Rick Spilman - Hell Around the Horn

Will was so caught up in considering the towering ship that he did not notice the man wearing a black coat and a bowler hat standing on the dock a few paces away, watching him with a somewhat wry expression on his deeply tanned face.

“Well, young man, from your jacket you look like the new apprentice. Are you going aboard or are you going to just stand there and gawk?”

The boy jumped. "No, sir. Going aboard, sir.”

“Well then, I suggest you do. See the mate. He'll show you where to stow your kit. Then come see the captain. I'll want a few words with you." The man half smiled and with a nod walked down the dock to the gangway.

The apprentice shuddered for an instant in the realization that he had just spoken to the holiest of holies, the captain of the ship. He watched for a moment as the captain ascended the Lady Rebecca 's gangway. Will Jones shouldered his sea chest and stumbled down the dock, following the captain's example. Once he reached the main deck, he stopped to catch his breath.

“And who might you be, young sir?" A tall slender man with light brown hair, whose voice was larger than his stature, called down from the poop deck.

The boy straightened up. "William Jones, sir. Apprentice.”

“Second Mate Atkinson, pleased to make your acquaintance, Apprentice Jones." He looked the boy up and down. "Well, come along then, I'll show you to your accommodations." The mate dropped down the ladder and walked to a deckhouse just forward of the poop deck. He pushed open the starboard side door to a dark space. "Find a bunk and stow your gear.”

“Yes, sir," the boy replied.

Will stepped into the darkness of the half-deck, which smelled of smoke, paint and lye. A dim light filtered through four deck prisms and two dirty portholes. He could just make out a narrow space with two sets of upper and lower bunks on each side and a long table in the middle.

A deep voice boomed, "Who goes there? State your name and rank.”

Will jumped and let out a sort of squeak, which was answered by a high-pitched laugh. A young man, in an upper berth, swung his legs out and jumped down to the deck, shaking with laughter. He strode over to the quaking Will and held out his hand. "Jack Pickering.”

Will shook the offered hand and said, "You startled me. William Jones." Jack was at least a head taller than Will and considerably broader.

“Well, stow your trap and then let's see if the doctor's got anything for us.”

“The doctor?" Will replied.

Jack looked at him sideways then broke into a grin. "You are 'bout as green as grass, aren't you? The cook is called the doctor. You never heard that? I could use a biscuit right about now. Let's see if there's any left." Jack headed out the door to the deck.

Will stood there for a moment, embarrassed. Of course he knew the cook was called the doctor. He'd just forgotten for a moment. "Green as grass, my arse," he thought. He shoved his sea chest into an empty bunk than stumbled out onto the main deck.

Rigging gangs carried blocks, coils of wire and hemp rope across the deck, while riggers aloft inspected, overhauled, refit or repaired the miles of halyards, bunts, braces, clewlines, sheets, topping lifts, outhauls and all the other running and standing rigging in preparation for long months at sea. At the forward hatches, a cloud of black dust rose as cranes dumped vast bucket loads of coal into the gaping holds.

Will looked around. He couldn't see where Jack had gone. The captain had asked to see him when he got aboard. He would have preferred following Jack and trying for a biscuit, but he turned and walked aft.

Will stood outside the captain's dayroom door for a moment before daring to knock. Captain Barker smiled as Will stepped across the threshold. The captain motioned him to a chair and Will sat up as straight as he could be.

The captain's eyes on him were steady and unwavering, the eyes of a man who would stand no nonsense. Still, he wasn't quite as frightening as Will had expected. Not even as frightening as he had been on the dock.

“So, William Jones, you are our new apprentice. A first voyager, I see?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain sat in a chair across from him and leaned forward. "Are you quite sure that you want to be a sailor?”

“Yes, sir," Will replied after a moment's hesitation.

“It is a hard life, m'son. Do you know that?”

“Yes, sir." Suddenly, when challenged, the doubts he felt on the dock vanished.

“I wonder if you know how hard it can be? It is hard work day and night. We'll be rounding Cape Horn in the winter. It will be cold and fearsome tough. You know, you can back out if you wish. Cancel your indenture. It's not too late, if you are not entirely sure.”

For a moment, Will tried to imagine the worst that it could possibly happen at sea. He could be washed overboard and drowned or be eaten by a shark. He could fall from a yard in a storm or be killed by falling rigging. He could die of some terrible tropical disease or be killed in a pirate attack. Oddly, each of these seemed preferable to the shame of returning home, turned away from the ship as unsuitable. He would not back out. Not under any circumstances.

“No, sir. I am entirely sure, sir. I want to sail with the Lady Rebecca , sir.”

The captain smiled again. "Very well, young man. Then sail you shall. I expect you to work hard and to apply yourself. You are to jump cheerfully to do your duty at all times, even when you are cold, wet or tired. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir," Will replied with determination.

“Then that will do, son. Get to work.”

“Yes, sir," Will replied as he scooted out of the cabin. Only when he reached the sunlight on the main deck did he wonder again exactly what he had gotten himself in to.

When the apprentice left, Captain Barker changed into his best shirt with a high starched collar, and a pair of well-pressed trousers with cuffs. After tying his four-in-hand tie and securing it with a silver pin, he put on his vest and jacket and inspected himself in the mirror. A dashing gentleman, indeed. Or as close as you are likely to come, young man, he thought.

Still only thirty-two, captain of a fine ship and now part owner, he was pleased with the image in the mirror. He looked to all the world like a young merchant, as properly he was. This was his third voyage as captain of the Lady Rebecca , but it was his first trip as part owner of both the ship and the cargo. When the ship's majority owner, Mr. Shute, couldn't find rates that suited him, he bought coal for his own account, just like in the old days. Shute was his partner now, as well as his employer, and they had agreed to sail without a penny's worth of insurance. His one and only job was to bring their investment around Cape Stiff and to deliver the fine double-screened Welsh coal to a Chilean nitrate port. This trip was his chance. It could either establish or ruin him. All in one roll of the dice.

He looked at his pocket watch, put on his coat and bowler hat and grabbed an ebony walking cane with an ivory handle. He had a crew to sign on.

Fred Smythe, an American sailor of nineteen, of medium build and height, with a full shock of dark hair, tumbled off the Taff Valley train in Bute Station, Cardiff, stiff and sleepy, having spent two days in third class from Liverpool via London. He hoisted his sea chest on his shoulder and headed down Bute Street toward the docks. He was looking for a ship.

At New York's South Street, he had signed aboard the Shooting Star , a rather ironically named lumbering Kennebec barque, for a round-trip voyage to Liverpool; but the old ship had opened a seam in the mid-Atlantic causing a leak that kept the crew pumping day and night, sending her to the dry dock for repairs on their arrival. The entire crew was signed off, leaving Fred at loose ends. He had heard that there were ships in need of sailors in Cardiff, so to Cardiff he had come.