down my cup, I smiled my agreement and reached inside my pouch for my flute. Within moments, the lively melody of “Yankee Doodle” filled the air. Soon, even the skipper was on deck, enjoying the comradeship.
I gazed around the deck as I played; some jack-tars were dancing while others were slapping their hands. It was a sweet distraction. By the end of the third chorus, Sandy was done with his rum and set his empty cup on the cover. As I ended the song, I reached down and slid my mug to him.
With a surprised look, he grabbed it and asked, “Are you sure, lad?”
Nodding my happy approval, I began playing another jig for the crew.
For a few short minutes, with the Orphan slicing through calm seas and with a tepid breeze on our faces, we forgot the ship’s business and enjoyed our fellowship. It was an occasion that we would repeat many times on the voyage.
That evening, as I was preparing the Captain’s cabin, he entered, and I was amazed to see he was clean shaven. He looked much different – younger and more dashing. I was unable to take my eyes off his bare face. He removed his eye patch, poured some wine, and finally said, “Where we are going, it’s too hot for chin whiskers.”
“Yes, sir.”
Slumping in a chair, he turned his head to look at me. “I liked your flute playing. It’s good for the men’s spirits. But I saw what you did with your ration, and that has to stop. When we give rum out, you will drink it. Do you understand?”
The Captain had turned serious, with his good eye staring at me.
“Sorry, sir. I’ve never taken to hard spirits. I think of them as the devil’s brew.”
“Devil or not, you will drink your rum. I ration it out not as a favor, but as medicine. It helps prevent scurvy, a disease you do not want.”
“I didn’t know that, sir.”
Finally, a small grin chased his face. “Sandy should have told you, but I’m afraid your ration was too tempting. I will eat now.”
The next afternoon, I drank my first cup of rum. The liquor was like a flame in my mouth, and a lump of hot coal in my windpipe. At first, I could not understand its hold on some men. But soon my innards warmed like a summer’s day, and I felt a deep a sense of well being. It was an evil brew, but a drink I could come to love, medicine or not.
As the two ships moved further southeast, the winds moderated and the weather turned cloudy. Sandy called the area the “horse” latitudes. This well known position boasted a broad belt of light, variable winds with frequent rain squalls. The Columbia was about a mile ahead of the sloop and never out of sight. With the storms, however, she sometimes got lost in the mist, only to reappear after the quick moving squalls.
The flagship was given close watch for both her direction and her signal flags. These pennants of different shapes and colors were flown from her stern. They told us of course corrections, approaching weather, danger, and if the commodore wanted a council. These councils happened weekly, with the two ships reefing sails and coming alongside one another. Then we would lower the longboat and, with four seamen rowing, transfer the Captain to the Columbia. I sometimes went over with the longboat, as well, as our cook was always trading supplies with the flagship’s cook. And it was a good way for me to get to know the much larger crew of the Columbia.
A few hours later, after much drinking, the meeting would be over, and Captain Gray would stagger into the longboat and return to the Orphan. It always surprised me to see how many corks were pulled by the officers of both ships. Spirits flowed like water.
After each of these councils, the Captain would brief the Mate over the evening meal. With my ears open, I’d listened intently to the details. But as the weeks passed, the news grew more disturbing. The astronomer aboard the flagship, Mr. Nutting, was failing to work his navigation charts correctly, and at times the ships were well off-course. It was Captain Gray, an expert navigator, who brought this problem to the Commodore, but little or no corrective action was taken. As a result, the constant course corrections were costing time and frustrating the skipper.
Then there was the pace of the flagship. For some reason, she always ran with shortened sails, which was slowing down the voyage. The Captain asked many times that she sail with full sheets but the Commodore was concerned that the sloop wouldn’t be able to keep up. The truth, however, was that the Lady Washington, in good conditions, could out sail the Columbia.
And, finally, there was the matter of the surgeon, Dr. Roberts, who had suffered many verbal indignities from the Commodore and wanted to quit the expedition. Captain Gray described these and other tensions aboard the Columbia and hoped that their outcomes would not affect the enterprise.
The cook’s fishing lines, dragging off the stern, usually caught a few fish each day. They were never very big, but they were tasty morsels for the crew.
I had just pulled in a three-pound flounder and placed it in a wooden bucket to take below and clean. On the quarterdeck that afternoon was the Mate, with Seaman Taylor at the helm. After rebaiting the hook and playing out the line, I stood in the sun, sharpening my sea knife. Soon, the Mate swaggered over and looked down at the bucket, then up at me.
“You’re not much of a fisherman. They’re always so small.”
Dragging my blade across the stone, I nodded at his comment without saying a word.
“That’s a nice looking knife. Can I see it?”
Flipping the handle his way, I answered, “Yes, sir. It’s very sharp.”
Taking the handle, he twisted the knife in his palm. Then, making a few jabbing motions, he added, “It’s got a nice feel and good balance… I’ve noticed it on your hip before. I want to buy it.”
“It’s not for sale, sir.”
Mr. Coolidge towered over me by a good six inches, with his brown eyes glaring. Then he looked down at the knife in his hand. “I’ll give you five dollars for it.”
“It’s not for sale, sir.”
Anger crossed his weathered face, with blood vessels protruding from his sweating brow. “I could just toss it overboard,” he said. “Then neither of us would own it.”
I tried to keep my words calm. “Yes, sir. But then I would have to toss you overboard…sir.”
The look on his surly face reminded me of my father. He just stood there, staring like an angry rooster, as if he didn’t know what to do next. Finally, he threw the blade to the deck planks.
It made a loud twang and stuck straight up.
“I don’t know how you weaseled your way onto this ship, but hear this – it’s going to be a long voyage, and I will have that knife before it’s over.”
Turning, he walked back to the helm, while I stooped and removed the blade from the timbers. Then, still enraged, I returned the knife to my hip, picked up the bucket and went below.
That evening, as I was pouring fresh coffee for the Captain, the Mate looked up from his plate with his mouth full, and said, “You’ve got a stupid cabin boy, Captain.”
