Hell Around the Horn

4. Setting Sail

At five a.m., Mate Rand and Second Mate Atkinson pounded on the fo'c'sle doors. Rand bellowed, "Rise and shine, me hearties. Get your useless carcasses out of your bunks. This ain't no pleasure cruise.”

If half the crew was drunk when they came aboard, half as many again were drunker on sailing day. They drained the bottles that they had hidden away in their sea chests and duffels. It was a ritual that Fred had come to expect but never really quite understood. On his first ship, he asked a shipmate why everyone drank so much the night before sailing. The sailor looked at him blankly and asked, "Why'd any man go to sea, if he weren't stinkin' drunk?" It was as good an answer as any, he supposed, but as he had suffered enough from the previous day's hangover, he had no wish to repeat it as the ship was getting under way.

The crew stumbled out of the fo'c'sle more slowly than Rand would have liked so he grabbed a sailor by the shirt and threw him a few feet across the deck. A second sailor came flying after him and the rest of the crowd moved considerably faster.

When everyone was out of the cabin, the mate said, "Well, let's see who we got. Sing out when your name is called.”

Atkinson stepped up and shouted, "Tom Jackson.”

The Liverpool sailor yelled "Aye.”

“Make that 'aye, sir,' mister," the mate grumbled.

Jackson laughed. "Well, aye, sir, it is then.”

“Otto Schmidt.”

“Yah, Mr. Mate," the German sailor replied.

Atkinson snorted. Close enough to "sir," he supposed.

The second mate worked his way down the crew list, receiving an honorific about half the time, and seeming not overly concerned by the lack. His face did grow more troubled when the name he called gave no response at all. "John Williams." He waited. "Williams?" John Williams was apparently not aboard. He moved on to the names of sailors who were present. "Jerry Panagopo … Panagopoulos.”

“Jus' call me Jerry da Greek, sir. Ever'body does.”

When he had worked his way down the list, Mate Rand asked, "How many we got?”

“We're seven short.”

Rand snorted. "I'll let the captain know.”

As Rand walked aft, Mate Atkinson pointed. "You four, stand by the bow lines. You four, the after springs. The rest of you, lead the forward springs to the capstan and stand by.”

Rand found Captain Barker in his dayroom, going through the ship's papers.

“Captain, sir. We're seven shy. Seven who signed articles yesterday took French leave, or so it looks. Took your advance money and just skedaddled.”

The captain looked up, scowling. "Damned sailors these days. Give me their names. When I send the papers and manifest ashore, I'll be sure they are listed with the constable.”

“Make it up with pierhead jumpers?" Rand asked.

Captain Barker shook his head. "I've already been robbed once. Hate to make that twice. But yes, I'll arrange it with the agent." Now he had more bodies to buy. The agent would arrange with a crimp or a boardinghouse master to find him sufficient crew, probably all drugged or drunk, like as not, shanghaied from other ships.

“Well, if that's the way you want it, Captain, that's the way it'll be.”

Once the crew was squared away at the mooring lines, Second Mate Atkinson walked aft and pounded on the door to the half-deck, which reverberated like the inside of a bass-fiddle. "Up and out, and be quick about it," he bellowed. Will felt like he had just closed his eyes. They had worked late loading and storing provisions and gear. His muscles ached and he wanted nothing more than to roll over in his bunk and go back to sleep. Instead, he jumped up with the others and pulled on his dungarees.

When he stumbled onto the deck, the second mate shouted, "Paul and George, stand by to handle lines on the poop deck. Will and Jack, get aloft. Cast off the gaskets. Course to t'gallants.”

As apprentices, their station when making sail was the mizzenmast, the smallest of the three. Will and Jack climbed the ratlines to the mizzen top. Other sailors climbed aloft on the main and foremasts.

“He's got to be a driver if he is letting the sails hang in their gear before we even leave the wet dock," Will said. Jack only grinned as he laid out on the starboard yard and Will laid out to port.

Will had always heard "one hand for the ship and one hand for yourself," so held tightly to the jackstay with one hand and with the other tried to untie the long canvas strip that held the main course. It was slow work. He glanced over at Jack, who was casting off the fourth gasket where he had just finished one.

“Use two hands, you ninny," Jack shouted over at him. Will colored. Perhaps the old phrase wasn't meant literally. He took a deep breath and let go of the jackstay and leaned over the yard, reaching down with two hands. The square knots in the gaskets were easier to handle now and he was surprised how, between his feet in the footropes and his belly pressed against the yard, he felt moderately secure.

Jack was waiting for him at the mizzen top. "I've seen snails faster'n you," he said with a smile before swinging up the ratlines to the lower topsail yard. Will followed, seething.

On the lower topsail yard, he almost kept up with Jack and did about as well on the upper topsail yard. When they cast off the gaskets on the t'gallant yard, Will stopped and looked below. The deck was a swarm of activity. Aft, the captain and his family had taken to the poop deck; forward, the crew on the fo'c'sle had began stamping around the capstan, slowly warping the ship to the wet dock gate, which inched closer as the ship remained stationary beneath him. Beyond the dock gate, a tug stood by, belching black smoke. Beyond the tug, the Severn Estuary widened into the Bristol Channel, which, in the distance, opened to the sea. The breeze blew on his back as if urging them onward. Will smiled broadly, his eyes now fixed on the hazy line of the horizon..

Captain Barker stood on the poop deck. Mate Rand had the fo'c'sle and Second Mate Atkinson had the main deck. So far, Barker was satisfied with all he saw. Last night he had a nightmare about shipwrecks and storms and woke in a cold sweat, but on this morning there was only a blue sky and a steady light southwesterly breeze, ready to send them on their way once they cleared the channel. He had moved a chair to the poop deck for Mary, who was smiling and holding little Tommy in her arms. Amanda was standing next to her, filled with energy and occasionally requiring a word to stand close and not get in the way of the two apprentices handling the stern lines.

The captain wondered idly on what sort of wind the Susannah was sailing, somewhere over the horizon. The last time he raced his ship, against Billy Jackson's Homeward Bound, he had won twenty-five pounds, which he had divided up amongst the apprentices. Now he wished he had wagered with Captain Frederich. Bragging rights would have to be enough.

The dock gate swung open slowly. It was high tide, so the level of sea matched the water level in the dock. A sailor on deck threw a monkey's fist tied to a light line to the deckhand on the tug Sarah. The tug deckhands secured the heavy wire towing cable to be hauled back to the Lady Rebecca, where sailor looped a heavy rope hawser through the steel eye, then made it fast to the bits. The tug bore off and slowly took a strain on the towing cable.

A launch set off from the dockside. Two sailors rowed while the bodies of several others appeared to be piled in the bilge. "Mr. Atkinson," the captain called. "Lower the Jacob's ladder and make ready a gantline. Some of our crew may need help coming aboard." Four of the sailors climbed easily from the launch up the ladder to the deck of Lady Rebecca. The next sailor made it halfway up before losing his grip, and had to be shoved up on deck by the sailor behind him. The final man was hoisted to the deck by the gantline tied under his arms.

“Make sure that last one is breathing, Mr. Atkinson. Rather that be sure we aren't paying for a corpse.”

“Aye, Captain." The mate shook the comatose sailor, who raised his head. "He'll be fine," the mate called back.

Captain Barker shook his head and snorted. "Sailors these days." On his first voyage as apprentice, a crimp had sold the ship a sailor who appeared to be paralytic drunk. He was thrown into his bunk to sleep it off. Either the man then died or had been dead when he came aboard, because he never came to and the stench gave away his true state. For as long as he sailed as an officer, Barker had always made sure that the crew came aboard breathing, at the very least.

When the launch cast off, the tug throttled up with a belch of coal smoke and slowly the towers and chimneys of Cardiff faded in the summer haze as the Lady Rebecca stood into the wide Severn Estuary. In an hour, they had passed the protection of the sister islands, Flat Holm on the Welsh side and Steep Holm on the English, and stood on into the short chop of the Bristol Channel. To Will, Flat Holm looked like the back of a whale with a lighthouse rather incongruously perched near its head. The island looked to be a wild and barren place and he shuddered to think what it must be like for the patients shipped out to the cholera hospital on its rocky shore, to keep the sickness from spreading to Cardiff. Steep Holm, in the distance, was more substantial, befitting its name. Oddly, in profile, it reminded Will of one of his mother's scones.

As they passed the islands, the southwesterly dropped and then shifted to the north, blowing clear and strong. Captain Barker shouted, "Mr. Rand, let's not waste this wind! Set all sails, 'cept the royals, flying jib, mains'l and cro'jack.”

Mate Rand walked forward shouting orders. "All hands to make sail! Clear sheets and downhauls! Ready to cast off bunts and clews! Stand by halyards and sheets!”

Second Mate Atkinson joined in on the chorus as sailors ran to the pin rails, most not needing encouragement, though a kick or punch helped direct the slower movers.

The northerly wind had blown the haze away and soon the sails were replacing the white of the clouds against the sky. The lower tops'l sheets were hauled out, the upper tops'l yards were mastheaded and the sails sheeted home.

Second Mate Atkinson shouted, "Apprentices, overhaul the buntlines!”

Will stood by the mizzen shrouds and looked puzzled. Paul Nelson, the senior apprentice, laughed. "I'll show you how. Run to the stores locker and cut eight lengths of twine, about so long," he said holding his hands apart about eight inches. When Will just stood there, Paul said a bit louder, "Now, Mr. Jones. Now.”

“Oh, aye, sir," Will muttered and ran to fetch the twine.

As the sailors hauled on the sheets and halyards, Captain Barker heard a sound that brought a smile to his face. Harry the Cornishman, at the mainmast rail, sang out,

“For I come from the world belooow.”

The rest of the sailors along the halyard replied in chorus, "Whiskey Johnny, Whiskey ooohhh.”

Harry sang back at them, "For that is where the old cocks croooow.”

“Whiskey for my Johhnie, ooooh.”

Harry sang another verse and sailors stomping around the capstan joined in on the chorus, as the heavy upper topsail yard crept skyward, the click of the capstan pawls helping to keep time with the shanty.

A crew that could sing a rope was likely a good crew. Surly sailors who hauled in silence were guaranteed to be trouble. Some captains considered not singing out to be outright insubordination. But here was Harry singing out in rare form. Like the northerly wind carrying them into the open ocean, it was all a good sign. Captain Barker was not one to pay undue attention to signs and portents, but he was loath to ignore them.

The Lady Rebecca, now on a beam reach, quickly began to overrun the tug, which swung farther out to try to keep some load on the towline while staying clear of the wake boiling off the sailing ship's bow. Captain Barker told the mate to signal the tug to end the tow. Crew on the fo's'c'le cast off the hawser, letting go the tug's cable. The tug captain waved at them and blew the customary three-whistle blast to wish them a fair voyage. Captain Barker faintly heard the tug captain yell, "Hope ye beat the German," as the tug dropped astern.

“That we shall," Captain Barker yelled back with a wave.

As the sun set, they hauled Lundy Island abeam and the great Atlantic lay before them. When the course was set sou'west and the yards squared, the mates called the crew aft to the break of the poop to choose the watches.

Fred Smythe and the other sailors lined up for inspection as the two mates stood on the poop deck, looking down at them with watchful eyes. The mates had seen the men working now for a few hours and each would choose which would serve in their watches for the rest of the voyage. Behind the mates stood the captain, imperiously—the king watching over his princes.

Whether it was better to be in the mate's or the second mate's watch had been an ongoing topic of conversation since the crew came aboard. Some thought that Rand would be tougher, while others thought Atkinson was too young—and that, as the captain's brother-in-law, he was more likely to be a bucko bruiser just to prove that he was up to the task. Fred had no particular opinion. He had seen good and bad mates in both ranks, and besides, as they would be choosing him and not the other way around, it hardly mattered what he thought.

Rand looked at the crowd and then at the articles. "Harry," he called out, his first pick. Harry moved over to the starboard side of the deck. An obvious choice, Fred thought. Every mate wants a good shantyman on his watch. Atkinson glanced at the articles. "Jensen," he shouted. The Dane moved to the port side of the deck. Not a bad choice either, it seemed to Fred.

Fred watched the mates and the remaining crew, gauging whether the officers valued skill and experience or just brute strength. There were never enough real sailors and, then again, there was never enough beef on a rope to haul the braces and halyards.

About halfway through, the mate called out "Smythe" and Fred took his place with the others to starboard. This suited Fred fine as his gear was already in a berth in the starboard side of the fo'c'sle house, so at least he didn't have to move his kit. And so the choosing went on, until everyone was chosen.

Best of all, by tradition, the captain's watch stood the first watch when the ship sailed. The captain, of course, didn't stand watches so the second mate did in his stead. The mate's watch took the first watch on the homebound voyage. Because he was in the mate's watch, it was Fred's time below, so he could try to get a few hours rest, if he was lucky, before he was due back on deck.

He glanced up again at the mainmast with its massive yards and endless acres of sail. The Frenchman had been right. Even in fine weather, all hands would be needed to tack or wear ship. The old clippers were a third the Lady Rebecca's size and had crews of sixty or more men. The Lady Rebecca only had twenty seamen aboard. She was beauty to the eye, but a beast of a ship indeed.

The ship had begun a slow but steady roll in the first hint of the swells off the Bay of Biscay. The arc scribed by the masts across the sky reminded Fred of the pendulum of a clock. It was fitting. When he learned a bit of physics in college, he was awed by Newton's clockwork universe. Simple equations predicted the movement of the stars across the heavens, the rising and setting of the sun and moon, the spinning of the stars. The order and clarity of Newton's clockwork was both humbling and reassuring. Everything was in its place, the heavenly spheres dancing in perfect rhythm.

Ships reminded Fred of Newton. A ship was as reliable as clockwork. Now that the ship's watch-bill had been set, the watches would continue, day after day, week after week, month after month, until the Lady Rebecca finally made port. The sailors' lives would be ruled by five four-hour watches, broken only by the pair of two-hour dog watches that daily shifted their labor so that no watch was perpetually stuck in the same spot on the face of the clock. If they stood the morning watch one day, they would shift to the middle watch the next, and then the forenoon watch and so on, moving like the marionettes of a great clock tower on the main square of some Italian city-state.

The routine seemed to soothe the wildest of sailors. Days before, they had reveled in the chaos of their liberty, drunk, debauched and wild. They now settled into the reliable rhythm that they knew so well. Ashore they had been like shooting stars, burning brightly and then dying out. Now they returned to their places in the Newtonian order of the ship, watch on and watch off, day after day, across the limitless sea, beneath Newton's clockwork heaven.

Fred walked forward to the fo'c'sle house. The deckhouse was long and narrow just aft of the foremast, divided on its centerline by a bulkhead, creating two cabins, port and starboard, one for each watch. The deckhouse was considered more modern than the old t'gallant fo'c'sle where the bunks were squeezed in under the fo'c'sle head itself in the very eyes of the ship. At least, the crew was less likely to drown when the ship's bow dove beneath a head sea. With the deckhouse farther aft, the motion was slightly less violent, though it was more likely to flood when hit by breaking quartering seas. The house was lit by a single lantern shared by both cabins, hanging in a hole cut in the bulkhead, casting a smoky yellow glow, but no real light.

Fred elbowed his way through the sudden influx of crew to the upper berth where he had stowed his sea chest and his bedding. He was pleased to see that no one else had moved it to claim the berth for his own. He unrolled his donkey's breakfast, the thin mattress that would make the bunk only slightly softer than bare pine planks, and pulled his blanket from his sea chest. His spare blanket, rolled up, would make do as a pillow. He closed his sea chest and secured it beneath the mess table, where it would also serve as a bench when need be. He climbed up into the bunk, pulled a pencil from his pocket and in the shadows wrote "June 11, 1905" on the white-painted wood. Below it he drew a single vertical line. He would mark every day until their landfall, to help him keep track of time and to make sure that he was paid in full when the wages were calculated. With his housekeeping done, he stretched out in the bunk. There was too much commotion to sleep, but there was no reason that he shouldn't take his ease.

In a few minutes, a swarthy, barrel-shaped man took a lower bunk nearby. He poked his head up and said, "Jerry Papadopoulos," by way of greeting. Fred opened one eye, nodded and replied, "Fred Smythe.”

Shaemus from Donegal, whom Fred knew as Donnie, a large Irishman with graying hair, settled into the upper berth just forward his own. He propped himself up and lit a small clay pipe. He was no more loquacious than most from that island nation. "Another voyage, me boys. Anyone willing to lay a wager as to how fast we make it to the line, or how quick we make it 'round?" He paused, but receiving no immediate response, continued, "Been around the Horn twelve times m'self. On the old Clan Longworth made it around from 50 south to 50 south in twelve days. Course, on the damned City of Perth, it took near enough a month and half." He puffed contently on his pipe for a few minutes.

“Now, there is only one way to sail 'round t' Horn, ye know. Got to grab the westerlies by the balls and just hold on. Then, every time the winds slacken just a wee bit and you get a favoring slant, you crowd on the bloody canvas and grab every inch afore the westerlies start snorting again.”

Jerry the Greek looked over and said, "Why you telling us? Why not you go aft and makes sure the captain knows all your smart t'inking? Get us around Cape Stiff right quick. You just tell him hows it's done.”

Donnie smiled as he puffed his pipe, the sweet smell of tobacco wafting over Fred's bunk. "If the Old Man needs my good counsel, he knows where to find me. Always happy to help out when I can.”

Closer to the door, to catch the last light, Hanson, a Swedish sailor, sat on his sea chest and stitched a patch on a pair of overalls. Next to him was Tom, the Liverpool sailor, who was sitting reading a novel by Bulwer-Lytton.

A bit heavy on the melodrama for Fred's taste but perhaps worth swapping for one of the books in his limited library, buried in his sea chest, as the voyage progressed.

The ship was beginning to roll more deeply in the ocean swells, setting the lamp to guttering as it swung from side to side. At the other end of the fo'c'sle someone broke out a harmonica and began to play as Fred slipped off for a few minutes of sleep before his watch began.

Will and Jack were called aft to help the second mate heave the log. Will held the sandglass and Jack held the log spindle. "Twelve knots," announced Mr. Atkinson boisterously.

The captain, standing by the rail to windward, smiled. "A fine start to a fine voyage," he said to no one in particular. Mate Rand, near the wheel, grumbled, "Good starts often have bad ends.”

The captain looked over sternly at his sullen mate, but his visage shifted to a smile and then to a laugh. Things were going too well to let the dour Mr. Rand spoil the day.

The Judy Adams, an ugly tub of a steamer that the captain recognized from Port Talbot, was steering to pass them to starboard, the master apparently confident that they would cross well ahead of the Lady Rebecca.

“Sir, the steam ship." The helmsman looked over to Mr. Rand, who looked at the captain.

“Hold your course," Captain Barker growled.

The steamer kept edging closer until she suddenly veered off to port, falling back to cross astern of the Lady Rebecca. Will could hear derisive laughter from the crew on deck.

The captain smiled and said, "Those smoke boxes think they own the sea. Well, not yet, anyway. Not yet. With the wind behind her, many a steamship'll taste the Lady Rebecca's wake. And mark my words, as long as the wind keeps blowing, there will be sailing ships to sail on it. The wind is still cheaper than coal.”

The northerly continued to build. When the bell struck, ending their watch, Jack and Will saw the cook and took plates of salt pork and sailor's biscuit for dinner back to the half-deck. They washed it all down with an oily, dark and hot liquid that the cook claimed was tea.

The ship was rolling along now in the long swells on a broad reach, with everything set save the royals. Even in the half-deck they could hear the hum of her wake beneath the sound of the wind, the low tune rising and falling as she charged from crest to trough.

Jack sat back against his sea chest, popped a square of tobacco into his mouth and started to chew. "Ye know, a sailor's life ain't as bad as they say, don'tcha think?”

Will opened his mouth to reply and then closed it quickly again. His stomach churned and his head spun. In an instant, he bolted for the half-deck door and stumbled across the deck to the leeward rail. He began to retch the net contents of what seemed his entire being from his toes to his nostrils into the rushing waters. He hung on, with his arms wrapped around the leeward stanchion. He wasn't sick. He was dying. He was sure of that.

When it was mostly past, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. It was Jack. "Come on, old son, let's get you into your bunk. You'll feel better soon enough.”