The ship was rolling along now in the long swells on a broad reach, with everything set save the royals. Even in the half-deck they could hear the hum of her wake beneath the sound of the wind, the low tune rising and falling as she charged from crest to trough.
Jack sat back against his sea chest, popped a square of tobacco into his mouth and started to chew. "Ye know, a sailor's life ain't as bad as they say, don'tcha think?”
Will opened his mouth to reply and then closed it quickly again. His stomach churned and his head spun. In an instant, he bolted for the half-deck door and stumbled across the deck to the leeward rail. He began to retch the net contents of what seemed his entire being from his toes to his nostrils into the rushing waters. He hung on, with his arms wrapped around the leeward stanchion. He wasn't sick. He was dying. He was sure of that.
When it was mostly past, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. It was Jack. "Come on, old son, let's get you into your bunk. You'll feel better soon enough.”
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.