by Tony Main
In his cabin, Ancell tossed and turned restlessly on his bunk as Laughing Jack appeared in his dreams. The pirate was swimming towards him armed with a knife and he was struggling to flee but could not move. He woke with a start to find himself tangled up in his blankets. Capt. Albern had promised that Truegard would give him courage, and it seemed as if he was going to need it.
Chapter 3
Capt. Albern unfolded a chart of the Cape of Good Hope on a warm sunlit Monday and with quiet satisfaction marked Misty’s noon position.
‘We’re doing well,’ commented Skeet, leaning over his shoulder.
‘Couldn’t ask for better,’ acknowledged the captain.
Misty had steered a course a little to the north of west, edging into the Tropic of Capricorn to take advantage of the favourable South Equatorial current, and week in and week out the southeast trade winds had fulfilled their promise to blow her west. Now she had to turn south again to face the big seas surging round the southernmost point of Africa. Only when clear of that dangerous Cape of Storms would she be free to follow a northwesterly course across the Atlantic to her South American landfall.
Mondays, the day of Doc’s weekly tests, were not welcomed by the children. Sitting on the afterdeck, they frowned and chewed their pencils as they laboured to complete a maths paper.
‘Finished!’ announced Sassy, drawing a line beneath her script with a flourish and lying back to watch a fleet of cotton wool clouds sail above Misty’s swaying masts.
‘What answers have you got?’ asked Max. Sassy read out her results.
‘Agreed,’ said Max and Chantal.
‘Me too,’ added Noname. ‘What about you Merrie?’
Merrie quickly folded his paper, which was largely blank. He thought having the children on board had done him no favours whatsoever. He had enjoyed telling them of the dangers he had faced on Misty’s outward passage and of the critical role he had played in their rescue, but now with every lesson his status as an important member of the crew was being reduced to that of the dunce of the class. On the day Doc had informed him he was to be a pupil, he had rushed to The Cook with ten good reasons why he should be excused, only for The Cook to inform him that he had suggested it in the first place.
‘You were good at learning the knots Tam taught us,’ said Noname, sensing his discomfort.
Merrie shrugged. Tying knots was about the only thing he was any good at. Even so, when Tam had asked them to tie a bowline blindfolded, Noname had been much faster. Noname was better than him at everything. He glared sourly at his classmate and without a word stalked for’ard to climb to the crowsnest, taking comfort from demonstrating what Noname was forbidden to do.
Apart from the exams, the children had found the timetable for the most part bearable, especially with the emphasis on the practical work while the weather held fair. The carpentry classes held by Chips were enjoyable, if only for his highly unlikely tales of imperilled ships miraculously saved by the carpenter’s skill, though they did learn to saw in a straight line on a rolling deck. Waff’s sail making lessons were less popular, and, as Max grumbled, seemed never ending. They were not surprised when the polecat informed them a sailmaker’s work was never done. Tam, Thom, Pickle and Jobey taught them to identify every part of Misty’s rigging and why the various knots and hitches were used for different purposes. For every ship that Chips had saved, Jobey was able to tell of at least two that had foundered because of a frayed rope or a jammed block, and so numerous were the catastrophes he could recite, Chantal observed to Sassy that it was a miracle a single ship was left afloat.
Saturday afternoons were fun when Pickle taught them jigs and reels, and often the crew would join in, The Cook leaning on the galley, clapping the beat. In the evening as the sun dipped below the horizon, they lolled on deck listening to Chantal’s lilting voice sing sad spirituals and haunting sea shanties. Even Chips sat in silence, and Jobey was observed to wipe away a tear.
The high spot of the syllabus was to be woken deep in the night to take sights of the stars with Capt. Albern. Spherical trigonometry made sense when it was a matter of plotting Misty’s position. They remained on deck for as long as possible, feeling the exhilarating sense of speed as Misty plunged through the dark, her masts sweeping silently across a sky studded with a million twinkling pinpricks of light.
‘It’s vast! Absolutely vast!’ pronounced Max, climbing into his bunk one night after his turn on deck. ‘And I’ve just established exactly where we are in all the wide world.’
‘What’s vast?’ yawned Chantal.
‘The sky, all those stars, everything.’
‘As big as Merrie’s head?’ muttered Sassy.
‘He only tells those stories because he can’t do maths,’ said Max.
Sassy was not appeased. Because of Merrie’s lack of attention that afternoon, Doc had irritably set them all an additional test.
‘If he dwelt less on his exploits maybe he’d learn,’ she sniffed.
‘He’s good at climbing the mast. I wish I was allowed to,’ said Noname.
‘But he’s a member of the crew,’ said Max.
‘I wish I was,’ sighed Noname.
Chapter 4
The weather deteriorated as Misty turned south, and often the children awoke to the thump of big seas, sheets of cold spray rattling her rolling deck as she butted into headwinds beneath a sky of grey scudding cloud.
At the end of a squally day, during which the crew had twice reduced canvas, Noname hovered at the galley door.
‘Please can I have a bucket of steam?’ he asked.
The Cook frowned. ‘Who sent you?’
‘Merrie – he wants to clean something.’
‘He was teasing.’
Noname’s face fell. He had been pleased Merrie had asked for his help. Now he felt a fool.
‘You’ve called just at the right time,’ added The Cook quickly. ‘You can help me make a soup of some of Jandamarra’s provisions.’
Noname brightened, and soon a yellowy liquid was coming to the boil. They sipped.
‘It’s good,’ announced Noname. ‘It kind of tastes of apricots.’
‘Then apricot soup it is,’ said The Cook.
He watched Noname nimbly scramble aft, and spying Merrie climbing from the fo’c’sle, beckoned him to the galley. He regarded the harvest mouse sombrely.
‘That was unkind,’ he said.
Merrie stood his ground. ‘Just a joke! What does it matter? What’s for dinner?’
‘Everything matters,’ replied The Cook. ‘Everything you do or say. It’s like throwing a stone into a pond. The ripples spread for good or bad, and once you’ve thrown the stone you can’t stop them. Why make Noname feel stupid?’
‘It was just a bit of fun,’ shrugged Merrie.
‘You’ve not answered my question.’
‘He’s so lucky! He’s so good at everything!’ burst out Merrie. ‘He can even do maths. He’s finished his homework and I haven’t even started.’
‘Then ask him to show you.’
It had never occurred to Merrie to ask for help, but he liked the thought of surprising Doc with a page of correct answers.
‘Suppose I could,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll allow the two of you to work here in the galley after dinner,’ offered The Cook.
The moment the meal was over, Merrie thrust the offending questions under Noname’s nose.
‘The Cook said you’d do this with me,’ he announced abruptly, and was surprised when Noname readily agreed.
The galley was empty but for the aroma of baking. Noname sniffed appreciatively.
‘We might get a snack if we work until The Cook comes back,’ he speculated.
‘Worth a try,’ agreed Merrie, glancing at Noname with increasing respect.
They worked until Merrie’s
groans and sighs ceased as understanding dawned, and were on the last question when The Cook returned to slide a tray of golden brown biscuits from the oven.
‘Time to turn in,’ he told them.
‘All this thinking has made us too hungry to sleep,’ complained Merrie.
The Cook handed over a plateful, and ignoring the nudge of triumph Merrie gave Noname, stepped from the galley, shivering a little in the chill of the evening. He thought he would give them ten minutes more to themselves.
‘Good thinking about getting something to eat,’ Merrie complimented Noname, through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘I’m sorry about the bucket of steam – it’s just that I get fed up with lessons and you always get everything right. You’re so lucky!’
Noname stared at the harvest mouse in amazement. ‘Me lucky! You’re the lucky one! You’re a member of the crew. You belong to Misty. I don’t belong anywhere. You’re allowed to climb the mast and I’m not. I don’t even have a proper name.’
‘It’s not much of a name,’ agreed Merrie.
‘I told Ancell I had no name because all the orphanages I was in called me any name they wished, so he called me Noname. I’ve never had a proper name of my own.’
‘What would you like to be called?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Noname unhelpfully. ‘Perhaps something to do with Misty or the sea.’
‘How about Hurricane? Typhoon sounds even better.’
‘I’d like a name that’s mine only,’ insisted Noname.
The Cook stepped in out of the cold. He glanced at the two of them talking earnestly and smiled.
‘Bed! And be quick about it!’ he said, warming himself by the stove.
‘Noname wants to climb the mast,’ replied Merrie.
‘That’s up to the skipper.’
‘And he wants a better name.’
The Cook smiled wistfully. ‘He wouldn’t be the first to wish that,’ he said. ‘Now get out of here or you’ll get no breakfast.’
Huddling close together at the stern rail, Sassy and Chantal gazed across the wastes of water as night fell.
‘Do you think we’ll see him?’ wondered Sassy.
Chantal shivered. ‘I hope not.’
‘See who?’ asked Waff, who was inspecting Misty’s ensign.
‘The “Flying Dutchman”. Chips told us we may see him here, seeking ships to lure to their destruction because he was condemned to sail for eternity after cursing The Almighty in a storm,’ said Sassy.
‘Absolute nonsense!’ bristled Waff. ‘I don’t know where Chips got such a story.’
‘So it’s not true?’ said Chantal with relief.
‘He certainly sails here about The Cape,’ Waff confirmed. ‘But his sin was to betray his true love, and his punishment is to sail forever to seek her forgiveness.’
‘At least your “Flying Dutchman” doesn’t wreck ships,’ observed Sassy.
‘Oh yes he does! He’s mad with grief,’ retorted Waff, and leaving them with the uncomforting thought, strode off to put Chips right.
Merrie sat in the foc’s’le deep in thought. He had obtained no more than a vague promise from Skeet that Noname would be allowed to climb the mast one day, and none of the crew he had so far badgered had been able to suggest a name Noname might like.
‘Who’s the best sailor the world has ever known?’ he asked Pickle.
Pickle raised his head from his bunk and wrinkled his nose. ‘Captain Cook would rank high, especially as a navigator.’
‘What was his first name?’
‘James.’
Merrie sighed. It was not an inspiring name.
‘Who’s the best sailor you’ve ever known?’ he persisted.
‘The skipper, and Truegard of course.’
‘Could we call Noname after Mr Truegard?’
‘Certainly not!’ retorted Jobey.
‘It would not be right. There was only one Truegard,’ said Pickle.
After what had become a regular session of homework with Noname in the galley, Merrie raised the rebuff he had received from Pickle and Jobey with The Cook.
‘Truegard sounds a very special name. What was he like?’ asked Noname.
‘The best,’ answered The Cook.
‘Can’t you think of a name like Truegard?’ Merrie implored, grabbing the last biscuit before Noname could stretch for it.
The Cook regarded Noname thoughtfully. ‘We lost Truegard and we found you. Perhaps you should have part of his name to remember him by. How does Truename sound to you?’
‘Truename,’ repeated Noname, ‘I like it!’ Merrie thought Noname grew in stature even as he said it.
‘I’ll talk to the crew, and if they agree, we’ll ask the skipper,’ offered The Cook.
It was blowing hard when Merrie and Noname stepped from the galley.
‘You’ll have the best name of all,’ yelled Merrie above the wind.
‘I hope so,’ shouted Noname. ‘And Merrie…’
‘What?’
‘Thanks!’
Merrie grinned. He felt extraordinarily pleased with himself.
Misty’s crew were in no hurry to consent to the use of any part of Truegard’s name, but after several days of periodic debate, it was generally agreed that Truegard would approve, and as they could think of no better name, Skeet was requested to put the proposal to the captain.
The second mate did so one blustery evening. He stood a little nervously in the captain’s cabin, watching the old sea otter as he spoke. Capt. Albern said nothing as the swinging lantern threw dancing shadows across the chart table, and Skeet wondered how many voyages with Truegard his skipper was remembering.
‘It would give the boy confidence,’ he submitted, ‘and strangely enough he’s a natural sailor. Everything on board comes easily to him.’
Capt. Albern nodded slowly. ‘So I’ve noticed. I think Truegard would be pleased.’
‘Then do you agree? Noname would be delighted.’
‘Then Truename he shall be. Once we’re round The Cape we’ll have a proper ceremony. Who thought of the name?’
‘The Cook.’
The sea otter smiled. ‘That was kind of him.’
‘How do you mean Skipper?’
But the stoat’s question remained unanswered as, still smiling to himself, the captain bade him good night.
Chapter 5
Misty had to work hard for two more weeks before she cleared the dangers of the Cape, but at last Capt. Albern left his charts and climbed on deck to give Skeet a northwesterly course. Pickle span the wheel and there was a quiet sense of celebration on board as the crew trimmed the yards.
The crew looked forward to the Atlantic crossing. Soon the trusty southeast trade winds would again fill the sails and deliver them to the warm waters of the tropics. Most importantly they would soon be able to enjoy periods of four hours uninterrupted sleep.
The albatross dampened their spirits. At first no more than a distant shadow almost lost among the waves, it steadily closed the distance between them. Speeding low over the water, the great bird accelerated to drift effortlessly so close beneath Misty’s stern, they were able to look down on its magnificent wingspan, stretching more than half as wide as the ship. Capt. Albern watched with a sense of foreboding. Albatrosses usually kept their distance, taking no more than a disdainful look at Misty’s crude efforts to butt, splash, pitch and roll across the oceans they commanded with such ease. He recognised it as a Wandering Albatross, and wondered what should bring it so far north of the Southern Ocean’s icy waters to pay them such close attention. With a barely perceptible movement of its powerful wings, the bird rose to coast alongside the quarterdeck. Capt. Albern made a half bow and Skeet waved a little uncertainly. Merrie stared at the long pinkish yellow beak and shuddered. The albatross regarded them with soulful e
yes.
‘Beware!’ it croaked. ‘The dreamer leads you into danger.’
Everyone on board tensed.
‘What danger do you speak of?’ called Capt. Albern.
‘Beware of the three-fingered man,’ replied the bird. It eyed Capt. Albern. ‘And beware the man who would flog you to your death. Change course for a safe passage, or face a watery grave.’
‘Who is this three-fingered man?’ asked Capt. Albern.
The albatross rose a little. ‘The pity is I know no more. I have travelled far to warn you, but more I cannot do,’ it called sorrowfully, and wheeled away to skim the wave tops on its solitary passage across the lonely oceans. Everyone watched in silence until the bird was lost to sight.
‘Good of him to warn us. Better to have notice of danger than not,’ announced Capt. Albern stoutly.
‘Skipper, who wants you dead?’ asked Skeet.
The sea otter brushed the question aside with a shrug.
‘All we have to watch out for is a man with three fingers,’ said Pickle.
‘Apart from a watery death – we’ll probably sink any moment,’ added Jobey.
‘I’m the dreamer. I’m the trouble. Put me ashore in South America and sail for home,’ muttered Ancell, though dreading what would become of him.
Chad grinned. ‘We’ve long known you were trouble, but the right sort of trouble. Anyway, those albatrosses are always pessimistic. Never known one say anything cheerful.’
Nevertheless, a sense of disquiet settled over the crew. There was not one among them who did not take the albatross’s warning seriously and nerves were on edge. Waff lost his temper with Chips for being uncharacteristically silent, and Pickle furiously condemned Jobey for prophesising yet another calamity before he had even opened his mouth.
The Cook knew what Capt. Albern was going to ask the moment the sea otter poked his head round the galley door.
‘I’ll do an extra pudding for dinner,’ he offered.
‘Excellent!’ replied Capt. Albern gratefully. ‘How did you know what I wanted?’
