“Captain, a ship on the horizon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Atkinson, I'll be up presently.”
When the captain came on deck, Atkinson pointed toward a shadow that rose and then disappeared in the seas off to the southwest.
“Not carrying any sail from what I can see. Seems to be lying a-hull." The ship drifted sideways to the seas. Waves in succession broke over the deck, which seemed perpetually awash. The strange ship rolled wildly, her bare mates and tattered sails scribing arcs against the sky.
Captain Barker squinted out through the incessant spray. Mr. Atkinson was right. Definitely a ship. What sort of madman would lie a-hull in seas such as these, he wondered. In a bit, with his binoculars, he could see that the ship had a reefed spanker set. The aftermost sail helped to hold her bow closer toward the wind.
They were on a crossing course, or near enough to one. The Lady Rebecca was fore-reaching on a starboard tack and the unknown ship was on the port tack, drifting toward them.
They hadn't seen another ship since they left Staten Island. Word spread among the crew and soon everyone able, on watch and off, was on deck trying to catch a glimpse of the strange ship. Slowly the distance between the two ships diminished until finally the Lady Rebecca crossed the strange ship's bow. Captain Barker could read her name, Clan William.
There were several blown-out topsails fluttering from the bolt-ropes still bound to the yards. The fore royal mast was shattered and hanging by the halyard, caught in the t'gallant shrouds. Other than that, there did not seem to be anything too terribly wrong with her. Yet, she appeared to be abandoned. Not a soul could be seen. No one was on deck and her boats were gone.
“Mr. Atkinson, would you be so kind as to get the Very pistol and two flares from my dayroom?”
When the mate returned, Captain Barker chambered a flare, took aim and fired. The flare passed in a high arc directly above the Clan William. He took the second flare and aimed slightly lower so that this time, the flare almost hit the ship. He stared at the empty deck, looking for any sign of life, but saw none. Abandonment was the only explanation. But why?
For a fleeting instant Captain Barker thought of her value as salvage. He chuckled bitterly to himself. All he needed was a few spare crew and sound boats, the two things he unquestionably lacked. Maybe some other captain would be luckier.
On deck, Jeremiah the cook started praying loudly in a language that Fred couldn't decipher. Harry shouted over to him, "Aw, shut your gob.”
Jeremiah glared. "Can't you see? That's the debil's own ship. The Flying Dutchman come to take our souls to the watery hell. You can mock all ye want but the debil'll hear you an' maybe come getcha. You mark my words.”
Harry only laughed. "She looks abandoned to me. No Dutchman sails without a crew.”
They all watched the derelict ship drifting off astern until the waves seemed to swallow her up.
“She be the debil's ship. Mark my words. The debil come. That Jonah man, he . . .”
Harry strode over to the ranting cook and knocked him down with the back of his hand.
“For the last time, shut your damned trap.”
Jeremiah hoisted himself up, glaring at Harry but not saying a word. Only when Harry rounded the cookhouse on the way back to the fo'c'sle did the cook mumble to himself, "You mark my words.”
When the squall struck, Fred was soundly asleep. His body reacted before his mind to the call for all hands. He rolled from his bunk and stumbled out the cabin door into the pitch black darkness. A shape that he took for Jack was just ahead of him and just above the wail of the wind, he heard Harry's voice behind him, saying something to Donnie.
Fred had only taken a step or two on the deck before he heard a voice cry out. He turned to see the breaking wave, the boiling white crest just visible in the night. Along with Jack, he dove for the leeward lifeline, hitting the heavy line with his chest, knocking the wind from him. He grasped desperately for the line with both hands as the icy water tried to wash him over the side. As the breaker passed, the ship rolled down and scooped up a deck-load of water to leeward. Fred gasped for air as the surging green water rushed aft, submerging him again, trying to pull him off the lifeline that he held onto with all his might.
When at last Fred got to his feet, still holding tightly to the lifeline, he saw Jack and Donnie, but Harry was gone.
Mr. Atkinson appeared at the door, his oilskins dripping on the cabin sole. It was past three in the morning but the lamp still burned and Captain Barker stood at the chart table.
“Captain, we have an injured man. He was caught by a breaking wave. Struck his head on the poop deck ladder. ”
Captain Barker grabbed his coat. "Who is he?”
“It's Harry, sir.”
Captain Barker stopped for a moment. Why Harry? Harry was the best sailor on the ship. He never complained, worked hard and did his job, and his shanties kept the others hauling along as well. Why did it have to be Harry, of all men?
“Is he hurt badly?" Barker almost didn't need to ask the question from the look on Atkinson's face.
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
Barker followed the second mate to the messroom where Harry was laid out on the table. Paul Nelson, the apprentice Will and Fred were standing next to him.
Harry was bleeding from his scalp. His breath was shallow. The captain examined his head carefully. "His skull seems to be crushed. See how it is indented near the gash?”
The second mate looked over his shoulder. "Is there anything we can do?”
“Pray, perhaps." Captain Barker closed eyes. He didn't know of anything else to do. The old ship surgeons used trephination to relieve the swelling but that was beyond his skills or tools.
“All we can do is wait and see," the captain said. "If he survives the swelling he may be all right. If not … Well, we shall just have to wait and see. Put him in the spare cabin.”
Harry survived a week before breathing his last. Pugsley sewed him into a sailcloth shroud and weighted the feet with several links of heavy chain. In the second dogwatch, the crew assembled for a burial at sea. They clustered at the poop deck rail as Captain Barker read from the Book of Common Prayer over the white bundle that had been their shipmate, resting on a grating.
“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased.”
Captain Barker looked up from the prayer book. "Harry was a good sailor and a fine shipmate. No higher praise can be said of any man. Join me in prayer.
“Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name." At first there was only Captain Barker's voice carried on the bitter winds. "Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven." Progressively mumbles and murmurs grew as the men said the prayer themselves. "Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; But deliver us from evil." Every man aboard joined in on the last word. "Amen.”
Barker nodded. Atkinson and Jensen lifted the inboard end of the grating and the body slipped into the sea. Jensen looked down and said, "Goodbye, shantyman." Fred looked down at the rolling water. Harry's body left no mark. He was simply gone.
Captain Barker put the prayer book into his jacket pocket and turned to Mr. Atkinson. "I believe that we could use a reef in the upper main t'gansail.”