“Captain, Priest appreciated Dana’s book. Said he understands why Dana did what he did.” Go below!
Before Griffin replied, his first mate bellowed deliberately, “Lookout! What do you see?”
The lookout gave his report: “All’s clear, sir, lights bright and burning.”
“Thankee, Elder,” Carver answered, and then said, “Younger, relieve your brother aloft at six bells.”
“Aye, Mr. C-Carver.”
“Mr. Carver, you call the Ernst brothers Elder and Younger?”
“Whole watch does, Captain. All of the port watch to a man likes the two of them. I could have a lot worse for apprentices.” Griffin’s mind’s gone now. His mind focuses where I point him. He’d talk to a bollard if I wanted him to.
Cinnamon and nutmeg escaped from Griffin’s mind and became spoken words. These and the faint hint of lilacs were Kayleigh’s scent.
He regained his train of thought. “Watch the barometer. We should see pressure start to rise in the next hundred miles. You and Mr. Lennon both need to watch it carefully.” He hoped Peleg Carver had not heard the words or at least thought he had said something else. I can’t stay alert.
“Captain, you just said ‘cinnamon and nutmeg’ right out of the blue. I think you need to turn in. Mr. Lennon and I will take care of your ship. Even a couple hours of sleep will help you.” Next he’ll start seeing things and getting suspicious.
Griffin tried to laugh, but it was not convincing. “I don’t know where that came from, Mr. Carver.” He lied. It came from the first evening he and Kayleigh had spent together, when she had rested her head on his shoulder. It was her scent.
Carver moved close enough to the captain that he could smell coffee on Griffin’s breath. Carver took control of his voice, and in a whispered, carefully measured cadence, “Captain, I really think you should turn in. Your eyes are bloodshot. You must feel like you’ve got sand in them. We’ll need you for what lies ahead. Something’s driving this sea. Mr. Lennon and I will keep Providence safe and on course. We’ll call you on deck. Will you please turn in, sir?”
Griffin felt his anger rise and focus on the first mate, and he choked off his reply. The thought that he had spoken those words, “cinnamon and nutmeg,” rattled his confidence. Griffin’s left eyelid twitched with a spasm and he rubbed it to stop the irritation. This caused the eye to water. A gray film clouded the vision from his left eye. He rubbed it again but this made the eye worse. He was sure he had rubbed an eyelash under the lid.
“You’re right. Thank you, Mr. Carver.”
“Good night, Captain. Get some sleep. Mr. Lennon and I’ll tend to the ship.”
Griffin did not really want to leave the deck, but he did. He’d let the words escape. He should never tell the first mate his business. Carver was a good mate, a damned good mate. An officer of the watch should never be addressed by his given name, and Griffin had done so. He knew he needed to get below and sleep. Coffee was no longer enough, not even Bishop’s coffee. He thought he would sit in his easy chair and let sleep take him. He washed his eyes out with potable water from his pitcher and then sat in the leather chair. He hoped he would dream of Kayleigh, a pleasant dream, but he could not find a comfortable position for his legs. Griffin then focused and committed himself to awaken again at eight bells. I’ll listen. I’ll hear.
His efforts failed him. Even dreams eluded him. He passed quickly into a deep sleep.
Providence stood on slowly and steadily in a heading sea, her masts and spars emitting low creaks, her chain sheets rattling between clew and sheave. She accepted an occasional spray of white water across her bow to splash her own eyes while her master slept. The morning watch came on deck. Lennon stopped Ezra from waking the captain. Lightning lit the sky in a copper glow.
Twenty-Eight
South of Rio de Janeiro
The sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And shone bright and on the right
Went down into the sea.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Saturday, June 29, 1872
Lat 28˚11΄07˝S, Long 47˚07΄30˝W
Eight bells, four in the morning. The starboard watch came on deck to relieve the port watch. Jonathon Bishop gathered himself from his bunk to prepare for another day at sea. The first order of business was to start the fire in the wood cook-stove, which could be an easy task or not, depending on the weather and the chance of a back draft. Today, all it took was some kindling, a flame, and patience. The second order of business was to meet the second mate and captain’s steward forward by the forecastle food lockers to draw the day’s allotment of rations.
It was Friday and the allotment would be forty-eight pounds of salt meat, thirty-two pounds of ship’s bread, eleven pounds of navy beans, sixty-four ounces of molasses, four pounds of tea, sixteen pounds of coffee, and ninety-six quarts of fresh water for cooking and drinking. The captain also had issued sixteen pounds of oatmeal and eight pounds of butter, and three five-pound airtights of tomatoes. Since everyone’s rations were the same, the day’s catch of bonito would be shared equally between aft and forward and would not be substituted for the meat ration. That is, if any were caught.
The immediate order of business after the fire was making coffee for issue at two bells, and then boiling the beans. It was also common practice for both officers and hands to bring delicacies aboard for their own use and to be traded or shared with messmates. Having married seamen aboard meant that there would be home-canned marmalade for the ship’s biscuits forward and Sally Carver’s peaches aft. Breakfast would be served at seven bells first to the relieving port watch, then to the relieved starboard watch.
Henry Lennon took his balance scales from their place near the food lockers and used the mess kids to weigh out and distribute the rations. “Bishop,” said Lennon, “it’s a good idea to make the whack good. Da men are tetchy.”
Bishop replied, “Mr. Lennon, it would help to have some raisins for the porridge if the captain would let us. Dinner’s going to be bean soup with pork and stewed tomatoes. Now, for supper it’s more of the same, but if the captain gave us about ten pounds of dried apples and a few pounds of white flour, all hands could have dried apple pie for supper. If he wants to save the apples, then I could make soft molasses cookies. All I would need is some sugar and vinegar and flour. I got all the spices and baking soda in the galley.”
“Let’s save the apples for the Horn. Now, tell me what you need for the molasses cookies.”
***
Two bells sounded and all hands were on deck for coffee and a smoke. Although the coffee was served in a low tin bucket-like affair to avoid spillage, it was made two gallons at a time in an old and much-cherished blue porcelain-coated pot. This pot had never in its life seen soap and was seasoned with the essence of coffee. It was filled with water and brought to a boil. The coffee was added and stirred with a wooden cooking paddle, and a whole crushed egg was added to settle the grounds. After the coffee was poured out, the pot was cleaned by rinsing it overboard to get rid of the grounds and add a little salt seasoning. That was Providence coffee, and you could never see the bottom of the pot.
“Your sea daddy let you drink coffee, Priestie?” This was the first time Samuel Craig had addressed Priest in this manner.
“I don’t understand you, Craig, and why are you calling me ‘Priestie?’ ” The boy’s mind carried him back to boarding school and the hazing he had endured. Here, though, the sailors and the apprentices had treated him well, accepting him and, as Smallbridge once said, according him a set of balls. Priest understood why Craig asked the question; he was once again to be the butt of crude jokes. Priest understood but was surprised; he had not expected this to happen.
“I’ll call you what I want to, Priestie. I asked if Duder let you drink coffee.”
“Sea daddy?”
“A sea daddy is the man who buggers you, Priestie, and don’t tell me old Duder hasn’t been up
your bunghole, just like me. After all, Priestie-boy, ain’t old Duder your very special friend?” Craig’s voice mimicked an effeminate lisp. “I heard tell he takes care of you.”
“I don’t like your accusation, Craig.” Priest’s temper began to grow.
“Now, Priestie-boy, I just told the gospel truth, didn’t I?”
“No, not a single word is true. Why’d you come up with these lies?”
“What you going to do about it, Priestie-boy?” Craig slapped Priest on his cheek like a cat. “Now, you ain’t man enough to fight me, are you, Priestie? You ain’t man enough to call me a liar, are you, faggot?”
Fear was no longer a stranger to Priest, but fighting was. He had no idea how to go about fighting, even something as simple as making a fist and delivering a blow. He was not afraid of pain, but he took a rational approach.
“The captain will have us in irons for fighting, Craig!”
Craig looked around, saw that the mates were not looking forward, and spit on Priest. “Go run to the mate, you little Mary. You’re too afraid, ain’t you, Priestie?”
Priest’s boarding schools were religious to the extent that divine services and Sunday school were mandatory, and these memories served to remind him of the suffering and crucifixion of Christ. The Romans scourged and spat on Christ. Was this to be Priest’s role? Priest did not feel the burden of mankind’s sins, and his own father had barely begun to know him when he sent him to sea. His suffering at Craig’s hands did nothing for anyone but Craig, and Priest would not have it.
Smallbridge had heard his friend being called “Priestie.” He saw Craig standing almost in Priest’s face and quickly came to join his shipmate. He saw the same anger rise in Priest that he’d seen in the tavern in Bath. Craig, seeing Smallbridge approach, went forward and started to joke with two hands, making up the end of a jib sheet.
“Priest, what’s going on?”
“Craig called me a queer and said Sam Duder has been buggering me. What’s wrong with me? Why do people do this to me? I’m—I’m tired of it!”
Smallbridge pointed to the open galley door. “Come into the galley. I don’t want any of the hands to hear what I’ve got to say.” They stepped over the galley hatch coming in and talked with their backs to the small galley pantry and woodbin.
“Priest, he wants to fight you. He wants to fight you because he knows he can beat you because he weighs twenty-five pounds more than you do and has been in fights all his life. He wants to fight you because he needs someone to ridicule, someone to take his place as the ship’s dog. If he wins, he’ll say every lie he’s told about you is true. Everyone hates him. The starboard watch is fed up with him, his bitching, shirking his work, and talking about people behind their backs. It’s all over the ship that you sucked him off, lie or not.”
“I’ll fight him.”
“No, you won’t, not now. He’ll hurt you badly. You’re not ready to fight. That’s why he’s bullying you. That dagger he carries ain’t a sailor’s knife. You have to stay clear of that bastard, Priest.”
Jonathon Bishop stepped over the coming and into the galley. “What are you boys doing here? I don’t like hands in my galley making a mess for me to clean up. Get the hell out!”
“Craig just called Priest a queer and said Sam Duder was buggering him. He tried to force Priest into a fight.”
Jonathon Bishop made a small guttural noise like a hen’s clucking and said, “Well, well. Thought so.”
“Why can’t I fight him now and get it over with?”
Bishop answered, “Because he’d win and then there would be people who’d listen to him. He wants you to be an outcast. He’d not be through with you either. He’s got you in a knot. First thing he’s doing is telling anyone who’ll listen that you are a Nancy-boy and a coward. I’ve seen it before. He won’t leave you alone now. You’ll be fair game for anyone. He’s going to do his best to force you to fight him, and if you do, that’s just what he wants. You’d best get ready to whip him.”
“I still can’t understand why, Bishop.”
An exasperated Jonathon Bishop replied, “He’s a bastard, a son of a bitch who enjoys making people suffer! Can’t you see that? He wants to fight you because you said no to him, embarrassed him.”
Bishop made sure Priest looked him directly in the eye.
“Don’t get out of sight of the mates. He won’t do anything if the mate’s looking. You keep away from him, and if he pushes you in front of the watch, just tell him you are no fool. Say it straight out too: ‘I’m not a fool, Craig.’ You can’t let him convince the hands that you’re a coward. Can you fight?”
“My mother always told me that violence was wrong. She said it’s better to suffer than to hurt anyone.”
“What did your pa say?”
“He never said anything.”
“Are you a Quaker?”
“No, I just believe it’s foolish to fight.”
“It is, boy, but sometimes you have to fight whether you like it or not. The whole crew will know what’s going on between the two of you before the dogwatches tonight. They’ll be watching you and looking to see any sign of fear. Hell, Priest, it’s still a long way from San Francisco. You don’t want that man rubbing your nose in his shit for the next two months. If you were just fifteen or twenty pounds heavier and a little tougher, you could fight. Craig’s got no backbone; you’d beat him in a fair fight.”
Bishop then settled his eyes on Priest’s and said, “You’re right, Priest. You will fight him, but you need to beat the shit out of him when you do, or else, if you decide to take the beating, you got to stand tall and take it without a whimper. You’re risking your life to let him beat on you. You got to hope someone stops it before he kills you.”
“Do I have any other choices?” Priest’s face asked the question as well as his words.
Bishop placed both of his hands on the boy’s shoulders to make his point. “Not if you expect to stay alive and keep half the crew out of your drawers.”
Priest shut his eyes, opened them, then looked at the deck and then to Jonathon Bishop. “I’ve never been—are you sure?”
Bishop gripped Priest’s shoulder harder and shook the boy once, a very gentle shake. “I know. It’s coming, and you can’t run. You got to accept that and get yourself ready. You got to.”
Priest let his arms drop to his sides and slumped his shoulders. “What can I do?”
Bishop put his big right hand under Priest’s jaw, raised it, and said, “Would you let me help you? Would you do what a nigger tells you to do?”
Priest asked, “Can you help?”
“I can try, but you got to do the fighting.”
“What do I have to do?”
Bishop made sure Priest listened carefully to him. “I’ll teach you bare-knuckle boxing. I’ll feed you extra beef too. Captain and mates won’t say anything either. Priest, learning to fight ain’t going to be fun. It’s going to hurt. That’s how you toughen yourself up.”
Priest was surprised. “You’d do this for me? Why?”
“Because I’ve seen too many like him. Because I’ve had to help black men, just boys like you, line up and be killed, no difference. Maybe I’d like to see you hurt him. I ain’t ashamed to admit that. Are you willing? Will you listen to me?”
Bishop extended his right hand for Priest to shake it.
Priest reached for Bishop’s hand and shook it firmly. “Okay.”
Bishop smiled. “It’s a deal.”
Priest’s mind raced. He saw himself fighting, bleeding. He couldn’t run. He remembered Bishop calling himself a nigger. He imagined young black men in blue army uniforms standing in line. He imagined the rattle of musket fire, the flash of muzzles aimed toward him, and saw these same black men die. Perhaps he was among the dead or injured. He imagined their thoughts, his thoughts: I must show them I’m a man. God, what if I had been born black?
***
“Damn good porridge today! Raisins, butter,
and molasses and Providence coffee; now, that’s the style. Peleg, finish up. I want to show you my charts.” A much-refreshed Griffin felt expansive. He knew amends needed to be made.
“Captain, can the steward pour us another cup of coffee to take to the chart room?”
“You’re not going to spill it all over my charts, are you? Ezra, pour us some coffee, please.”
They took their cups and walked to the chart room, where Isaac Griffin had spread out his navigation and pilot charts.
“We’re going to transit Le Maire Strait. Right now, I want to make the most of the trade winds and make a long board to Rio.”
Carver saw where Griffin had made erasures Thursday night.
“There’s risks to Le Maire, Captain. You have to transit with low tide.” Carver then used the fingers of his right hand as a divider to point out how narrow the strait really was. “See the rocks off Cabo San Diego? Now look across to Staten Island—more rocks. All you got is six miles to tack or wear. Now include an offing from the rocks. Only two miles left, ayuh?”
Griffin did not appreciate Carver’s caution. He didn’t care about anything other than the bonus. He knew the alternative was to go around Staten Island to enter the Drake Passage. Five added days or even more. He also knew the westerlies and graybeards of Drake’s Passage had defeated many ships, including HMS Beagle.
“Have you been through the strait?”
“I have, Captain, several times.”
Griffin smiled and placed his good left hand on Carver’s shoulder. “Well, you’ll go through it one more time with me.”
***
“Mr. Lennon, can I talk with you after you finish your watch?” Bishop spoke to the second mate near the main hatch.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Craig and Priest. Craig’s picking a fight and I won’t put up with it.”
Twenty-Nine
Fever
I see Lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 20
