“Oilskins?”
“Yes, indeed," Puglsey replied. "Our friends, the goats, have eaten into the slop-chest supplies and the captain doesn't want to round Cape Stiff without a supply of spare skins. So have a seat, gents, and we'll get started.”
Pugsley rolled the canvas out on the table. While Will and Jack held the canvas tight, Pugsley traced out the front, back and sleeves of the oilskin jackets, and then began on the pants. When he had four pair marked out, he handed Will and Jack the shears and told them to start cutting.
“Make it neat, boys. I don't wanna be sewing no ragged edges." With that, he nodded and left the mess room.
The shears were sharp but Will's hand was aching after cutting out the first jacket. But he kept cutting.
“Rather be hauling on a brace," Jack murmured softly. Will snorted in agreement.
Pugsley came back to the mess room with a steaming cup of coffee. "How are we doing, laddies?”
He picked up the cut canvas sections, turned them over, and said, "Hmmn, not bad—keep cutting. My turn to get to work.”
Pugsley picked up the twine, a heavy needle and a sailor's palm, and began stitching the panels together. He used a wooden rubber to fold the seams over, so that when he stitched them there were no rough edges. Will was amazed at the speed of the sail maker's stitching. All the stitches were even and in perfect alignment. Puglsey looked up and said, "Mind to the cutting, William.”
When all the panels were cut, Pugsley put down his sewing and said, "Follow me, gents.”
In the galley, a large pot of boiling linseed oil was on the stove. Will and Jack wrinkled their noses at the smell. An oilcloth was spread over the small space on the deck. Puglesy gave each apprentice a stick with a rag wrapped around the end and said, "Rub the pants and jackets with oil. Now, don't go burning ye'rselves, and make sure you get everything covered well. Pay attention to the seams. Else, you just might find yourselves wearing leaking oilskins one day. Hang 'em up to dry over there, when you are done. ”
Before they had done with one set, Pugsley brought in another. When Will and Jack finally stumbled out onto deck they breathed deeply the sweet salt air. Pugsley called after them, "Turn to tomorrow to put on another coat. The skins need two more coats of oil.”
When they were finally finished, Will was pleased with his handiwork. The oilskins were softer than the black waxy oilskins sold by the chandlers, which always seemed to crack after moderate use. There was something satisfying in seeing work well done. Looking down at his linseed-stained hands, he also hoped that he never had to make another pair of oilskins as long as he lived.
Fred and Tom were in the fo'c'sle discussing books. Tom was a great fan of Edward Bulwer-Lytton, whereas Fred loved Twain. After lengthy negotiations they agreed to exchange favorites with the solemn promise of return when each finished reading. Fred took Tom's copy of Last Days of Pompeii in exchange for Fred's well-worn edition of Huckleberry Finn.
Just as the transaction was completed, Mate Rand wandered through the fo'c'sle cabin door and sat down heavily on a sea chest. He took out his clay pipe, filled it with a bit of tobacco and began to smoke. Lindstrom, who had been in his bunk, swung down and sat next to Rand, who shared his tobacco. They talked quietly.
Tom, who was stowing the borrowed book in his sea chest, glanced sideways at Fred and mumbled beneath his breath, "No place for a bloody mate." Fred scowled.
“Sailed afore the mast for so long he still thinks the fo'c'sle is his home. No wonder he never made captain," Tom whispered.
Fred climbed into his bunk. Tom shrugged and went out on deck, saying, "Good afternoon, Mr. Mate," as he passed. His slight emphasis on the honorific "mister" apparently went unnoticed.
Fred opened the Bulwer-Lytton and began reading.
'Ho, Diomed, well met! Do you sup with Glaucus to-night?' said a young man of small stature, who wore his tunic in those loose and effeminate folds which proved him to be a gentleman and a coxcomb.
'Alas, no! dear Clodius; he has not invited me,' replied Diomed, a man of portly frame and of middle age. 'By Pollux, a scurvy trick! for they say his suppers are the best in Pompeii'.
Fred groaned inwardly. He'd traded Twain for this? Still, any book was better than none. He put down The Last Days of Pompeii, dug into a canvas bag and pulled out his journal and pocket atlas. He opened the atlas to the Atlantic. With the positions that Will had given him, Fred had plotted the ship's course as accurately as he could, given the small size of the atlas page and the dullness of his pencil. The Lady Rebecca was making good distance in the trades. Fred traced his finger down their likely course, across the equator and down the South American coast. His finger came to rest on Cape Horn. What was waiting for them in those dangerous waters? He smiled to himself, closed the atlas and restowed it in his bag.
He had to be a little careful with his keeping track of the ship's position. By the customs and traditions of the sea, the crew were not supposed to know the position of the ship or look in on the ship's navigation. Crew that could navigate and knew the ship's position might mutiny. Fred was no mutineer. He just liked understanding where they were in the voyage.
He jumped down from his bunk and looked back at Mate Rand talking quietly with Lindstrom. If a mutiny was brewing, that is where it would start—a mate spending too much time where he had no business being, talking softly, conspiratorially, to a deckhand. Perhaps he was reading too much into it, Fred thought. It would bear watching.
Fred only thought of mutiny during the mid-day meal, when he did his best to chew the gristle that by law was supposed to be beef or pork and soaked his weevily biscuit in his tea so it became soft enough to eat.
They had sailed beyond the trade winds into the doldrums, the fluky band of confused wind or no wind at all, just north of the equator. At six a.m., rather than scrubbing down the decks as usual, all hands were called aft. Pugsley and the apprentices were hauling out the light-air sails from the sail locker. Fred groaned to himself, though the day was no surprise. He had wondered how long the Old Man would carry on before shifting the suit of sails.
Rand shouted out, "Starboard watch, the main mast. Port watch, the fore. Take one down and put one up. Now, jump to it, you lazy buggers.”
Fred and the rest of his watch clambered up the ratlines. They were striking the heavy-weather sails and setting the old and patched light-air sails. Every roband, halyard, sheet, outhaul, downhaul, buntline, gantline, lift and clewline for each of the seventeen square sails and nine jibs, staysails and spanker would have to be cast off, and then the heavy canvas sails would have to be lowered to the deck and the old set of sails hauled up, with every line rerun and secured—all the robands retied, and all the sheets, tacks, bunts and clewlines run fair. It was going to be a long and brutal day.
It would have taken half as long and been twice as easy if the Old Man had let them strike all the sails at one time, lowering them all to the deck and then setting the new, but that was not his intention. The captain wanted one sail struck and then reset so he wouldn't lose any time. In the light airs the ship must have been barely making three knots, so it wouldn't have made much difference, but no, the Old Man would keep the ship sailing as fast he could manage, no matter how much sweat and toil he had to squeeze from his small crew. Fred was growing to loathe the captain, perpetually lording over them from the break of the poop deck, but he just clenched his jaw and set to work. There was no other choice.