Rick Spilman - Hell Around the Horn

The ship had begun a slow but steady roll in the first hint of the swells off the Bay of Biscay. The arc scribed by the masts across the sky reminded Fred of the pendulum of a clock. It was fitting. When he learned a bit of physics in college, he was awed by Newton's clockwork universe. Simple equations predicted the movement of the stars across the heavens, the rising and setting of the sun and moon, the spinning of the stars. The order and clarity of Newton's clockwork was both humbling and reassuring. Everything was in its place, the heavenly spheres dancing in perfect rhythm.

Ships reminded Fred of Newton. A ship was as reliable as clockwork. Now that the ship's watch-bill had been set, the watches would continue, day after day, week after week, month after month, until the Lady Rebecca finally made port. The sailors' lives would be ruled by five four-hour watches, broken only by the pair of two-hour dog watches that daily shifted their labor so that no watch was perpetually stuck in the same spot on the face of the clock. If they stood the morning watch one day, they would shift to the middle watch the next, and then the forenoon watch and so on, moving like the marionettes of a great clock tower on the main square of some Italian city-state.

The routine seemed to soothe the wildest of sailors. Days before, they had reveled in the chaos of their liberty, drunk, debauched and wild. They now settled into the reliable rhythm that they knew so well. Ashore they had been like shooting stars, burning brightly and then dying out. Now they returned to their places in the Newtonian order of the ship, watch on and watch off, day after day, across the limitless sea, beneath Newton's clockwork heaven.

Fred walked forward to the fo'c'sle house. The deckhouse was long and narrow just aft of the foremast, divided on its centerline by a bulkhead, creating two cabins, port and starboard, one for each watch. The deckhouse was considered more modern than the old t'gallant fo'c'sle where the bunks were squeezed in under the fo'c'sle head itself in the very eyes of the ship. At least, the crew was less likely to drown when the ship's bow dove beneath a head sea. With the deckhouse farther aft, the motion was slightly less violent, though it was more likely to flood when hit by breaking quartering seas. The house was lit by a single lantern shared by both cabins, hanging in a hole cut in the bulkhead, casting a smoky yellow glow, but no real light.

Fred elbowed his way through the sudden influx of crew to the upper berth where he had stowed his sea chest and his bedding. He was pleased to see that no one else had moved it to claim the berth for his own. He unrolled his donkey's breakfast, the thin mattress that would make the bunk only slightly softer than bare pine planks, and pulled his blanket from his sea chest. His spare blanket, rolled up, would make do as a pillow. He closed his sea chest and secured it beneath the mess table, where it would also serve as a bench when need be. He climbed up into the bunk, pulled a pencil from his pocket and in the shadows wrote "June 11, 1905" on the white-painted wood. Below it he drew a single vertical line. He would mark every day until their landfall, to help him keep track of time and to make sure that he was paid in full when the wages were calculated. With his housekeeping done, he stretched out in the bunk. There was too much commotion to sleep, but there was no reason that he shouldn't take his ease.

In a few minutes, a swarthy, barrel-shaped man took a lower bunk nearby. He poked his head up and said, "Jerry Papadopoulos," by way of greeting. Fred opened one eye, nodded and replied, "Fred Smythe.”

Shaemus from Donegal, whom Fred knew as Donnie, a large Irishman with graying hair, settled into the upper berth just forward his own. He propped himself up and lit a small clay pipe. He was no more loquacious than most from that island nation. "Another voyage, me boys. Anyone willing to lay a wager as to how fast we make it to the line, or how quick we make it 'round?" He paused, but receiving no immediate response, continued, "Been around the Horn twelve times m'self. On the old Clan Longworth made it around from 50 south to 50 south in twelve days. Course, on the damned City of Perth , it took near enough a month and half." He puffed contently on his pipe for a few minutes.

“Now, there is only one way to sail 'round t' Horn, ye know. Got to grab the westerlies by the balls and just hold on. Then, every time the winds slacken just a wee bit and you get a favoring slant, you crowd on the bloody canvas and grab every inch afore the westerlies start snorting again.”

Jerry the Greek looked over and said, "Why you telling us? Why not you go aft and makes sure the captain knows all your smart t'inking? Get us around Cape Stiff right quick. You just tell him hows it's done.”

Donnie smiled as he puffed his pipe, the sweet smell of tobacco wafting over Fred's bunk. "If the Old Man needs my good counsel, he knows where to find me. Always happy to help out when I can.”

Closer to the door, to catch the last light, Hanson, a Swedish sailor, sat on his sea chest and stitched a patch on a pair of overalls. Next to him was Tom, the Liverpool sailor, who was sitting reading a novel by Bulwer-Lytton.

A bit heavy on the melodrama for Fred's taste but perhaps worth swapping for one of the books in his limited library, buried in his sea chest, as the voyage progressed.

The ship was beginning to roll more deeply in the ocean swells, setting the lamp to guttering as it swung from side to side. At the other end of the fo'c'sle someone broke out a harmonica and began to play as Fred slipped off for a few minutes of sleep before his watch began.

Will and Jack were called aft to help the second mate heave the log. Will held the sandglass and Jack held the log spindle. "Twelve knots," announced Mr. Atkinson boisterously.

The captain, standing by the rail to windward, smiled. "A fine start to a fine voyage," he said to no one in particular. Mate Rand, near the wheel, grumbled, "Good starts often have bad ends.”

The captain looked over sternly at his sullen mate, but his visage shifted to a smile and then to a laugh. Things were going too well to let the dour Mr. Rand spoil the day.

The Judy Adams , an ugly tub of a steamer that the captain recognized from Port Talbot, was steering to pass them to starboard, the master apparently confident that they would cross well ahead of the Lady Rebecca .

“Sir, the steam ship." The helmsman looked over to Mr. Rand, who looked at the captain.

“Hold your course," Captain Barker growled.

The steamer kept edging closer until she suddenly veered off to port, falling back to cross astern of the Lady Rebecca. Will could hear derisive laughter from the crew on deck.

The captain smiled and said, "Those smoke boxes think they own the sea. Well, not yet, anyway. Not yet. With the wind behind her, many a steamship'll taste the Lady Rebecca' s wake. And mark my words, as long as the wind keeps blowing, there will be sailing ships to sail on it. The wind is still cheaper than coal.”

The northerly continued to build. When the bell struck, ending their watch, Jack and Will saw the cook and took plates of salt pork and sailor's biscuit for dinner back to the half-deck. They washed it all down with an oily, dark and hot liquid that the cook claimed was tea.

The ship was rolling along now in the long swells on a broad reach, with everything set save the royals. Even in the half-deck they could hear the hum of her wake beneath the sound of the wind, the low tune rising and falling as she charged from crest to trough.

Jack sat back against his sea chest, popped a square of tobacco into his mouth and started to chew. "Ye know, a sailor's life ain't as bad as they say, don'tcha think?”