Donnie sat back down and Fred turned to him. "Why did you do that?”
Donnie grinned. "Just having fun.”
“You are lucky you didn't end up with that marlinspike in your gizzard.”
“Ach," Donnie replied, "Harry's not a bad sort.”
“True enough," Fred replied. "With others you might not have been so lucky.”
“The skill, to be sure, is knowing which from which," Donnie said with a smile.
The mate bellowed from the break of the poop deck. "The watch! Take up on the upper main topsail brace!”
As they got to their feet, Donnie said, "Told ya not to be looking.”
Fred laughed. "It wasn't me.”
At midnight, Fred began his two-hour trick at the wheel. At first, Mr. Rand stood next to him with one eye on the compass and one on the sails. Fred only barely suppressed a grin. This was not his first time steering a sailing ship in the trade winds. In a few minutes, Mr. Rand strolled off to windward.
Somewhere forward, Fred heard a harmonica playing, in an odd but pleasing counterpoint to the drone of the sea and the creaking of the steel yards and rigging. An almost full moon filled half the sails with moonlight, and cast the other half in shadow, shifting back and forth as the ship rolled in the quartering sea. On a night like this Fred could imagine being no other place in the world. He held the wheel lightly, giving a spoke or two now and then in anticipation of the ship's movement, sailing by the set of the sails and by the compass glowing dimly in the binnacle. He reveled in the unimaginable power of the wind, the sea and the mighty steel ship that he could feel gently cradled in his hands on the wheel. The wind, on his back, whispered to him and the sea sang in its magical monotone. He knew that moments like these never lasted. The best never quite made up for the worst—whether icy winds and mountainous seas, or just the bad food, lousy wages and poor treatment. Yet for a short while, at least, none of that mattered, as he steered a mighty wind-ship across a rolling sea and star-strewn sky.
When relieved at the wheel, Fred was sent forward to spend the rest of the watch as lookout. As he rounded the deckhouse, a shadow leapt out toward him. He saw the flash of a knife blade cutting through the moonlight, inches from his throat. He jumped backward and grabbed his own knife from his belt, holding it out in the darkness against his phantom attacker.
But the attack never came. Fred saw a large man lunging about on the deck in the moonlight, fighting an unseen foe. Stepping warily closer, Fred recognized the Dane, Jensen, lurching and slashing at the darkness, cursing in what to Fred sounded like gibberish. Fred watched him for a moment, shook his head and crossed over to the leeward side of the ship.
At the fo'c'sle head, Fred relieved Tom Jackson. "That crazy Dane came near enough to slitting my throat. Son of a bitch.”
Tom shook his head. "Yeah. Seen him dancing around. Pretty fair sailor, but crazy queer come the moon. Best give him a wide berth. If I see the mate, I'll tell him.”
“You do that." Fred spent the rest of the watch looking out for other ships on the horizon and glancing over his shoulder, watching for a moon-mad Dane with a knife.
The next day, when Fred was off watch and it was near enough to dinnertime, he drifted aft to the galley and overheard the Jamaican cook, Jeremiah, pontificating, as he was prone to do. The large black cook seemed to think of himself as a prophet, yet never a happy one. He was always moaning of bad tidings, while the only bad tidings that Fred was aware of came from his kettles. He was a better preacher than a cook. Jeremiah spoke so often of the gospels that some in the crew were now calling him the ship's sky-pilot or the reverend instead of the doctor.
Jeremiah's voice carried beyond the cookhouse. "He a Jonah-man. That he be. Dancing around like a debil in the moonlight. Got the debil in his heart, that man. He be bringing down the bad spirits and foul winds on us afore this trip is over. Pray for salvation from the Lord on high. But with a debil aboard, maybe not even God Almighty hisself can save us. Mark my words.”
Fred heard Harry's voice, "Shut your yammering, ya crazy fool. Don't need no talk like that. Talk like that's what brings the bad luck. That's for damn sure.”
Later at the cabin table, as the watch gnawed on the salt horse and biscuit, the talk was of Jensen.
“So what? Most Danes are crazy, for sure," suggested Tony the Chileno. "Jensen's all right.”
“Just might be sometin' to it, all the same," Otto Schmidt said. "Not smart to ignore bad spirits. Let's 'em sneak up on ya that way. A crazy man is bad enough, but a crazy man swinging a knife, that's somethin' else.”
Harry shrugged. "I just don't like all the bad-mouthing of another sailor. Good thing that Jensen has na' temper. That black bastard talk like that 'bout me, I might slit him from gut to gizzard with his own stinking blade.”
Otto pulled out his tobacco pouch, made of the foot of an albatross. Fred smiled. Otto was the most superstitious of the lot yet cared not a whit for the stories in books. Like most sailors, Otto was ready to catch and skin an albatross, the poet's verses be damned.
“Barker 'spose to be a lucky captain. Le's just hope his luck is wit' us," offered Tony.
“Sometimes, hope is all we got," nodded Harry.
Fred sat looking at his tin plate. The cook's talk about Jensen didn't bother him as much as the food the cook was serving. Never enough and what there was was bad. He had never sailed on a British ship before but had always heard that the limejuicers were bad feeders. He was beginning to understand just how bad.
Mary Barker finally sat down to the small writing desk in the cabin. The children were being watched by one of the apprentices and she had some time to herself. She took out her stationery, pen and ink and set about the letter that she had been meaning to start for days.
Ship Lady Rebecca June 25th, 1905
Dearest Mother,
I had promised you and myself that I would write often. I have no idea when I might get the opportunity to mail this letter. If we happen to cross paths with a homeward bound ship, I might be able to post to you. Failing that, I will mail to you the letters I write in one bunch from Chile where they will be put aboard the first homeward bound steamer.
It is just as well that we have seen no other ship thus far, as this is the first time I have managed to put pen to paper since we sailed. The children and I were deathly seasick for the first two weeks of the voyage, the Channel chop and the Bay of Biscay being not agreeable to our land-lubberly dispositions. There is an old sailor's expression that you are not seasick if you think that you may die. You are only truly seasick, if you fear that you will not. Now that I have recovered, I can say that I was truly seasick, in those early days.
Those first two weeks, James was very busy with his duties as captain, but checked in on us as often as he could. Dear brother Thomas was also quite busy as Second Mate, but visited when off watch. I am afraid that the children and I were quite a burden to the steward, a light skinned black man named Walter, who showed us every kindness, as his duties permitted.
The Lady Rebecca has now reached the north-easterly trade winds and the world seems a different place all together. The seas still roll along but the motion is much easier. The sunshine and warmth has been a blessing. I heard an apprentice call these "barefoot seas," as their sea boots are put away and they pad around the decks and scamper aloft wholly unshod.
A shoal of dolphins kept company with us for much of yesterday, swimming along behind the ship, then darting up to play under and around the rudder. They have beak-like snouts and are all a silver grey that by some magic captures the sunlight in the water that flows around them, so that they seem cloaked in flowing sheets of myriad colours. I could watch them swim and play for hours.