Hell Around the Horn

5. Trade Winds, Moon Madness and Goats

Will tumbled out with the rest of his watch at four a.m. After downing a mug of the cook's coffee, which tasted like burnt biscuit mixed with dirt and grease, they set about scrubbing down the deck. The Lady Rebecca was built of steel but her deck was still good English oak. They all rolled up their pant legs, threw their shoes on the hatch cover and set to work with brushes, sand and buckets of water to scrub the deck clean.

At first it was great fun, slipping around as the rinse water sloshed over the deck, but soon Will's shoulders began to hurt and his shins were severely bruised from sliding into the bulwark as the ship rolled. Within an hour, he was cold and very hungry; and the deck to be scrubbed seemed to grow larger the longer that they worked.

When the watch ended at eight a.m., Will dragged himself back to the breakfast, a large dollop of nearly tasteless burgoo, a biscuit and a steaming pannikin of tea. He tried to swallow the burgoo without chewing. The oatmeal and barley were coarse and gritty. "What do they put in this?" Will wondered.

“Maybe better not to know," Jack replied. "Coupl'a months, we'll likely run out and then you'll miss it.”

Will took a drink of his tea and then spat. A sodden cockroach hit the deck. "That whore's son of a cook. There's cockroaches in this tea.”

“There's always something in the tea. Dirt, wood chips, bugs. Just the way it is. Last trip an old sailor tried to convince me that the cockroaches were relatives of shrimp. Didn't believe him. Still don't. ”

“Damned cockroach didn't taste anything like shrimp," Will replied.

Will wandered forward and found Fred at work parceling a shroud.

“The mate told me to find you," Will said.

“So you found me. What does the mate want?”

“I think he wants me to work with you. Said you should show me the ropes.”

Fred looked up and raised an eyebrow. The Brits were an odd lot. The apprentice that stood before him had paid, or more likely his parents had paid, to get the position. As an apprentice, he earned practically nothing. He also probably knew practically nothing, yet if he completed his apprenticeship without getting himself killed or sinking the ship, he would most likely sit for an exam and be made second mate. On an American ship, any smart and tough A.B. could become mate anytime, so long as he was an American citizen.

And now, an underpaid seaman was supposed to train the apprentice who one day might lord over him as mate. That was just the way Limeys did things. Fred shook his head.

Fred put down his serving mallet and looked at the young apprentice. "Ever parceled and served a shroud before?”

“No, sir.”

“I'm Fred, not sir. Learn that right quick.”

“Yes … Fred.”

Fred moved to a shroud that he had just stripped of tar, worn canvas and marline. The serving and parceling protected both the shroud and rigging that rubbed against the shroud from wear. As the shroud held the mast up against the force of the wind and the sea, Will agreed that it was a worthwhile project.

“First you take the marline and wind it in between the strands of the shroud. See how that makes it smoother?" Fred looked at Will, who nodded.

“That's called worming. Then you parcel. Hand me those strips of canvas. You wrap the canvas around the shroud, same direction as the lay. See the way I am doing it?”

Will nodded again as Fred tied off a piece of canvas. He picked up a tool that looked like a wooden mallet that had been cut out on one side to perfectly fit the diameter of the shroud.

“Then you use a serving mallet to wind the line around it tight, before you tie it off and tar it all over." He tied off a new section of marline on the shroud and pressed the mallet against the shroud. With the line wrapped around the handle, he wound the mallet around the shroud, pulling the line tight over the canvas parceling beneath.

“Got that?”

“I think so," Will replied.

“OK then. I have a poem for you to memorize:

Worm and parcel with the lay / Turn and serve the other way. Now repeat it.”

With a moment's hesitation, Will did.

“Come on, then, you do it," Fred said, handing him the mallet. "The only way to learn.”

For the next week, Will was Fred's shadow, copying everything the older sailor did. From casting off gaskets to furling sails and rolling the bunts, it wasn't long until he started to think he understood most of a sailor's work. For several watches, he stood next to Fred when it was his trick at the wheel, before he was allowed to steer the ship on his own, with Fred standing by to make sure the apprentice didn't broach the ship to, or leave them in irons.

That first week was its own kind of torture as Will's muscles ached, not yet acclimated to constant hauling and heaving. At first the soreness made it hard to sleep in his four hours off watch, until exhaustion finally overwhelmed the pain.

During the first dogwatch, Fred was showing Will how to tie a block mat from old junk that the ship's carpenter had given him. The mat was put under a block on deck to cushion it when the line went slack, so the block's pounding didn't mar the deck or hurt the block shell. It was simple and pleasant enough work, an initial pattern that kept repeating until the mat was big enough, finished off with a few twine stitches to hold it together.

Will looked up. "You sure know a lot about rope work, Fred.”

Fred laughed. "I don't know a damn thing. If you want to see fancy work, you just watch Harry. Now he is a marlinspike sailor if there ever was one." He looked at his young charge. "In the afternoon watch, they have you working in the after house, don't they? What do they have you doing back there?”

Will shrugged. "What else? Cleaning. The cabin, chart room and the dayroom. Steward's got to keep his pantry and kitchen clean, but we do all else.”

Fred looked out at the ocean. "I've always had an interest in navigating. How about you?”

“Most assuredly," Will replied. "Before signing on I spent two years at the Trinity School of Navigation. I look forward to putting my schooling to practice.”

Fred smiled at the apprentice. "Well, when you find yourself cleaning the chart room, why don't you make a note of our position. Just for interest's sake. I like an idea where I am, from time to time. Would you do that for me?”

“All right," Will replied with a shrug.

They had begun to pick up the northeasterly trade winds. The mornings were warm and the trades, steady on the quarter, were exactly the winds that the Lady Rebecca was built for. The sails were set to the t'gallants and they hadn't touched the braces for days. Fred loved to listen to the hypnotic hum of the wake, a steady and soothing hiss, as the miles slipped effortlessly beneath her keel.

In the afternoon, during the two dogwatches, all hands turned to, to sweat up the halyards and any other lines that had stretched in the previous day's sail. It was easy enough work as most lines were steel cable with hemp rope tails. Only the hemp stretched and there wasn't much of it. Harry took the forehand, and the men tailed the line behind him. He sang a favorite halyard shanty.

“Oooh, Boney was a warrior, a way hey, a warrior, a terrier . . .”

Fred sang along with gusto as they hauled in unison on the heavy hemp line, "John François!”

“Oooh, Boney fought the Prussians, a way hey, the Austrians and Russhians …”

“John François!”

And so it went, at each of the three masts, until all the running rigging was taut again and the yards pressed snug against the blocks. As Fred walked forward, he glanced back at the captain watching imperiously from the break of the poop deck, the lord and master of them all. He could almost see a smile on the Old Man's face. Hell, why not, Fred thought, smiling himself as the mighty ship rolled on before the steady trade winds, the sails huge and white against the cloudless blue of the sky and far deeper blue of the sea.

After sweating up the lines, the crew spread out across the deck to enjoy the rest of the second dog watch. Fred sat leaning against the fo'c'sle deckhouse gazing idly up at the sails. In a moment, Donnie, who was sitting beside him, gave him a quick backhanded swat to his shoulder.

“What was that for?" Fred demanded.

“Quit yer looking at that upper topsail brace, " the old Irishman snorted.

“What do you mean?”

Donnie sighed. "The brace is slack. It could use some hauling. If you keep looking up at it like a mooncow, the mate will see you, look up himself and we'll be back up hauling on the brace, and I just set myself down.”

Fred laughed and took one last look up at the rigging. Donnie was right. The brace was slack. He averted his gaze and looked out instead at the rolling sea, the waves a deep blue with foaming white crests. If the mate saw the slack brace, he wouldn't be blamed for it.

A short way away, Harry was sitting on the hatch coaming, working on a pair of fancy rope handles for his sea chest. Tom Jackson, the sailor from Liverpool, sauntered over. A stream of tobacco juice squirted from his lip, hitting the deck, just missing Harry's foot. Harry looked up at the tall young sailor.

“Would ya wipe that up for me, now?" Tom asked.

“Wipe it up ya'self. I'm busy," Harry replied, both his hands still occupied with his rope work.

“Now, that is na' friendly at all," Tom replied with an ominous smirk. He kept chewing the tobacco but his fists were clenched.

Fred, watching from a few paces away, had been wondering when the ritual would be played out. The community on a deep-sea ship was primitive. There was always a top dog. The cock of the watch. On some ships, an older sailor was simply deferred to. On others, a young tough would assert his claim. Harry was the experienced hand and a shantyman to boot, so he would naturally be the untitled leader of the watch, but Tom Jackson was the new young rooster. Along with the rest of the crew, Fred could only watch and see who came out on top.

Harry looked unconcerned. "Ya see, I ain't got a rag, so I canna help you.”

Tom pulled a dirty rag from his pocket and dropped it at his feet. "Now, wipe it up, ya codger.”

Harry smiled. "Ach. I've sailed long enough to know that t'ere is no point in scrapping." He put down his rope work and bent over to reach for the rag.

Tom grinned in triumph and looked around at the rest of the crew to make sure that they had seen his victory. The old man was afraid to fight. He as much as said so.

“You dropped your rag," Harry said. With remarkable speed for a man his size, Harry grabbed the rag in his large fist and sprang up to full standing, using the power of his legs as well as his massive shoulders, driving his fist under the young sailor's jaw. Tom was lifted off the deck, landing on his back near the bulwark. The crew burst into laughter and catcalls.

A moment later there was silence. Tom was not moving. Had the blow killed him?

After what seemed a very long time, Tom opened his eyes and moved his head slightly. He slowly opened and closed his jaw and then brought his hand gingerly alongside his face.

“Best be careful, youngster," Harry said, standing over him. "It's easy to get hurt. An' you dropped your rag." He tossed the rag on Tom's chest.

All eyes were on their horizontal shipmate. Would he spring up to fight the older sailor? Or would Harry give him a hard kick or two, break a few ribs, before he could get up? Fred realized that he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly.

Instead, Tom chuckled. "'Right ye are. Never can be too careful." He raised his hand to be helped up and Harry took it warily and hauled Tom off the deck. Now was when Tom might start swinging again, if he hadn't learned his lesson, but instead he slapped Harry on the back. "You pack quite a punch and you're a damn sight faster than ya look, ya know." Tom went over to the tobacco juice on deck and scrubbed at it with his rag, then went back to his bunk, chastened and sore.

Harry resumed the work on his sea chest handles. He had finished one, which lay on the hatch cover next to him as he worked on the second. Santiago, who was sitting not far away, motioned at the finished handle. "Can I see?" Harry nodded. "Das as fine work as I've eve' seen," Santiago opined. Harry just nodded and kept working.

Jerry the Greek nudged Santiago, who passed him the handle, and so the handle made its way around the deck with each man expressing his admiration for the fine marline-spike work.

When the handle reached Fred, he turned it over in his hand. It was shaped like a large iron shackle, except much lighter and softer and adorned with beautifully detailed rope work. Harry had taken a length of three-quarter-inch rope, spliced both ends, then puddened the middle with layers of canvas to make it thicker. He covered the whole thing with four-strand coxcombing and Spanish hitching in white cod line, ending up with two three-stranded Turk's heads. He had then carefully bent the becket to shape. The handle "bolt" was leather-covered rope finished at each end with a star knot. Fred let out a low whistle of appreciation and then passed the handle to Donnie.

After a moment's careful examination, Donnie said, "A fine rope handle, to be sure. Pro'lly nobody on the ship could make one better. Course, I once sailed wit' a Frisian named Vanderploeg on the old Mariana. Now, he could make a set of handles, I'll tell you. Never seen any finer. Not that ter' is anyt'ing wrong with this handle, now, nothing at all, but the handles that Van made, well, they were near enough to breathtaking, with rose knots and coach whipping and wall and crown knots. Yes, sirree.”

Harry got to his feet and walked over to the Irishman.

“Are you saying that I can't make a rope handle as well as a bloody Frisian? You saying a Frisian's better'n me?" Harry still had the marlinspike that he had been using to work the cord, clutched in his large right hand.

Donnie jumped to his feet. "Well, now, I ain't saying anything of the sort! Why would you even ask such a question?”

“All right, then," Harry replied, and snatched the finished handle from Donnie's hand.

“Good work there," Donnie said as Harry went back to where he had been sitting. Harry only snorted in reply.

Donnie sat back down and Fred turned to him. "Why did you do that?”

Donnie grinned. "Just having fun.”

“You are lucky you didn't end up with that marlinspike in your gizzard.”

“Ach," Donnie replied, "Harry's not a bad sort.”

“True enough," Fred replied. "With others you might not have been so lucky.”

“The skill, to be sure, is knowing which from which," Donnie said with a smile.

The mate bellowed from the break of the poop deck. "The watch! Take up on the upper main topsail brace!”

As they got to their feet, Donnie said, "Told ya not to be looking.”

Fred laughed. "It wasn't me.”

At midnight, Fred began his two-hour trick at the wheel. At first, Mr. Rand stood next to him with one eye on the compass and one on the sails. Fred only barely suppressed a grin. This was not his first time steering a sailing ship in the trade winds. In a few minutes, Mr. Rand strolled off to windward.

Somewhere forward, Fred heard a harmonica playing, in an odd but pleasing counterpoint to the drone of the sea and the creaking of the steel yards and rigging. An almost full moon filled half the sails with moonlight, and cast the other half in shadow, shifting back and forth as the ship rolled in the quartering sea. On a night like this Fred could imagine being no other place in the world. He held the wheel lightly, giving a spoke or two now and then in anticipation of the ship's movement, sailing by the set of the sails and by the compass glowing dimly in the binnacle. He reveled in the unimaginable power of the wind, the sea and the mighty steel ship that he could feel gently cradled in his hands on the wheel. The wind, on his back, whispered to him and the sea sang in its magical monotone. He knew that moments like these never lasted. The best never quite made up for the worst—whether icy winds and mountainous seas, or just the bad food, lousy wages and poor treatment. Yet for a short while, at least, none of that mattered, as he steered a mighty wind-ship across a rolling sea and star-strewn sky.

When relieved at the wheel, Fred was sent forward to spend the rest of the watch as lookout. As he rounded the deckhouse, a shadow leapt out toward him. He saw the flash of a knife blade cutting through the moonlight, inches from his throat. He jumped backward and grabbed his own knife from his belt, holding it out in the darkness against his phantom attacker.

But the attack never came. Fred saw a large man lunging about on the deck in the moonlight, fighting an unseen foe. Stepping warily closer, Fred recognized the Dane, Jensen, lurching and slashing at the darkness, cursing in what to Fred sounded like gibberish. Fred watched him for a moment, shook his head and crossed over to the leeward side of the ship.

At the fo'c'sle head, Fred relieved Tom Jackson. "That crazy Dane came near enough to slitting my throat. Son of a bitch.”

Tom shook his head. "Yeah. Seen him dancing around. Pretty fair sailor, but crazy queer come the moon. Best give him a wide berth. If I see the mate, I'll tell him.”

“You do that." Fred spent the rest of the watch looking out for other ships on the horizon and glancing over his shoulder, watching for a moon-mad Dane with a knife.

The next day, when Fred was off watch and it was near enough to dinnertime, he drifted aft to the galley and overheard the Jamaican cook, Jeremiah, pontificating, as he was prone to do. The large black cook seemed to think of himself as a prophet, yet never a happy one. He was always moaning of bad tidings, while the only bad tidings that Fred was aware of came from his kettles. He was a better preacher than a cook. Jeremiah spoke so often of the gospels that some in the crew were now calling him the ship's sky-pilot or the reverend instead of the doctor.

Jeremiah's voice carried beyond the cookhouse. "He a Jonah-man. That he be. Dancing around like a debil in the moonlight. Got the debil in his heart, that man. He be bringing down the bad spirits and foul winds on us afore this trip is over. Pray for salvation from the Lord on high. But with a debil aboard, maybe not even God Almighty hisself can save us. Mark my words.”

Fred heard Harry's voice, "Shut your yammering, ya crazy fool. Don't need no talk like that. Talk like that's what brings the bad luck. That's for damn sure.”

Later at the cabin table, as the watch gnawed on the salt horse and biscuit, the talk was of Jensen.

“So what? Most Danes are crazy, for sure," suggested Tony the Chileno. "Jensen's all right.”

“Just might be sometin' to it, all the same," Otto Schmidt said. "Not smart to ignore bad spirits. Let's 'em sneak up on ya that way. A crazy man is bad enough, but a crazy man swinging a knife, that's somethin' else.”

Harry shrugged. "I just don't like all the bad-mouthing of another sailor. Good thing that Jensen has na' temper. That black bastard talk like that 'bout me, I might slit him from gut to gizzard with his own stinking blade.”

Otto pulled out his tobacco pouch, made of the foot of an albatross. Fred smiled. Otto was the most superstitious of the lot yet cared not a whit for the stories in books. Like most sailors, Otto was ready to catch and skin an albatross, the poet's verses be damned.

“Barker 'spose to be a lucky captain. Le's just hope his luck is wit' us," offered Tony.

“Sometimes, hope is all we got," nodded Harry.

Fred sat looking at his tin plate. The cook's talk about Jensen didn't bother him as much as the food the cook was serving. Never enough and what there was was bad. He had never sailed on a British ship before but had always heard that the limejuicers were bad feeders. He was beginning to understand just how bad.

Mary Barker finally sat down to the small writing desk in the cabin. The children were being watched by one of the apprentices and she had some time to herself. She took out her stationery, pen and ink and set about the letter that she had been meaning to start for days.

After reducing his noon sun sight and plotting their position on the chart, Captain Barker returned to the poop deck with his telescope. Mr. Rand was on watch, standing at the break of the poop as the ship rolled on before the trades.

“Afternoon, Mr. Rand," Captain Barker said, in passing, as he walked to the weather mizzen ratlines. He tucked the collapsed telescope into his belt, swung out and began climbing up to the mizzen top. He usually sent an apprentice or even a mate aloft, but why not make the climb himself? Good to remind the crew that he was as fit as any of them and the day was too lovely to waste on the poop deck.

Once on the mizzen top, Captain Barker braced himself on a shroud, extended the telescope and looked out to the east. The dark smudges in the glass appeared where he expected them to be. The volcanic peaks that rose above the horizon were the Cape Verde Islands, 2,500 nautical miles from Cardiff. The largest should be Santiago, unless the Lady Rebecca was farther south than he thought and he was seeing Fogo, the highest of the volcanoes. As he swept the horizon with the glass, trying to get his bearings on the ten islands of the archipelago, a white blob obstructed his view. He refocused the glass and saw that it was the top-hamper of a ship. He couldn't see the deck, but it was four-masted and a barque.

Captain Barker laughed out loud. The rigging was exactly right. It had to be. He shouted down to the deck, "Mr. Rand, I do believe that I spy the Susannah, well to the east of us.”

Atkinson came on deck, curious about the shouting. The captain called down, "Mr. Atkinson, could you join me aloft. I would value a second opinion.”

When the second mate clambered up onto the platform, the captain handed him the telescope. "Tell me what you think.”

After a moment's consideration, Atkinson said, "Well, she certainly could be the Susannah. The cut of the mizzen topsail looks German.”

The captain nodded. "I checked the shipping press before we sailed. I think that is the only Kraut four-poster to sail from the coast anywhere near our departure. It has got to be her. We caught up and have a good bit of westing on her.”

He took the telescope back and looked again toward the sails rising above the horizon. Nothing set above the t'gallants. He yelled down, "Mr. Rand, set the royals on the fore and main.”

“Aye, sir," Rand yelled back. He turned to the deck and started shouting the orders to set the royals.

“If you'll excuse me, Captain," Mr. Atkinson said as he disappeared over the edge of the mizzen top.

Captain Barker looked down from the mizzen top. "So, we'll never catch the Susannah, is that what you said, Mr. Rand? We've caught her and now we'll show her our heels." He climbed back down the ratlines as the royals blossomed on the main and foremasts against the deep blue of a cloudless sky.

In fair weather of the trades, the captain agreed to give the three goats and half-dozen chickens the run of the ship. If they were to provide milk and eggs, he thought it better to free them from their pens. Jeremiah, the cook, was none too pleased when the bearded bandits stole biscuits, lard and old rags from his galley. He menaced them with a cleaver. "I'd cut your mangy heads off if'in you weren't de captain's goats," he shouted at them—a threat that seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the bearded children of Capricorn.

The goats also began raiding the off-watch fo'c'sle cabin, making meals of the foul-weather gear hanging on the pegs on the bulkhead. They also liked seaboots and dungarees.

Mr. Rand, seeming uncharacteristically jolly, came aft and spoke to the captain.

“Well, sir, your goats are giving you a guaranteed profit in your slop chest sales. Crew'll be buying lots of gear if the goats keep it up.”

Captain Barker looked back at Rand. "Who did you assign to tend to them?

“John Lindstrom, comes from goat country in Norway, I hear.”

“When was the last time he milked them?”

“I'm not sure. I'll check.”

“Do so." The captain called for the carpenter. "Mr. Pugsley, please round up the goats and tie them where they will stay out of mischief.”

Twenty minutes later, Lindstrom went to milk the goats. He carried a short stool, a rag and a bucket. Rand tagged along to make sure that the job was done. They found the goats tethered with twine just outside the bosun's locker.

On seeing their approach, one of the three goats stiffened, crouched and then launched into a sudden spring, breaking his twine leash and hurling itself headfirst at the mate. Its two other kinsmen followed suit, hitting Lindstrom and Mr. Rand right about amidships and knocking both down on the deck. Lying on his back, the mate bellowed for reinforcements. Soon, a tangled mass of sailors grappled for the three goats, who proved to be far more agile than they might have first appeared.

Curses, laughter and cries of pain rose from the squirming pile until all three goats were well and thoroughly secure. Disheveled sailors and the exhausted goats all splayed out on the deck catching their breath.

Lindstrom got up and found his stool and bucket, which had been kicked across the deck. He sat on the stool and placed the bucket under a now calm she-goat. Reaching below the beast, Lindstrom did what he could, but to no avail. Apparently a diet of oilskins, dungarees and rubber boots was not conducive to the production of milk.

The chickens were more productive. Set free to roam every morning at six, they returned to their pens on their own by six in the evening. Every morning the cook collected the eggs with an allotment going aft and the rest shared with the half-deck and the fo'c'sle.

The chickens took to the captain's son, Tommy, who liked to sit on deck surrounded by them at feeding time, grabbing as much of the chicken feed for himself as he could before his mother or Will stopped him.

Will grated at being the designated nursemaid, but he sincerely enjoyed keeping an eye on Amanda and little Tommy. At home he was the youngest, so having two children to watch out for was a new experience for the apprentice. Both children made him laugh. Tommy tottered around, not quite stable yet so close to the deck that he didn't fall hard or very often.

Amanda was feisty. Were it not for her gender, Will thought she would make a fine ship's captain. She knew how to assume command. She would take Will's hand and say, "Come along, Mr. William," as she took him below to have tea with Mrs. Murphy, the canvas doll that the sail maker had sewn for her. Tommy followed along behind to the mess room. Will gave Walter, the steward, a nasty look when he saw him grinning in the pantry.

Mr. Rand came to the captain's dayroom. "Getting complaints about a crazy man for'ard, Captain. Jensen, the Dane. Starts swinging at shadows from the lamp in the fo'c'sle with his knife and been doing queer things on deck in the moonlight.”

“Do you think him dangerous?”

“Hard to tell, sir. Could be harmless, unless he hurts or kills someone.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rand. I'll have a word with him. Send him aft when he is off watch.”

Not long after Mr. Rand left the dayroom, Walter Gronberg, the ship's carpenter, stood on the threshold. "Scuse me, Captain.”

“Yes Chips, come in.”

“Thank you, sir. Doing my rounds. The coal in number two hatch is heating up. Just thought you should know.”

The captain, who had been updating the log, put down his pen. "How hot is it getting?”

“Round a hundred and ten right now," the carpenter replied, checking his notebook.

“Could just be the warmer climate. Watch it and keep me informed.”

“Yes, sir," the carpenter replied with a nod.

An hour later, the Dane was outside the captain's dayroom, twisting his cap in his hands.

“Come in, Jensen," the captain called out.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Captain Barker looked at the sailor, who had clearly been sailing for much of his life. His face was weathered and hard, though his eyes looked calm and almost kindly. The tattoos on his arms had faded a touch in the sun. The tattoo of the naked woman with the large breasts on his right arm suggested wild times ashore, hardly unusual among sailors. Barker had been watching Jensen. He was one of the best sailors in the crew—skilled, fast and hardworking. He would like a dozen more like him.

“Jensen, we sailed without a bosun. You seem to have all the knowledge required. Would you be interested in the job?”

The big man shook his head. "Ach, no, sir. Lots of fellers forward better qualified than me. Wouldn't be right. Hate to bother them about it.”

The captain leaned forward. "Don't worry about anyone else. I think that you are qualified for the job and it is my decision to make, not theirs.”

“Thank you, sir. I just couldn't. No. Think I best stay for'ard.”

Captain Barker sighed to himself. Forward was where the problem was. If Jensen was bosun, he would bunk aft and the crew wouldn't have to worry about the Dane. It seemed an easy solution, but Jensen was having none of it.

“Tell me, Jensen, were you injured on any of your last ships?”

“Yah, on the Daniella." He raised a hand to the back of his head.

“What happened?”

“A toggle falls from the maintop and cracks me on mine hoved, my head.”

The captain looked concerned. "Where you laid up long?”

“Was in my bunk a few times. Captain paid me off in Portland." His voice dropped until it was barely audible. "Captain said I was crazy.”

“Have you felt oddly during this voyage?”

“Yah, sir," Jensen replied softly. "Sometimes, when the moon gets big.”

Captain Barker sat silently for a moment. Jensen didn't seem dangerous, but who could tell?

“Jensen, if the moon or anything else gets to bothering you, come and tell me about it. I'll tell the mate that you have my permission. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, sir," Jensen replied.

“Then, that will be all.”