Into the Wind: The Odyssey of Ben O'Neal

by Theodore Taylor

  I sighed once more, feeling burdened. "Tee, I'll help all I can. Mama would want me to do it, I know. And I want to do it."

  Looking down her sharp nose at me, she said, "Thank you," so British.

  I got up and started gathering her blankets and pots. "Where did you get these?" I asked.

  "I took them from the consulate, along with thirty-one dollars."

  I almost dropped them. So that's why Calderham had accused her of being a thief.

  "Oh, don't look so shocked," Tee said. "The British Government has been taking our taxes for years and never gives a tuppence back."

  You know, she was right. The U.S. Government does the same thing.

  We went along to Mrs. Crowe's, Tee trailing Boo and myself by about a half block to avoid suspicions. Undoubtedly, the Norfolk police were looking for a blond girl and a gold dog. I had her wear my blue cap.

  9

  BEFORE SUPPER, one railroader, not a Carolina man, wanted to know why I called that girl Teetoncey. Simple, I explained. It was a Banks word that meant teeny-tiny, and that seemed to satisfy him. One look at her and he could see that the name fitted the orphan like a toenail.

  Then, while we ate, Tee told her story of the past months, losing her parents in the shipwreck, etc., gaining a lot of sympathy for herself and Boo. She did well, and didn't exaggerate too much. When she came to the part about Consul Calderham waving a fist at her, Mr. Stone angrily rose half out of his chair and began muttering about going to Magazine Lane and breaking the consuls jaw.

  Mrs. Crowe said her piece: "Sit down, and be quiet, Mr. Stone."

  I had told them all about finding employment on the Christine Conyers, but they didn't seem to be much interested in it now. Teetoncey was the center of all attention, with her Thames River accent, and I turned silent. When she talked about her previous life in London, and living in the Belgravia house, with a cook and gardener and tweeny maids, Mrs. Crowe half laughed and said, "Wouldn't you like to have a nice foster mother?" I believe she was far more serious than she appeared to be.

  Tee wisely did not tell them about Calderham's notifying the authorities, and throughout all this, Boo was down in the blackness of the cellar, surrounded by jars of pickles and beets and strings of onions, moaning now and then. He was very unhappy down there, having always had the run of any house on the Banks that he happened to visit. But Mrs. Crowe, though readily accepting Tee after I'd explained her plight, was very firm about the hound.

  After supper, Mrs. Crowe let the dirty dishes stay where they sat, and we all went into the parlor to talk about getting Tee to London without the assistance of Consul Calderham. It was certain he'd find a way to undo the dog. The bite on the hand, though well deserved, had probably sealed Boo's fate.

  It was Mrs. Crowe who said to Tee, "Well, as long as you have your credentials, there's no reason for you not to get on a train and go straight to New York, find yourself a ship to London, and be on your way." There was a couthy woman if I'd ever heard one.

  When the castaway girl had "taken" the blankets and pots, plus the "tax rebate" of thirty-one dollars from Calderham's desk drawer, she had also lifted her Cunard Line ticket and other credentials for the Transatlantic crossing. So, actually, she was ready to travel.

  One of the railroad men, named J. H. Riddle-berger, who worked for the N&W in the passenger division, said, "She can get out of here early in the morning on a Little Pennsy ferry to Cape Charles, then take the NYP&N up to Philly, transfer on to New York City—"

  He sounded very knowledgeable, but I asked, "What is all that, sir?"

  "Well," he explained, "the Little Pennsy—New York, Philadelphia, and Norfolk Railroad—starts at Cape Charles, on the Virginia Peninsula, then the train goes north to Philadelphia, where it joins the Big Pennsy tracks that go everywhere. There's a well-run ferry from here to Cape Charles."

  That was a most important conference there in Mrs. Crowe's parlor amid the ferns, and the scheduling sounded good.

  "Will they accept Boo Dog?" Tee immediately wanted to know.

  "Gladly," said Mr. Riddleberger. "You just tie him up with a bowl of water in the baggage car. He'll enjoy the ride."

  That dog was unbelievably lucky.

  So it was all settled. Tee would take the NYP&N ferry, which docked between the C&O slips and the Old Bay Line, walking distance, at 6 A.M. and be off to New York and London without the help of Consul Calderham and freed of the Norfolk police dragnet.

  A moment later, Boo let out one of those long, mournful cries from the basement, one of those graveyard caterwauls that a hound is capable of, and I went down there while Tee assisted Mrs. Crowe with the supper dishes.

  Soon the British girl joined me under the single Edison lightbulb, a fascinating thing, that hung from the ceiling near the furnace, and we talked for a long time, Boo contentedly at her feet, enjoying strokes of her hand along his head and ears. There was no question that they were inseparable now. Calderham could have just as soon split the Rock of Gibraltar as split those two.

  But just to discourage Tee from any thoughts of following me to sea, I told her the truth about Cap'n Reddy and the bosun: that I'd heard from reliable sources that Reddy was insane and the bosun a bucko hangman; that the Conyers was actually a hellship. She seemed to understand that it was simply a very risky means to get me in touch with Reuben. I also had the strong notion she'd make a last-ditch effort to snare me, persuade me to take her back to Heron Head and there "live happily ever after." But, apparently, she was now resigned to making the inevitable voyage home. She even talked about things she'd do right away in the Belgravia house, and it was one of the most pleasant conversations we'd ever had.

  About nine, Mrs. Crowe stuck her head down the steps and suggested we get some sleep. Tee would have to be awakened at five, and of course, I had to be on Roanoke Dock, with my seabag, at eight.

  Having been pampered for more than an hour, Boo was sufficiently sleepy now, so off we went to our respective rooms, the day having ended successfully for all.

  However, a few minutes after 5 A.M., Mrs. Crowe entered my room to awaken me with shattering news. "She's gone!"

  "Oh, no," I said. Another of W. L. Appleton's surprises.

  "I went in to wake her up, and she's nowhere in the house. Neither is that dog."

  I couldn't believe it. Gone to where? It didn't seem likely that Calderham and the police could have located her and spirited her off. Had she run off again, and why?

  The answer soon emerged. We found two notes on the dining-room table. One was to Mrs. Crowe:

  Dear Mrs. Crowe:

  I can never thank you enough for allowing us to stay in your lovely home. And please extend my gratitude to the railroad men for their sound advice. I am on my way.

  Sincerely,

  Wendy Lynn Appleton

  "Such a sweet girl," said Mrs. Crowe.

  "Yes," I replied, but uncertainly.

  Then I opened my note:

  Dearest Ben:

  I could not bear the thought of us saying good-bye so decided to go to the ferry alone with Boo. Please don't follow us. I prefer to think of the good times, not the sad times. Do write to me, and I shall write to you.

  Love,

  Teetoncey

  Despite myself, I had a lump in my throat. I then agreed, "A very sweet girl."

  Since she was already up, Mrs. Crowe decided to fix breakfast, and I ate, with not much appetite, at about a quarter to six. My thoughts were of Tee. Then, about six, I went up to the fourth-floor landing to watch the NYP&N ferry pull away. It was too far off and dawn-lit to make out the girl with the daisy hair and the gold-coated dog, but I waved watery-eyed, as the vessel backed into the channel, blew its sorrowful whistle, and began to step out for Cape Charles.

  Though it should have been a happy morning in my life, I felt somewhat depressed as I packed everything into my seabag and began the wait until seven-thirty to go to Hudgins & Hurst to meet the shipping master. I fiddled around for a
while, went out on the front porch and rocked for a while, said good-bye to all the railroaders as they left for the day, and watched the big clock in the parlor.

  Finally, just before seven-thirty, I went in to Mrs. Crowe to bid her farewell, wonderful woman that she was. She softened a bit and told me to take care of myself, be certain to come back to her establishment, then happened to ask the name of the shipping master.

  "Parley Bakerby," I said.

  Her face got as red as her hair. "Do you know who he is?"

  "No," I admitted.

  "He owns the Tidewater Saloon. He's a scoundrel. Offers the men loans of ten dollars when he signs them on, just so they'll come back to his den of sin when they pay off at voyage's end."

  "I didn't know that," I said. "I won't ask for a loan."

  "You be careful," Mrs. Crowe said.

  I promised I would, shook her hand, and departed.

  10

  ON ARRIVAL, there was already a group of scruffy men hanging around Roanoke Dock, and I stayed strictly away from them, trying to make as if I were just sightseeing around. Several sailors appeared to be tipsy, even at this early hour; several others appeared to have the shakes, which I had myself but not from any night in the saloons.

  In about ten minutes, Parley Bakerby came puffing along, a lot of official papers in his hands. He was a pink-faced, potbellied man with silky hair and tiny red veins on his nose and cheeks, looking just like a politician and similar destructive persons. He went inside Hudgins & Hurst, towed a small table outside, and sat down heavily behind it, saying in a hoarse voice, "Conyers voyage, boys, come an' sign your papers."

  Everyone lined up, me at the end. To the first man, who wore a sweater and checkered cloth cap, he said, "Nils, why you tryin' to read 'em? Just sign 'em. You know you can't read a line."

  "Where we goin' this time, an' with what?" Nils asked Parley.

  "Barbados, a little general cargo; then on to Rio, thousands o' barrels o' flour. Bring coffee home. Pay off north o' Cape Hatteras. Twelve a month."

  Nils took the pen and signed while Parley said, "You know the routine. Throw your gear in that wagon over there an' jus' wait. You need any money this trip, Nils?"

  Ah, hah, I thought: the loan.

  Nils shook his head and Parley said, "Well, come by an' see your ol' friend when you get back. I'll buy you a whiskey."

  Nils walked to the wagon.

  The second man looked very old.

  "Who are you?" the saloonkeeper asked.

  "Mumford."

  Parley demanded, "Open your mouth, Mumford."

  There wasn't a tooth in it. Parley squinted at the sailor. "How old are you?"

  "Fifty-seven."

  Parley grunted. "Poppycock. You been fifty-seven for twenty years. Conyers can't use you."

  The old man's shoulders slumped and he shuffled off. I felt sorry for him.

  It went that way through thirteen or fourteen more men, Parley Bakerby hiring three-quarters of them. Then, suddenly, I was at the table looking down at that nose with little, leafy red lines in it.

  "Why are you here?" the shipping master asked.

  I replied, "Cap'n Reddy said to sign me on as steward's boy. Dollar a week."

  Parley Bakerby laughed. That's all. He made no other comment but looked at me closely as he shoved the articles toward me, pushing out the pen at the same time.

  I did not get beyond the first paragraph when Bakerby said gruffly, "Boy, don't read it, just sign it. I ain't got all day."

  I did as directed.

  Then he shoved another paper across, and I filled that in.

  While he was filling in his section, I looked at another piece of U.S. Government paper displayed on that table:

  SCALE OF PROVISIONS TO BE

  ALLOWED AND SERVED OUT TO CREW

  DURING VOYAGE

  Water 5 qts. daily

  Biscuit ½ lb daily

  Beef, salt 3¾ lb weekly

  Pork, salt 3 lb weekly

  Flour 1½ lb weekly

  Potatoes 7 lb weekly

  Bakerby's voice jarred my thoughts as it occurred to me that we'd be eating a lot of potatoes. "Throw your bag in that wagon," he said. There was no good-bye, good luck, or offer of a loan. By the time I picked up my seabag, he was already towing the table back into Hudgins & Hurst and I was an official crew member of the Christine Conyers. There was nothing special about any part of it.

  Soon, along with the rest, I was walking behind the double-horse wagon, about to start my long-awaited career. After a half block of plodding, with us looking like pallbearers behind a load of canvas sacks, I maneuvered up beside Nils, who was grizzled and hunch-shouldered, with a square face and hooky nose. I told him about the skinny sailor who'd warned me not to come aboard the Conyers.

  Nils said back, "There are one or three or more of them on every ship. They ain't happy 'less they mumble 'bout food an' the work an' the cap'n an' the bosun an' the cockroaches. They ain't happy till they make everybody else unhappy. They're mostly mouth an' ain't worth a damn themselves. Sea lawyers, they're called, worse than the land kind."

  So much for that. "Is the captain really crazy?"

  He looked down and over to reply. "Yes an' no," with a chuckle added.

  "Does he throw sugar into the sea to rise a breeze?"

  "Yep. That don't make him crazy."

  "He sing from the bowsprit?"

  "Sometimes."

  I said, "He asked whether I like music and cats."

  Nils laughed. "He owns a mangy cat an' plays the pump organ an' shoots at waterspouts."

  He sounded crazy to me. "They don't like him at Jordan's."

  Nils laughed and laughed. "That was in his drinkin' an' gamblin' days. He used to beat Jordan at five-card stud, and once Jordan was slow payin' up. So Joe Reddy hired a horse an' galloped in there an' shot up the molasses jugs. They had a helluva time moppin' that stuff up."

  "I've never heard of a cap'n like him," I said.

  Nils replied, "He's slowed down now, but ain't above usin' his fists if you git uppity."

  "Why do you sail with him?"

  Nils eyed me. "The Conyers works harder'n any, but the pay is good an' she feeds well. Never mind the cap'n if you watch your tongue an' do your job. Only man to keep in mind is the bosun. He's a stomper."

  My gills were dry as we plodded on along Front Street.

  11

  FOR THOSE who do not know much about seafaring before the wind, a bark, which is not short for barkentine, is considered a full square-rigger, having mostly square sails, with fewer, smaller fore-and-aft (schooner) sails. A barkentine, on the other hand, has a combination of square sails and equally large schooner sails. Even on the Banks, people sometimes mixed them up, saying "barkentine" when the ship lying off was actually a full-fledged square-rigger, as was the Conyers. A pure windjammer.

  Soon I stood on the pitch-seamed, scrubbed deck of Cap'n Reddy's vessel, seabag at my feet, and looked up the tall masts—fore, main, mizzen, and after, with crossing spars, the yards—mouth wide open, wondering if fd have the hardiness to climb clear to the royals, the topsails of all. The rest of the crew had already disappeared forward with their gear.

  In a moment of cherished dream, I could almost see myself up there on a yardarm, the captain shouting to me, "Ben, give a look to that lee mizzen brace."

  "Aye, aye, sir." A fond hope, perhaps to come true.

  "Vel, vat you doin standin'?" yelled the bosun, looming suddenly. "Go to de Bravaman."

  I had no idea what a Bravaman was, nor his location. I was struck speechless as the bucko mate glared down at me.

  "Go to de fo'c'sle," Gebbert roared, lifting a boot toe, and I scurried that way. I well knew what the fo'c'sle was: the forecastle, or forward house, near the bow, where the crew lived.

  En route, I chanced on the skinny sailor who'd given me the high sign not to dare come aboard the previous day, and learned his name was Barney. He came from a place called Jersey Cit
y.

  "You did it, anyway," he said. "You'll be sorry."

  "Had to," I replied, and quickly explained about Reuben down in the Caribbean.

  "Watch out for that bosun," he warned.

  I said I surely would.

  In a moment, the two tipsy sailors came by, laughing and joking. That lasted just long enough for the bosun to grab them both by their collars and run down the deck with them full bore. Just before he reached the afterhouse, he let go of them. They drove on into the wood, their heads hitting like ripe melons, or so it sounded. They fell back on their behinds.

  The bosun said to them, "Sober up."

  Yes, he was a man to watch out for, I thought as I continued uneasily on to the fo'c'sle in search of the Bravaman, and I soon found him in the galley, which was mostly occupied by a big, six-hole coal range. A sink, chopping block, food shelves, and lockers took up the rest of it. On one bulkhead—wall—was a small statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Meeting up with a Bravaman was to see someone smoking a long cigar, short and tubby, dark of skin, hair, and eyes, wearing a stained towel around his neck beneath which hung a small gold cross on a chain. I stood there nervously and said I was the new boy. He looked me over and said something like "Bong dia." That was not the way we spoke on the Banks, and I had no answer.

  He laughed and said, "You work for me, you learn Portuguese." And that's exactly what bong dia was, just a cheerful good morning. That ship was full of foreigners and I won't attempt to spell it out the way he talked. His j's sounded like s's; so did his g's. His voice rose and fell like fast tides. "In" was "om" and "bom" was "bong."

  Anyhow, Eddie Cartaxo had bad feet and limped along the deck as he took me aft. Everyone called him either Eddie or the Bravaman, the latter because he was from Brava, in the Cape Verde Islands, of which I'd never heard. They were off Dakar, Africa, he said, another far place.

  Finally he showed me my bunk, and my mouth sagged.

  ***

  Despite the maze of stout wire rigging, the spotless Conyers was a very simple but rugged ship, made of white oak and yellow pine, held together by galvanized-iron bolts. On the port side of the fo'c'sle was the galley; directly forward of it were two cabins filled with crew bunks and an eating table. On the starboard was the donkey steam engine and the carpenter shop. The donkey engine powered the windlass to raise the anchor, ran the pumps, and could hoist sails if Cap'n Reddy so chose.