. I'll go easy on you. Climb the mizzen. One to starboard, one to port. Out to the royal yard, then up to the cap, slap it and sing out. Paul and George, you two first. Up you go.”

Will watched as the two apprentices ran to the ratlines and scampered skyward. They climbed higher and higher, disappearing above the top, reappearing again as they climbed the ratlines to the crosstrees. Will's mouth felt dry as he watched. Paul made it to the yardarm first, a tiny shape above the deck, disappearing again, back to the mast. In a moment, Will heard a voice shout out "Paul!" A few seconds later, George shouted as well. They both returned to the deck in half the time they took to climb aloft.

“OK, William and Jack. Up you go.”

Will swallowed, and then ran to the starboard ratlines. He grabbed at the ratlines as he climbed, only to have Atkinson bellow at him, "If you don't want to die, William, grab the shrouds, not the ratlines!" Will groaned inside. He knew that, he'd read it, he just forgot. Maybe green as grass wasn't so far off. "Aye, aye, sir," he shouted. When he reached the futtock shrouds, he felt like he was upside down as he forced himself up onto the mizzen top. For a moment he lay on his stomach, catching his breath before jumping up and swinging out on the topsail shrouds. Jack was well ahead of him, almost to the crosstrees.

Will was dizzy. His hands were wet with sweat and his stomach was knotted in fear, but he kept climbing. The shrouds became narrower the higher he climbed until he too finally reached the crosstrees. Jack had already worked his way out to the royal yardarm.

There had been barely a breath of a breeze on deck, yet at the crosstrees, one hundred and ten feet up, the wind gusted. Will could feel the ship move every time the dock crane dropped a coal cart into the forward hold. Suddenly William heard the cry, "Jack Pickering!" followed by a "Yahooo!" as Jack slid down the bare royal mast.

“Get yourself moving, William," came the distant, yet distinct, voice of the mate from the deck.

William began climbing again, shoving his toes sideways in the narrow t'gallant ratlines until they ended altogether at the base of the royal mast. Jack passed by with a huge grin on his face. "Best view in Cardiff!" he shouted as he climbed down. William tried to smile.

There were no ratlines on the royal mast, only a bare pole to be climbed. He shinnied his way up until he could just grab the footropes under the royal yard, thinner than any of the others below. He worked his way out on the footropes until he reached the clew shackle.

The view was breathtaking and terrifying, in equal measure. The deck seemed a distant and narrow place peopled by tiny shapes. Even the other soaring square-riggers in the dock seemed small. He looked down at the red brick Pierhead Building and the clock, Baby Big Ben, in its tower. The wind blew in his hair and tugged at his shirt. Looking away from shore, he could see far beyond the dock walls, out beyond the breakwater to the Severn Estuary and out to the living and boundless sea beyond.

“Hurry up, William," came the cry from the deck. "Up to the cap.”

His moment of reverie vanquished, Will held tight to the jackstays and worked his way back to the mast where another twelve feet of bare greasy pole awaited him. He stood up on the yard and hugged the mast for all he was worth, pushing himself higher with his feet, not daring to look either down or up, only out at the blue of the sky, until finally he reached the mahogany cap on the top of the mast. He struck it with his fist and yelled as loudly as he could, "William Jones!”

Captain Barker sat in his dayroom going over the ship's papers. He heard the steward passing by in the companionway. "Walter," he called out.

The light-skinned West Indian stepped into his dayroom. "Sir.”

“Would you ask the mate to join me for a few words as his duties permits.”

“Yes, sir, cap'n. Right away.”

In a few minutes, the mate knocked on the frame of the open door.

Captain Barker swiveled in his chair. "Come in, Mr. Rand. Have a seat.”

The large man pulled a chair over and sat down. He took off his peaked cap, revealing a salt-and-pepper mix of gray and brown hair. He was heavyset with an ample waist. Sitting there face to face, he looked far older than he appeared on deck. His wrinkled and leathery face showed the years of wind and brine. His blue eyes looked out from beneath black, shaggy eyebrows.

The captain glanced at his records. Rand had sailed for thirty-five years and yet had never held a rank higher than mate. His papers showed no shortage of experience and, from all that he had seen, the mate knew his business.

“I see you've buttoned up number three hatch. When do you expect to be finished with one and two?”

“Yes, sir. Two'll be done in about an hour. They're bringing in another freight car to top up number one hatch. Long as there is no delay, they should be done by late afternoon. We'll have her scrubbed and clean by nightfall. You can bring your family aboard first thing in the morning, if that suits you.”

“That will be just fine, Mr. Rand. Now, as soon as the cargo is finished, I want you to turn the crowd to, to bend all canvas and sort out the running rigging. We should have a favorable breeze and I wouldn't mind setting topsails and t'gallants before the sea buoy. See Mr. Pugsley, the sail maker. I've sailed with him before. He's a good man.”

“Yes, sir," Rand replied.

Captain Barker almost ended the interview there, but his eyes kept being drawn to Mr. Rand's service record.

“If I may ask, why have you never sailed as captain?" He could almost read the answer in the man's eyes before he spoke. They were eyes that had seen too many disappointments, too many promises unkept. His gaze seemed to expect the worst—wry, weary and bitter all at once.

The man shrugged. "Dunno. Jus' been unlucky, I guess. Look at the two of us. You sailing captain since you were twenty-five and me in my fifties and never more'n a mate. But Mr. Shute, he promised to find me a command on one of his ships if I get a good report from you at the end of this voyage.”

“Well, sir, do your duty. That's all I ask, and I'll be happy to pass a good word to Mr. Shute.”

Captain Barker caught a glimpse of motion beyond the cabin port. "Come, Mr. Rand. I believe the Susannah is getting under way.”

The captain bounded up the stairs to the poop deck, followed a few paces behind by the mate, and stood at the outboard rail as the tall and lovely German ship slipped by. A rotund captain wearing a fine blue coat and a hat with gold braid on the brim stood abaft the quartermaster. He waved when he saw Captain Barker, whom he had met once or twice socially, while their ships were loading.

“Have a good trip, Captain Frederich," Captain Barker yelled over. "See you in Chile.”

“We'll wait for you," the German captain responded.

“No need. We'll get there first.”

“Ya, sure," the German laughed.

Captain Barker couldn't resist. "We'll beat you by twenty days!”

“Nein, Kapitän. Nie passieren," Captain Frederich shouted back.

“Twenty days!" Captain Barker shouted back for emphasis.

Captain Frederich waved and laughed.

Behind him, Captain Barker heard Mr. Rand say, "No way we'll beat the Susannah. She's too fast by half. We'll never catch her.”

Instantly, Captain Barker was reminded of the coal box sailor who spat tobacco juice on the Lady Rebecca's name on the chalkboard in the shipping hall. He wanted to turn and punch the mate in the face for his insolence, but thought better of it. He breathed deeply to compose himself, and then turned around.

“We will beat the Susannah, Mr. Rand. We are going to out-sail that Fritz, and you, sir, are going to help us do it. Do you understand me, Mr. Rand?”

“Yes, sir." Rand put his hat back on. "If you'll excuse me, sir. I'll see to number two hatch.”

Captain Barker watched the mate's broad back was he walked down the ladder to the main deck, and then turned to see the stern of the Susannah gliding though the dock gates. The tug Goliath had her towline and was easing her out to sea.

“I'll be waiting for you in Chile, Captain Frederich." He turned to look down the deck. "And I'll be keeping my eye on you, Mr. Rand.”