Instantly, Captain Barker was reminded of the coal box sailor who spat tobacco juice on the Lady Rebecca's name on the chalkboard in the shipping hall. He wanted to turn and punch the mate in the face for his insolence, but thought better of it. He breathed deeply to compose himself, and then turned around.
“We will beat the Susannah, Mr. Rand. We are going to out-sail that Fritz, and you, sir, are going to help us do it. Do you understand me, Mr. Rand?”
“Yes, sir." Rand put his hat back on. "If you'll excuse me, sir. I'll see to number two hatch.”
Captain Barker watched the mate's broad back was he walked down the ladder to the main deck, and then turned to see the stern of the Susannah gliding though the dock gates. The tug Goliath had her towline and was easing her out to sea.
“I'll be waiting for you in Chile, Captain Frederich." He turned to look down the deck. "And I'll be keeping my eye on you, Mr. Rand.”
4. Setting Sail
At five a.m., Mate Rand and Second Mate Atkinson pounded on the fo'c'sle doors. Rand bellowed, "Rise and shine, me hearties. Get your useless carcasses out of your bunks. This ain't no pleasure cruise.”
If half the crew was drunk when they came aboard, half as many again were drunker on sailing day. They drained the bottles that they had hidden away in their sea chests and duffels. It was a ritual that Fred had come to expect but never really quite understood. On his first ship, he asked a shipmate why everyone drank so much the night before sailing. The sailor looked at him blankly and asked, "Why'd any man go to sea, if he weren't stinkin' drunk?" It was as good an answer as any, he supposed, but as he had suffered enough from the previous day's hangover, he had no wish to repeat it as the ship was getting under way.
The crew stumbled out of the fo'c'sle more slowly than Rand would have liked so he grabbed a sailor by the shirt and threw him a few feet across the deck. A second sailor came flying after him and the rest of the crowd moved considerably faster.
When everyone was out of the cabin, the mate said, "Well, let's see who we got. Sing out when your name is called.”
Atkinson stepped up and shouted, "Tom Jackson.”
The Liverpool sailor yelled "Aye.”
“Make that 'aye, sir,' mister," the mate grumbled.
Jackson laughed. "Well, aye, sir, it is then.”
“Otto Schmidt.”
“Yah, Mr. Mate," the German sailor replied.
Atkinson snorted. Close enough to "sir," he supposed.
The second mate worked his way down the crew list, receiving an honorific about half the time, and seeming not overly concerned by the lack. His face did grow more troubled when the name he called gave no response at all. "John Williams." He waited. "Williams?" John Williams was apparently not aboard. He moved on to the names of sailors who were present. "Jerry Panagopo … Panagopoulos.”
“Jus' call me Jerry da Greek, sir. Ever'body does.”
When he had worked his way down the list, Mate Rand asked, "How many we got?”
“We're seven short.”
Rand snorted. "I'll let the captain know.”
As Rand walked aft, Mate Atkinson pointed. "You four, stand by the bow lines. You four, the after springs. The rest of you, lead the forward springs to the capstan and stand by.”
Rand found Captain Barker in his dayroom, going through the ship's papers.
“Captain, sir. We're seven shy. Seven who signed articles yesterday took French leave, or so it looks. Took your advance money and just skedaddled.”
The captain looked up, scowling. "Damned sailors these days. Give me their names. When I send the papers and manifest ashore, I'll be sure they are listed with the constable.”
“Make it up with pierhead jumpers?" Rand asked.
Captain Barker shook his head. "I've already been robbed once. Hate to make that twice. But yes, I'll arrange it with the agent." Now he had more bodies to buy. The agent would arrange with a crimp or a boardinghouse master to find him sufficient crew, probably all drugged or drunk, like as not, shanghaied from other ships.
“Well, if that's the way you want it, Captain, that's the way it'll be.”
Once the crew was squared away at the mooring lines, Second Mate Atkinson walked aft and pounded on the door to the half-deck, which reverberated like the inside of a bass-fiddle. "Up and out, and be quick about it," he bellowed. Will felt like he had just closed his eyes. They had worked late loading and storing provisions and gear. His muscles ached and he wanted nothing more than to roll over in his bunk and go back to sleep. Instead, he jumped up with the others and pulled on his dungarees.
When he stumbled onto the deck, the second mate shouted, "Paul and George, stand by to handle lines on the poop deck. Will and Jack, get aloft. Cast off the gaskets. Course to t'gallants.”
As apprentices, their station when making sail was the mizzenmast, the smallest of the three. Will and Jack climbed the ratlines to the mizzen top. Other sailors climbed aloft on the main and foremasts.
“He's got to be a driver if he is letting the sails hang in their gear before we even leave the wet dock," Will said. Jack only grinned as he laid out on the starboard yard and Will laid out to port.
Will had always heard "one hand for the ship and one hand for yourself," so held tightly to the jackstay with one hand and with the other tried to untie the long canvas strip that held the main course. It was slow work. He glanced over at Jack, who was casting off the fourth gasket where he had just finished one.
“Use two hands, you ninny," Jack shouted over at him. Will colored. Perhaps the old phrase wasn't meant literally. He took a deep breath and let go of the jackstay and leaned over the yard, reaching down with two hands. The square knots in the gaskets were easier to handle now and he was surprised how, between his feet in the footropes and his belly pressed against the yard, he felt moderately secure.
Jack was waiting for him at the mizzen top. "I've seen snails faster'n you," he said with a smile before swinging up the ratlines to the lower topsail yard. Will followed, seething.
On the lower topsail yard, he almost kept up with Jack and did about as well on the upper topsail yard. When they cast off the gaskets on the t'gallant yard, Will stopped and looked below. The deck was a swarm of activity. Aft, the captain and his family had taken to the poop deck; forward, the crew on the fo'c'sle had began stamping around the capstan, slowly warping the ship to the wet dock gate, which inched closer as the ship remained stationary beneath him. Beyond the dock gate, a tug stood by, belching black smoke. Beyond the tug, the Severn Estuary widened into the Bristol Channel, which, in the distance, opened to the sea. The breeze blew on his back as if urging them onward. Will smiled broadly, his eyes now fixed on the hazy line of the horizon..
Captain Barker stood on the poop deck. Mate Rand had the fo'c'sle and Second Mate Atkinson had the main deck. So far, Barker was satisfied with all he saw. Last night he had a nightmare about shipwrecks and storms and woke in a cold sweat, but on this morning there was only a blue sky and a steady light southwesterly breeze, ready to send them on their way once they cleared the channel. He had moved a chair to the poop deck for Mary, who was smiling and holding little Tommy in her arms. Amanda was standing next to her, filled with energy and occasionally requiring a word to stand close and not get in the way of the two apprentices handling the stern lines.
The captain wondered idly on what sort of wind the Susannah was sailing, somewhere over the horizon. The last time he raced his ship, against Billy Jackson's Homeward Bound, he had won twenty-five pounds, which he had divided up amongst the apprentices. Now he wished he had wagered with Captain Frederich. Bragging rights would have to be enough.