Fred looked over, "What do you mean?”
“Use your eyes, my friend," the Frenchman replied with a wave of his arm.
Fred looked across the dock. The Susannah was a four-poster, the sails spread across four masts. The Rebecca's three massive steel masts soared higher. Her sails and yards, on only three masts, were larger, requiring more muscle to raise. Fred looked up at her main yard, steel, like the masts. Gauging from the beam of the ship, the yard, extending well beyond the bulwarks on either side, had to be at least a hundred feet. The topsail, t'gallant, and royal yards above it seemed only slightly smaller.
Frenchie continued. "Ze Susannah, she's got four masts and a Liverpool deck, the midship house 'cross the whole beam, that breaks the waves, not like zees' old lady's wide open deck, to scope up all the Southern Ocean and send it crashing down on us, sailors.”
When Fred first saw the Lady Rebecca at Bute Dock, the ship had reminded him of the graceful clippers of old, just larger and built of steel, rather than oak and yellow pine. What a moment ago had seemed a lovely ship now looked to be a man-killer. He shook his head, wondering what sort of ship he had signed aboard.
“I wonder whether ze Susannah's got Jarvey winches?" Frenchie asked.
“What's a Jarvey winch?" Fred asked.
“You know the Jarvey Patent.”
Donnie piped in. "I believe he means the Jarvis Patent brace winch. Never seen one m'self, but I hear tell that they are a wonder. Two men can haul the braces and turn 'round a yard, where it would have taken ten hauling the brace with the Armstrong Patent.”
“Alright," Fred replied. "Now what's the Armstrong Patent?"
Donnie hooted. "Why you've never heard of the Armstrong Patent?" He flexed his bicep and pointed to it. That is the winch that hauls the lines on this old barky. Our strong arms. That's the Armstrong Patent.”
Fred laughed and shook his head, then finished the last gulp of the bitter coffee.
“Anybody know about the Old Man?" asked Tom, the large sailor from Liverpool. "He's a youngster, sure enough.”
Fred smiled. The captain was always the "Old Man" regardless of his age. Nevertheless, on the ships that he had sailed on, the nickname suited the chronology. But not on the Lady Rebecca. Captain Barker couldn't be too far into his thirties. Fred had heard talk in the shipping hall that Barker had gotten his first command in his twenties and was the youngest captain in all of British deep-water sail.
The Greek named Jerry spoke up. "Heard he's a driver, a bend it or break it skipper. Not afeared of man nor the devil. Says he once out-sailed the Preussen.”
“Bah," Donnie replied. "I'll not be believe'n that tale, now. This old bitch could never keep up with Preussen, much less show her her heels. Naught but a fairy tale, to be sure. If the Old Man out-sailed the Preussen, it was in his dreams. Or maybe the Kraut was at anchor.”
Fred had seen the Preussen once. Five masts, an immense cloud of snowy white sail, and nearly as fast as the wind itself. She was the largest and most modern square-rigger on the oceans, and the Lady Rebecca, smaller and almost twenty years old, wouldn't likely stand a chance against her.
Fred heard a rumor that the Old Man had bet the captain of the Susannah that the Lady Rebecca would beat them to Chile. Nothing wrong with taking pride in a ship, but hubris was just as dangerous for ship's captains as for the gods of antiquity.
“The Old Man's a fast passage maker anyway. A lucky captain, maybe," Santiago commented.
“We'll may just need some luck rounding Cape Stiff so late in the season," the Cornishman Harry replied. "Cape Horn winter can be a bitch, sure enough.”
“He's bringin' his family too. Might soften him a touch.”
“Not necessarily," said Tom. "Sailed with McMurry, you remember McMurry? Was a right bastard when his wife made the trip. Worse than when he sailed alone. An' she was meaner than he was. An' almost as ugly.”
Another sailor laughed. "Well, that's true enough.”
“Cook says that the second mate's the Old Man's brother-in-law. Wonder how that'll turn out.”
“Never good having that much family aboard ship. T'ings get so damned complicated wit' families.”
Their speculation was interrupted when a large man with gray hair lumbered forward. "Name's Rand. I'm the mate." He walked over and gave a swift kick to the ribs to one of the sleeping sailors. "Get your lazy arses off the deck, there's work to be done.”
Around ten a.m., a wagon rattled down the dock, dodging the cranes swinging their loads of coal. The man at the reins had a scraggly goatee and wore a battered captain's cap over a balding pate. Second Mate Atkinson had been watching out for the wagon and, on its approach, walked over to the half-deck to roust the apprentices.
“Come out, my flock. Jacob the Goat is here and we have slops to stow." He pounded his fist against the house door and the four apprentices trooped out on the deck. Their blue jackets were stored in their sea chests and they now all wore sailor's dungarees. "Down the gangway with you.”
While the mate looked over Jacob's tally of foul-weather gear, tobacco, clothing, blankets and soap—all the goods that would stock the slop chest, the ship's store, for the long voyage to Chile and beyond—the apprentices started to untie the canvas that covered the wagon. One second-voyager, George Black, stood back and started giving orders to Will. "Haul down that crate there, youngster.”
Paul Nelson, the senior, only a voyage away from completing his indenture, gave George a swift chuck to the back of his head. "And who made you King, George?" He chuckled. "King George. All right. We all work here together, every one of us. Nobody gives orders 'cepting the mates or the captain. So, jump to it, King George.”
Will tried not to grin as the elder apprentice, if only by one voyage, was shown his place. The apprentices unloaded the wagon onto the quayside as Second Mate Atkinson, with Jacob looking on, checked the bundles and cartons against the invoices.
“I can see why they call him Jacob the Goat," Will whispered to Jack, looking back at the wizened merchant.
Jack grinned. "I hear he's ornery as a goat besides.”
With the accounts in agreement, Atkinson shook Jacob' hand and turned to the apprentices. "Up they go, boys. Into the lazerreto.”
When they had finished carrying the slops up the gangway, through the deckhouse and into the lazarette, the provisions wagon had arrived and they turned to at the mizzen gantline, hoisting barrels of flour, molasses, salt pork and bully beef aboard. When Will was sure that they were finished, another wagon arrived, loaded with goats and chickens. "This a sailing ship or a barnyard?" Will wondered aloud. Jack laughed. "Captain's bringing his family along. That's their milk and eggs." As he fought to drive an obstinate goat up the gangway, Will hoped that goatherd would be the least of his duties on the Lady Rebecca.
That afternoon, Second Mate Atkinson bellowed, "Apprentices, turn to, the starboard rail by hatch three!" The four apprentices, who thought that they would have some time to catch their breath, lined up along the bulwark next to the hatch. The four boys, ranging in age from fourteen to seventeen, formed a jagged line of varying heights. Will was the shortest. Jack and Paul Nelson, the senior apprentice, towered over him, while George filled in the middle.
“Let's see what we've got here. How many of you have at least one voyage under your belt? Show of hands.”