“Thank you, James," she replied squeezing his hand.
His only hint of emotion was when he picked up both Amanda and little Tommy at once and hugged them tightly, for the longest time, not wanting to let them go. He seemed to be whispering something to them. Finally, he let them down. Amanda started to cry and a few moments later Tommy followed her example. "You both obey your mother. I will look forward to seeing you when I return home.”
His eyes seemed to glisten slightly and Mary wondered whether it was tears or just the wind. It didn't matter. She took her children by the hand. They turned and walked up the gangway to the steamer that would take them home.
A week later, Mr. Rand knocked at the captain's dayroom door. Once they had rounded up into the Pacific he had returned to duty as if nothing had ever happened. They agreed that he would leave the ship at Callao. The captain had in turn agreed to remove any reference to mutiny from the ship's log, always wondering if he had made the right choice in doing so. Avoiding additional cost and delay overbalanced the scale of justice.
“Come in, Mr. Rand.”
“I've changed my mind, Captain. My back still is hurting me something awful. I thought it would get better in the warmer weather but it hasn't. I think I'd like to see a doctor after all.
Captain Barker accompanied Mr. Rand ashore to see a physician that the agent had recommended. After a period of time, the doctor came out to speak to the captain.
“How is he, doctor?”
The doctor shook his head. "That man has the largest carbuncle that I have even seen in his upper back, next to his spine. It must have caused him terrible pain. We will have to operate immediately if he has any hope of survival.”
Barker was stunned. "I had no idea. He complained of pain, but...”
“You had no way of knowing. A remarkable case. I am surprised he walked in here unassisted.”
“How long will he be in hospital? I expect to sail within two weeks.”
“Then, sir, I suggest that you find yourself a new mate. If he survives the surgery, he may never walk again.”
Once back out on the street, Captain Barker stood for a moment, amazed at Mr. Rand. An excellent seaman who bore up under such physical pain, yet lacking the moral stamina to do his duty. A puzzle indeed. The best of mates and the worst of mates, Captain Barker thought, with a silent apology to Mr. Dickens.
The cargo of coal was finally discharged. The Lady Rebecca looked very much like her old self, notwithstanding her damaged masts. Will and Jack rowed the captain back from shore. He had the ship's papers and the official log signed by the British consul. Will was nearly dying from curiosity as to what it meant, where they were bound, but as still only an apprentice, thought it best not to ask. He had already heard ashore that Hanson had died in the hospital and that Lindstrom was still in a bad way. Jerry the Greek, however, was on the mend after an operation on his leg. They would be left in Pisagua with passage money home.
When the captain climbed aboard, Will followed close behind and tried to get as close to the break of the poop deck as he could so that he could hear the captain talking to the second mate.
Will walked quietly forward to pass along the news.
“Have you heard?" Fred asked Donnie.
“What?”
“Callao for repairs and then bound for Australia in ballast to load wool. The apprentice just told me.”
“Australia, is it? Well isn't that a fine kettle of mutton?”
“What do you have against Australia?”
The Irishman laughed. "Nothing at all, though if we call at Sydney, there are a couple of Sheilas who might not be happy to see me.”
“Hah," Fred replied. "You think they remember you?”
“Every time they look at their young'uns, they pr'olly do. Hear that they bear a strong resemblance.”
“And you know what else?" Fred asked. "The Susannah finally arrived in Iquique yesterday. The agent got a cable. Two hundred and seven days from Cardiff.”
Donnie hooted. "What? Two hundred and seven days? That must be some sort of record for the slowest rounding ever. So the Old Man beat the German by a month after all. Son of a bitch, I don't believe it. Amazing.”
Fred stood at the rail, looking to seaward. In the weary days, slogging against the westerlies off the Horn, he had promised himself that he would jump ship in Chile and wander a while in South America. Now, he had changed his mind. He felt no great love for the captain, but he no longer hated him, as he had for months in the Southern ocean, well, Barker was a real seaman, and that deserved respect. And like every sailor, Fred was fond of the ship. She had carried them all through the worst of gales. And Australia sounded interesting. Perhaps it was time to add the Antipodes to his world tour.
That afternoon the provisions arrived, along with a crimp's boat with six new sailors, all drugged or drunk, by their appearance. All hands turned to to secure the hatches and to store the provisions and gear.
Just before sunset, the crew began the long stomp around the windlass to raise the anchor. Donnie began singing, at first almost as if to himself. Since Harry had died, the ship had had no real shantyman. After a verse, he raised his voice and sang out, "Ooooh, I wish I was in Madame Gashay's down in Callao..."
After a moment's pause, the rest answered back, "Horrah, me yellar girls, Do'na let me go me," and Donnie bellowed, "Where the girls will grab and they never let ya go. Horrah, me yaller girls do'na let me go…"
The clank of the capstain and the click of each link of the anchor chain in the hawse kept time with the shanty until the chain was finally up and down, and the backed fore topsail broke the anchor out of the muddy bottom. With the anchor hove and catted, Lady Rebecca bore away, her topsails filling in the light air. Soon her t'gansails and royals were sheeted home and the fine ship stood northward up the coast to Callao, as Pisagua faded into the mist astern.
17. On the Beach Near Montevideo
The launch grounded on the sloping sand beach with a soft hiss. Captain Jones leapt over the gunwale. A wave broke over his polished black shoes, soaking them and the bottom of his slacks, but he barely noticed. He couldn't take his eyes off the hulk on the beach before him. The Lady Rebecca sat with a slight list to port. The paint on her hull had been replaced by rust, but, save for a large hole cut near her stern, she seemed intact, almost ready to sail again.
He stood looking up the sweeping lines of the hull, lines you would never find on a boxy steamer. The Lady Rebecca had been the perfect balance, wresting every ounce of power from the wind, while slipping through the water as gracefully as a dolphin. And she left no trail of smoke to smudge the sky.
The hole in her hull had, no doubt, been cut to make sure that she would never again leave the beach. It seemed almost cruel, but Captain Jones understood. If she floated free in a winter storm, she would be a serious hazard to navigation. Better that her hull flood on the beach than float away to be run down by a steamer in the river, perhaps sinking them both.
It was all just as well. The Lady Rebecca's time was past. There were still a few great windjammers on the oceans, but too few. When the Laeisz Flying-P ships and the handful of others owned by stiff-necked Finns and Swedes finally furled their sails, there would be no more. The majestic clouds of sail that once graced every ocean would be gone forever.
Even old "bend 'em or break 'em" Captain Barker had understood as much. He went into steam at the end of their voyage on the Lady Rebecca. He was still young enough and all the steamship lines were looking for young captains with sail experience. No one understood the sea like the captain of a wind ship.