The captain snorted. "An owner's prerogative. He may name the ship for whomever he chooses. I, or rather, we, now own a quarter share of the ship and of the cargo. Ships always seem to own part of their captains. On the Lady Rebecca, it is about time that her captain and his family owned a part of her too. I know how hard it is on you to raise a family on a captain's salary. If this voyage goes well, perhaps it will establish us.”
She knew that in his dreams James saw himself owning a fleet of fine ships, but that he dared say nothing out loud. One voyage at a time. That is as far as any man could see. James went on to tell tales of steady winds and cerulean seas, of flying fish and sea foam as white as the clouds. This wasn't her first voyage, yet she appreciated his efforts to put her at ease and felt a bit of his enthusiasm about the great venture ahead. Perhaps this voyage would be fine, Mary told herself. Blue skies and fair winds. A dream perhaps, but a nice one.
3. The Crew Comes Aboard
Captain Barker slept ashore with his family that night but rose early to return to the ship. He tried not to wake his wife or the children. Nevertheless, Mary reached out and squeezed his hand as he left the bed.
He reached the ship near dawn and took his place on the poop deck. Two hatches were open, the dock cranes ready to resume tipping the huge coal carts into the Rebecca's holds. In the same dock, the Susannah, a German barque, bound too for Chile, was also close to finishing loading. She was rumored to be fast. We shall see, the captain thought. The Rebecca was very fast as well, so long as her yards weren't braced around upon her stays. Might make a race of it, the captain thought. Wouldn't that be fine? A grand German ship against the Lady Rebecca, proudly flying the red duster. He'd show the Germans how an English ship could sail.
But they had to finish loading first and they were also still waiting on the last of the provisions and the slop chest order from Jacob the Goat to arrive. He wondered whether the Susannah would slip out ahead of them. But then, what did a few hours or even few days matter in race of 12,000 miles?
At seven a.m., a line of bleary-eyed sailors made their way through the dock gate, down along the railroad tracks, to the gangway of the Lady Rebecca, duffels or sea chests hoisted on their shoulders. Many appeared to have successfully turned their month's advance into liquid libation. Most barely looked up at the ship, laden as they were by their gear, the early hour and the celebrations of the night before. At least half were still drunk. Several hadn't slept at all since signing articles.
Soon the cranes would again start loading double-screened anthracite coal into the cavernous holds. The sailors trudged to the fo'c'sle house, just aft of the foremast, and tossed their gear onto the bunks. The cook's stove smoked and the sailors dug out their metal cups and utensils from their kit and lined up at the galley house for a breakfast of burgoo and biscuits. The cook, a black Jamaican named Jeremiah, eyed them warily before scooping out a serving to each.
“Send a boy back for de coffee," he said, once everyone had passed by.
A large sailor with a Liverpool accent pointed to Fred Smyth. "Yank, you're the Peggy, get the coffee.”
Fred put down his plate and almost said, "Get it yourself." But there was no need to start the trip with a fight, and somebody had to get it. Overall, Fred wasn't feeling too bad. His head hurt, but he had shown at least a modicum of restraint the night before. And the thought of the fair Lucretia brought a smile to his face.
He lugged back a large pot full of a steaming black liquid—sailor's coffee. Hot and bitter, mostly burned biscuit, it had a taste that suggested everything except the fruits of the coffee plant. Fred sat with the rest, finding a place on the deck behind the house, before they had to turn to. Most slumped against the deckhouse, though several lay down on the deck and went to sleep.
Fred looked around at his shipmates, as motley a bunch as ever he'd seen. Fred was one of the youngest of the hands. Some looked like experienced sailors. Some looked to be roustabouts or worse. Some looked too old to still be sailing. Whatever and whomever they were, Fred knew that he would get to know them better in the next few months than anyone he had ever known on shore. In the tiny society of souls aboard a small ship on a boundless ocean, it was unavoidable. Which of these men would he learn to rely on? Which would he stay away from? Who among them would try to become the "cock of the watch"? Who would become a close friend? Only time and sea miles would tell.
He had learned a few of their names at the shipping hall. Harry from Cornwall was large, strong and seemed affable enough. Obviously a sailor. Jensen the Dane also looked as though he knew the sea but was brooding and kept to himself. Fred did admire the tattoo of the naked woman on his right forearm. The kraken devouring a ship on his left had a certain artistic appeal, but seemed a poor choice at the start of a voyage. Fred wasn't superstitious but neither did he believe in tempting fate.
Fred guessed at the nicknames that some would acquire. He had already been called "Yank," which was fine with him. He'd been called worse. There was a Frenchman, François Arno, who would likely end up as "Frenchie" or "Frankie the Frog." Fred thought that a better appellation might be "Yes Arno," but was sure that would never catch on.
The Irishman, Shaemus O'Malley, hailed from Donegal, and was already being called "Donnie.”
The nicknames were generally gracefully accepted, although one could never be sure. On his last ship, he has seen a knife fight break out over whether "Squarehead" applied to Germans or only to Scandinavians.
Santiago was from Chile and was going to home to see his mother and sister, to help them run their shop in Callao.
“Lord have mercy," Donnie responded. "Who ever heard of a sailor tending a shop? What sort'a shop is it? Your mother's not Madame Cashee, is she?”
A dark look crossed Santiago's face. He obviously wasn't too sure how to take the suggestion that his mother was a legendary brothel keeper. Then he grinned, "Nah, me madre, she sells dry goods, not pretty girls.”
“If you are Chileno, what's she doing in Callao?" Donnie asked.
“She wein tto work for her uncle," Santiago said with a shrug.
“And what about you?" Donnie looked over to Gabe Isaacson, a skinny young man with a sharp and narrow face. "You look like you should be on a bumboat with the rest of the Jews.”
Gabe smiled. "And why aren't you diggin' praties or cutting turf, my Irish friend?”
Donnie shrugged. "Got tired of starving. Not that the grub on a lime-juicer is all that much better.”
“Well, I spent enough time on the bumboats. Heard all the stories from all the drunken sailors. Figured it was time I saw for myself," Gabe said.
Donnie laughed. "So you are the famous wandering Jew that we keep hearing about?”
“That's me," Gabe replied.
Frenchie looked over at the German ship Susannah, a four-masted barque, across the wet dock, then back up at the three soaring masts of the Lady Rebecca. He let out a low whistle. "Ze Rebecca is a brute, a ship for strong men. Can we 'andle her, I wonder?”