sloop’s bow slapped the curling waves with such force that the deck timbers shook all the way to the stern. The boat raised itself high into the sky and then dropped down like a rock, twisting and rolling with each swell. The spray from the foaming sea rushed across the deck, drenching the crew with a coldness that they felt to their toes. The endless blue sky seemed to blend with the vast teal-green ocean, taking away all sense of distance. From horizon to horizon, the Orphan was lost in the vastness of sea and sky. Like a snake in the water, she swam away from home and towards her first destination, a cluster of tiny islands just west of North Africa.
With the outward passage from Boston, we found fair winds and moderate seas. But the constant pitching and rolling of the ship was unexpected, and it took me almost a week to find my sea legs.
The first few days were the worst; my head never stopped spinning, and my stomach never stopped twisting. All of the crew noticed the “green gills” of seasickness on my face and mocked me endlessly. They felt no pity and showed no mercy, and no matter how awful I might feel, my duties needed to be performed. On the second day, I had gone into the Captain’s cabin to clean up from the morning meal, but soon found myself sitting with my head on his table instead.
When Sandy opened the door and saw my slumped body, he angrily ordered me topside. Standing me by the rail, he shouted over the roaring wake from the bow, “There will be no slackers on this ship. Puke it up, lad. It’s the only way it will stop.”
Hanging on the halyards, with the cold ocean spray on my face, that’s exactly what I did for the next hour. When I finished, my gut felt as if a horse had kicked it, but I did feel better. After that time at the rail, I found my stomach of steel.
My duties aboard ship were simple enough, as Sandy had trained me well for being a cabin boy. I served the Captain three meals a day, made sure he had ample spirits and candles, cleaned his cabin, made up his bunk, and tended to his clothes.
Sandy told me that the added bonus was providing scuttlebutt to the forecastle. Most evenings, the Captain dined with the Mate, where their conversations, liberally oiled with wine and brandy, touched on all aspects of the voyage. Sandy wanted me to share all this news with my shipmates. At first I hesitated but then agreed, as I wanted desperately to be viewed as a member of the crew.
Shortly after our departure, the Captain added to my duties by asking, “Were you raised on a farm, Joe?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever tended animals or slaughtered livestock?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, beginning today, you will learn. After the morning meals, you will tend the animals on deck by feeding them fodder and changing their soiled straw. Then you will learn to dress them for the table. The cook will show you how.”
I looked at the skipper with puzzlement; this wasn’t a chore I had expected.
He noticed my quizzical expression and added, “Where we are going, we will need hunters for killing and dressing wild game. I want you ready for such a task.”
Sensing his wisdom, I replied, “Aye sir.”
Working with Mr. Gayle, our cook, proved to be more important than I realized at the time. He had been a ship’s cook for over twenty years, and he knew how to provide hardy meals for stout crews. What he put in his pot was never fancy, but it was always tasty. The men wanted simple meals of meat, breads, cheeses, and heavy vegetables such as potatoes, onions, cabbage, and turnips. To satisfy those needs, nothing was wasted or overlooked. Between his baking and cooking, Mr. Gayle worked with me at a cutting board, where we butchered the livestock as needed. With my sea knife in hand, the cook showed me in great detail the finer points of cutting, removing, and using all that each animal had to offer. At first, I found the bloody, slimy work offensive, but I was soon intrigued by the skills needed to slaughter livestock correctly.
Mr. Gayle was a burly man with powerful hands that could kill the animals with one quick twist of their heads. His arms and neck were thick, covered with strands of black hair, and the apron he wore was always bloody and soiled. Unlike Sandy, Mr. Gayle was usually quiet, but when he spoke, I listened. He told captivating tales of voyages past and of all the exotic foods he had prepared.
“I’ve cooked fifty-pound turtles, harpooned hundred-pound squid, and eaten fruit bigger than your head and sweeter than pie,” he told me proudly.
Mr. Gayle always had fishing lines dragging off the stern, and it was my job to check them every few hours. Whatever we caught was put into his pots and served fresh. The cook had a flavor all his own; he was a different kind of sailor, one that I took to right away.
Because of my duties, I ate my meals with the cook, before or after mess call. With this distraction, it took me weeks to meet the whole crew. They seemed to be good enough mates and expert sailors, with varying skills: one was a carpenter, one a sail-maker and mender, while others were helmsmen and riggers. Their nationalities were as different as the night stars. We had Dutchmen, Brits, Irish, French, and even a half-breed Wampanoag Indian who had tattoos all over his body. Some were joyful and loud, while others were quiet and reserved.
There were only two crewmembers I steered clear of: the Mate, who I found sour and demanding, and a seaman named William Wayne. He was a scoundrel who used lewd language, told bawdy stories and was always complaining. If he got hold of your ear, his nasty breath would follow you around, sounding off about every person aboard, the food, the weather and even the venture itself. He was one unhappy jack-tar, with a storm cloud over his head that we all tried to avoid. From the crew, I learned that every ship had a bilge rat, and that Mr. Wayne was ours.
If I had one close friend aboard ship, it was Sandy. Since that first day, he had watched out for me, giving both instruction and advice. While his high-pitched voice was still annoying, what it said was always fascinating – like when I asked him why the ships weren’t sailing due south to round the Cape to the Pacific.
“Been like this forever, lad. If ya wanta go to the Pacific, ya gotta go to Africa to catch the currents to the Cape. It’s God’s highway.”
He was a funny little man, full of knowledge and fables. And when I watched him in the shrouds, I learned why his legs were bowed. He was the fastest sailor in the rigging and could climb like a spider. While he was twenty years older than most, he was nimble and knew the ships needs before the Captain could shout them out.
What little free time I had was spent with Sandy. He slowly taught me the ways of a seaman. Soon, I knew all the parts of the sloop and all the knots used. He even had me in the shrouds, climbing like a monkey. I took to his instruction and enjoyed our time together. The crew had great respect for Sandy, and he had great loyalty for Captain Gray. I was fortunate to call him my mate.
At the end of the second week, the Mate announced that all the fresh vegetables and fruit had been consumed. Therefore, beginning that afternoon, each crew member would receive a rum ration. The crew seemed delighted with the news as their faces shined like a church window. All except me; I wanted no part of the devil’s brew.
Gathering around a crock, the men were given putter mugs and, under the watchful eye of the Mate, told to fill them. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I complied. With mugs in hand, the happy crew milled around the main hatch, talking in small groups in the sunshine. Joining them, I sat next to Sandy on the hatch cover, gazing at the liquid I despised.
“Play us a tune, Joe,” Sandy requested
