No one spoke. The worn and weary men at one end of the mess room stared back at the captain. Then a shadow appeared at the mess room door. It was Rand.
“So you have finally joined us, after telling so many filthy lies to these men," the captain said, struggling to keep his voice even.
Rand ignored him but turned toward the men. "Here's your chance, boys. Grab him.”
No one moved.
“That is mutiny, men, and this is a British ship." Captain Barker opened his coat, putting his hand on the butt of one of his pistols while the crew glared at him in unfocused anger.
“Come on," Rand yelled, but again no one moved. Mate Atkinson moved closer to the captain and was now facing the crew, as were the apprentices. Pugsley and Gronberg stood between the two groups, not joining either side.
Fred didn't know what to do. For weeks now, he had decided that he hated the captain. Hated him with all his heart and soul, yet now, looking at Rand glowering in the doorway, he felt an even greater contempt for the mate. Rand was still hanging back. He seemed to be waiting for the crew to rush the captain and take his guns away, but he himself was standing still. If he wanted a mutiny to make him captain, he lacked the courage to lead it.
Time seemed to have stopped. No one moved or spoke. The captain looked ready at any instant to pull his guns and shoot the first man that approached him. Fred glanced at his shipmates. At least some of the crew appeared ready to rush him across the short length of the mess room. Otto appeared to have taken a step forward before fading back. Jeremiah glared but waited for someone else to take the first step. There were several grim faces that Fred could not read.
The only sound was the howling of the wind and the clanking of a pot in the steward's pantry that slid back and forth as the ship rolled.
Then a small voice came from the side door that lead to the captain's cabin.
“Mr. Puglsey, Mrs. Murphy is sick. Can you make her better?”
It was little Amanda, the captain's daughter, holding the canvas and oakum doll that the sail maker had made for her at the beginning of the voyage, which now seemed an age ago. The stitching had come loose and most of the oakum had fallen out. The little doll's face was oddly flattened and one arm looked about ready to fall off.
Pugsley looked over, startled, and then smiled. He stepped over and bent down. "I'll see what I can do, Miss Amanda.”
The look of concern on the little girl's face turned to carefree glee. With two hands she carefully handed the precious doll to Pugsley. "Don't you worry, missie. We'll have her right as rain in no time.”
Other sailors were smiling as the little girl left the mess room.
The messroom was silent again.
After a moment, Captain Barker raised his voice. "So, men, will you keep sailing? We are bound to get a slant soon. These westerlies cannot blow forever.”
Jensen shrugged. "We just want to get to port, captain. I guess Pisagua is as good as any.”
Captain Barker turned to Rand. "Mr. Rand, you are confined to your quarters until further notice.”
The big man looked like he was about to speak, but simply turned and left the mess room.
Captain Barker turned to the crew. "Mr. Atkinson, would you speak to the steward. Direct him to serve out tots of rum in the lazarette. I do believe that we all could use one." He was greeted with a smile or two, but mostly just grim nods of agreement. As the crew shuffled out of the mess room, Barker thought, God bless you, Mrs. Murphy.
An hour later, Mary and the captain ate alone in the mess room. The second mate was on deck. Mr. Rand was in his cabin. Tommy was asleep and Amanda was happily playing with the newly repaired Mrs. Murphy, which, as promised, Pugsley had quickly re-stuffed and stitched. Walter served and removed the dishes without saying a word. Few words passed between the captain and his wife until coffee. Mary had heard most of what had happened earlier in the mess room and Walter had filled her in on what she had missed.
She looked at her husband and asked, "Is it worth it, James?”
At first she saw a flash of anger in his eyes, but it soon faded to resignation. He was so tired. She could see that in the lines in his face. He had had such hopes for this voyage and now it had almost ended in a mutiny.
“We have no choice but to keep at it. All we need is a slant. Just one good favoring slant of wind.”
Mary stirred her coffee with a spoon. "But what if it doesn't come? Or what if you have too few men left to sail the ship when it does? What if we run out of food, water and men before we get the favoring slant?”
She immediately wondered whether she should have spoken. She knew that there were no answers to her questions. What was worse—a mutinous crew challenging his authority, or a doubting wife?
James sat still for a moment, staring out into space. He seemed lost in thought or perhaps he was just letting the sound of the wind on deck carry his thoughts away. The tension around his eyes seemed to ease. After a moment he turned to Mary and reached out to put his hand on hers.
“My dear, we must keep on. It is simply too dangerous to turn before the wind. We are too deep in the water. The westerlies cannot stop us forever. We will get the slant. What we must not do, is to give up. Then all will be lost. We all just have to hold on." He smiled. "Just you wait. We will round up into the Pacific and we'll all be complaining that it is too hot. Imagine that.”
The next day the wind shifted to the north and they hardened up on an almost due westerly course. The sun even broke through and Captain Barker managed his first sun sight in weeks. They were finally west of Cape Horn again, a fact that Barker made sure Second Mate Atkinson relayed to the crew.
The wind stayed fair for three days before the westerlies filled back in and another series of gales drove them back, taking much of the distance that they had gained.
15. Crazy Dane and a Favoring Slant
The ship, which had been difficult to handle with twenty sailors, was now being sailed by six and the four apprentices. There were so few sailors fit for duty that Captain Barker finally ordered the second mate to fire up the donkey boiler and use the steam winch for hauling, now that muscles were no longer adequate to handle the sails. Keeping the boiler topped up with fresh water proved almost as difficult as the sail-handing itself.
A tot of rum became a daily ration. Captain Barker had hoped it would be viewed as a reward, but at best, it seemed only to help everyone left just hold on, which perhaps was enough.
Five men were down with frostbite, but three were suffering simply from exhaustion. The oldest three sailors—Hanson, Lindstrom and Schmidt—had nearly worked themselves to death and were all now in their bunks, barely hanging on.
One westerly gale followed the next. Captain Barker resumed his vigil on deck, watching for the slightest hint of a favoring wind shift. The few remaining sailors watched the stony-faced captain on the poop deck and swore softly as they turned to. Captain Barker knew the men were cursing him and hardly blamed them. He cursed at the westerlies. Beneath his best stoic exterior, he raged against the winds. All they needed was a slant.
Jensen waited outside the captain's dayroom.
“Yes, Jensen," Captain Barker said, motioning him in. "Have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir." He took of his cap. "Captain, my head is paining me again. From when I was hurt on the Daniella. When the shackle hit mine hoved.”
“If you are sick, I have medicine." The standard medicine dished out was a strong laxative.