Читать книгу Tillamook Passage - Brian MD Ratty - Страница 11

WITH THE FLAGSHIP IN THE LEAD, WE steered close to Maio Island. An hour later, we found four ships anchored in a protected cove close to the shore. As the Columbia reefed sails and came close to the ships, Captain Kendrick used a voice horn to make inquiries.

He learned that three of the ships were American whalers, awaiting livestock that they had purchased from a local dealer. In the shouted out conversation, the Commodore was told that the price being paid to the dealer was quite reasonable, so he came about and dropped anchor in the inlet. The sloop did the same and came to rest just a hundred yards from the flagship.

When the Mate removed the long glass from his eye, I overheard him ask Captain Gray, “Why the hell are we stopping?”

“I have no idea,” the skipper answered. “I’m sure the Commodore will let us know.”

Sure enough, the flags of council were soon flying.

After returning from the meeting, the skipper briefed Mr. Coolidge.

“The Commodore has the notion to purchase the livestock here and then continue on to Porto Praya for the other supplies.”

The Mate looked confused. “Sir, didn’t you tell me that the owners gave specific instructions to buy all ships supplies at Porto Praya?”

“Yes… but I’m not disagreeing with Captain Kendrick, as he’s in a foul mood. There’s something afoot on his ship…so let’s load the livestock and get on with it.”

The next day, the Commodore purchased one hundred and forty goats, two bulls, a cow, three hogs, and three sheep. But it took six days before the animals were delivered. By that time we were alone in the cove. As each of the other ships departed, they held farewell parties for all the officers. Much merriment and drinking could be heard over the still, coral waters of the inlet.

Standing at the rail, waiting for the animals on that last day, Captain Gray approached and asked how I had found the first leg of our voyage.

“I enjoyed it, sir. Forty-two days at sea passed quickly. How many miles did we travel?”

“From the Boston Light, forty-one-hundred miles.”

Without really thinking, I answered back, “So we averaged just over four miles an hour, or about three knots.”

The Captain was surprised by my quick calculations. “You’ve got a good mind for numbers, Joe. But it was a slow passage. With full sheets, I could have made it in thirty-six days.”

His face showed frustration as he turned and walked away.

Early that afternoon, with the decks filled with livestock, we weighed anchor. With a fresh, warm breeze, we reached the mouth of the harbor of Porto Praya late the next morning and dropped anchor. Then both ships shot their signal cannons and raised the Q-flags. These yellow pennants requested permission to enter the port. An hour later, the authorities rowed out and inspected the ships’ papers, crew, and cargo. Finding no reason for quarantine, the ships were granted a pratique, or license, to enter the harbor.

As we approached the bright, colorful port, I was taken with her beauty. The green hills that surrounded the little harbor were dotted with small, white stucco cottages and a few tall churches with red tile roofs. All the streets seemed to snake down the hillside to the main square of the town, just up from the piers. The air was filled with sweetness, and the white sandy beaches glistened in the sun. It looked very much the way I had envisioned a Mediterranean seaport might be, and I hoped for shore leave to do some exploring.

After making arrangements with the harbormaster, both ships were moored at the public docks in front of the town square. Here, many of the local Africans came to look with curiosity at the two American ships. They were strange looking people, with skin as black as midnight and clothes as colorful as a rainbow. But they were friendly bunch, waving and smiling at the crew.

After helping to secure the Orphan, I went back to work, tending the animals in the tropical sun. As I went from crate to crate, giving them water, Captain Gray approached.

“I have a job for you, Mr. Blackwell.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember the three bales of tobacco you stowed in the forward hold?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get the hatch-cover off and bring two bales to dock. When that’s done, call me so we can deliver them to a local merchant.”

Knowing that one bale weighed around fifty pounds, I asked, “Can I have Sandy help, sir?”

“Yes… but let’s turn to.”

Thirty minutes later, both bales rested on a wooden cart with wheels. As we waited for the Captain, I paced the dock with dizzy steps. After weeks of the pitching and rolling of the ship, it would take some time for me to find my land legs.

When the skipper joined us, we began pushing the dolly over the rough cobbles towards the town square. As we walked, the Captain explained the task. Many years before, Mr. Barrel had sailed into this port and made friends with a local merchant who was a renowned cigar maker. Over the years, they had kept in contact, with a few letters delivered by merchant ships traveling to each side of the Atlantic. The cigar maker wanted to add some Virginian leaf to his African tobacco to make a more flavorful roll. Therefore, arrangements had been made for the Virginia tobacco to be delivered to him at thirty dollars a bale. The Captain was to be paid in African cigars that could then be traded with the Pacific natives. The whole scheme was well thought out endeavor and fascinating to hear.

As we moved through an open market, I begin noticing our surroundings in more detail. The market was filled with fruits, meats, and vegetables of every kind, color, and shape. The Africans were all dressed in their bright-colored clothing, and many of the women had large flowers in their hair, making the air smell of jasmine. As we pushed through the busy crowd, I saw some locals pointing our way and then frowning, speaking in a language I didn’t understand. At first I thought it was just normal curiosity at seeing Americans, but it happened so many times that I began to feel uncomfortable.

Finally, we reached a tobacco shop and stopped. All three of us were sweating from the afternoon sun, so we took a moment to wipe our brows.

As we did, the Captain asked, “Joe, do you know what those people were pointing at?”

“No, sir.”

“Your red hair. They thought you were the Devil himself!”

Chuckling, Sandy added, “You should cut it all off, lad. You’re frightening the Afer-cans.”

After the Captain talked to the proprietor, we were told to push the bales down a side alley to the rear of his shop. When we got to the back, we found a large, open air tent with five men sitting at tables in the shade, rolling cigars. With Captain Gray and the proprietor waiting for us, we quickly unloaded the dolly. Then they began cutting open the bales to inspect the tobacco. The proprietor was a lean, older African with short, gray, curly hair. His black skin was shiny, and he had huge hands with white palms.

Obviously, he was the master cigar maker and Mr. Barrel’s old friend. He held a few leaves up to the sky and then smelt them and rolled them in his hand. He seemed quite pleased, as he had a broad smile on his face. As he worked, I turned and watched the other makers. It was delightful to gaze at the way their nimble fingers rolled, tucked, and packed the dark tobacco. When they finished each cigar, trimmed to just the right length, it was given a paper band and placed in a small wooden box. When that box was filled, it would be packed in one of the larger wooden boxes that were stacked all around the tent. From my calculations, each large box held two hundred and forty cigars.

The Captain spoke to the proprietor in both English and Portuguese, a language that sounded similar to Spanish. When their business was completed, the old man invited all of us into the shop for a cup of coffee.

Inside the sweet smelling store, we found shelves lined with all things tobacco. As we waited for the coffee to brew, Sandy and I walked around, looking at the many items. In one area, I found forty or more pipes for sale. They all looked like the work of fine craftsmen, with highly polished stems and bowls made from different woods. But, to my surprise, one looked to have its bowl made out of corn husk. Holding the pipe up, I showed it to Sandy and commented on its design. Just then, the old man moved in my direction and said something to me in Portuguese.

The Captain translated. “If you like that pipe, Joe, he wants to give it to you as a gift. He will also select a good tobacco to go with it. Sandy, you do the same. It’s their way.”

Turning to the old man, I smiled, bowed and thanked him. It was an unexpected gift that I would cherish.

Finally, after we drank the strongest coffee I’d ever tasted, the Captain told us to take two of the larger boxes of cigars back to the ship. As we loaded the dolly, he added that he had more business with the old man and would return later.

The way back was much easier with the lighter load. But as we wove in and out of the crowded marketplace, many of the townspeople still stared and pointed our way. It gave me a sinister feeling to know I was being compared to the Devil.

Just a block from the docks, Sandy spotted a public house and wanted to stop for a tankard. At first I hesitated, as we couldn’t take the load inside, but then agreed to stay with the dolly while he slipped in for a quick flagon. Standing in the shade of the building, I reached into my pouch and took out my new gift. I was amazed with the workmanship and wondered if I would enjoy smoking the African tobacco.

Then I heard a loud cry. “Braaak! Hello, sailor.”

Looking up, I saw a tall, shapely woman approaching me, with a red-and-yellow parrot on her shoulder. She had a soft brown complexion and midnight hair piled high on her head, with an orchid woven in. Twisting her yellow parasol, she stopped right front of me. With my heart racing I stared at her green floral dress, which accentuated her breasts and bright-red lipstick. She was as stunning as any woman I had ever seen.

“I like your red hair, sailor. And your skin is almost as brown as mine,” she said with a smile, in near perfect English.

Her parrot repeated, “Braaak! Hello, sailor.”

Searching for my tongue, I finally stammered, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Why don’t you buy me a drink?”

“Sorry, ma’am. I can’t leave my crates.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“Cigars for my ship, ma’am.”

“I love a good cigar,” she said with a strange look on her face. Then, fast as a fox, she reached out and touched my cheek. “Right after I have a good sailor.”

With her hovering over me like a bee at a jam pot, I felt my face flush and wondered what to say next.

Just then, a Portuguese soldier approached and, in the King’s English, demanded, “Move on, Louie.”

The lady twisted to look at him and angrily replied, “It’s none of your affair. I mean this lad no harm.”

Her bird added, “Braaak! Hello, soldier.”

The Portuguese officer had a stern look on his face as he repeated, “Move on, Louie. Now, before I run you in.”

She glared at the officer for a moment and then turned and huffed down the street towards the docks.

As she was leaving, I said to the officer, “You called her ‘Louie.’ Why?”

He grinned back at me. “Because ‘she’ is a he.”

“A ‘he’? I don’t understand.”

“Louie is a Frenchman. The chap likes to dress up like a woman to waylay and shanghai sailors like you.”

With my mouth open in disbelief, I sputtered, “That can’t be. She’s so beautiful!”

“In the tropics, lad, beauty can kill. You better run along to your ship.”

Thanking the officer, I shouted into the tavern for Sandy. Moments later, as we rushed towards the ship, I told him my story. As we reached dockside, my mind was still reeling from the experience. It was the first time in my life that I’d gazed upon a rose that turned out to be a weed. One thing was for sure – I had much to learn about life.

The skipper missed the evening meal and came aboard around eight bells. As he walked by me in the lamplight, I told him that I had stowed the cigars in one of the aft lockers. He was pleased, and showed me the two small boxes of cigars he carried under his arm. They were made with the new Virginian blend and were a gift from the old man.

After saying good night, I walked to the bow and smoked my first pipe with the African tobacco. Just like the rum, I found the flavor bold, bitter, and harsh.

The next evening, Captain Gray told the Mate disturbing news. Someone had over-stowed four water casks on the flagship, and the main hold would now have to be uploaded to retrieve the barrels. But because the deck was crowded with livestock, there was no room to stack the supplies. Captain Gray had suggested stowing the animals on the dock, but Captain Kendrick thought the livestock would be a temptation for harbor thieves. And, worst of all, the Commodore blamed the problem on his chief mate, Mr. Woodruff. Those two officers had had a strained passage, and now they were going at each other, verbally, in front of the crew. The skipper worried about the rancor and the delay it would bring.

Later the next morning, we learned that Mr. Woodruff had resigned and was demanding his pay. Captain Kendrick had agreed but was disputing the amount owed. Over the transoms, we could all hear the yelling of the two angry men.

Finally, out of frustration, Captain Gray went aboard the flagship and mediated an agreement. When he returned, I overheard him telling the Mate that the loss of Mr. Woodruff was a blow to the expedition. He had been third in command, was an expert navigator, and been with Captain Cook on his last voyage, when they had traded for sea otters pelts. Now he was gone.

That afternoon, the Columbia slipped her moorings and sailed to a small, grassy island in harbor. Captain Kendrick had made arrangements with the harbormaster to rent this strip of land for the livestock. After the animals were unloaded, the hatch cover could be opened and the cargo uploaded to the deck. This would take many days.

Late in the afternoon, the skipper took the longboat over to the flagship to see if they needed any help. When he arrived, he found the Commodore, bare-skinned, working with the crew in the hot hold. Mr. Haswell, the new second mate, stood topside watching the work party and talked to Captain Gray. Mr. Haswell assured him that they had more than enough hands for the uploading, although, because of the Commodore’s interference with the work gang, the process was slow going. He added that there was much discontent aboard the ship. It seemed that when the officers moved up from the vacancy of Mr. Woodruff, the Commodore’s son had gone from fifth officer to third, and that nepotism was not well received by the officers and crew.

Captain Gray gave assurances that he would talk to Captain Kendrick after the cargo problem was resolved. The skipper hoped that his words might inspire confidence and calm the dissension.

I learned all this news during the evening meal, and by eight bells the whole crew knew the scuttlebutt.

But that clamor for calm didn’t last. A few days later, the Surgeon, Dr. Roberts, asked for his discharge, claiming ill health. Captain Kendrick seemed accommodating, but only if the doctor paid for his passage. The surgeon refused, and the two men had a heated argument. Later in the day, the doctor left the flagship and reported his problems to the Portuguese governor. When the doctor failed to return from shore by the next morning, the fuming Captain listed him as a deserter. Moments after that, the governor’s brig pulled alongside the flagship with a summons for the Commodore.

When Captain Kendrick reached the government offices, he found the doctor having tea with the governor. As the Viceroy tried to mediate the difficulty, another loud argument broke out. With no hope of a resolution, the Commodore stormed out of the office, screaming obscenities at Dr. Roberts.

A short time later, while the surgeon was leaving the government house, he was approached again by Captain Kendrick. The Commodore calmly asked that he return to the ship. The good doctor declined. Irritated by his response, the Captain drew his sword and started shouting more obscenities. Luckily, some Portuguese soldiers, who had witnessed the confrontation, stepped in and broke them up.

Now the doctor was gone for good.

During all these delays, the Orphan remained quietly moored to the pier. With only light duty needed, Captain Gray began granting the crew some limited shore leave. All of those with liberty were to return to the ship by eight bells.

On my first leave, I wrapped a bandana over my hair and walked the streets, making sketches of the quaint little town. There were markets to mingle, churches to wander, and shops to explore. Now that I wasn’t the center of unwanted attention, I had a grand time.

After returning to the ship, I learned that Captain Gray had made arrangements for sending mail home. There was an American whaling ship out of Nantucket in the harbor, and she would be returning home within the year. Her Captain had agreed to take our mail at ten cents a letter. This was delightful news.

The next day, I sat at the mess table writing my letters. The first was to Father and Fredrick. It was short and chatty, telling them about the passage and the beauty of Porto Praya. I kept it all upbeat and didn’t mention any of the problems. In closing, I told them that I was learning seaman’s ways and that, when I gazed at the sunsets, I always thought of them.

Miss Becky’s letter was written more carefully, as I didn’t want to invite her father’s disapproval. In it, I wrote with praise of Captain Gray’s seamanship, and told her of the fair seas and gentle breezes of the tropics. I talked of the quaint town and its colorful people. In my final line, I wrote, “This prospect looks promising, and I’ll keep a keen eye out for that Eagle.” There was so much more I wanted to say, so many more words I wanted to write…but I couldn’t.

Having completed my letters, I took them to Captain Gray in his compartment.

When he looked up from his log, I said, “I beg your pardon sir. Here are my letters. But I have a problem.”

“And what would that be?”

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out all the coins I had. “I only have seventeen cents, sir.”

A grin crossed his face. “I guess that’s because I haven’t paid you yet.”

Reaching into a drawer, he removed a handful of coins and counted them out. “Here’s for two months, less the twenty cents for your mail. You should have reminded me earlier.”

As he handed me the money, I smiled back. “Yes, sir.”

A week later, I went on liberty with Sandy. We walked around town for a while, but it was so beastly hot that Sandy convinced me to seek the shade of a public house. Just up from the piers, we found a tavern named The Salty Dog, and went in. As we sat down at a table, the bartender moved from behind the bar.

“You chaps look hot. Want to try a Coconut Harpoon?”

He was a Brit, with gray hair and a ruby scar across his forehead. He had a belly so large that it rolled over his belt and jiggled when he walked.

“What the hell’s a Coconut Harpoon?” Sandy asked.

“It’s a tropical brew, made from coconut rum and pineapple juice.”

“Why do they call it a Harpoon?” I asked.

The bartender chuckled, “Well, lad, when ya drink a few, you’ll feel like you’ve been harpooned.”

“Okay, we’ll dive in,” Sandy ordered.

Against my better judgment, I agreed. When the drinks came, I found the taste to be delicious and refreshing. The usual bitterness of alcohol was gone, and the flavors were much like a fruit punch.

Over our drinks, Sandy started talking of home, and I was surprised to learn that he had a wife and two grown children. He told me he had been married for twenty-three years, and that his wife was always the happiest when he was at sea.

I asked if he had written her a letter.

“Na,” he said, “don’t know my words.”

I told him I would be glad to write it for him.

But he shook his head. “Na… there’s nothing to say.”

I grinned at his comment and smartly answered back, “Oh, Sandy, you’re such a quiet man.” With that, we both roared with laughter.

Over the second round of drinks, I learned that this was Sandy’s third cruise with Captain Gray. They had first shipped out, during the Revolution, when the skipper was a privateer. After the war, Sandy had shipped with him on a whaler for three years in the Atlantic. “He’s a fair man, and almost as good a sailor as me. And that one good eye can see more than most.”

Over my strong protest, Sandy ordered a third round. With dusk approaching, I thought of my berth and hoped for an end to my spinning head. But no, Sandy kept jabbering while the rum kept flowing. Finally, Mr. Gayle, the cook, staggered into the tavern and plopped down in a chair at our table. He was thrilled about his new tattoo from the shop next door. Lifting his sleeve, he proudly showed us a poorly drawn blue anchor running down his left forearm.

“Did that hurt?” I asked.

“Na, it’s my fourth tat. It tickled.”

“I’ve got two,” Sandy slurred, “Joe, let’s go next door and get one.”

Vaguely, I remember saying no, but by the time my flagon was empty, I couldn’t recall. It was as if I had lost all reason… along with my ability to walk.

I was in a deep sleep, having disjointed dreams of colorful parrots and tall, chocolate ladies. Then I became aware of something licking me. Opening my eyes, I saw a big rat resting on my chest, licking my shoulder.

Startled, I sat straight up in my bunk and flung the rat into the passageway. Unharmed, it turned and scurried towards the bilges.

There was fire in my arm, and my head was spinning like a tornado. Slowly, I gazed down at my left shoulder and was confronted by a crude tattoo of a perched eagle. The blue ink from the needle blended with the dried blood that the rat had been sampling. The tattoo hurt like hell.

By God, what the hell have I done? What will Becky say? I thought.

Carefully, I reached for the pitcher of water and took a long, cool drink. I must have been thinking about that eagle riddle, I reflected. Shaking my head gingerly, I blamed my condition not on myself, but on the rum and the riddle.

The Orphan was not spared the problems of the harbor. A few days later, the Mate reported that Seaman Wayne had failed to return from shore leave. Quickly, the skipper organized a shore party to search him out. But after hours of looking in flop houses, public houses, and sporting houses, the detail returned empty handed. That evening, Mr. Wayne was officially listed as a deserter.

The next day, with her reloading tasks completed, the flagship returned to the pier, where both ships began taking on water and fresh supplies. Soon we learned that two of the Columbia’s crew had also deserted. This was disturbing news, and I silently wondered if Louie had had a hand in those desertions.

Finally, I took my concerns to the Captain. He listened intently to my story of the scoundrel parrot “lady” and what the Portuguese soldier had told me. In the end, he told me that he would notify the authorities so that they could search out Louie and, with luck retrieve the deserters.

As I was preparing to leave the cabin, he stopped me and asked, “With Mr. Wayne’s departure, there’s an empty hammock in the forecastle. Sandy has a high option of you and tells me you’re ready. Do you want the berth?”

A broad smile spread across my face. “Yes, sir. What would be the pay?”

Smiling, the skipper replied, “Good, you’re learning. A seaman apprentice is paid seven dollars a month plus one percent of the ship’s share of the profits.”

“And how much might that be, sir?”

“It could be a sizable amount, maybe four or five hundred dollars.”

Extending my hand, I answered, “You can sign me on, sir.”

“Good,” the Captain replied with a handclasp. “You can move your sea bag forward and sign the ship’s articles.”

“But what of your needs, sir?”

“I’ll hire a new cabin boy, and you will need to train him.”

With my head spinning from this upturn in my fortunes, all I could say was, “Aye, sir.”

Because of the desertions, the Commodore canceled all shore leave. And the next day, as a further precaution, after the two ships were fully loaded, they slipped their moorings and anchored out in the harbor. Late that afternoon, three newly hired seamen reported to the flagship, and one new cabin boy, Marcus Lopez, reported to the Orphan. He was an African, with skin as black as coal, hair as curly as waves and teeth as white as cotton. At thirteen years old, he was a puny little scrap, and I wondered if he would be able to carry his load. Later, I found out that he was the grandson of the cigar maker. His arrival would prove to be a twist of my fate.

After forty-one days of prolonged delays, the ships prepared to get underway from Cape Verdes on December 21st. But Porto Praya had one last indignity for Captain Kendrick. When heaving away, Columbia’s anchor dragged, causing an imminent danger of collision with another ship. The Commodore shouted orders to cut the cable. The command was obeyed instantly and, thanks to some smart seamanship, the flagship maneuvered clear.

Captain Kendrick was in no mood to anchor again and grapple in the mud for his lost bower and cable. He had another anchor aboard and was determined to depart the harbor with all due haste.