Jerry the Greek had been lucky with a fishing line, catching two fine tunas, so for a few days, everyone had a bit of fish, but now that they were leaving the trade winds, there was no time for fishing.
Once a week, on Tuesday in the first dogwatch, the slop chest—the ship's store—was open for business. The apprentices lined up with the rest of the crew. The business in oilskins and sea boots was brisk. The goats had eaten through many sets in the fo'c'sle. Each sailor's purchase was marked down in the steward's log to be deducted from his pay at sign-off.
The half-deck had so far resisted the goats' assault. Instead of gear, the apprentices pooled their miserably small slop-chest allotments to buy a pound tin of raspberry jam. The four rushed back to the half-deck, the senior apprentice, Paul Nelson, cradling their prize in his arms. They then took turns eating the jam a spoonful at a time. After the initial lust for sweets had been sated, they took the rest for cracker hash.
The recipe was easy. They took a steel belaying pin and crushed the four pantiles that they had left in a flat pan, picked out the weevils, and then stirred in the remaining jam. They then all marched forward, with Paul Nelson taking the lead, carrying the pan before him, stopping at the galley door where they most politely asked the cook to bake the hash in his oven. They waited outside, peering into the galley from time to time, praying that the oven wasn't too hot or that the cook didn't get too busy or their cracker hash would be burned to a crisp and it would be no use complaining.
Paul leaned tentatively across the threshold of the galley door. "Do you think that it might be ready now, cook?”
“Why you minding my business?" the black cook scowled. "I know what I am about. Be lookin' to your own business, not mine." Nevertheless, he took his rag, opened the oven door and pulled out a perfectly cooked cracker hash. After a minute's cooling, the delicacy was bundled back aft where it was divided evenly.
The jaw-breaking biscuits were now soft and saturated in sweetness. It was the most delicious, glorious repast Will could remember or imagine, surely close enough to ambrosia. In a few minutes the watch bell rang and Paul and Charlie tumbled out on watch. Will stretched out in his bunk and dreamed of cracker hash.
One evening at suppertime, after settling into the meager fare, Will was surprised when Paul Nelson told them all to get cleaned up.
“Put on your best bib and tucker," he said. "And scrub your hands and faces. Tonight, we have been invited to dine with the captain and his family in the mess room.”
The apprentices cheered. Will knew that the captain had to be eating far better than they were.
“Dining in the mess room. Ho ha," George said, then turning to Will in a lowered voice, "or should we call that the lady's tearoom? Will Mrs. Murphy be there?”
Will elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“And after dinner, we will provide the evening's entertainment," Paul continued.
“We will?" Will asked.
Paul chuckled. "We are all going to sing for the captain and his wife. A command performance.”
“Sing? I can't sing … well, I can't sing … very well," Will stammered.
“So?" Paul replied. "We are the closest thing this ship has to a gramophone.”
Jack came over. "Don't worry, Will. You'll do fine. 'Course, last trip they did throw poor Johnny overboard when he got too frightened to sing. Isn't that right, Paul?”
Paul swatted Jack with the back of his hand. Jack only laughed. "Come on, get cleaned up. We can't keep the captain and his lady waiting.”
In a few minutes, the four apprentices trooped into the mess room, their hands and faces washed and their togs reasonably clean. The old ship had once carried cabin passengers, so there was plenty of room at the table. Captain Barker sat at one end and wore a shirt with a collar and a tie, while his wife, Mary, sat next to him, wearing a blue dress and short jacket. Mate Rand and Second Mate Atkinson sat on the other side of the captain. Will worried for a moment who was watching out for Amanda and little Tommy, who were not present, but any thoughts of his charges drifted from his thoughts as he caught a whiff of the smells from the galley. The aroma was intoxicating. One or more of the chickens had ended its days in a cook pot.
As the youngest apprentice, the lowest in rank at the table, Will was served last. When his plate finally arrived, he breathed deeply and then dug in. The chicken thigh wasn't large but it was nestled between an ample portion of canned peas and potatoes. They had scarcely been at sea a fortnight, yet it seemed like years since Will had tasted chicken, peas and potatoes. He slowed his pace to savor the meal.
The conversation was polite but limited. The captain asked Paul several questions on his impressions of the how the ship was sailing and suggestions regarding changes to the rigging, which, as senior apprentice, Paul handled nicely. At one point the captain even spoke to Will to ask, "And how are you doing, young man?" Fortunately, Will was between bites so he could reply, "Very well, sir. Thank you," without the risk of choking or spewing out his peas.
After dinner the mates went back on duty and the rest went into the main cabin, where the apprentices stood lined up against the bulkhead. Captain Barker and his wife were seated in chairs facing them. To Will it felt a bit like being on the wrong end of a firing squad.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for joining us this evening," the captain said graciously. Will wondered whether he heard a touch of sarcasm in the tone, though wasn't sure. Mary Barker smiled beneficently at them. She was a lovely woman. Will had decided that at the start of the voyage and nothing in her manner had changed his opinion since.
Paul began with a version of "Southern Moon." Will had had no idea that Paul had such a nice voice and was immediately afraid that he would croak like a lovesick frog when his turn came. Everyone clapped when Paul was through. Jack sang a spirited version of "There's an Old Mill by the Stream, Nellie Dean." His voice wasn't as rich as Paul's but his enthusiasm made up for it. Everyone clapped for him too. George warbled through "My Wild Irish Rose." He wasn't much of a singer, but there was polite applause, nevertheless. Will didn't think of George as much of a sailor either, so he was pleased that he was no more skilled as a songbird.
Now, it was Will's turn. He wasn't sure what to sing. Every song he knew seemed to have fled from his mind. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, he sang the only thing he could remember, his mother's favorite song, which she used to sing to him as a child,
After the ball is over, after the break of morn,
After the dancers' leaving, after the stars are gone,
Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all …
When he miraculously made it through, he was surprised by the clapping. Mrs. Barker said, "Oh, William. I do so love that old song. Thank you." Will could feel his face flush, but managed to smile and nod.
For their musical efforts, they were rewarded with chocolate cake that Walter had baked that afternoon. Sitting at the table, making sure to catch each and every crumb, Will looked at the cabin rug, the upholstered chairs and the paneling on the bulkheads and was amazed by the vast distance between the captain's cabin and the half-deck, even though they were separated only by tens of feet.
A few days later, when they came on watch Pugsley called Will and Jack to the mess room. He had a roll of heavy canvas, two pairs of shears, waxed twine, needles, and several canvas patterns laid out on the table.
“What's this?" asked Will.
“Our new supply of oilskins," the sail maker beamed.