Hell Around the Horn

6. Doldrums and Cracker Hash

The four apprentices sat around the long table in the half-deck. "I miss my mother's cooking," Will mused to himself.

Jack looked over. "What, you homesick already?”

“Nah, just hungry's all. Ma isn't much of a cook but least I was never pinch-bellied.”

Jack hooted, and then looked ruefully at his own metal dish, empty now except for a piece of salt horse that was all gristle and bone.

Rations were set by law. It was all laid down in the articles, detailing the quantity and variety of food that had to be served up to sailors. But nothing in the law guaranteed the quality of the stores or whether the weight specified was all fat, bone or gristle, not fit for feeding to hogs. And then there was the skill, or lack thereof, of the cook, who could be relied upon to ruin even that portion that was edible. Will found that he was hungry most of the time.

That morning, it had been Will's turn to wait with a bread barge, a sort of oblong box, at the deckhouse door for the steward to dole out the day's allotment of "Liverpool pantiles." Nicknamed after a type of roofing tile, the hard-baked biscuits that would substitute for bread for the long voyage. Tom, a sailor from the off-watch, waited with his bread barge in hand as well.

Once he delivered the biscuits to the half-deck, Will fetched a billy of tea from the cook in the galley. Twice a week they got a bit of sugar and tinned milk, but they used that in a day, so they had only black stewed tea to wash down the chalk-dry biscuits.

Breakfast was burgoo, pantiles and tea, while the midday dinner was a measly piece of salt beef with pantiles. Pantiles and tea was the evening meal.

On Sundays and Thursdays, salt pork replaced the "salt horse," and each man got a boiled potato. Even early in the voyage, the spuds were rotten or sprouting. And when they ran out, there would be no more for the trip. The cook also made a dried pea soup, almost as gritty and tasteless as the burgoo.

The first few weeks hadn't been too bad. There had been eggs from the chickens but now the birds weren't doing so well. Sea life apparently didn't appeal to them. They had stopped laying and were losing their feathers. The consensus in the half-deck was that they would soon end up on the captain's table.

Jerry the Greek had been lucky with a fishing line, catching two fine tunas, so for a few days, everyone had a bit of fish, but now that they were leaving the trade winds, there was no time for fishing.

Once a week, on Tuesday in the first dogwatch, the slop chest—the ship's store—was open for business. The apprentices lined up with the rest of the crew. The business in oilskins and sea boots was brisk. The goats had eaten through many sets in the fo'c'sle. Each sailor's purchase was marked down in the steward's log to be deducted from his pay at sign-off.

The half-deck had so far resisted the goats' assault. Instead of gear, the apprentices pooled their miserably small slop-chest allotments to buy a pound tin of raspberry jam. The four rushed back to the half-deck, the senior apprentice, Paul Nelson, cradling their prize in his arms. They then took turns eating the jam a spoonful at a time. After the initial lust for sweets had been sated, they took the rest for cracker hash.

The recipe was easy. They took a steel belaying pin and crushed the four pantiles that they had left in a flat pan, picked out the weevils, and then stirred in the remaining jam. They then all marched forward, with Paul Nelson taking the lead, carrying the pan before him, stopping at the galley door where they most politely asked the cook to bake the hash in his oven. They waited outside, peering into the galley from time to time, praying that the oven wasn't too hot or that the cook didn't get too busy or their cracker hash would be burned to a crisp and it would be no use complaining.

Paul leaned tentatively across the threshold of the galley door. "Do you think that it might be ready now, cook?”

“Why you minding my business?" the black cook scowled. "I know what I am about. Be lookin' to your own business, not mine." Nevertheless, he took his rag, opened the oven door and pulled out a perfectly cooked cracker hash. After a minute's cooling, the delicacy was bundled back aft where it was divided evenly.

The jaw-breaking biscuits were now soft and saturated in sweetness. It was the most delicious, glorious repast Will could remember or imagine, surely close enough to ambrosia. In a few minutes the watch bell rang and Paul and Charlie tumbled out on watch. Will stretched out in his bunk and dreamed of cracker hash.

One evening at suppertime, after settling into the meager fare, Will was surprised when Paul Nelson told them all to get cleaned up.

“Put on your best bib and tucker," he said. "And scrub your hands and faces. Tonight, we have been invited to dine with the captain and his family in the mess room.”

The apprentices cheered. Will knew that the captain had to be eating far better than they were.

“Dining in the mess room. Ho ha," George said, then turning to Will in a lowered voice, "or should we call that the lady's tearoom? Will Mrs. Murphy be there?”

Will elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“And after dinner, we will provide the evening's entertainment," Paul continued.

“We will?" Will asked.

Paul chuckled. "We are all going to sing for the captain and his wife. A command performance.”

“Sing? I can't sing … well, I can't sing … very well," Will stammered.

“So?" Paul replied. "We are the closest thing this ship has to a gramophone.”

Jack came over. "Don't worry, Will. You'll do fine. 'Course, last trip they did throw poor Johnny overboard when he got too frightened to sing. Isn't that right, Paul?”

Paul swatted Jack with the back of his hand. Jack only laughed. "Come on, get cleaned up. We can't keep the captain and his lady waiting.”

In a few minutes, the four apprentices trooped into the mess room, their hands and faces washed and their togs reasonably clean. The old ship had once carried cabin passengers, so there was plenty of room at the table. Captain Barker sat at one end and wore a shirt with a collar and a tie, while his wife, Mary, sat next to him, wearing a blue dress and short jacket. Mate Rand and Second Mate Atkinson sat on the other side of the captain. Will worried for a moment who was watching out for Amanda and little Tommy, who were not present, but any thoughts of his charges drifted from his thoughts as he caught a whiff of the smells from the galley. The aroma was intoxicating. One or more of the chickens had ended its days in a cook pot.

As the youngest apprentice, the lowest in rank at the table, Will was served last. When his plate finally arrived, he breathed deeply and then dug in. The chicken thigh wasn't large but it was nestled between an ample portion of canned peas and potatoes. They had scarcely been at sea a fortnight, yet it seemed like years since Will had tasted chicken, peas and potatoes. He slowed his pace to savor the meal.

The conversation was polite but limited. The captain asked Paul several questions on his impressions of the how the ship was sailing and suggestions regarding changes to the rigging, which, as senior apprentice, Paul handled nicely. At one point the captain even spoke to Will to ask, "And how are you doing, young man?" Fortunately, Will was between bites so he could reply, "Very well, sir. Thank you," without the risk of choking or spewing out his peas.

After dinner the mates went back on duty and the rest went into the main cabin, where the apprentices stood lined up against the bulkhead. Captain Barker and his wife were seated in chairs facing them. To Will it felt a bit like being on the wrong end of a firing squad.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for joining us this evening," the captain said graciously. Will wondered whether he heard a touch of sarcasm in the tone, though wasn't sure. Mary Barker smiled beneficently at them. She was a lovely woman. Will had decided that at the start of the voyage and nothing in her manner had changed his opinion since.

Paul began with a version of "Southern Moon." Will had had no idea that Paul had such a nice voice and was immediately afraid that he would croak like a lovesick frog when his turn came. Everyone clapped when Paul was through. Jack sang a spirited version of "There's an Old Mill by the Stream, Nellie Dean." His voice wasn't as rich as Paul's but his enthusiasm made up for it. Everyone clapped for him too. George warbled through "My Wild Irish Rose." He wasn't much of a singer, but there was polite applause, nevertheless. Will didn't think of George as much of a sailor either, so he was pleased that he was no more skilled as a songbird.

Now, it was Will's turn. He wasn't sure what to sing. Every song he knew seemed to have fled from his mind. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, he sang the only thing he could remember, his mother's favorite song, which she used to sing to him as a child,

After the ball is over, after the break of morn,

After the dancers' leaving, after the stars are gone,

Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all …

When he miraculously made it through, he was surprised by the clapping. Mrs. Barker said, "Oh, William. I do so love that old song. Thank you." Will could feel his face flush, but managed to smile and nod.

For their musical efforts, they were rewarded with chocolate cake that Walter had baked that afternoon. Sitting at the table, making sure to catch each and every crumb, Will looked at the cabin rug, the upholstered chairs and the paneling on the bulkheads and was amazed by the vast distance between the captain's cabin and the half-deck, even though they were separated only by tens of feet.

A few days later, when they came on watch Pugsley called Will and Jack to the mess room. He had a roll of heavy canvas, two pairs of shears, waxed twine, needles, and several canvas patterns laid out on the table.

“What's this?" asked Will.

“Our new supply of oilskins," the sail maker beamed.

“Oilskins?”

“Yes, indeed," Puglsey replied. "Our friends, the goats, have eaten into the slop-chest supplies and the captain doesn't want to round Cape Stiff without a supply of spare skins. So have a seat, gents, and we'll get started.”

Pugsley rolled the canvas out on the table. While Will and Jack held the canvas tight, Pugsley traced out the front, back and sleeves of the oilskin jackets, and then began on the pants. When he had four pair marked out, he handed Will and Jack the shears and told them to start cutting.

“Make it neat, boys. I don't wanna be sewing no ragged edges." With that, he nodded and left the mess room.

The shears were sharp but Will's hand was aching after cutting out the first jacket. But he kept cutting.

“Rather be hauling on a brace," Jack murmured softly. Will snorted in agreement.

Pugsley came back to the mess room with a steaming cup of coffee. "How are we doing, laddies?”

He picked up the cut canvas sections, turned them over, and said, "Hmmn, not bad—keep cutting. My turn to get to work.”

Pugsley picked up the twine, a heavy needle and a sailor's palm, and began stitching the panels together. He used a wooden rubber to fold the seams over, so that when he stitched them there were no rough edges. Will was amazed at the speed of the sail maker's stitching. All the stitches were even and in perfect alignment. Puglsey looked up and said, "Mind to the cutting, William.”

When all the panels were cut, Pugsley put down his sewing and said, "Follow me, gents.”

In the galley, a large pot of boiling linseed oil was on the stove. Will and Jack wrinkled their noses at the smell. An oilcloth was spread over the small space on the deck. Puglesy gave each apprentice a stick with a rag wrapped around the end and said, "Rub the pants and jackets with oil. Now, don't go burning ye'rselves, and make sure you get everything covered well. Pay attention to the seams. Else, you just might find yourselves wearing leaking oilskins one day. Hang 'em up to dry over there, when you are done. ”

Before they had done with one set, Pugsley brought in another. When Will and Jack finally stumbled out onto deck they breathed deeply the sweet salt air. Pugsley called after them, "Turn to tomorrow to put on another coat. The skins need two more coats of oil.”

When they were finally finished, Will was pleased with his handiwork. The oilskins were softer than the black waxy oilskins sold by the chandlers, which always seemed to crack after moderate use. There was something satisfying in seeing work well done. Looking down at his linseed-stained hands, he also hoped that he never had to make another pair of oilskins as long as he lived.

Fred and Tom were in the fo'c'sle discussing books. Tom was a great fan of Edward Bulwer-Lytton, whereas Fred loved Twain. After lengthy negotiations they agreed to exchange favorites with the solemn promise of return when each finished reading. Fred took Tom's copy of Last Days of Pompeii in exchange for Fred's well-worn edition of Huckleberry Finn.

Just as the transaction was completed, Mate Rand wandered through the fo'c'sle cabin door and sat down heavily on a sea chest. He took out his clay pipe, filled it with a bit of tobacco and began to smoke. Lindstrom, who had been in his bunk, swung down and sat next to Rand, who shared his tobacco. They talked quietly.

Tom, who was stowing the borrowed book in his sea chest, glanced sideways at Fred and mumbled beneath his breath, "No place for a bloody mate." Fred scowled.

“Sailed afore the mast for so long he still thinks the fo'c'sle is his home. No wonder he never made captain," Tom whispered.

Fred climbed into his bunk. Tom shrugged and went out on deck, saying, "Good afternoon, Mr. Mate," as he passed. His slight emphasis on the honorific "mister" apparently went unnoticed.

Fred opened the Bulwer-Lytton and began reading.

Fred groaned inwardly. He'd traded Twain for this? Still, any book was better than none. He put down The Last Days of Pompeii, dug into a canvas bag and pulled out his journal and pocket atlas. He opened the atlas to the Atlantic. With the positions that Will had given him, Fred had plotted the ship's course as accurately as he could, given the small size of the atlas page and the dullness of his pencil. The Lady Rebecca was making good distance in the trades. Fred traced his finger down their likely course, across the equator and down the South American coast. His finger came to rest on Cape Horn. What was waiting for them in those dangerous waters? He smiled to himself, closed the atlas and restowed it in his bag.

He had to be a little careful with his keeping track of the ship's position. By the customs and traditions of the sea, the crew were not supposed to know the position of the ship or look in on the ship's navigation. Crew that could navigate and knew the ship's position might mutiny. Fred was no mutineer. He just liked understanding where they were in the voyage.

He jumped down from his bunk and looked back at Mate Rand talking quietly with Lindstrom. If a mutiny was brewing, that is where it would start—a mate spending too much time where he had no business being, talking softly, conspiratorially, to a deckhand. Perhaps he was reading too much into it, Fred thought. It would bear watching.

Fred only thought of mutiny during the mid-day meal, when he did his best to chew the gristle that by law was supposed to be beef or pork and soaked his weevily biscuit in his tea so it became soft enough to eat.

They had sailed beyond the trade winds into the doldrums, the fluky band of confused wind or no wind at all, just north of the equator. At six a.m., rather than scrubbing down the decks as usual, all hands were called aft. Pugsley and the apprentices were hauling out the light-air sails from the sail locker. Fred groaned to himself, though the day was no surprise. He had wondered how long the Old Man would carry on before shifting the suit of sails.

Rand shouted out, "Starboard watch, the main mast. Port watch, the fore. Take one down and put one up. Now, jump to it, you lazy buggers.”

Fred and the rest of his watch clambered up the ratlines. They were striking the heavy-weather sails and setting the old and patched light-air sails. Every roband, halyard, sheet, outhaul, downhaul, buntline, gantline, lift and clewline for each of the seventeen square sails and nine jibs, staysails and spanker would have to be cast off, and then the heavy canvas sails would have to be lowered to the deck and the old set of sails hauled up, with every line rerun and secured—all the robands retied, and all the sheets, tacks, bunts and clewlines run fair. It was going to be a long and brutal day.

It would have taken half as long and been twice as easy if the Old Man had let them strike all the sails at one time, lowering them all to the deck and then setting the new, but that was not his intention. The captain wanted one sail struck and then reset so he wouldn't lose any time. In the light airs the ship must have been barely making three knots, so it wouldn't have made much difference, but no, the Old Man would keep the ship sailing as fast he could manage, no matter how much sweat and toil he had to squeeze from his small crew. Fred was growing to loathe the captain, perpetually lording over them from the break of the poop deck, but he just clenched his jaw and set to work. There was no other choice.

Will knew something was up but couldn't quite tell what it was. Too many sidewards glances during the first dogwatch, too many whispers and scurrying about. The captain, mate and second mate were all on the poop deck. Mr. Atkinson raised his spyglass to his eye and cried out, "I believe I spy a ship, sir." Will stared out at the empty ocean and saw nothing.

Captain Barker replied, "I do believe that is King Neptune's ship.”

In an instant Will knew what was happening and felt more the fool for not figuring it out. They had reached the equator. They had crossed the line. Just as the realization hit him, he was grabbed from behind by two pair of strong hands and dragged toward number one hatch.

Will suddenly noticed that two bosun's ladders had been hung over the sides, port and starboard. From starboard, a huge creature was coming aboard, apparently climbing out of the sea itself. He was blue, with a beard of green seaweed, and he wore a rough crown made of wood and wire. He carried a large staff with what looked like a starfish at its end. He marched from the rail to midships just before the mainmast. It took Will a second, but he recognized Harry in the outlandish garb—bare-chested and painted blue, but Harry all the same.

The captain bellowed from the poop, "All hail King Neptune." The crew hooted and yelled their approbation.

From the port ladder, a second creature climbed aboard. He wore a huge green mustache and an approximation of an admiral's hat. Will recognized Jensen. Then the strangest creature appeared from around the back of the fo'c'sle house. It appeared to be a woman, as blue as King Neptune but with long flowing rope-yarn hair. Her breasts appeared to be coils of rope and she wore a flowing skirt of painted canvas. Beneath the face paint and rope wig, Will recognized Donnie.

“All Hail Davy Jones and Her Highness Queen Amphitrite," the captain shouted. The crew cheered louder still.

Davy Jones bowed deeply, and then took the Queen's hand and stood beside the king. Neptune glanced at his attendants, scanned the deck and sniffed the air. He pounded his staff on the deck and cried out, "I smell slimy pollywogs. Bring them out. We'll scrub 'em clean and make proper shellbacks of 'em.”

A moment later, two sailors dragged Fred out to stand behind Will. The only two sailors aboard who had never crossed the equator, they were the ship's slimy pollywogs.

“What in hell," Fred mumbled.

“Pollywogs, be silent," Neptune bellowed. "Step forward.”

Will felt someone shove him from behind. Someone shoved Fred as well, who bumped into Will and almost knocked him down.

“What is your name, pollywog?" Neptune demanded, pointing at Will with his scepter.

“Will—”

As soon as he opened his mouth someone stepped up behind him and shoved a paintbrush laden with soap, tallow and tar into his mouth. He choked and spat as the deckhands cheered. His face was lathered with the wretched mix and someone was shaving him with a rusty razor, though he had little enough beard to shave.

Neptune demanded Fred's name as well, but Fred kept his mouth shut until someone behind him grabbed his jaw and shoved a frothy, stinking paintbrush into his mouth as well, sending him gagging to the deck.

Someone tied a gantline from the main yardarm around Will's waist. Suddenly, brutally, he found himself hoisted up off the deck, flying up and outboard until just as suddenly he was dropped into the sea. He flailed in the water for only a moment until the gantline was yanked again and he flew up once more, only to be dunked again and again. Then, like a huge fish at the end of a line, he was hauled back in and dumped on deck. Partially blinded by the soap and slush smeared on his face and by the saltwater stinging his eyes, he could just make out that Fred was receiving the same treatment on the port side of the ship.

What happened next was a blur of dumping water over their heads, and their backs being hit with old rope and stinking mops. And all the while, his ears were filled with wild hooting and chanting from the rest of the crew.

The torment seemed to go on endlessly. When it finally stopped, a very battered Will and Fred were hauled before King Neptune, who tapped their shoulders with his staff and dubbed them "Trusty Shellbacks and the True Sons of Neptune," to the cheering of the crew. The cheering continued when Captain Barker ordered the steward to issue out a tot of rum to the crew, trusty shellbacks all.

“Well, I am an ass," Fred said to Will. "I mentioned to Tony that I had never crossed the line. Should'a kept my mouth shut.”

After the sailors' heaven of the trade winds, the doldrums were a maddening purgatory. The days were insufferably hot. The wind was light and shifting, when it blew at all. The sun baked them as they spent all day hauling the sheets and braces to catch every breeze, every williwaw, every faint breath of wind. The afternoons often brought blinding, warm rain but no wind. When the squalls passed, steam rose from the deck as the sun again baked down on them. The nights seemed almost as hot as the days as they labored watch by watch. By the end of the first week, tempers began to flare. Accidental slights became grave insults. Lindstrom and Tony came to blows over a misplaced step and a dropped knife. Even Harry and Jensen sang the shanties listlessly, if at all, at the endless heaving round of the yards. And when the wind died all together there was nothing to be done but wait. And wait they did for days at a time.

Fred slumped against the deckhouse. He had been on windbound ships before, along the coast, where there was no choice but to anchor and wait for the return of a breeze. The doldrums were different.

It was as if they had sailed off the edge of the earth. The sea was a perfect mirror. The Lady Rebecca's masts soared both skyward and seaward, her image reflecting as crisp and clear looking down as looking up. They could have been as easily floating on the sky as on the sea, the heavens both below and above with the horizon lost in the haze.

The only sound was the soft flapping of the sails and the squeaking of blocks. Conversations seemed to have drifted away on the last of the breeze. Were it not for someone humming softly to himself, Fred might have thought himself entirely alone on the ship. The Ancient Mariner came to mind.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

He whispered the words to himself, not daring disturb the silence. After an hour or so of simply starring out at the vast emptiness, the image before him began to ripple and he felt a hint of a cooling breath wash across his face.

Mr. Rand from the poop deck bellowed, "Square the cro'jack." Fred jumped to his feet, joined by the rest of the watch emerging from their resting places, scrambling to haul the braces to swing the yard around to catch the tiniest hint of a breeze.

Once the sails were trimmed, the breeze that for a few moments seemed so promising died away again as quietly as it had arrived.

A bit less than a fortnight after entering the doldrums, Captain Baker came on deck just as dawn was coloring the western sky, and he knew. The winds were still faint but he could feel it in the swell and see it the bank of clouds off their port quarter. He could almost taste the southeasterly trades. He was sure that the royals and t'gans'ls would be feeling them soon. By noon all sails were full and drawing. The wind was still light but the Lady Rebecca was again gliding off to the southwest.

The winds grew steady. They had reached the southerly trades at last. In a day's time Captain Barker ordered the light-air sails struck and the heavy-weather sails set once again. The crew grumbled and growled but worked with a will. The southeasterly trades renewed their spirits. The petty arguments and feuds fed by the doldrums seemed to have blown away on the fresh and bracing trades.

Three days later, a grim-faced Rand and the carpenter, Gronberg, pounded on the captain's cabin door. When they stepped inside, Gronberg was holding a shattered glass tube.

“What do you have there, Chips?”

“The thermometer from number two hatch, sir. Burst from the heat.”

The captain stood speechless for an instant.

Rand spoke up. "The coal in hatch two is burning. The ship's afire, sir.”