The dock gate swung open slowly. It was high tide, so the level of sea matched the water level in the dock. A sailor on deck threw a monkey's fist tied to a light line to the deckhand on the tug Sarah. The tug deckhands secured the heavy wire towing cable to be hauled back to the Lady Rebecca, where sailor looped a heavy rope hawser through the steel eye, then made it fast to the bits. The tug bore off and slowly took a strain on the towing cable.
A launch set off from the dockside. Two sailors rowed while the bodies of several others appeared to be piled in the bilge. "Mr. Atkinson," the captain called. "Lower the Jacob's ladder and make ready a gantline. Some of our crew may need help coming aboard." Four of the sailors climbed easily from the launch up the ladder to the deck of Lady Rebecca. The next sailor made it halfway up before losing his grip, and had to be shoved up on deck by the sailor behind him. The final man was hoisted to the deck by the gantline tied under his arms.
“Make sure that last one is breathing, Mr. Atkinson. Rather that be sure we aren't paying for a corpse.”
“Aye, Captain." The mate shook the comatose sailor, who raised his head. "He'll be fine," the mate called back.
Captain Barker shook his head and snorted. "Sailors these days." On his first voyage as apprentice, a crimp had sold the ship a sailor who appeared to be paralytic drunk. He was thrown into his bunk to sleep it off. Either the man then died or had been dead when he came aboard, because he never came to and the stench gave away his true state. For as long as he sailed as an officer, Barker had always made sure that the crew came aboard breathing, at the very least.
When the launch cast off, the tug throttled up with a belch of coal smoke and slowly the towers and chimneys of Cardiff faded in the summer haze as the Lady Rebecca stood into the wide Severn Estuary. In an hour, they had passed the protection of the sister islands, Flat Holm on the Welsh side and Steep Holm on the English, and stood on into the short chop of the Bristol Channel. To Will, Flat Holm looked like the back of a whale with a lighthouse rather incongruously perched near its head. The island looked to be a wild and barren place and he shuddered to think what it must be like for the patients shipped out to the cholera hospital on its rocky shore, to keep the sickness from spreading to Cardiff. Steep Holm, in the distance, was more substantial, befitting its name. Oddly, in profile, it reminded Will of one of his mother's scones.
As they passed the islands, the southwesterly dropped and then shifted to the north, blowing clear and strong. Captain Barker shouted, "Mr. Rand, let's not waste this wind! Set all sails, 'cept the royals, flying jib, mains'l and cro'jack.”
Mate Rand walked forward shouting orders. "All hands to make sail! Clear sheets and downhauls! Ready to cast off bunts and clews! Stand by halyards and sheets!”
Second Mate Atkinson joined in on the chorus as sailors ran to the pin rails, most not needing encouragement, though a kick or punch helped direct the slower movers.
The northerly wind had blown the haze away and soon the sails were replacing the white of the clouds against the sky. The lower tops'l sheets were hauled out, the upper tops'l yards were mastheaded and the sails sheeted home.
Second Mate Atkinson shouted, "Apprentices, overhaul the buntlines!”
Will stood by the mizzen shrouds and looked puzzled. Paul Nelson, the senior apprentice, laughed. "I'll show you how. Run to the stores locker and cut eight lengths of twine, about so long," he said holding his hands apart about eight inches. When Will just stood there, Paul said a bit louder, "Now, Mr. Jones. Now.”
“Oh, aye, sir," Will muttered and ran to fetch the twine.
As the sailors hauled on the sheets and halyards, Captain Barker heard a sound that brought a smile to his face. Harry the Cornishman, at the mainmast rail, sang out,
“For I come from the world belooow.”
The rest of the sailors along the halyard replied in chorus, "Whiskey Johnny, Whiskey ooohhh.”
Harry sang back at them, "For that is where the old cocks croooow.”
“Whiskey for my Johhnie, ooooh.”
Harry sang another verse and sailors stomping around the capstan joined in on the chorus, as the heavy upper topsail yard crept skyward, the click of the capstan pawls helping to keep time with the shanty.
A crew that could sing a rope was likely a good crew. Surly sailors who hauled in silence were guaranteed to be trouble. Some captains considered not singing out to be outright insubordination. But here was Harry singing out in rare form. Like the northerly wind carrying them into the open ocean, it was all a good sign. Captain Barker was not one to pay undue attention to signs and portents, but he was loath to ignore them.
The Lady Rebecca, now on a beam reach, quickly began to overrun the tug, which swung farther out to try to keep some load on the towline while staying clear of the wake boiling off the sailing ship's bow. Captain Barker told the mate to signal the tug to end the tow. Crew on the fo's'c'le cast off the hawser, letting go the tug's cable. The tug captain waved at them and blew the customary three-whistle blast to wish them a fair voyage. Captain Barker faintly heard the tug captain yell, "Hope ye beat the German," as the tug dropped astern.
“That we shall," Captain Barker yelled back with a wave.
As the sun set, they hauled Lundy Island abeam and the great Atlantic lay before them. When the course was set sou'west and the yards squared, the mates called the crew aft to the break of the poop to choose the watches.
Fred Smythe and the other sailors lined up for inspection as the two mates stood on the poop deck, looking down at them with watchful eyes. The mates had seen the men working now for a few hours and each would choose which would serve in their watches for the rest of the voyage. Behind the mates stood the captain, imperiously—the king watching over his princes.
Whether it was better to be in the mate's or the second mate's watch had been an ongoing topic of conversation since the crew came aboard. Some thought that Rand would be tougher, while others thought Atkinson was too young—and that, as the captain's brother-in-law, he was more likely to be a bucko bruiser just to prove that he was up to the task. Fred had no particular opinion. He had seen good and bad mates in both ranks, and besides, as they would be choosing him and not the other way around, it hardly mattered what he thought.
Rand looked at the crowd and then at the articles. "Harry," he called out, his first pick. Harry moved over to the starboard side of the deck. An obvious choice, Fred thought. Every mate wants a good shantyman on his watch. Atkinson glanced at the articles. "Jensen," he shouted. The Dane moved to the port side of the deck. Not a bad choice either, it seemed to Fred.
Fred watched the mates and the remaining crew, gauging whether the officers valued skill and experience or just brute strength. There were never enough real sailors and, then again, there was never enough beef on a rope to haul the braces and halyards.
About halfway through, the mate called out "Smythe" and Fred took his place with the others to starboard. This suited Fred fine as his gear was already in a berth in the starboard side of the fo'c'sle house, so at least he didn't have to move his kit. And so the choosing went on, until everyone was chosen.
Best of all, by tradition, the captain's watch stood the first watch when the ship sailed. The captain, of course, didn't stand watches so the second mate did in his stead. The mate's watch took the first watch on the homebound voyage. Because he was in the mate's watch, it was Fred's time below, so he could try to get a few hours rest, if he was lucky, before he was due back on deck.