"Mr. McKay didn't trust me to stow it away in the hold with my cargo of export china,” Captain Potts said jovially. “You should see his cabin. Tiny as it is, it's jammed to the eaves with his bric-a-brac."
"Oh, I trust you all right, Captain,” McKay said. “But I didn't want my little treasure trove to get lost amongst your reproductions. I doubt your sailors would know the difference."
Briggs came in with the roast then, and further talk about the stolen platter broke off as everyone turned their attention to the meal. Lucy paid the necessary compliments to the wonders Mrs. Potts had accomplished with the cook's selfishly guarded oven in the galley and the little parlor stove in the afterhouse, and dutifully admired Briggs's gravy and Yorkshire pudding. McKay ate efficiently in the English manner, the fork never leaving his left hand. Willis was a study in contrasts, tearing into his meal with primitive voracity and helping himself to a second portion when the others had barely started. Lucy saw that Mrs. Potts was trying not to look at him. Conversation picked up somewhat when the next course was served, and she seemed to relax. By the time Briggs brought out the special cake and the prune whip that were supposed to be the captain's favorites, she was urging McKay to entertain them with some of his amusing stories. He obliged with a couple of tall tales about his supposed adventures along the China coast. Lucy didn't believe them for a moment. And, she could see, neither did Willis.
McKay was finally prevailed upon to play the parlor organ that dominated the saloon. It was a stately piece of Gothic furniture, all polished mahogany with an elaborately carved backboard complete with a tall mirror. It put the Mary Small's unpretentious ship's piano to shame.
McKay obliged with a Stephen Foster song that was still popular and followed with “The Last Rose of Summer” in a clear, pleasing tenor voice. Willis was drumming his fingers impatiently, obviously anxious to be out of the saloon. He got up while McKay was still drawing out the last high note.
"It sounds like the men are skylarking on deck,” he said. “It was a mistake promoting Gilkins to second mate, Captain, if you'll excuse me for saying so. He's got the men thinking it's dogwatches all the time. No discipline.” He glowered accusingly at Eban and Lucy. “It's having strange sailors aboard for a gam that makes them think they can get away with being rowdy."
Eban gave the man a hard stare, but since Captain Potts hadn't reprimanded him, Eban held his tongue too.
Lucy cocked her head and could make out the sounds from the forward deck. She heard a fiddle and men's voices singing in rough unison. She recognized the tune—a familiar halyard shanty that she had always enjoyed. The words of the chorus came drifting faintly aft:
The cap'n was drunk and he went below,
for to take a pull at his bottle, O!
So early in the morning.
A glance at Mrs. Potts showed that she had heard it too. Her face had turned chalky white. “Nathaniel!” she said with trembling lips. “I won't have him exposed to such indecency!"
"I'll take care of it, ma'am,” Willis said. He strode purposefully from the room, one hand straying toward a leather case at his belt.
"Now, now, Henrietta,” Captain Potts said soothingly. “Don't take on so. The boy is fine. He's used to sailors’ talk. I'm sure Willis will soon have the situation in hand."
Eban said in a deliberately casual tone, “What's all this about Gilkins? Your Mr. Willis doesn't seem to care for him at all."
"Willis can be a bit harsh with the men, but he runs a tight ship,” Potts said defensively. “He doesn't trust Gilkins because Gilkins signed on as an ordinary seaman. When we moved him out of the forecastle, Willis thought he'd be too sympathetic to his fellow tars. You know as well as I do, Captain Hale, that every time you take on a new crew, you're going to have a fine crop of scoundrels. Foreigners, heathens, cannibals from the South Seas, murderers, mutineers. And every man jack of them armed with a knife at the least, and maybe with brass knuckles or a gun as well."
"You're too hard on the poor fellows,” Eban said. “I take on a crew of mostly Searsport lads at the start of voyage. Local lads who I know and who know me, maybe getting a start up the ladder to becoming a captain or first officer themselves. Or at least on their way to an able seaman rating. When I have to fill berths, I don't use crimps. The men know they've been robbed and cheated, and maybe shanghaied—a sure recipe for a resentful ship. By and large, they don't jump ship. On the return voyage, I've got at least half the men I started out with."
"What made you elevate this Mr. Gilkins to second mate when your first mate was so set against him?” Lucy ventured.
"I had no choice,” Captain Potts scowled. “My second mate deserted in the Pacific Islands while we were taking on water. Went native, he did, at some godforsaken little ring of atolls. Lured by some native woman, I've no doubt. No time to hunt him down. No way to sign on a replacement. Nothing to do but recruit from my own foc'sle. Gilkins was the best choice. He could read and write. He even understood the rudiments of navigation. Not that Willis would trust him with a sextant. As for keeping the log book, Willis wouldn't let him anywhere near it. The boy made his entries on the log slate, and at the end of his watch, Willis copied out his observations. Never without disputing his calculations. But he never caught Gilkins in an error."
"What about you, Captain? Didn't you ever examine the slate?"
Potts flushed. “That's the mate's business,” he said. “I don't interfere with Mr. Willis, and the ship runs smoothly."
Eban was about to open his mouth, but Lucy interrupted sweetly, “Does that mean that when you interfere with him, the ship doesn't run smoothly, Captain?"
Potts's face became even redder at the outrage of having a woman question him. But before he could explode, the companionway door opened, and a young sailor came in, holding little Nathaniel by the hand.
The boy broke free and ran straight to his mother. “Ma, ma, Mr. Willis knocked Pulver down and broke his fiddle. He's awful mad!"
She buried his face in her bosom. “There, there, you're safe with mama now, and no one can hurt you.” She looked up fiercely and glared at the young sailor.
He avoided her glance. He stepped forward, hat in hand, and said to Captain Potts, “Mr. Willis sent me back with the boy, Captain. He said he'd be along shortly."
"What's going on forward, Mr. Gilkins?” Potts asked.
"Mr. Willis said to tell you that he has matters in hand,” Gilkins replied vaguely.
"What matters?” Potts said, his patience evaporating.
Gilkins shuffled his feet. “The men weren't too happy about being ordered back inside. They'd had their dinner on deck, and they were spinning yarns and singing shanties and generally having a lark."
"You let them have the run of the deck, both watches together?"
"I didn't see the harm in it, sir,” Gilkin said miserably. “It was a fine day for eating outside, and the ship was lying-to, without the deck watch having to work the rigging, and there were the sailors from the Mary Small, aboard for a gam."
"That's enough, Mr. Gilkins, you may go,” Potts said. He turned to Eban and Lucy and spread his hands, as if to say what did I tell you.
Gilkins turned to leave, but Lucy stopped him by saying coolly, “Are you a Searsporter by any chance, Mr. Gilkins? It's a common name there. Did you know any of our men?"
He glanced nervously toward Captain Potts and said, “N-no, ma'am. That is, I know who Alvah Goodspeed is. The Goodspeeds have a farm on the south side of the bay. My family lives near Sandypoint."
"Then your father must be the Jeremiah Gilkins who works in Captain Merithew's bank,” she said in her best social voice. “I can place him now."
Captain Potts had reached his limit. “I said that'll do, Mr. Gilkins,” he exploded.
"Yessir,” Gilkins said gratefully, and made his escape.
"You see what I mean,” Captain Potts said, directing his words pointedly to Eban alone. “He may sleep in the steerage with the carpenter, but
his sentiments are with the men in the forecastle. And now we see he has a connection with your crew as well. It's no wonder he can't keep the men under control."
Eban ignored the slur. “Steerage? Not a mate's berth in the afterhouse opposite the first mate's quarters?"
"Willis wouldn't hear of it. He told Gilkins to his face that a donkey's breakfast was good enough for him."
Lucy was appalled, but she held her tongue. A donkey's breakfast was what the sailors called an improvised straw-filled mattress that they supplied themselves when nothing better was provided.
Captain Potts wasn't through with his complaint. “And he kept his sea chest in the forecastle and slept there like any common sailor for over a week after we made him second mate. He's just not made for any sort of command."
"He doesn't get much chance to try it, does he,” Lucy murmured under her breath. Fortunately for her, Willis chose that moment to return. There was a cut on his forehead and a bruise below one cheek, and he was breathing hard. Lucy saw with a shudder that his knuckles were bloody.
"There'll be no more trouble on Mr. Gilkins's watch,” he announced. He stood there, rocking on his heels and glowering until Captain Potts cleared his throat and spoke.
"Very good, Mr. Willis.” He made it a question.
"We damn near had a mutiny on our hands, Captain,” Willis said. He did not apologize to the two women for his language. “I saw Jenkins's hand feeling in his pocket for his brass knuckles, and I took a pistol away from that skulking cannibal chief, Wiremu. I always knew he had one."
"I'm going to faint!” Mrs. Potts announced. She was fanning herself frantically with a napkin. “We might have been murdered in our sleep!"
Captain Potts spoke soothingly. “Now, now, my dear, calm yourself. We're in no danger."
He turned to Willis. “Well done, Mr. Willis. How did you subdue them?"
Willis gave a sharklike grin. “I showed them Mr. Peavey. Had to use him a couple of times."
Lucy was getting Mrs. Potts quieted down with a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, and pretending not to pay attention, so Eban saved her the trouble of asking the question.
"Who is Mr. Peavey?"
Willis, still grinning, dug into the leather case at his belt and brought out a bizarre contraption that seemed to be a combination double-barreled derringer, knife, and brass knuckles.
"Invented by the same Mr. Peavey who thought up the hinged canting hook that loggers use. Sold so many of them that he had to open a manufacturing company, and he started inventing things. This was one of them. I was first in line to buy one. Does the work of three."
"I should think it would be awkward to use,” Eban said mildly.
"I've had a lot of practice,” Willis said.
And then, to Lucy's disgust, Willis started holding forth on his methods of enforcing disclipine. “Things haven't been the same since the Dana Act did away with flogging. But the law only prohibits lashing a man to the mast and using the cat-o-nine-tails. It says nothing about an officer using his fists or a belaying pin to quell willful disobedience. Or to use a gun in case of mutiny."
"The law allows quite a bit of leeway in what constitutes mutiny,” Eban protested.
"And a good thing it does,” Captain Potts expostulated. “Otherwise you'd have men refusing to go aloft in a storm."
"You've got to nip it in the bud,” Willis said. “Now when a man comes aboard, I have a sheath knife muster. I break off the point of his knife and give it back to him. No exceptions."
Eban frowned. “A sailor can't do without a sheath knife. He needs it for splicing, cutting a stopper rope, even eating his dinner."
"Aye,” Willis said. “A sailor needs a knife to do his proper work, but he doesn't need a point on it to stab his messmates in a drunken brawl. On any ship where I'm first officer, having a knife with a point is evidence of mutiny."
"Except for your own sheath knife, of course,” Eban said.
Willis looked at him suspiciously but said, “Aye. That and Mr. Peavey."
Lucy, still tending Mrs. Potts, broke in. “Mrs. Potts is fatigued,” she said. “She needs to rest. Captain, will you see her back to your quarters?"
"Yes, perhaps that's best,” Mrs. Potts said as Lucy helped her to her feet. Captain Potts rushed to her side and took her arm.
"Thank you for a marvelous dinner, Mrs. Potts,” Lucy said in her best formal voice. “It was a feast one might expect in port, but not at sea. I hope you'll allow me to reciprocate tomorrow."
Mrs. Potts accepted the compliment as her due. But she evaded the invitation coyly. “I should love to come, Mrs. Hale. I don't know if my...” She hesitated meaningfully. “...delicate condition will allow me to risk a bosun's chair."
Lucy was having none of it. “I shall hope for the best, Mrs. Potts,” she said.
Captain Potts became brisk and businesslike. “Mr. Willis, will you see to getting Captain Hale's sailors rounded up? And have a bosun's chair rigged up for Mrs. Hale."
Lucy could not resist a last chance to scandalize the Pottses. “I won't need a bosun's chair. I climb like a monkey."
As she turned to go, McKay was at her side to say his farewells. He took her hand with languid gallantry and said, “It's been a thoroughly engaging encounter, Mrs. Hale. I'm sure I've never seen such a lovely monkey."
* * * *
"What was that all about?” Eban asked.
They were seated in the stern sheets of the longboat, facing the six sweating sailors at the oars. The wind and the spray were in Lucy's face, and the hem of her good dress was soaked from the last dip the rope ladder had taken during the descent, when the bark had rolled in an unexpected wave. She hoped fervently that Captain Potts had not seen the mishap, but she doubted it; the crew had been banished from the rail to protect them from the sight of a woman in skirts climbing down a rope ladder.
Lucy replied, “She was letting me know, woman to woman, that she was expecting a little brother or sister for Nathaniel. That's why he humors her so. Like stopping in mid-Pacific for a gam when he can't afford it. Or indulging her delicate condition."
"That's a relief. I don't think I could put up with another dinner party with them."
"Oh, they'll row over to the Mary Small tomorrow. She won't miss the chance to lord it over me. McKay will come, too, invited or not."
"My poor martyred Lucy! We can't match that roast beef."
"We'll have roast chicken. And dumplings. And we have all those fresh vegetables and fruits we onloaded at the Marquesas."
"What about a special dessert?” he teased her. “Your captain's favorite?"
She pretended to think. “Perhaps a plum duff."
He roared with laughter. The sailors facing them stole sidelong glances at them.
Lucy had never thought it was beneath her to speak to the sailors, and they had never taken advantage. Or if one did, he was soon set right by the others. She smiled at the one she had caught looking at her. “Yes, you heard me correctly, Goodspeed. There'll be chicken for the men too. And I'll bake enough gingerbread for the forecastle as well."
He returned a suitable smile. “We'll all appreciate it, ma'am. The grub ‘board the bark was salt horse and weevils, and not much of it. The cook was a decent old Chinese who tried to do a little something extra for the men, seeing we was having a gam, but that bucko mate, Willis, came by and blew up a storm. We could hear him slamming the old man around in the galley and yelling like a banshee. The old man was yelling back, but Willis said something in Chinese that shut him right up."
Lucy had picked up a smattering of trade Chinese, and she supposed that was all Willis knew as well. “Were you able to pick up any words?” she asked. “Think hard."
Goodspeed wrinkled his forehead. “I don't know, ma'am. Maybe wo or something."
"Could it have been something like Woo Lin?"
"That's it, ma'am. What does it mean? It scared the stuffing out of the old man."
Eban scratched
his head. “Why would a lowly Chinese cook be frightened by something involving a mandarin like Woo Lin?"
"What happened then?” Lucy asked.
Goodspeed had lost his rowing rhythm. There was a delay while he straightened the boat out with a couple of powerful strokes, then he said, “Well, Willis came out with the cook's tub and dumped the men's dinner into the sea. It was some special stew he'd made, with chicken. The men were looking forward to it. The old man stood by and didn't say nothing. You couldn't read his face, but he had a black eye and a cut lip. Then the mate went aft, and a little while later the cook brought out a sorry mess of burgoo made of salt horse and biscuit crumbs."
"Wasn't it Mr. Gilkins's watch? Didn't he have anything to say about it?"
"He tried, but Willis was in a fury. Later—"
"I know what happened later."
* * * *
Later, aboard the Mary Small, they told Dawson what Goodspeed had said. Dawson didn't raise an eyebrow at the spectacle of the captain's wife chatting with a sailor. He was used to Lucy Hale and her ways, respected her brains, and unlike what would have been the reaction of many first officers, was not at all put off by her participation in the navigation of the ship.
"Goodspeed's a bright young lad,” he said. “He's gone from boy to ordinary seaman to able seaman in only two voyages, and he's taught himself navigation. By the time we get back to Searsport, he'll qualify for a second mate's berth. He'll be a captain like his father and grandfather before he's twenty-five."
"He doesn't have much use for this Willis fellow,” Eban said. “Talk about your bucko mates. This one takes the cake."
"I know a little about Willis. He's notorious from Liverpool to Zanzibar. The sailors call him Kicking Jack Willis. They've even made up a shanty about him: ‘'Tis larboard and starboard on deck you will sprawl, for Kicking Jack Willis is lord of us all.’ I'm surprised this Captain Potts was able to scrape up a crew."
"Well, a stranded sailor doesn't have much choice. The crimps get hold of him and he wakes up aboard a hell ship."
AHMM, November 2009 Page 8
