They had begun to pick up the northeasterly trade winds. The mornings were warm and the trades, steady on the quarter, were exactly the winds that the Lady Rebecca was built for. The sails were set to the t'gallants and they hadn't touched the braces for days. Fred loved to listen to the hypnotic hum of the wake, a steady and soothing hiss, as the miles slipped effortlessly beneath her keel.
In the afternoon, during the two dogwatches, all hands turned to, to sweat up the halyards and any other lines that had stretched in the previous day's sail. It was easy enough work as most lines were steel cable with hemp rope tails. Only the hemp stretched and there wasn't much of it. Harry took the forehand, and the men tailed the line behind him. He sang a favorite halyard shanty.
“Oooh, Boney was a warrior, a way hey, a warrior, a terrier . . .”
Fred sang along with gusto as they hauled in unison on the heavy hemp line, "John François!”
“Oooh, Boney fought the Prussians, a way hey, the Austrians and Russhians …”
“John François!”
And so it went, at each of the three masts, until all the running rigging was taut again and the yards pressed snug against the blocks. As Fred walked forward, he glanced back at the captain watching imperiously from the break of the poop deck, the lord and master of them all. He could almost see a smile on the Old Man's face. Hell, why not, Fred thought, smiling himself as the mighty ship rolled on before the steady trade winds, the sails huge and white against the cloudless blue of the sky and far deeper blue of the sea.
After sweating up the lines, the crew spread out across the deck to enjoy the rest of the second dog watch. Fred sat leaning against the fo'c'sle deckhouse gazing idly up at the sails. In a moment, Donnie, who was sitting beside him, gave him a quick backhanded swat to his shoulder.
“What was that for?" Fred demanded.
“Quit yer looking at that upper topsail brace, " the old Irishman snorted.
“What do you mean?”
Donnie sighed. "The brace is slack. It could use some hauling. If you keep looking up at it like a mooncow, the mate will see you, look up himself and we'll be back up hauling on the brace, and I just set myself down.”
Fred laughed and took one last look up at the rigging. Donnie was right. The brace was slack. He averted his gaze and looked out instead at the rolling sea, the waves a deep blue with foaming white crests. If the mate saw the slack brace, he wouldn't be blamed for it.
A short way away, Harry was sitting on the hatch coaming, working on a pair of fancy rope handles for his sea chest. Tom Jackson, the sailor from Liverpool, sauntered over. A stream of tobacco juice squirted from his lip, hitting the deck, just missing Harry's foot. Harry looked up at the tall young sailor.
“Would ya wipe that up for me, now?" Tom asked.
“Wipe it up ya'self. I'm busy," Harry replied, both his hands still occupied with his rope work.
“Now, that is na' friendly at all," Tom replied with an ominous smirk. He kept chewing the tobacco but his fists were clenched.
Fred, watching from a few paces away, had been wondering when the ritual would be played out. The community on a deep-sea ship was primitive. There was always a top dog. The cock of the watch. On some ships, an older sailor was simply deferred to. On others, a young tough would assert his claim. Harry was the experienced hand and a shantyman to boot, so he would naturally be the untitled leader of the watch, but Tom Jackson was the new young rooster. Along with the rest of the crew, Fred could only watch and see who came out on top.
Harry looked unconcerned. "Ya see, I ain't got a rag, so I canna help you.”
Tom pulled a dirty rag from his pocket and dropped it at his feet. "Now, wipe it up, ya codger.”
Harry smiled. "Ach. I've sailed long enough to know that t'ere is no point in scrapping." He put down his rope work and bent over to reach for the rag.
Tom grinned in triumph and looked around at the rest of the crew to make sure that they had seen his victory. The old man was afraid to fight. He as much as said so.
“You dropped your rag," Harry said. With remarkable speed for a man his size, Harry grabbed the rag in his large fist and sprang up to full standing, using the power of his legs as well as his massive shoulders, driving his fist under the young sailor's jaw. Tom was lifted off the deck, landing on his back near the bulwark. The crew burst into laughter and catcalls.
A moment later there was silence. Tom was not moving. Had the blow killed him?
After what seemed a very long time, Tom opened his eyes and moved his head slightly. He slowly opened and closed his jaw and then brought his hand gingerly alongside his face.
“Best be careful, youngster," Harry said, standing over him. "It's easy to get hurt. An' you dropped your rag." He tossed the rag on Tom's chest.
All eyes were on their horizontal shipmate. Would he spring up to fight the older sailor? Or would Harry give him a hard kick or two, break a few ribs, before he could get up? Fred realized that he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly.
Instead, Tom chuckled. "'Right ye are. Never can be too careful." He raised his hand to be helped up and Harry took it warily and hauled Tom off the deck. Now was when Tom might start swinging again, if he hadn't learned his lesson, but instead he slapped Harry on the back. "You pack quite a punch and you're a damn sight faster than ya look, ya know." Tom went over to the tobacco juice on deck and scrubbed at it with his rag, then went back to his bunk, chastened and sore.
Harry resumed the work on his sea chest handles. He had finished one, which lay on the hatch cover next to him as he worked on the second. Santiago, who was sitting not far away, motioned at the finished handle. "Can I see?" Harry nodded. "Das as fine work as I've eve' seen," Santiago opined. Harry just nodded and kept working.
Jerry the Greek nudged Santiago, who passed him the handle, and so the handle made its way around the deck with each man expressing his admiration for the fine marline-spike work.
When the handle reached Fred, he turned it over in his hand. It was shaped like a large iron shackle, except much lighter and softer and adorned with beautifully detailed rope work. Harry had taken a length of three-quarter-inch rope, spliced both ends, then puddened the middle with layers of canvas to make it thicker. He covered the whole thing with four-strand coxcombing and Spanish hitching in white cod line, ending up with two three-stranded Turk's heads. He had then carefully bent the becket to shape. The handle "bolt" was leather-covered rope finished at each end with a star knot. Fred let out a low whistle of appreciation and then passed the handle to Donnie.
After a moment's careful examination, Donnie said, "A fine rope handle, to be sure. Pro'lly nobody on the ship could make one better. Course, I once sailed wit' a Frisian named Vanderploeg on the old Mariana. Now, he could make a set of handles, I'll tell you. Never seen any finer. Not that ter' is anyt'ing wrong with this handle, now, nothing at all, but the handles that Van made, well, they were near enough to breathtaking, with rose knots and coach whipping and wall and crown knots. Yes, sirree.”
Harry got to his feet and walked over to the Irishman.
“Are you saying that I can't make a rope handle as well as a bloody Frisian? You saying a Frisian's better'n me?" Harry still had the marlinspike that he had been using to work the cord, clutched in his large right hand.
Donnie jumped to his feet. "Well, now, I ain't saying anything of the sort! Why would you even ask such a question?”
“All right, then," Harry replied, and snatched the finished handle from Donnie's hand.
“Good work there," Donnie said as Harry went back to where he had been sitting. Harry only snorted in reply.