Captain Barker carefully turned the knob and opened the door. He found the mate lying down on his bunk.
“I'm sorry, Captain, but I can't turn to. I've got a pain in my back that is hurting something horrible. I can't half stand up.”
Barker stood silent for a moment. Was this Mr. Rand's form of personal mutiny or was he really hurt? Or did it matter? If the mate, a licensed officer, swore that he was not fit for duty there was very little a captain could do beyond recording it in the log book. In the old days, a master might adjust a mate's attitude with a belaying pin, but that wasn't his style nor did he suspect that it would be particularly effective.
He took a breath and kept his voice low and even. "What is hurting you, Mr. Rand?”
“Feels like somebody stuck a marlinspike in my upper back. Hurts like hell.”
“May I see your back?”
Rand grimaced as he sat up, pulled off his shirt and turned his back to the captain.
“Hmmp, looks like a pimple to me.”
“I don't know, sir. It hurts like the very devil.”
“All right. If you are not fit for duty, rest in your cabin. Let me know when you recover.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
He turned and left the tiny cabin, closing the door behind him, disgusted, but dismissing Rand from his mind. He climbed the ladder to the poop deck and shouted, "Mr. Atkinson! Please ask the senior apprentice to see me in the cabin!”
In a few minutes, Paul Nelson waited at the threshold to the captain's dayroom.
“Come in, young man. Have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Paul Nelson looked at him straight in the eye, unlike many shellbacks, who would avert their eyes in the presence of the captain. He was a good-looking young man, with jet-black hair and deep blue eyes. The senior apprentice reminded the captain of himself at nineteen.
“Well, Paul, by the end of this voyage, you will have completed your apprenticeship, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
“Mr. Rand has taken ill and I could use an acting third mate. Would you be interested in the position?”
“Why, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Captain Barker smiled. "Don't be so quick to thank me, young man. You'll still be expected to haul and go aloft like any other sailor. You'll be casting off the weather braces rather than hauling on the braces to leeward. Other than that your duties will be the same, with a few more added.”
“Oh, yes, sir, I understand.”
“You are in the mate's watch. Your watch now. How do you get along with that crowd?”
“I've no problem with any of them, but…”
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, I like him fine, but some of the watch are bothered by Jensen. He's not even in our watch but some think he is crazy and bad luck.”
“And what do you think?”
“Well, he may be a bit crazy. He keeps saying that the sea is crushing his soul, and that sort of foolishness.”
“Do you think he is unlucky?”
Paul Nelson shrugged. "He is a good sailor, sir. And lucky or unlucky? I don't know. I'm not superstitious like some of the rest.”
“Does Jensen have problems with his watch mates? Do they work together?”
“Well enough, from all I've seen. Jensen's biggest problem is the cook. He is a poor enough excuse for a cook and he's always talking about gri-gri and the devil. I've told him to put a stopper in it more than once.”
Captain Barker sat back in his chair. "Ah, cooks are a bad bargain in the best of cases. Do you think I should have a word with him?”
“No, Captain. I think we can keep the cook in hand.”
Captain Barker smiled. "Very well, then. Now understand, if Mr. Rand recovers, he will take over his watch. You'll still be acting third. I am sure we can find duties for you to perform.”
Captain Barker stood up and a grinning Paul Nelson jumped to his feet as well. The captain held out his hand, which the young man shook with enthusiasm.
“Very well then, Mr. Nelson. Get back to work.”
“Thank you, Captain Barker. That I shall.”
There was always a few inches of water sloshing about in the apprentice cabin in the half-deck. There were two doors to the half-deck, port and starboard, where the cabin extended out from the break of the poop deck. Opening the door to windward let in a blast of wind and spray. The door to leeward was more sheltered, except when the ship rolled the lee rail down and scooped up a deck-load of water that came crashing back against the break of the poop.
The apprentices had worked out a signal at the change of watch to get the timing of opening the door just right. The apprentices coming off watch would signal those coming on that it was clear to open the half-deck door by stomping on the poop deck above the half-deck. When the apprentices heard the stomp, they knew it was safe to come on deck, in the long trough between the breaking waves.
Will was about to go on watch. He put the letter that he was writing to his mother away in his sea chest. The chest was tied with marline to the mess bench to keep it out of the water sloshing around on deck. The half-deck had bunks for twelve, but, as there were only four apprentices aboard, their sea chests on the benches didn't get in anyone's way.
He heard a thud on the deck above him and he pushed open the lee door, but hadn't taken a step out before a wall of water knocked him back, head over heels. He crashed into Jack Pickering, who was just behind him, and bounced over the table and benches until he hit the back cabin bulkhead with a crash.
“Son of a bitch." They were both thrashing about in the icy water. Will pulled himself up. Nothing seemed to be broken or too badly bruised. George Black ran in through the door.
“Are you all right?”
“What happened?" Will demanded. "Why did you stamp all clear when a wave was right on us?”
“I didn't," George replied, lending a hand to pull Jack up to his feet. "The ship rolled and I slipped and fell on my ass. That must have been what you heard.”
“Useless bastard could have gotten us killed," Jack grumbled.
Before anything else could be said, they heard Mr. Atkinson calling for them. "Apprentices turn to!”
Will and Jack trudged out onto the deck and clambered up to windward before the next wave hit. The mate sent them up the mainmast to shake out a reef in the upper topsail.
When the watch was finally over, Will was tempted to give George Black a taste of his own medicine, but thought better of it. He stomped on the poop deck during the lull, and then ran down the ladder and got the door shut behind him before the next wave.
In the guttering lamplight, Will saw that his chest had broken free from the lashings and was on its side, open, in the sloshing water. He might have knocked it down himself when the wave washed over him. He grabbed it by the handles and drained it. All the letters he had written were a sodden mass. His other clothes were soaking wet and his blue linen jacket with the fine brass buttons was ruined. The buttons had started to turn a sickly green and the fabric was wrinkled and discolored.
For reasons he didn't fully understand, he began to sob and then to cry, holding the jacket that he had once worn so proudly. It all seemed so long ago, a lifetime at least, or more like a silly dream that wasn't real, that had never really been real. The wind howled just beyond the cabin bulkheads and he heard the next wave hit the half-deck door like a hammer blow. The past was a pretty dream and the present was only exhaustion and pain that never seemed to end.
He folded the blue jacket and put it in the bottom of the chest. He hung his spare trousers and shirt up on a bulkhead peg, to let them dry out at least a little, though encrusted in salt, they would never really dry. He took the letters and his notebook and shook them gently. He put the notebook on top of the blue jacket and smoothed the letters out as best he could on the bench and then put them away as well. With a roll of marline, he lashed the chest back on the bench before crawling into his bunk, hoping that he would feel better with a few hours of sleep.