Some of the sailors have taken to fishing. One or two good sized tunas have been hauled aboard, much to everyone's glee. The Jamaican cook prepared the fish for the crew with only his usual grumbling and sent a few fish steaks aft, which were delicious.
When the sailors catch a shark, they torment it most brutally. They won't eat shark on the chance that the beast has devoured some poor sailor and feasting on its flesh would make them cannibals, once removed. After cutting off the tail and the jaws they toss the evil thing back into the sea. They nail the tail fin to the end of the ship's jib-boom, the spar that extends beyond the bowsprit, as a warning to all other sharks. I am not sure whether I find their rituals savage or amusing. Perhaps some of each.
We have crossed schools of flying fish. The fish do really have wings or fins that are close enough to serve as wings. Their pectoral fins are broad and many times the width of their slender bodies. They shine in rainbow colours as they glide over the waters. We have had quite a few soar up over the rail and land flopping about on deck. Walter has cooked up several for us. The flesh is not altogether unpleasant but they do tend to be rather boney.
The children seem to have taken to the ship, becoming right little shellbacks. They have become very attached to one particular apprentice named Will, who has been designated their minder to give me an occasional hour or two off watch. I am not sure Will is overly pleased, but the children are happy, so am I as well.
The crew seems to have taken to the children as well. The deckhands are a rough-looking crowd but seem kind-hearted beneath all their grumbling and growling.
Just the other day, I was on the poop deck with James and the children when Pugsley, the sailmaker came to the break of the poop and asked permission to step up. Pugsley is much weather-worn and a bit stooped; a Scot from Peterhead, who always wears a battered bowler on his graying pate.
When James gave permission, he climbed the steps, nodded to James as captain and to me as his wife, but swept off his hat and bowed most gallantly before little Amanda, who immediately broke into a fit of giggles. He then laid at her feet a small package, wrapped in brown paper and twine. When Amanda tore the paper off, she squealed with delight. It was a doll, made of old canvas and stuffed with oakum. The hair is spun yarn and the eyes and mouth are just dabs of black and red paint. It is such a crude little thing and reeks horribly of tar, but Amanda loves it so. The tar might as well be perfume, the way she hugs it. Amanda is never seen on deck without "Mrs. Murphy," as she has named the doll. (I believed she named her doll after a family friend. I hope the real "Mrs. Murphy" never learns of her rather poor likeness.)
I must end this letter, as I hear the bells clang for the change of watch. I must relieve poor Will from his duties of minding the children. I miss you terribly and will try to write again soon.
Your loving daughter,
Mary
After reducing his noon sun sight and plotting their position on the chart, Captain Barker returned to the poop deck with his telescope. Mr. Rand was on watch, standing at the break of the poop as the ship rolled on before the trades.
“Afternoon, Mr. Rand," Captain Barker said, in passing, as he walked to the weather mizzen ratlines. He tucked the collapsed telescope into his belt, swung out and began climbing up to the mizzen top. He usually sent an apprentice or even a mate aloft, but why not make the climb himself? Good to remind the crew that he was as fit as any of them and the day was too lovely to waste on the poop deck.
Once on the mizzen top, Captain Barker braced himself on a shroud, extended the telescope and looked out to the east. The dark smudges in the glass appeared where he expected them to be. The volcanic peaks that rose above the horizon were the Cape Verde Islands, 2,500 nautical miles from Cardiff. The largest should be Santiago, unless the Lady Rebecca was farther south than he thought and he was seeing Fogo, the highest of the volcanoes. As he swept the horizon with the glass, trying to get his bearings on the ten islands of the archipelago, a white blob obstructed his view. He refocused the glass and saw that it was the top-hamper of a ship. He couldn't see the deck, but it was four-masted and a barque.
Captain Barker laughed out loud. The rigging was exactly right. It had to be. He shouted down to the deck, "Mr. Rand, I do believe that I spy the Susannah, well to the east of us.”
Atkinson came on deck, curious about the shouting. The captain called down, "Mr. Atkinson, could you join me aloft. I would value a second opinion.”
When the second mate clambered up onto the platform, the captain handed him the telescope. "Tell me what you think.”
After a moment's consideration, Atkinson said, "Well, she certainly could be the Susannah. The cut of the mizzen topsail looks German.”
The captain nodded. "I checked the shipping press before we sailed. I think that is the only Kraut four-poster to sail from the coast anywhere near our departure. It has got to be her. We caught up and have a good bit of westing on her.”
He took the telescope back and looked again toward the sails rising above the horizon. Nothing set above the t'gallants. He yelled down, "Mr. Rand, set the royals on the fore and main.”
“Aye, sir," Rand yelled back. He turned to the deck and started shouting the orders to set the royals.
“If you'll excuse me, Captain," Mr. Atkinson said as he disappeared over the edge of the mizzen top.
Captain Barker looked down from the mizzen top. "So, we'll never catch the Susannah, is that what you said, Mr. Rand? We've caught her and now we'll show her our heels." He climbed back down the ratlines as the royals blossomed on the main and foremasts against the deep blue of a cloudless sky.
In fair weather of the trades, the captain agreed to give the three goats and half-dozen chickens the run of the ship. If they were to provide milk and eggs, he thought it better to free them from their pens. Jeremiah, the cook, was none too pleased when the bearded bandits stole biscuits, lard and old rags from his galley. He menaced them with a cleaver. "I'd cut your mangy heads off if'in you weren't de captain's goats," he shouted at them—a threat that seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the bearded children of Capricorn.
The goats also began raiding the off-watch fo'c'sle cabin, making meals of the foul-weather gear hanging on the pegs on the bulkhead. They also liked seaboots and dungarees.
Mr. Rand, seeming uncharacteristically jolly, came aft and spoke to the captain.
“Well, sir, your goats are giving you a guaranteed profit in your slop chest sales. Crew'll be buying lots of gear if the goats keep it up.”
Captain Barker looked back at Rand. "Who did you assign to tend to them?
“John Lindstrom, comes from goat country in Norway, I hear.”
“When was the last time he milked them?”
“I'm not sure. I'll check.”
“Do so." The captain called for the carpenter. "Mr. Pugsley, please round up the goats and tie them where they will stay out of mischief.”
Twenty minutes later, Lindstrom went to milk the goats. He carried a short stool, a rag and a bucket. Rand tagged along to make sure that the job was done. They found the goats tethered with twine just outside the bosun's locker.