On the fourth day the baskets of coal themselves were on fire as they rose from the hold. Extra hands were put on the bucket detail to make sure that the flaming coal didn't set the deck ablaze. Finally, they dug past the embers and ash to where there was no flame. Gronberg climbed down into the pit for his inspection. When he declared the fire out, the steward served out a healthy tot of rum to everyone save the apprentices, who sat glumly along the hatch coaming.
For a few moments, at least, all seemed well with the world. The fire was out, they wouldn't be burned alive on an empty ocean. The only fire now was the rum in their bellies.
Fred kept looking at the sky behind them. It was early afternoon and the sky was a darker blue than it should have been. He snorted wearily, and then muttered, "Damn. Shit. Damn. Damn.”
He looked at the poop deck, and there was Captain Barker. Had he moved in the last four days or had he kept his vigil, watching them dig and haul coal from the fiery pit? Fred felt himself growing to hate the man. The bastard wouldn't put into port to use shore crews to put out the fire. He wouldn't burn his precious coal to use the donkey boiler and engine. And now a storm, a real snorter by the looks of it, was brewing and they were rolling along with an open hatch and tons of coal on the deck. "Damn," he repeated to himself.
The captain and the mate could read the weather as well as any sailor, and Mr. Rand soon had the crew hurriedly shoveling the coal back into the hold. At least when reloading the coal, there was less hoisting to be done and they could breath again in the open air. Except when called to shorten sail, they kept shoveling and dumping the coal as the wind rose and they drove ever farther south into the Roaring Forties.
An ominous swell began to roll from the southwest. The wind was rising and the motion of the ship as she rolled along under topsails and t'gallants added urgency to their shoveling. They filled the two baskets and then used hand trucks to roll them over to the hatch coaming to be tipped into the hold. The coal dust that rose as they dumped each load disappeared in the gusting wind. Everyone kept an eye out to weather at the approaching storm. No one wanted to be caught in a storm with an open hatch cover, ready to swallow up the first breaking sea and the next and the next, until the ship disappeared beneath he waves.
What took them four days to dig and hoist only took one to load. As the last coal disappeared into the hold, the hatch covers were dragged in place and the tarpaulin stretched over the hatch, secured by heavy deal planks, as the Lady Rebecca pitched and rolled wildly in the swells. Fred finally worked his way to the fo'c'sle cabin. Time to tie on his foul-weather gear before the storm hit.
8. Southern Ocean Snorter
The apprentices were in the half-deck, sent to get their gear. The lantern swung as the ship rolled, casting weird shadows across the young men's faces. Will had put on his thigh-high rubber boots, oilskins and sou'wester once before, for a photograph before he left home. Now he pulled them out of his sea chest and dressed in earnest for the first time.
“The storm's really blowing," Will commented.
Paul Nelson, senior apprentice, snorted, "This ain't nothing." He was cutting lengths of twine and laying them out across the edge of his bunk. "Come here," he said. Will stepped over.
“Stick out your arm." Will did and Paul began tying a length of twine around his wrist.
“What's that?" Will asked. Paul shook his head. The youngster still had a lot to learn.
“Body and soul lashings. You go out in a howler with your sleeves open or jacket bottom not tied, the wind will fill your oilskins full of water, if it don't blow them off altogether. Now tie your other wrist and your pant legs.”
Will looked over and saw that Jack already had his gear on. Will tied his lashings to match Jack's. He tied his sou'wester tight on his head. With his new oilskins, boots and his body and soul lashings tied tight, he felt ready for anything. Then the wind gusted again and the ship rolled, and he wasn't so sure.
Captain Barker stood on the poop deck wearing a dreadnought jacket. They were scudding along under lower topsails, foresail and jib. Lifelines had been rigged along the deck, port and starboard, and double lashings had been put on the boats, the spare spars and the stores casks. Extra tarpaulins were stretched over the hatches and the wedges driven home. Hatches two and three, which would take the brunt of the weather, were covered by three-inch deal planking, all well secured. Short of a full-scale hurricane, Captain Barker thought, the Lady Rebecca was ready for anything the Southern Ocean might throw at her.
Mary and the children were below, once again deathly seasick. He felt a moment's guilt, but there was nothing to be done. The captain glanced over at the binnacle.
“Mind your helm, damn it," he snapped at the helmsman.
“Aye, sir," came the reply, as the sailor struggled to keep the ship on course in the confused, rolling swells.
The wind suddenly dropped and then shifted to the southwest. A dark line of rain and wind rolled at them like a freight train. Seeing it coming, Captain Barker shouted, "Brace yourselves.”
The blast hit the ship abeam, sending her over, dipping her lee rail in the rushing sea, scooping up an angry wall of green water that surged down the deck as she rose again.
“All hands on deck!" The cry came in rapid succession from the captain, from Mr. Rand and the second mate, Mr. Atkinson.
The apprentices tumbled out of the half-deck house, half running, half sliding. The deck was at a forty-five-degree angle and the deck to leeward was underwater.
“Grab hold of the lifeline," Paul yelled. "Don't let it go." Will slid downhill and slammed into the heavy line, grabbing at it frantically. Jack collided with him a second later. Over the howling of the wind, they could just hear the captain bellowing, "Lee fore-brace." The mate echoed the command.
For a moment Will didn't think that he could move. A wave broke over him and he gasped then choked as icy water forced itself down his throat. He could neither see nor breathe and he held the lifeline in a death grip. He knew if he let go for an instant, he would die, be swept over the side and away into the raging sea. He had never been so battered or so frightened in his entire life. Another wave broke over him and knocked him off his feet.
With the others he hauled himself to the pinrail and grabbed the brace line. On the weather rail, the mate slacked off the weather brace, grabbing hold of the pin rails as green seas broke over the side when the ship rolled to windward. To the lee, Will and the others were knocked off their feet with every wave, relying on the tail-end man to take a quick turn around a belaying pin to keep them from being swept away. Somehow between the waves, they all hauled on the brace line, before the next comber sent them under water again.
When the main lower topsail yard was hauled around, they struggled to coil the line. Will was confused but went along as they tied the brace lines not to the pin rails, but inboard to the lifeline, to make it slightly less likely that the waves would wash the coils free.
Will struggled to stand and took a deep breath of air before he would be dunked again. He felt someone hit him on the shoulder and heard Jack yelling at his ear. "Let's go.”
They moved on to the mizzen braces which led to a fife rail aft the main mast, which was even more exposed to the waves than at the main braces. Gasping for breath in the wind that seemed more spray than air, Will again strained with the others to haul the mizzen yard around. They then all trudged forward to strike and stow the fore stay-sail as the Old Man on the poop deck shouted at them to move faster, to quit their dawdling and finish the job.