AS THE TWO SHIPS REACHED OPEN WATER, they heaved smartly before the northwest trade winds. The expedition was now in a race for time, as the best weather for rounding the stormy Cape Horn came at the end of the southern summer season. And the Falkland Islands were still forty-seven hundred miles away.
I spent the next few days training the new cabin boy. Marcus was a smart enough lad but, because of the language barrier, some of my instruction was not understood. He only spoke his native Portuguese and what I called “pigeon English.” But with the help of Captain Gray as translator and lots of sign language, we soon had a savvy with each other. He was a fine looking boy, with big brown eyes and a face that always smiled, showing off his near perfect, bone-white teeth. Marcus was a skinny fella, and seemed to have no fear of the sea or the strange environment of ship and crew. He worked hard and didn’t complain. Even Mr. Gayle took to the lad and cooked a few special meals to remind him of home.
Living conditions in the forecastle proved to be much better than in my dingy aft berth. Each sailor had his own hammock with a wooden foot locker for storage, just under the swinging canvas. There was even a table for eating, playing cards, and writing. While it wasn’t posh, it was a great improvement over my narrow cubbyhole.
The only problem with my promotion was that my ears were no longer privy to the evening meals’. I tried to teach Marcus to listen carefully, but he always told me that they talked too fast and he couldn’t understand. After much thought, I decided that the cunning Captain had planned all along to stop the scuttlebutt by hiring a Portuguese speaking cabin boy at the first opportunity.
After I moved forward, Sandy took Mr. Wayne’s sea bag and dumped the contents on the table. Then the crew divided up the items. With Wayne listed as a deserter, he had no further use for the gear. I was hesitant to rummage through his belongings, but in the end, I took a foul-weather coat and a pair of wool gloves.
The crew worked by rotating four-hour watches. There was always an officer on deck, with one seaman at the helm and another usually in the crosstrees as a lookout, leaving one or two other sailors for the rigging. Each watch checked for sea depth and speed of the ship. These results were then written in the daily log book. If there was an emergency, the deck officer would blow his whistle and ring the ship’s bell; then all sailors would report to quarters.
I enjoyed having my feet in the shrouds and my face to the wind, and wondered if I could fill my future days with the sea. As long as you’re good at something, I thought, my prospects would always be bright.
Christmas came and went with hardly a nod. While the cook made a special meal of beef and potatoes, and even passed out some sugarplums, for the most part the crew didn’t celebrate. When I was on watch that day, I gazed at the vast horizon, reminded myself of the meaning of the day, and thought of home. But Christmas in the tropics just didn’t seem to fit.
To celebrate the New Year, the skipper passed out a double rum ration for all of the men getting off the watch. But the day was so hot and the winds so calm that most of the crew retreated to shade of the forecastle to drink their brew. Out of sight of the watchful eye of Captain Gray, I shared half my ration with Sandy. Sitting at the table, he told me that the ships had entered the doldrums, an area close to the equator that had light and variable winds.
“If we get becalmed, we’ll have to use the longboat to tow the Orphan.”
“In this heat? The skipper wouldn’t let that happen,” I answered.
“He can only harness the wind, not create it. I’ve done it before.”
And like providence, that’s what we did for the next three days. With our bodies sweltering, we pushed and pulled the oars of the longboat, dragging the Orphan ever so slowly. Each watch seemed longer than the last, and each pull seemed harder than the one before. The sea was as flat as a lake and the wind as calm as death. There was no beginning or end, only rowing.
On the third long day, Sandy looked up from his oars with sweat running down his face and mumbled, “Sunshine or thunder, a sailor always wonders when the fair winds will blow.” And then, like a miracle, just when I thought my arms could take no more, we caught a breeze that filled the headsails. The longboat was recalled and the spent but gleeful crew returned to the deck.
A few days later, having just come off the morning watch, I went forward to shave. Just as I finished, the ship’s bell started ringing, and the deck officer’s whistle blew. Dropping everything, I quickly ran up the ladder to turn to. By the time I got to the quarterdeck, the whole crew was gathered around – all except Mr. Gayle.
Just then, he popped up from the stern hatch, wearing a white sheet. Just below his rosy red cheeks, a mop head was tied to his chin. The crew snickered as he moved to address the ship’s company.
“I be King Neptune,” he shouted in a deep voice. “Who among you wishes to cross my line?”
“We do!” the sailors shouted back.
“Who has crossed my line before?”
All hands went up, except for Marcus and me.
The silly looking cook made his way through the crew and stopped in front of me.
Motioning for Marcus to stand by me, he said, “Well, lads, you will have to pay me tribute to cross my equator for the first time.”
“And what tribute would that be?” I asked with a grin.
“A week of your rum rations?” He paused and slowly glanced towards the sour faced Captain. “Well, no… I guess not.”
The crew laughed.
“A week of your food prepared by that great ship’s cook?” He paused, shaking his head. “No.”
The crew laughed again.
“Let me see… What tribute can you give me?” Turning, he walked to the stern, where I noticed that two ropes had been tied to the rail. “I have it! You will swim with my fish until you find your scepters.”
The crew yelled their approval, grinning, and began herding Marcus and me to the stern. Once there, King Neptune tied a belaying pin – a long wooden dowel – to the end of each rope. “These pins will be the scepters that will give you leave to cross my line.” Turning, he threw the pins overboard and let the rope rush out. “Once you return with your scepters, you will be allowed over.”
I looked at Marcus and noticed fear on his face. He had no idea of what was happening. Glancing over to the skipper, I nodded my head in Marcus’s direction.
He got the idea, and was soon telling the boy in Portuguese not to worry, that this was all in good fun.
Or was it? That’s when I noticed the Mate by the rail with a musket.
“Why the musket, King Neptune?” I asked.
“So none of me fish thinks ye to be their dinner. Now, over the side, lads.”
As we grabbed onto the ropes, I could still see fear on Marcus’ face. I yelled to him, “Do as I do.”
He nodded back.
The morning was hot, the water looked cool, and, with a soft breeze, the sloop was
