"Rewarding, that's what it is, and it seems to me that other vessels might profit from our discovery."
It had been a full and challenging three years. From his first bumbling struggle to tell bow from stern or to tie the simplest seamen's knots, Jonas had learned all that the hands had to show or tell. Despite his anticipation, the captain's student did not become seasick. He went aloft as easily as any and heaved cargo in tropical heat or bitter cold without complaint.
Where most saw the sea as a livelihood, often hard and uncomfortable, Jonas Hawk leaped at it as though attempting a great adventure. That attitude was strange to seamen and it held him apart. Jonas might watch as they tattooed one another but he did not join in. Hawk aimed high. They all recognized that, and a ship's master did not need fanciful artwork on arms or body.
Their first run with Jonas aboard had worked down Delaware Bay and up the Chesapeake to top a whiskey cargo with baled furs from the frontiers. Captain Covert had grumbled continually through that part of the trip, claiming furs could have been more quickly brought to Philadelphia by wagon than wearing out a good ship going after them. But once clear of the bay and riding the Gulf Stream on the great circle route to Europe, the captain's mood lightened and Jonas' lessons began.
"Reason we had to go after those furs was a matter of personalities and business competition, Jonas. Happens all the time . . . here, in England, or through the Mediterranean. One man has agreements with another that allow or don't allow dock usage, or wagon shipping, or intrusion into certain towns or valleys. Deals and compromises are worked out to control something or equalize something else. Ungodly annoying to an honest master wanting blue water under his keel, but it's a part of business and has to be figured when planning profit and avoiding losses."
Jonas was run through the ship's chores. He cooked and mended sail. He shifted cargo and spliced line. His trick at the wheel or time with sextant and chart was closely overseen and as heavily criticized as his attempts with needle and palm. These were the things Jonas had dreamed of since floating wood-chip boats on Little Juniata Creek and he applied himself.
Home became ever more distant and the thickly timbered hills with their cabin nestled near the creek seemed of another time, almost like something read about. Jonas' long rifle was slung from the great cabin's overhead on leather thongs so that it moved with the ship but touched nothing. The captain had agreed to its presence aboard after a single demonstration of a rifle's superiority. With ease born of practice, Jonas had snapped his rifle to shoulder and without wait shattered a tossed over jug at more than one hundred yards. Many islands had wild hogs and goats. Jonas and his rifle could make their hunting far simpler.
The land drifted from his thoughts. Star positions became powerful talismen and an unexpected lurch or a changed angle of heel were signs as significant as buzzards wheeling or bees swarming had once been. The world of Jonas Hawk was bordered by the arc of ocean around him and the Ruth Covert became all there was and Jonas melded as naturally as had the ship's wood and iron to become one with her captain, crew, rigging, and cargo. It was more than team or family; the ship seemed a living thing and she needed them as they needed her.
Since that first crossing their path had wandered port to port, nation to nation. Crew changed little. Finday's departure had been most distressing.
An Englishman still, Finday made no bones about his allegiance, but he served the Ruth C. as bosun and took a special liking to young Jonas Hawk.
Finday had gone to sea as soon as his legs could manage the ratlines. Approaching forty, he had abandoned the square-riggers for the closeness of a Yankee schooner. Smaller crews and shorter voyages held appeal and men did not rush aloft to reef or furl on a schooner the way they must on a square-sailed vessel.
Finday owned a world of experience and he pleasured himself in telling it to an eager youth of good promise. From Finday Hawk learned to lay the short carronades and the muscular art of the cutlass. The bosun read wind and sea as Jonas would a book; he shared that knowledge with Jonas. Finday's world was ships and he spoke endlessly of tumble home, dead rise, and transom shape. It was the stuff of Jonas Hawk's dreams. Finday felt the youth's absorption of it and fed him more.
But Finday's mother followed his father in death, and a small pub in a minor town was his. Finday left ship, sea bag a-shoulder, and Jonas felt his world tremble. Finday would write—he could a little. Jonas would answer, but the closeness would die in time. It always did.
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Finday had been gone a year as Jonas steered the Ruth Covert across the Gulf of Mexico. New Orleans was their destination, but with the wind on their nose, northeast was as close as they could lay. If the wind held they would beat for at least another day before tacking across and plowing to the northwest. It might be better to sail further on their present course but ahead lay the empty length of the Floridas and pirates lurked there. It was safer in mid-Gulf and that was where Captain Covert would keep them.
Of course pirates also raided out of the Mississippi delta itself, but those brigands were generally wise enough to avoid American vessels lest they foul their own nest and be driven away. Ruth C. was faster than most of the cranky boats manned by picaroons, and her cannon could probably outgun small craft that managed to sail with her.
Closer to land a masthead watch would be kept. The ship would drive hard across the delta and into the great river's sanctuary.
The helmsman returned and Jonas surrendered the wheel. The mate strolled from his position along the rail and leaned across to study the ship's heading by the binnacle lamp. His grunt was irritable and Jonas understood it.
New Orleans lay a little west of north and their present course gained very little toward that landfall. At this season a proper wind would be steady from the southeast, pushing them comfortably along a direct route.
Awesome hurricanes could ravage the Gulf during these warm months and the quicker across the better. Those lethal storms came from the south, however, and the wind that now harassed them was from another direction.
Even as he considered, Jonas became aware of the ship's easier motion and judged they had cleared the Yucatan current. Seas gradually diminished and the helmsman gained a compass point or two as they drove more smoothly.
The watch would change and soon thereafter the ship might go on the other tack. Hammock sleepers would scarcely notice but those in bunks would adjust themselves and brace against the hull's opposite heel. The tack would be simple in the steady breeze and extra hands would not be called. Jonas expected to sleep through it.
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Jonas came awake to the thump of feet on the deck above. Light was beginning to filter through and he saw that the ship's heel was too great, dangerously too great. Why hadn't they reefed? He bolted from his hammock and into his sea boots. Even as he scrambled topside he expected the ship to come into the wind, straighten, and lose way. Topping lifts would hold the great booms while the hands dropped foresail and main and served them with reef points along the new foot. Up the halyards, back on course, trim the sheets until she drew just right, and the schooner would again sail on her lines. It should be a routine maneuver but Jonas could hear the howl of wind and feel the ship plunging wildly, driven almost on her beam's end. The captain pounded out just ahead of him and, running more on walls than deck, Jonas went after him.
The "All hands!" sounded as he hit the open and the force of wind took his repeat of the alarm and blew it to unheard fragments. It was a horrendous wind and from a cloudless sky. The ship was rail under, the foresail boom lay in the water but jibs and main still pulled. Men clustered near the taffrail while a pair fought the lash of the wheel.
Mathew Covert gestured and Jonas caught his urgency. He sensed the unheard order and clawed his way forward past the carronades. Above each gun a cutlass was racked and he snatched one en route.
Almost on his back Jonas skidded down the sloping deck and brought up with a crash against the lee bulwark.
Taut as a fiddle string, a cleated jib sheet shrunk its diameter under the pressure of its sail. Jonas laid the cutlass against the straining rope, close to its cleat so no length of line would snap back, and drew the edge across the fibers.
Soundlessly the line disappeared and almost as quickly the snapping, gun-like cracking of the released sail rose above the wind's howl. But he could feel the ship heading higher, more into the wind, and he scrambled quickly for the second sheet.
A seaman struggled alone but Jonas pushed him aside. If the line were uncleated it would be like a live thing, whipping the deck and undoubtedly tangling itself worse than before.
Jonas cut again, freeing the inner jib and the result was almost magical. Relieved of forward pressure the ship straightened, the rudder took hold, and the Ruth C. came into the wind with all sails flogging.
Hands appeared and the jibs were dropped and secured. The foresail was furled and the main, double-reefed. New jib sheets were immediately roven, and within the half hour it seemed as though nothing had happened. Under a scrap of main and a working jib the ship again held its course, perhaps a little more northerly as the wind backed a point or two to the west.
Still, it had been a close thing. A gigantic snarl in the main sheet had developed when the undetected wind gust had hurled the flaked line into the scuppers. With the boom jammed, Ruthie C. had been driven over. On her side, her rudder unable to grab, the ship could not be steered. She lay like a log, even her great ballast was not able to raise her. If cargo had shifted, if another leap in wind had come, or if a storm-borne rogue wave had appeared, the schooner could have been driven under.
No special praise was turned Jonas' way. Each had done his best. But releasing the jibs had been the key and Jonas had done it right. None would forget it. The wind howled even more strongly, but under reduced canvas, the ship liked it and sailed powerfully with the helm again barely touched by a single seaman.
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It was a strange storm. Without clouds, it seemed to drive the sea flat rather than raising the usual steep and breaking waves whose tops blew away in a foamy sea smoke that could blot visibility.
Their course edged almost imperceptibly more north and the planned course change was delayed. As the wind backed, the western tack would now push them little closer to their destination. It was exasperating but so common that most accepted a foul wind as nearly inevitable.
Before noon, Mathew Covert kept a watch toward the east where the Floridas would appear. From the lower rigging the lookout had a twenty mile visibility before the curve of the horizon hid low lying objects. A noon sun shot by sextant would tell their exact position, but Captain Covert took no unnecessary chances. Best would be the overdue southeast wind shift, but soon the choice would be gone and, profitable or not, they would come about and fight for any northing they could gain.
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Chapter 4
Still, the wind backed to the west and as her northing increased the Ruth C. only edged closer to the Floridas. It was late morning before the lookout called, "Land!" and the captain came on deck for a look.
The mate shrugged and suggested, "Not much to see, Captain. Entire coast looks the same unless we get in close. Flat as a flounder, the whole of it."
Mathew Covert nodded agreement. "By then you're too close. 'Pears as though we can hold course a while. Wind might clock and make the starboard tack better." He studied the cloudless sky. "Too much wind and from a wrong direction. Be glad when it's gone."
The mate nodded, "But we want to be away from here, Captain. Wouldn't do to be becalmed within sight o'that land. No telling what's lurking in there."
By noon the coast of the Floridas was visible from the deck. A flat line along the horizon, it rated only a look while the Ruth C. plowed her way hard on the wind.
Jonas stood with the captain and mate as they studied the distant shoreline.
Mathew Covert shrugged, "Well, we've waited long enough. Starboard tack'll drive us half way to Yucatan but there's no help for it."
"Wind should lay at sundown, Captain." The mate was hopeful.
"Should have blown itself out long ago. Let's hope you're right, Mister."
The watch stood ready on the jib sheets. Already in tight, the foresail and the bit of main flying would tend themselves.
The helm was put over and the Ruth C. came smartly into the wind. As the jib quit drawing, its sheet was uncleated and quickly taken up on the other side.
Smoothly the schooner came through the wind and rolled gently onto her port side. The sails filled and the helmsman sought the best course.
It was the most routine of ship's maneuvers and attention was mostly on the compass, judging how high they could sail and how the ship would feel as it met wind and wave in the new direction.
A report like a small cannon startled them all. Before they could find its source another longer-rending crack assaulted ears. Bits of something struck along the mainsail and Jonas heard the mate gasp.
Then he saw it too; a huge split was opening in the mainmast. Snakelike, it walked the wood grain and Jonas could see light through the middle.
Mathew Covert was already leaping for the mainsheet and the mate for the wheel. For an instant Jonas hesitated, unsure who to assist. Then he started after the captain.
Even as he moved, Jonas doubted they would make it. More snapping came from above and again wood chips rattled against the sail. The helmsman had spun the wheel to bring the ship into the wind and relieve the mast strain. Jonas heard shouting and knew men were running to help.
Mathew Covert had the sheet half uncleated when the mainmast literally exploded. A dozen feet above the deck it splintered free. Wind force carried its length sideward for an instant, then the mast's mighty weight came down like a spear through the deck and into the ship's innards.
Too late, the captain threw off the line. Halyards and topping lifts hung useless, the boom crashed across the rail, and the great gaff whipped a vicious arc through the standing rigging.
Out of control, the Ruth C. rolled like a bucket. The wind snatched the broken mast free of the hull like an extracted tooth and hurled it across the rail and into the sea.
Hands slashed desperately at tarred rigging fighting to free their ship of the deadly ram of mast floating alongside.
Without orders, men leaped to needed tasks. The jib and foresail came down in a rush and more lines were chopped through until only a pair held the wreckage of mast and mainsail from floating away.
Jonas had hurried below to assess any damage but the jagged mast end had ground ineffectually into the cloth cargo. It had not pierced the hull and no water rose in the bilge. Relief flooded through him because the rest could be handled.
It was an orderly chaos that labored over the damage. The ferocity of the wind increased the difficulty, but the incredible jumble of lines was sorted, rolled, and put neatly aside. The wreckage was led off the bow where it acted as a sea anchor and slowed the schooner's eastward drift.
Captain, mate, and bosun clustered at the foremast, for there lay their real problem.
Halfway to the hounds, their remaining mast had broken almost straight across. Without steadying sails the Ruth Covert rolled heavily, and at each roll the masthead flopped drunkenly, threatening to come down, bringing everything with it.
"Damnation!" Covert's voice was bitter.
"Main gaff must have come around and smashed it, Captain. Don't know what else could have caused it."
Covert shook his head, almost in disbelief. But the bosun had good news.
"Wind is starting to die, Captain. Damned if it ain't."
The man was right and if the seas did not pile the way they did after some storms, they might get men up the mast and begin repairs.
Jonas thought about the task. It was enough to frighten anyone. Whoever went up—and there would need to be two or more—would be hanging from halyards attached to a masthead that looked ready to let go on the next roll.
&n
bsp; They would haul up light spars that they would lash around the break in the mast. Awkward enough in a calm, it would be brutal work with the ship rolling like a tub.
The carpenter's mate was already laying out a half dozen longboat oars. The paddle ends would be sawed off and the tough ash poles would make perfect splints.
Jonas had no real part in the mast repair. The best would go aloft and he did not fool himself that he was one of them. There were other tasks in plenty and with an eye cocked to the mast work he went at them.
Shattered deck timbers were being respiked and replaced from stores. Canvas patches would be nailed across the repair and heavily tarred until permanent mending could be gotten to.
A crewman paused to look past the ship's stern and Jonas saw the land much closer than expected. The man said, "Sea's got a lot of set to it. 'Less we get sail, we'll have the hook down before dark."
Bad enough in daylight, trying to splint the foremast in dark would be truly mean. Jonas decided they'd be done well before that.
Captain Covert and the first mate were in deep conversation over the mast, sail, and rigging lying in the water. The wreckage held them bow to the seas and they would need that until the mast could support sail. It would be well to salvage what they could. Jonas saw them turn to study the slowly approaching coastline and worried a little with them.
Now the men sweat. The wind had died as though it had never been. Humid heat lay on them like a sodden blanket. The deck became too hot for even a sailor's toughened soles.
Two men were aloft. Legs clutching the mast, they fought a loop of rope around the solid part and forced their poles within it. At each roll the upper mast threatened to let go and the pair hastily lashed themselves to the standing mast while their mates belaying the halyards stood ready to let their lines run if the top fell—otherwise, their comrades on the mast would be pulled apart.
Hawk's Feather (Perry County Frontier Series) Page 3
