On seeing their approach, one of the three goats stiffened, crouched and then launched into a sudden spring, breaking his twine leash and hurling itself headfirst at the mate. Its two other kinsmen followed suit, hitting Lindstrom and Mr. Rand right about amidships and knocking both down on the deck. Lying on his back, the mate bellowed for reinforcements. Soon, a tangled mass of sailors grappled for the three goats, who proved to be far more agile than they might have first appeared.
Curses, laughter and cries of pain rose from the squirming pile until all three goats were well and thoroughly secure. Disheveled sailors and the exhausted goats all splayed out on the deck catching their breath.
Lindstrom got up and found his stool and bucket, which had been kicked across the deck. He sat on the stool and placed the bucket under a now calm she-goat. Reaching below the beast, Lindstrom did what he could, but to no avail. Apparently a diet of oilskins, dungarees and rubber boots was not conducive to the production of milk.
The chickens were more productive. Set free to roam every morning at six, they returned to their pens on their own by six in the evening. Every morning the cook collected the eggs with an allotment going aft and the rest shared with the half-deck and the fo'c'sle.
The chickens took to the captain's son, Tommy, who liked to sit on deck surrounded by them at feeding time, grabbing as much of the chicken feed for himself as he could before his mother or Will stopped him.
Will grated at being the designated nursemaid, but he sincerely enjoyed keeping an eye on Amanda and little Tommy. At home he was the youngest, so having two children to watch out for was a new experience for the apprentice. Both children made him laugh. Tommy tottered around, not quite stable yet so close to the deck that he didn't fall hard or very often.
Amanda was feisty. Were it not for her gender, Will thought she would make a fine ship's captain. She knew how to assume command. She would take Will's hand and say, "Come along, Mr. William," as she took him below to have tea with Mrs. Murphy, the canvas doll that the sail maker had sewn for her. Tommy followed along behind to the mess room. Will gave Walter, the steward, a nasty look when he saw him grinning in the pantry.
Mr. Rand came to the captain's dayroom. "Getting complaints about a crazy man for'ard, Captain. Jensen, the Dane. Starts swinging at shadows from the lamp in the fo'c'sle with his knife and been doing queer things on deck in the moonlight.”
“Do you think him dangerous?”
“Hard to tell, sir. Could be harmless, unless he hurts or kills someone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rand. I'll have a word with him. Send him aft when he is off watch.”
Not long after Mr. Rand left the dayroom, Walter Gronberg, the ship's carpenter, stood on the threshold. "Scuse me, Captain.”
“Yes Chips, come in.”
“Thank you, sir. Doing my rounds. The coal in number two hatch is heating up. Just thought you should know.”
The captain, who had been updating the log, put down his pen. "How hot is it getting?”
“Round a hundred and ten right now," the carpenter replied, checking his notebook.
“Could just be the warmer climate. Watch it and keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir," the carpenter replied with a nod.
An hour later, the Dane was outside the captain's dayroom, twisting his cap in his hands.
“Come in, Jensen," the captain called out.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
Captain Barker looked at the sailor, who had clearly been sailing for much of his life. His face was weathered and hard, though his eyes looked calm and almost kindly. The tattoos on his arms had faded a touch in the sun. The tattoo of the naked woman with the large breasts on his right arm suggested wild times ashore, hardly unusual among sailors. Barker had been watching Jensen. He was one of the best sailors in the crew—skilled, fast and hardworking. He would like a dozen more like him.
“Jensen, we sailed without a bosun. You seem to have all the knowledge required. Would you be interested in the job?”
The big man shook his head. "Ach, no, sir. Lots of fellers forward better qualified than me. Wouldn't be right. Hate to bother them about it.”
The captain leaned forward. "Don't worry about anyone else. I think that you are qualified for the job and it is my decision to make, not theirs.”
“Thank you, sir. I just couldn't. No. Think I best stay for'ard.”
Captain Barker sighed to himself. Forward was where the problem was. If Jensen was bosun, he would bunk aft and the crew wouldn't have to worry about the Dane. It seemed an easy solution, but Jensen was having none of it.
“Tell me, Jensen, were you injured on any of your last ships?”
“Yah, on the Daniella." He raised a hand to the back of his head.
“What happened?”
“A toggle falls from the maintop and cracks me on mine hoved, my head.”
The captain looked concerned. "Where you laid up long?”
“Was in my bunk a few times. Captain paid me off in Portland." His voice dropped until it was barely audible. "Captain said I was crazy.”
“Have you felt oddly during this voyage?”
“Yah, sir," Jensen replied softly. "Sometimes, when the moon gets big.”
Captain Barker sat silently for a moment. Jensen didn't seem dangerous, but who could tell?
“Jensen, if the moon or anything else gets to bothering you, come and tell me about it. I'll tell the mate that you have my permission. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, sir," Jensen replied.
“Then, that will be all.”
6. Doldrums and Cracker Hash
The four apprentices sat around the long table in the half-deck. "I miss my mother's cooking," Will mused to himself.
Jack looked over. "What, you homesick already?”
“Nah, just hungry's all. Ma isn't much of a cook but least I was never pinch-bellied.”
Jack hooted, and then looked ruefully at his own metal dish, empty now except for a piece of salt horse that was all gristle and bone.
Rations were set by law. It was all laid down in the articles, detailing the quantity and variety of food that had to be served up to sailors. But nothing in the law guaranteed the quality of the stores or whether the weight specified was all fat, bone or gristle, not fit for feeding to hogs. And then there was the skill, or lack thereof, of the cook, who could be relied upon to ruin even that portion that was edible. Will found that he was hungry most of the time.
That morning, it had been Will's turn to wait with a bread barge, a sort of oblong box, at the deckhouse door for the steward to dole out the day's allotment of "Liverpool pantiles." Nicknamed after a type of roofing tile, the hard-baked biscuits that would substitute for bread for the long voyage. Tom, a sailor from the off-watch, waited with his bread barge in hand as well.
Once he delivered the biscuits to the half-deck, Will fetched a billy of tea from the cook in the galley. Twice a week they got a bit of sugar and tinned milk, but they used that in a day, so they had only black stewed tea to wash down the chalk-dry biscuits.
Breakfast was burgoo, pantiles and tea, while the midday dinner was a measly piece of salt beef with pantiles. Pantiles and tea was the evening meal.
On Sundays and Thursdays, salt pork replaced the "salt horse," and each man got a boiled potato. Even early in the voyage, the spuds were rotten or sprouting. And when they ran out, there would be no more for the trip. The cook also made a dried pea soup, almost as gritty and tasteless as the burgoo.
The first few weeks hadn't been too bad. There had been eggs from the chickens but now the birds weren't doing so well. Sea life apparently didn't appeal to them. They had stopped laying and were losing their feathers. The consensus in the half-deck was that they would soon end up on the captain's table.