Читать книгу Tillamook Passage - Brian MD Ratty - Страница 10

BANG!

The sloop’s bow slapped the curling waves with such force that the deck timbers shook all the way to the stern. The boat raised itself high into the sky and then dropped down like a rock, twisting and rolling with each swell. The spray from the foaming sea rushed across the deck, drenching the crew with a coldness that they felt to their toes. The endless blue sky seemed to blend with the vast teal-green ocean, taking away all sense of distance. From horizon to horizon, the Orphan was lost in the vastness of sea and sky. Like a snake in the water, she swam away from home and towards her first destination, a cluster of tiny islands just west of North Africa.

With the outward passage from Boston, we found fair winds and moderate seas. But the constant pitching and rolling of the ship was unexpected, and it took me almost a week to find my sea legs.

The first few days were the worst; my head never stopped spinning, and my stomach never stopped twisting. All of the crew noticed the “green gills” of seasickness on my face and mocked me endlessly. They felt no pity and showed no mercy, and no matter how awful I might feel, my duties needed to be performed. On the second day, I had gone into the Captain’s cabin to clean up from the morning meal, but soon found myself sitting with my head on his table instead.

When Sandy opened the door and saw my slumped body, he angrily ordered me topside. Standing me by the rail, he shouted over the roaring wake from the bow, “There will be no slackers on this ship. Puke it up, lad. It’s the only way it will stop.”

Hanging on the halyards, with the cold ocean spray on my face, that’s exactly what I did for the next hour. When I finished, my gut felt as if a horse had kicked it, but I did feel better. After that time at the rail, I found my stomach of steel.

My duties aboard ship were simple enough, as Sandy had trained me well for being a cabin boy. I served the Captain three meals a day, made sure he had ample spirits and candles, cleaned his cabin, made up his bunk, and tended to his clothes.

Sandy told me that the added bonus was providing scuttlebutt to the forecastle. Most evenings, the Captain dined with the Mate, where their conversations, liberally oiled with wine and brandy, touched on all aspects of the voyage. Sandy wanted me to share all this news with my shipmates. At first I hesitated but then agreed, as I wanted desperately to be viewed as a member of the crew.

Shortly after our departure, the Captain added to my duties by asking, “Were you raised on a farm, Joe?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever tended animals or slaughtered livestock?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, beginning today, you will learn. After the morning meals, you will tend the animals on deck by feeding them fodder and changing their soiled straw. Then you will learn to dress them for the table. The cook will show you how.”

I looked at the skipper with puzzlement; this wasn’t a chore I had expected.

He noticed my quizzical expression and added, “Where we are going, we will need hunters for killing and dressing wild game. I want you ready for such a task.”

Sensing his wisdom, I replied, “Aye sir.”

Working with Mr. Gayle, our cook, proved to be more important than I realized at the time. He had been a ship’s cook for over twenty years, and he knew how to provide hardy meals for stout crews. What he put in his pot was never fancy, but it was always tasty. The men wanted simple meals of meat, breads, cheeses, and heavy vegetables such as potatoes, onions, cabbage, and turnips. To satisfy those needs, nothing was wasted or overlooked. Between his baking and cooking, Mr. Gayle worked with me at a cutting board, where we butchered the livestock as needed. With my sea knife in hand, the cook showed me in great detail the finer points of cutting, removing, and using all that each animal had to offer. At first, I found the bloody, slimy work offensive, but I was soon intrigued by the skills needed to slaughter livestock correctly.

Mr. Gayle was a burly man with powerful hands that could kill the animals with one quick twist of their heads. His arms and neck were thick, covered with strands of black hair, and the apron he wore was always bloody and soiled. Unlike Sandy, Mr. Gayle was usually quiet, but when he spoke, I listened. He told captivating tales of voyages past and of all the exotic foods he had prepared.

“I’ve cooked fifty-pound turtles, harpooned hundred-pound squid, and eaten fruit bigger than your head and sweeter than pie,” he told me proudly.

Mr. Gayle always had fishing lines dragging off the stern, and it was my job to check them every few hours. Whatever we caught was put into his pots and served fresh. The cook had a flavor all his own; he was a different kind of sailor, one that I took to right away.

Because of my duties, I ate my meals with the cook, before or after mess call. With this distraction, it took me weeks to meet the whole crew. They seemed to be good enough mates and expert sailors, with varying skills: one was a carpenter, one a sail-maker and mender, while others were helmsmen and riggers. Their nationalities were as different as the night stars. We had Dutchmen, Brits, Irish, French, and even a half-breed Wampanoag Indian who had tattoos all over his body. Some were joyful and loud, while others were quiet and reserved.

There were only two crewmembers I steered clear of: the Mate, who I found sour and demanding, and a seaman named William Wayne. He was a scoundrel who used lewd language, told bawdy stories and was always complaining. If he got hold of your ear, his nasty breath would follow you around, sounding off about every person aboard, the food, the weather and even the venture itself. He was one unhappy jack-tar, with a storm cloud over his head that we all tried to avoid. From the crew, I learned that every ship had a bilge rat, and that Mr. Wayne was ours.

If I had one close friend aboard ship, it was Sandy. Since that first day, he had watched out for me, giving both instruction and advice. While his high-pitched voice was still annoying, what it said was always fascinating – like when I asked him why the ships weren’t sailing due south to round the Cape to the Pacific.

“Been like this forever, lad. If ya wanta go to the Pacific, ya gotta go to Africa to catch the currents to the Cape. It’s God’s highway.”

He was a funny little man, full of knowledge and fables. And when I watched him in the shrouds, I learned why his legs were bowed. He was the fastest sailor in the rigging and could climb like a spider. While he was twenty years older than most, he was nimble and knew the ships needs before the Captain could shout them out.

What little free time I had was spent with Sandy. He slowly taught me the ways of a seaman. Soon, I knew all the parts of the sloop and all the knots used. He even had me in the shrouds, climbing like a monkey. I took to his instruction and enjoyed our time together. The crew had great respect for Sandy, and he had great loyalty for Captain Gray. I was fortunate to call him my mate.

At the end of the second week, the Mate announced that all the fresh vegetables and fruit had been consumed. Therefore, beginning that afternoon, each crew member would receive a rum ration. The crew seemed delighted with the news as their faces shined like a church window. All except me; I wanted no part of the devil’s brew.

Gathering around a crock, the men were given putter mugs and, under the watchful eye of the Mate, told to fill them. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I complied. With mugs in hand, the happy crew milled around the main hatch, talking in small groups in the sunshine. Joining them, I sat next to Sandy on the hatch cover, gazing at the liquid I despised.

“Play us a tune, Joe,” Sandy requested joyfully.

“Yes! Yes!” a few others shouted.

Putting down my cup, I smiled my agreement and reached inside my pouch for my flute. Within moments, the lively melody of “Yankee Doodle” filled the air. Soon, even the skipper was on deck, enjoying the comradeship.

I gazed around the deck as I played; some jack-tars were dancing while others were slapping their hands. It was a sweet distraction. By the end of the third chorus, Sandy was done with his rum and set his empty cup on the cover. As I ended the song, I reached down and slid my mug to him.

With a surprised look, he grabbed it and asked, “Are you sure, lad?”

Nodding my happy approval, I began playing another jig for the crew.

For a few short minutes, with the Orphan slicing through calm seas and with a tepid breeze on our faces, we forgot the ship’s business and enjoyed our fellowship. It was an occasion that we would repeat many times on the voyage.

That evening, as I was preparing the Captain’s cabin, he entered, and I was amazed to see he was clean shaven. He looked much different – younger and more dashing. I was unable to take my eyes off his bare face. He removed his eye patch, poured some wine, and finally said, “Where we are going, it’s too hot for chin whiskers.”

“Yes, sir.”

Slumping in a chair, he turned his head to look at me. “I liked your flute playing. It’s good for the men’s spirits. But I saw what you did with your ration, and that has to stop. When we give rum out, you will drink it. Do you understand?”

The Captain had turned serious, with his good eye staring at me.

“Sorry, sir. I’ve never taken to hard spirits. I think of them as the devil’s brew.”

“Devil or not, you will drink your rum. I ration it out not as a favor, but as medicine. It helps prevent scurvy, a disease you do not want.”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

Finally, a small grin chased his face. “Sandy should have told you, but I’m afraid your ration was too tempting. I will eat now.”

The next afternoon, I drank my first cup of rum. The liquor was like a flame in my mouth, and a lump of hot coal in my windpipe. At first, I could not understand its hold on some men. But soon my innards warmed like a summer’s day, and I felt a deep a sense of well being. It was an evil brew, but a drink I could come to love, medicine or not.

As the two ships moved further southeast, the winds moderated and the weather turned cloudy. Sandy called the area the “horse” latitudes. This well known position boasted a broad belt of light, variable winds with frequent rain squalls. The Columbia was about a mile ahead of the sloop and never out of sight. With the storms, however, she sometimes got lost in the mist, only to reappear after the quick moving squalls.

The flagship was given close watch for both her direction and her signal flags. These pennants of different shapes and colors were flown from her stern. They told us of course corrections, approaching weather, danger, and if the commodore wanted a council. These councils happened weekly, with the two ships reefing sails and coming alongside one another. Then we would lower the longboat and, with four seamen rowing, transfer the Captain to the Columbia. I sometimes went over with the longboat, as well, as our cook was always trading supplies with the flagship’s cook. And it was a good way for me to get to know the much larger crew of the Columbia.

A few hours later, after much drinking, the meeting would be over, and Captain Gray would stagger into the longboat and return to the Orphan. It always surprised me to see how many corks were pulled by the officers of both ships. Spirits flowed like water.

After each of these councils, the Captain would brief the Mate over the evening meal. With my ears open, I’d listened intently to the details. But as the weeks passed, the news grew more disturbing. The astronomer aboard the flagship, Mr. Nutting, was failing to work his navigation charts correctly, and at times the ships were well off-course. It was Captain Gray, an expert navigator, who brought this problem to the Commodore, but little or no corrective action was taken. As a result, the constant course corrections were costing time and frustrating the skipper.

Then there was the pace of the flagship. For some reason, she always ran with shortened sails, which was slowing down the voyage. The Captain asked many times that she sail with full sheets but the Commodore was concerned that the sloop wouldn’t be able to keep up. The truth, however, was that the Lady Washington, in good conditions, could out sail the Columbia.

And, finally, there was the matter of the surgeon, Dr. Roberts, who had suffered many verbal indignities from the Commodore and wanted to quit the expedition. Captain Gray described these and other tensions aboard the Columbia and hoped that their outcomes would not affect the enterprise.

The cook’s fishing lines, dragging off the stern, usually caught a few fish each day. They were never very big, but they were tasty morsels for the crew.

I had just pulled in a three-pound flounder and placed it in a wooden bucket to take below and clean. On the quarterdeck that afternoon was the Mate, with Seaman Taylor at the helm. After rebaiting the hook and playing out the line, I stood in the sun, sharpening my sea knife. Soon, the Mate swaggered over and looked down at the bucket, then up at me.

“You’re not much of a fisherman. They’re always so small.”

Dragging my blade across the stone, I nodded at his comment without saying a word.

“That’s a nice looking knife. Can I see it?”

Flipping the handle his way, I answered, “Yes, sir. It’s very sharp.”

Taking the handle, he twisted the knife in his palm. Then, making a few jabbing motions, he added, “It’s got a nice feel and good balance… I’ve noticed it on your hip before. I want to buy it.”

“It’s not for sale, sir.”

Mr. Coolidge towered over me by a good six inches, with his brown eyes glaring. Then he looked down at the knife in his hand. “I’ll give you five dollars for it.”

“It’s not for sale, sir.”

Anger crossed his weathered face, with blood vessels protruding from his sweating brow. “I could just toss it overboard,” he said. “Then neither of us would own it.”

I tried to keep my words calm. “Yes, sir. But then I would have to toss you overboard…sir.”

The look on his surly face reminded me of my father. He just stood there, staring like an angry rooster, as if he didn’t know what to do next. Finally, he threw the blade to the deck planks.

It made a loud twang and stuck straight up.

“I don’t know how you weaseled your way onto this ship, but hear this – it’s going to be a long voyage, and I will have that knife before it’s over.”

Turning, he walked back to the helm, while I stooped and removed the blade from the timbers. Then, still enraged, I returned the knife to my hip, picked up the bucket and went below.

That evening, as I was pouring fresh coffee for the Captain, the Mate looked up from his plate with his mouth full, and said, “You’ve got a stupid cabin boy, Captain.”

“Indeed? Why’s that?” The skipper responded, without looking up from his food.

“See that knife on his hip? I offered him five dollars for it, and he wouldn’t sell.”

The Captain looked my way, and I suspected that he could see the anger on my face. I was tempted to pour the hot brew over the Mate’s head. But I didn’t. Instead, I slowly freshened his coffee, as well, and stepped away.

“Well, it’s his knife.”

“A month’s wages for a dagger,” the Mate answered back, shaking his head. “No, he’s just stupid. Guess it really doesn’t matter, though, as he’ll lose it in some dingy alley before the trip’s over.”

The square of the skipper’s shoulders told me that he sensed the threat. With a serious expression, he gazed directly across to the Mate. “I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve seen Mr. Blackwell in an alley fight. If anyone tries to waylay him, they’ll get their guts spoiled.”

The Mate quickly twisted his head towards me. “You’ve seen him in a fight?”

“Yes, and when it was over, two sailors could hardly walk. I’d have him at my back anytime. Therefore, if I were you, I’d drop this business of the knife. It would be healthier for all concerned.”

And that’s what happened. The Mate never again said a word about my sea knife, and he seemed to respect me more after the Captain’s warning. While we weren’t friends, whatever fear I had of him disappeared that night.

After cleaning up from each evening’s meals, I liked to walk the deck on clear days and watch the spectacular sunsets. Looking astern, I watched the thousand twinkles of colorful sunlight dancing off the water. Then I’d marvel at the color and size of the sun as it descended into the western sky. Sometimes I played my flute and dreamed that the breeze would blow my music home. If it was cloudy, with a fresh wind, I’d walk to the bowsprit and ride it like a bull. With the wind and spray on my face, I watched the porpoise play in our wake. As their sleek bodies twisted in the coral-blue seas, I dreamed of home and what the future might bring. These were special times for thinking of special people. Sometimes loneliness adds beauty to life. It adds an extraordinary meaning to sunsets and seas, while making the night air smell better.

A few mornings later, while checking the fishing lines, I heard the lookout, aloft in the crosstree, report land two points off the weather bow. It was the Island of Sao Vicente of Portuguese-controlled Cape Verdes. The next day, we entered the fourteen-mile channel between the islands of Sao Thiago and Maio. The length of the passage from the Boston Light had been forty-two days.