Rick Spilman - Hell Around the Horn

Will watched as the two apprentices ran to the ratlines and scampered skyward. They climbed higher and higher, disappearing above the top, reappearing again as they climbed the ratlines to the crosstrees. Will's mouth felt dry as he watched. Paul made it to the yardarm first, a tiny shape above the deck, disappearing again, back to the mast. In a moment, Will heard a voice shout out "Paul!" A few seconds later, George shouted as well. They both returned to the deck in half the time they took to climb aloft.

“OK, William and Jack. Up you go.”

Will swallowed, and then ran to the starboard ratlines. He grabbed at the ratlines as he climbed, only to have Atkinson bellow at him, "If you don't want to die, William, grab the shrouds, not the ratlines!" Will groaned inside. He knew that, he'd read it, he just forgot. Maybe green as grass wasn't so far off. "Aye, aye, sir," he shouted. When he reached the futtock shrouds, he felt like he was upside down as he forced himself up onto the mizzen top. For a moment he lay on his stomach, catching his breath before jumping up and swinging out on the topsail shrouds. Jack was well ahead of him, almost to the crosstrees.

Will was dizzy. His hands were wet with sweat and his stomach was knotted in fear, but he kept climbing. The shrouds became narrower the higher he climbed until he too finally reached the crosstrees. Jack had already worked his way out to the royal yardarm.

There had been barely a breath of a breeze on deck, yet at the crosstrees, one hundred and ten feet up, the wind gusted. Will could feel the ship move every time the dock crane dropped a coal cart into the forward hold. Suddenly William heard the cry, "Jack Pickering!" followed by a "Yahooo!" as Jack slid down the bare royal mast.

“Get yourself moving, William," came the distant, yet distinct, voice of the mate from the deck.

William began climbing again, shoving his toes sideways in the narrow t'gallant ratlines until they ended altogether at the base of the royal mast. Jack passed by with a huge grin on his face. "Best view in Cardiff!" he shouted as he climbed down. William tried to smile.

There were no ratlines on the royal mast, only a bare pole to be climbed. He shinnied his way up until he could just grab the footropes under the royal yard, thinner than any of the others below. He worked his way out on the footropes until he reached the clew shackle.

The view was breathtaking and terrifying, in equal measure. The deck seemed a distant and narrow place peopled by tiny shapes. Even the other soaring square-riggers in the dock seemed small. He looked down at the red brick Pierhead Building and the clock, Baby Big Ben, in its tower. The wind blew in his hair and tugged at his shirt. Looking away from shore, he could see far beyond the dock walls, out beyond the breakwater to the Severn Estuary and out to the living and boundless sea beyond.

“Hurry up, William," came the cry from the deck. "Up to the cap.”

His moment of reverie vanquished, Will held tight to the jackstays and worked his way back to the mast where another twelve feet of bare greasy pole awaited him. He stood up on the yard and hugged the mast for all he was worth, pushing himself higher with his feet, not daring to look either down or up, only out at the blue of the sky, until finally he reached the mahogany cap on the top of the mast. He struck it with his fist and yelled as loudly as he could, "William Jones!”

Captain Barker sat in his dayroom going over the ship's papers. He heard the steward passing by in the companionway. "Walter," he called out.

The light-skinned West Indian stepped into his dayroom. "Sir.”

“Would you ask the mate to join me for a few words as his duties permits.”

“Yes, sir, cap'n. Right away.”

In a few minutes, the mate knocked on the frame of the open door.

Captain Barker swiveled in his chair. "Come in, Mr. Rand. Have a seat.”

The large man pulled a chair over and sat down. He took off his peaked cap, revealing a salt-and-pepper mix of gray and brown hair. He was heavyset with an ample waist. Sitting there face to face, he looked far older than he appeared on deck. His wrinkled and leathery face showed the years of wind and brine. His blue eyes looked out from beneath black, shaggy eyebrows.

The captain glanced at his records. Rand had sailed for thirty-five years and yet had never held a rank higher than mate. His papers showed no shortage of experience and, from all that he had seen, the mate knew his business.

“I see you've buttoned up number three hatch. When do you expect to be finished with one and two?”

“Yes, sir. Two'll be done in about an hour. They're bringing in another freight car to top up number one hatch. Long as there is no delay, they should be done by late afternoon. We'll have her scrubbed and clean by nightfall. You can bring your family aboard first thing in the morning, if that suits you.”

“That will be just fine, Mr. Rand. Now, as soon as the cargo is finished, I want you to turn the crowd to, to bend all canvas and sort out the running rigging. We should have a favorable breeze and I wouldn't mind setting topsails and t'gallants before the sea buoy. See Mr. Pugsley, the sail maker. I've sailed with him before. He's a good man.”

“Yes, sir," Rand replied.

Captain Barker almost ended the interview there, but his eyes kept being drawn to Mr. Rand's service record.

“If I may ask, why have you never sailed as captain?" He could almost read the answer in the man's eyes before he spoke. They were eyes that had seen too many disappointments, too many promises unkept. His gaze seemed to expect the worst—wry, weary and bitter all at once.

The man shrugged. "Dunno. Jus' been unlucky, I guess. Look at the two of us. You sailing captain since you were twenty-five and me in my fifties and never more'n a mate. But Mr. Shute, he promised to find me a command on one of his ships if I get a good report from you at the end of this voyage.”

“Well, sir, do your duty. That's all I ask, and I'll be happy to pass a good word to Mr. Shute.”

Captain Barker caught a glimpse of motion beyond the cabin port. "Come, Mr. Rand. I believe the Susannah is getting under way.”

The captain bounded up the stairs to the poop deck, followed a few paces behind by the mate, and stood at the outboard rail as the tall and lovely German ship slipped by. A rotund captain wearing a fine blue coat and a hat with gold braid on the brim stood abaft the quartermaster. He waved when he saw Captain Barker, whom he had met once or twice socially, while their ships were loading.

“Have a good trip, Captain Frederich," Captain Barker yelled over. "See you in Chile.”

“We'll wait for you," the German captain responded.

“No need. We'll get there first.”

“Ya, sure," the German laughed.

Captain Barker couldn't resist. "We'll beat you by twenty days!”

“Nein, Kapitän. Nie passieren," Captain Frederich shouted back.

“Twenty days!" Captain Barker shouted back for emphasis.

Captain Frederich waved and laughed.

Behind him, Captain Barker heard Mr. Rand say, "No way we'll beat the Susannah . She's too fast by half. We'll never catch her.”

Instantly, Captain Barker was reminded of the coal box sailor who spat tobacco juice on the Lady Rebecca 's name on the chalkboard in the shipping hall. He wanted to turn and punch the mate in the face for his insolence, but thought better of it. He breathed deeply to compose himself, and then turned around.

“We will beat the Susannah , Mr. Rand. We are going to out-sail that Fritz, and you, sir, are going to help us do it. Do you understand me, Mr. Rand?”

“Yes, sir." Rand put his hat back on. "If you'll excuse me, sir. I'll see to number two hatch.”