Читать книгу Tillamook Passage - Brian MD Ratty - Страница 12

AS THE TWO SHIPS REACHED OPEN WATER, they heaved smartly before the northwest trade winds. The expedition was now in a race for time, as the best weather for rounding the stormy Cape Horn came at the end of the southern summer season. And the Falkland Islands were still forty-seven hundred miles away.

I spent the next few days training the new cabin boy. Marcus was a smart enough lad but, because of the language barrier, some of my instruction was not understood. He only spoke his native Portuguese and what I called “pigeon English.” But with the help of Captain Gray as translator and lots of sign language, we soon had a savvy with each other. He was a fine looking boy, with big brown eyes and a face that always smiled, showing off his near perfect, bone-white teeth. Marcus was a skinny fella, and seemed to have no fear of the sea or the strange environment of ship and crew. He worked hard and didn’t complain. Even Mr. Gayle took to the lad and cooked a few special meals to remind him of home.

Living conditions in the forecastle proved to be much better than in my dingy aft berth. Each sailor had his own hammock with a wooden foot locker for storage, just under the swinging canvas. There was even a table for eating, playing cards, and writing. While it wasn’t posh, it was a great improvement over my narrow cubbyhole.

The only problem with my promotion was that my ears were no longer privy to the evening meals’. I tried to teach Marcus to listen carefully, but he always told me that they talked too fast and he couldn’t understand. After much thought, I decided that the cunning Captain had planned all along to stop the scuttlebutt by hiring a Portuguese speaking cabin boy at the first opportunity.

After I moved forward, Sandy took Mr. Wayne’s sea bag and dumped the contents on the table. Then the crew divided up the items. With Wayne listed as a deserter, he had no further use for the gear. I was hesitant to rummage through his belongings, but in the end, I took a foul-weather coat and a pair of wool gloves.

The crew worked by rotating four-hour watches. There was always an officer on deck, with one seaman at the helm and another usually in the crosstrees as a lookout, leaving one or two other sailors for the rigging. Each watch checked for sea depth and speed of the ship. These results were then written in the daily log book. If there was an emergency, the deck officer would blow his whistle and ring the ship’s bell; then all sailors would report to quarters.

I enjoyed having my feet in the shrouds and my face to the wind, and wondered if I could fill my future days with the sea. As long as you’re good at something, I thought, my prospects would always be bright.

Christmas came and went with hardly a nod. While the cook made a special meal of beef and potatoes, and even passed out some sugarplums, for the most part the crew didn’t celebrate. When I was on watch that day, I gazed at the vast horizon, reminded myself of the meaning of the day, and thought of home. But Christmas in the tropics just didn’t seem to fit.

To celebrate the New Year, the skipper passed out a double rum ration for all of the men getting off the watch. But the day was so hot and the winds so calm that most of the crew retreated to shade of the forecastle to drink their brew. Out of sight of the watchful eye of Captain Gray, I shared half my ration with Sandy. Sitting at the table, he told me that the ships had entered the doldrums, an area close to the equator that had light and variable winds.

“If we get becalmed, we’ll have to use the longboat to tow the Orphan.”

“In this heat? The skipper wouldn’t let that happen,” I answered.

“He can only harness the wind, not create it. I’ve done it before.”

And like providence, that’s what we did for the next three days. With our bodies sweltering, we pushed and pulled the oars of the longboat, dragging the Orphan ever so slowly. Each watch seemed longer than the last, and each pull seemed harder than the one before. The sea was as flat as a lake and the wind as calm as death. There was no beginning or end, only rowing.

On the third long day, Sandy looked up from his oars with sweat running down his face and mumbled, “Sunshine or thunder, a sailor always wonders when the fair winds will blow.” And then, like a miracle, just when I thought my arms could take no more, we caught a breeze that filled the headsails. The longboat was recalled and the spent but gleeful crew returned to the deck.

A few days later, having just come off the morning watch, I went forward to shave. Just as I finished, the ship’s bell started ringing, and the deck officer’s whistle blew. Dropping everything, I quickly ran up the ladder to turn to. By the time I got to the quarterdeck, the whole crew was gathered around – all except Mr. Gayle.

Just then, he popped up from the stern hatch, wearing a white sheet. Just below his rosy red cheeks, a mop head was tied to his chin. The crew snickered as he moved to address the ship’s company.

“I be King Neptune,” he shouted in a deep voice. “Who among you wishes to cross my line?”

“We do!” the sailors shouted back.

“Who has crossed my line before?”

All hands went up, except for Marcus and me.

The silly looking cook made his way through the crew and stopped in front of me.

Motioning for Marcus to stand by me, he said, “Well, lads, you will have to pay me tribute to cross my equator for the first time.”

“And what tribute would that be?” I asked with a grin.

“A week of your rum rations?” He paused and slowly glanced towards the sour faced Captain. “Well, no… I guess not.”

The crew laughed.

“A week of your food prepared by that great ship’s cook?” He paused, shaking his head. “No.”

The crew laughed again.

“Let me see… What tribute can you give me?” Turning, he walked to the stern, where I noticed that two ropes had been tied to the rail. “I have it! You will swim with my fish until you find your scepters.”

The crew yelled their approval, grinning, and began herding Marcus and me to the stern. Once there, King Neptune tied a belaying pin – a long wooden dowel – to the end of each rope. “These pins will be the scepters that will give you leave to cross my line.” Turning, he threw the pins overboard and let the rope rush out. “Once you return with your scepters, you will be allowed over.”

I looked at Marcus and noticed fear on his face. He had no idea of what was happening. Glancing over to the skipper, I nodded my head in Marcus’s direction.

He got the idea, and was soon telling the boy in Portuguese not to worry, that this was all in good fun.

Or was it? That’s when I noticed the Mate by the rail with a musket.

“Why the musket, King Neptune?” I asked.

“So none of me fish thinks ye to be their dinner. Now, over the side, lads.”

As we grabbed onto the ropes, I could still see fear on Marcus’ face. I yelled to him, “Do as I do.”

He nodded back.

The morning was hot, the water looked cool, and, with a soft breeze, the sloop was only making a few knots. Like monkeys, we scrambled down the ropes and into the ship’s wake. The green coral sea was refreshing, and I discovered that if I let go of the line, the speed of the ship pulled the hundred-foot end of the rope to my hands. When it did, I untied the pin and placed it in my month.

Marcus watched and did the same.

Now the hard part started – going hand-over-hand, against the oncoming sea. As we surfed and struggled forward, I felt a fish pock against my body. Startled, I looked over to find a porpoise swimming playfully next to me. The animal dove and twisted in the crystal clear water, then bumped me again. It was glorious.

Looking up, I spotted the Mate with his musket pointed our way. Taking the pin from my mouth I shouted, “Only a dolphin.” He withdrew his aim.

A few moments later, we reached the stern. With the crew at the rail, laughing and yelling, we were dragged aboard, dripping wet. When we handed the pins to a smiling King Neptune, he gave us each a crown of seaweed and a cup of rum. Then he welcomed us to his equator. I had read about this whimsical ceremony before, and now I had experienced it.

We slowly moved in a southwesterly direction, but, with the light and variable winds, we traveled only fifty or sixty miles a day. A week later, the Orphan was helped by the southeast trade winds, and our daily runs increased.

Finally, the island of Fernando de Noronha was spotted on the leeward side, which told the Captain that we had reached the broad shoulder of Brazil. Here, a course correction was made to follow the South American currents. By sailing south with the contour of continent, our daily runs increased to over one hundred and twenty miles. But these long runs proved tiring for the crew, and the ship still had sixteen hundred miles to travel. Soon, many of the crew started griping disrespectfully about the Captain, the food, the weather, and everything else. All this rancor made me uncomfortable, even though Sandy took me aside and told me that this was normal for a crew on a long voyage. But I still didn’t like hearing all the insults and laments.

A few days after changing course, the flagship came to an abrupt halt and raised its emergency signal flags. Quickly, the sloop came alongside and reefed sails. Then the two captains talked, using the voice horns.

From their conversation, we learned that Mr. Nutting, the astronomer, was missing. The Commodore had dispatched a party to search the ship and was waiting for their report.

Shortly, he called across that the party couldn’t find the astronomer and that they guessed that he had fallen overboard. “He was last seen by the midwatch,” the Commodore shouted.

“If he went in during the night, he’s gone,” replied Captain Gray.

“Aye…he must have drowned. Let’s get underway.”

Later, we learned that most of the crew on the Columbia believed that Mr. Nutting had gone mad and jumped overboard. He had been unstable during the voyage and an unusual addition to the expedition from the very start. He was probably the first American astronomer to view the southern skies, but there were no records to show that he had ever done so. Hopefully, with both Captains now navigating, the expedition would make more progress.

Being in the crosstree as the lookout when the seas were rough and the winds brisk was a miserable job. But when the seas were calm and the winds warm, I enjoyed the duty. Sitting in the crosstree always provided spectacular views. Some days I watched clouds stack up like firewood and see lighting behind them, like a tattered shade. Then came the thunder, rolling across the sky like cannon fire. During the night watches, there were the brilliant southern stars to admire and sometimes a bright moon. On one such night, just after a big, full moon had risen in the eastern sky, and with my mind reeling with thoughts of home, I lost all sense of time. When a bald Indian head popped up from the shrouds below, I was so startled that I about fell off my perch.

“Hopi, you gave me a start,” I yelled.

“My watch,” he said as he pulled himself to sitting position next to me.

Pointing out to the horizon, I said, “Look at that moon! Have you ever seen it so big and blue before?”

“Nay.”

Hopi was a quiet, half-breed with Wampanoag Indian blood in his veins. He shaved his head each morning, leaving only a stump of black hair at the back of his skull. That stump was tied together with leather and small sticks, allowing the long hair to fall onto his back. Other than bushy black eyebrows, his bronze head was devoid of facial hair. On one cheek, he had a tattoo of a circular blue swirl, and he wore large, round earrings on both ears. If you didn’t know him, you might think him a savage.

In the blue moonlight, I watched his face as he gazed at the moon. Then I asked, “What does your name mean in your native language?”

Turning to me, he answered, “Restless one.”

“Are you restless? Is that why you’re a sailor?”

“Aye, I search for answers.”

“Answers to what?”

Turning his gazed back to the moon, he said, “Life.”

“Have you found any?”

“Aye, many.”

After thinking for a moment, I asked the question that had been on my mind all voyage. “Would you know why the eagle is feared?”

Looking back at me, the blue twinkling ocean reflecting on his face, he thought for a moment and then answered, “Aye… because he can soar.”

This was the longest conversation I had ever had with Hopi, and his answer made me think. After all, Indians would know best about eagles.

A few days later, I helped row the skipper to the flagship for a council. After having coffee in the galley, I went to the forward rail, waiting for the meeting to end. As I heard the ship’s bell signal a watch change, I observed Mr. Haswell, the second Mate, having a problem getting a sailor to turn to. At first, he calmly approached the forecastle hatch and ordered the crewman to the deck. When he received no response, he went down the ladder.

From where I stood, I could only hear what happened next. In a firm, loud voice, Mr. Haswell ordered the sailor topside. The seaman responded with loud and scurrilous language. For a few seconds, the two men just yelled at each other, and then I heard a scuffle and the cracking of a fist. Moments later, the Mate returned to the deck with the seaman, who was holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose.

As this commotion was unfolding, Captain Gray and the Commodore came to the quarterdeck. When Captain Kendrick saw the bleeding sailor, he exploded with anger and rushed forward. He confronted the two men, but instead of supporting Mr. Haswell, he yelled at him. The Mate yelled back. With the two men now loudly cursing one another, and with all the crew watching, Captain Gray came forward to intercede. Finally, calm was restored, and the three officers moved back to the stern...but without anyone saying a word to the bleeding sailor who had started the fracas.

Still angry, Captain Kendrick would not let it go and soon ordered Mr. Haswell off the deck and told him to move from his cabin to the forecastle. The Mate agreed, if he was given leave of the ship’s company. But Kendrick would not agree to that and, after much yelling, Mr. Haswell stormed off the deck.

As we rowed back to the Orphan, the skipper sat quietly, gazing at the flagship. We had just watched the Commodore go a little berserk, and we all knew it could be a bad omen of things to come.

A few days later, our two ships arrived at the easternmost coast of Argentina and changed course for West Falkland Island. As we traveled these waters, the overcast sky teemed with sea birds of all kinds and colors. Sandy pointed out one large albatross with a yellow head and told me that a legend claimed that these birds were the souls of drowned sailors.

Looking more closely at this big beaked bird as it soared, glided, and fished so close to the ship, I thought Sandy just might be right. There is something about stories of the sea and the men who give their lives so freely that always seemed to ring true, like the ship’s bell.

In due course, the two vessels spotted West Falkland Island. The destination of the ships was to be Port Egmont on Saunders Island, just northwest of West Falkland Island. But upon entering a narrow channel that led to the port, the Commodore was confronted with strong headwinds and an adverse tide. He therefore bore away and set sail for Brett’s Harbor, a protected anchorage on the same tongue of land as the port but on the opposite side of the island.

Here, with no other ships in sight, the vessels dropped anchor. Our passage from Port Praya had taken fifty-seven days.

After dropping the bowers, Captain Gray went ashore with the Commodore in search of fresh water. Upon their return, they reported finding many springs and of observing large flocks of duck and geese.

The next day, work parties were dispatched to fill the water casks and to hunt for game. The air was chilly when I went ashore with musket in hand as part of a hunting detail.

A heavy, gray layer of clouds hung over the rocky landscape that looked sparse and barren. There were a few small groves of trees and long, golden sea grass on the hillsides. How humans could survive on this wasteland, I did not know. One thing was certain: whatever game was on this bleak island would have to be searched out. We hunted all that afternoon and returned to the ship weary but with large bags of gutted and plucked game-birds, ready for the cook’s pot. That same afternoon, other parties returned with firewood and with grass for the livestock.

The following day, Captain Gray set about preparing for the Orphan to round Cape Horn. He instructed me to set up a small forge on the deck to repair some of the ship’s iron strapping that had been damaged during the passage.

As I worked the hammer and anvil, other crewmembers caulked the hull planking above the water line. Some timbers were replaced or repaired by the ship’s carpenter while other sailors worked in the rigging, setting in heavy new canvas sails. For three long days, all the ship’s activities were focused on making the sloop ready for its dangerous crossing to the Pacific. Finally, with deck planks fully sealed and the Captain’s final inspection passed, the sloop was ready to sail.

Just as we completed our work, however, we learned that the Commodore was having misgivings about making the southern passage so late in the season. His idea was to winter in the Falklands and begin the passage in eight months.

Staying in this desolate harbor for eight months was not well liked by the officers or by crew. Captain Gray warned the Commodore that it was a bad idea and that some of the men might take “French leave” – jump ship. He even asked permission for us to proceed alone in the Orphan, but his request was rejected. Captain Kendrick vacillated for days, and all the while the weather worsened in the southern seas.

One day, I asked Sandy why we couldn’t sail to Argentina and winter there.

“It’s the Spaniards, lad. They rule with an iron fist from Madrid. If we sailed into one of their ports, they might confiscate our ships, and we could be marooned for years.”

As the days dragged on and we were running out of time, I knew that something had to happen. And then it did. On our ninth day at anchor, we learned that Mr. Haswell, the former second Mate of the flagship, had gone ashore with a hunting party and failed to return. A search detail was sent out, but at dark they returned alone. By now, most of the crew guessed that the Second Mate had walked the five miles across the island to Port Egmont, where he could simply sign on with another ship.

The next morning, when he still had not returned, the Commodore ordered his brig lowered, intending to sail to Port Egmont and retrieve the deserter. But just as the boat was ready to get underway, Mr. Haswell was spotted on the beach, waving his hands. Later, we learned that he had indeed walked the five miles, only to find a crumbling town with no souls and no ships. The British settlement of Port Egmont had been abandon a few years before.

With Mr. Haswell aboard the flagship again, Captain Gray rowed over to confront the Commodore. Reminding him that others would likely desert if there were further delays, he convinced Captain Kendrick to get underway. Then he asked that Mr. Haswell be assigned to the Orphan as the sloop’s much-needed Second Mate.

The Commodore hesitated, then relented reluctantly.

When the skipper was rowed back to the Orphan, he brought with him both the longed awaited sailing orders and a new Second Mate.

With the crew happy and singing jovially, we pulled together in preparing the ship to get underway. The two vessels sailed for the Pacific Ocean via the Drake Passage at daybreak on February 28, 1788.