Lewrie left his hat on deck, not wanting it to disappear in the harsh wind. Going aloft had not gotten any easier for him. It still brought his scrotum up to his navel each time.
“Go, lads, go,” Captain Bales shouted from below as they passed onto the futtock shrouds. “Crack on, Mister Lewrie, speed ’em on.”
Fine day to get singled out by the old fart, he thought miserably; now I’ll have to be all keen with him watching.
The wind was a brutal live force aloft, buffeting him and setting his clothing rattling, and the higher he went, the harder it was to breathe as the wind made his cheeks flutter. They assembled in the main crosstrees. Once the yards were braced to satisfaction, and the preventers and parrels rigged, it was time to lay out on the yard. The top captain went out to the weather side first, Lewrie following. Rolston went to the lee side after the number two man. The yard had been lowered slightly and was drumming like a pigeon’s wing as the top captain prepared to pass the weather earring to the third reef line.
“Haul to weather!”
Facing inboard on the yard and footrope, they hauled with all their might to shift the weight of the sail as it was clewed up.
Once hauled up, it was Lewrie’s “honor” to duck below the yard and pass the earring through the reef cringle to the third man seated astride the yardarm. Once secured, and hugging the spar for dear life, it was the lee arm’s turn to perform that dangerous duty. Then it was nail-breaking, herniating exertion to reach forward and haul in the flogging sail, tucking the folds under one’s chest, until the third reef was gathered snug.
Then came another dangerous chore, no less so now that the sail was under control and the reef-tackles had tautened. One had to squat down on the footrope, one arm from the elbow down the only secure hold from a nasty death, and reach under the yard once again, one’s shoulder below the yard to grab the dancing reef points and bring them back up so they could be tied off. Lewrie could hear Rolston giving someone absolute hell on the lee yardarm for not seizing his on the first try.
The first and second top captains surveyed their handiwork and found it good. Below them, other men were still tidying up, taking in the main course. The forecourse would be left at three reefs, since it was a lifting effect on the bows.
“Lay in from the yard!”
Thank Christ, Lewrie thought, glad to have survived once more.
They gathered in the top and began making their way down to the deck. Lewrie took hold of the preventer backstay that was already twanging with the weight of the men who had preceded him and began to descend, after glancing over to sting Rolston with a smug look. He lowered himself away quickly and neatly, hand over hand, smearing his clothing with tar and tallow. Then there was a shrill scream …
He took a death grip on the preventer backstay and locked his legs about it tighter than a virgin, without a further bit of thought. It definitely saved his life. He glanced up, and the whole world was filled by a dirty blue-and-white-checked shirt and a man’s mouth open in a toothy rictus of terror. Horny fingers raked like talons on the sleeve of his jacket, ripping one hand from his grip, and unconsciously he clenched his hand, as though to grab back, though it would have been his own death to have tried. The desperate hand caught on the white turnback cuff of his left sleeve and ripped it loose. Then the man fell past him, and Lewrie watched him with dumb amazement as he performed a lazy spin face-upwards and limbs flailing, to smack spine first onto the inner edge of the starboard gangway. Lewrie could hear the man’s spine snap over the harsh, final thump of the impact. And then Gibbs, late maintopman in the starboard watch, dribbled off the edge of the gangway and fell to the upper gun deck like a limp sack of grain.
His bowels turned to water and his own limbs began to so tremble, he was himself lucky to reach the deck without accident. But he had to satisfy his morbid curiosity, so he made his way forward until he had a good view, after the bosun’s mates had shooed away the hands. Captain Bales was standing over the man sadly while the surgeon tried to discover some sign of life. The surgeon stood up to signify that it was hopeless. Gibbs would be commented upon in the log and the ship’s books with a very final “DD,” “Discharged, Dead,” washed by the surgeon’s mates and sewn up for burial in the morning by the sail-maker and his crew.
“A brave attempt, sir,” Bales said to Lewrie, showing the scrap of white cuff he held in his hand.
“Sir?” Lewrie asked in shock. Does he actually think I tried to save the poor bastard? Alan gawped to himself.
“Hawkes,” Bales said to the second top captain who had been on the lee yardarm, and who was now weeping openly for his dead friend. “You must keep a better control of your people aloft. I’ll not have them skylarking in the rigging.”
“Aye, sir,” Hawkes said, cutting a black glance at Rolston, who, Lewrie observed, was standing near and eyeing the corpse with a bright fascination, and licking his lips as if in satisfaction.
“What happened, Mister Rolston?” Bales demanded.
“Gibbs overbalanced on the footrope, sir, reaching for a stay before he was on the crosstrees,” Rolston answered quickly, unable to tear his gaze from the bloody body bent at so unnatural an angle, or unable to face Bales’ hard stare. “It was too far to reach.”
Did he indeed? Lewrie wondered. You had it in for him for back-talking, everybody knows that, had him gagged with a marlinspike half the Day Watch yesterday. Nobody’s so stupid as to leap that far for a stay! There’s something going on here, and I don’t think you’re the innocent Bartholomew Baby you appear to be. I could square your yards right-proper with this, if I handle it right.
“Was that what happened, Hawkes?” Bales asked.
“I … I suppose it was, sir.” He wanted to say something else, but not knowing how to in front of his betters, he sounded more resigned than anything else.
* * *
Once they were below after evening Quarters, Lewrie searched for a way to begin. Supper was over, the dingy mess cloth removed, and hot rum-punch circulating in lieu of decent port. The surgeon’s mates were absent, still preparing the body. Finnegan and Turner were munching on hard cheese and biscuit at the head of the table. The captain’s clerk, Brail, was writing a letter.
“Lord, what trash,” Keith said softly, wincing at the bite of the rum. “I’d give anything for a run ashore, and a real port for an after-dinner treat.”
“At least we’ll be able to buy fresh stores at Antigua,” Shirke said. “The ship’s even running low on well-fed rats to cook.”
“Two-a-penny now, not three,” Bascombe said, rubbing his eyes in weariness. “It’s amazing what an English sailor can eat.”
“If he can catch it,” Finnegan said boozily. “Now me, I’d admire me a quart of strong ale. Ya can have yer Black Strap n’ yer claret n’ yer port. Ale’s a good … Christian drink.” The pause had been to release a spectacular belch. Turner nodded agreeably, making a gobbling noise through a cheekful of cheese.
“And for you, Chapman?” Shirke asked, nudging Bascombe so he could appreciate his wit. Chapman, ponderous and dim, was always good for a laugh.
“Oh.” Chapman pondered long, knowing he was being made fun of once more and determined to respond in kind but not quite sure how. “Country beer was always nice back home. Cool stoup on a hot day.”