Movement below caught Jack’s eye. It was Quince. The man had been his salvation. Jack and Paul had sat for hours listening to Quince’s stories of the sea, but most recently they had discussed the captain’s strange behavior. Sometimes the old man seemed to be drunk, at others totally mad, standing at the rail looking out to sea, talking and laughing to himself. Jack wondered what the fate of the old man would be. In fact, what would all of their destinies be on this passage?
Now Quince seemed troubled, Jack thought, as the mate stood on the quarterdeck, watching the helmsmen make the small adjustments necessary to keep the ship on course. He had spent more and more time above deck lately, looking constantly for that frayed line, loose plank, or sail not trimmed. But there was something troubling inside him too.
The Perdido Star had been pressing south on her dogged journey, tacking every twenty-four hours. She would change from 165 degrees south, southeast to 190 degrees south, southwest but always on her beam reach south toward Cape Horn.
Paul, who had just come up from below, looked up at Jack. He waltzed across the deck, imitating a drunken sailor, pretending to heave up his rations over the side. Jack laughed in spite of himself, for Paul’s good humor had kept him alive these past weeks. Jack’s passion for returning to Cuba was in direct contrast to Paul’s lack of direction. Paul, for all his intelligence and wit, seemed to live just one day at a time.
Smithers, the surly deckhand, came scampering up the ratlines to replace Jack, and Jack went to find Paul, who was standing near the rail. Quince called them to the quarterdeck.
“You lads step up here. I’ll have a word with you.”
“Now what trouble have you stirred in that witch’s cauldron you haphazardly call a brain?” Paul asked Jack.
“Pissant,” mumbled Jack. They crossed the deck to the ladder leading up to the quarterdeck.
Quince’s concern was immediate. “The captain has called everyone into his cabin for a set-to.” Quince paused and breathed deeply. “Of course, we all can’t fit into his cabin. So anyone who is not on watch is to lay below at half the hour and stand in the companionway outside. We’ll leave the door open.” Quince cursed to himself. “Keep your ears open. You’ll learn something of the sea and of life if I’m not mistaken.”
Jack, Paul, and the rest of the starboard watch gathered in the crowded companionway. Jack stood to one side of the captain’s door and could see the cabin was a disorderly mess. The small table was stained and pitted with years of drink and food. The old man had attempted to make his quarters respectable by kicking his filthy clothes and meal leavings under his bunk. Three large ports looked aft to the foaming wake of the Star but were inoperable, so the tiny cabin stank not only of the corky septuagenarian’s body but of the crowded officers in the cramped space. The low overhead kept the men slightly bent and uneasy.
The captain was the only one seated.
“I’ve called you here to get your feelings on my plans, as it were.” He took a long pull on his tankard of grog. “I’ve made many a passage of the Horn, lads, and it’s not an easy thing. If you were lucky, you could do the thing in three weeks, from fifty degrees south latitude in the Atlantic to fifty south in the Pacific. But no one’s had that kind of luck. It be twelve hundred miles, and that twelve hundred is as hard a thing as exists.” The man’s bloodshot, rheumy eyes looked expectantly at the semicircle of men around him. He paused, apparently waiting. “Well, don’t just stand there, dammit. What’s your answer?”
The men all stood mute. Each waited for the other’s puzzled response.
Jack heard Quince’s voice, the most experienced and bravest seaman on board. He cleared his throat. “If it pleases the captain, sir—”
“Yes, man. For God’s sake, spit it out.”
“With all respect, sir. If you’re asking if we be prepared for the Horn, then—”
The captain stood promptly, ignoring Quince. Taking one quick stride, he turned to face the aft ports, hands gripped behind his back. “We’re making good time, I see. If I was a gambling sort, I’d say eight knots, by God.” He turned to face the mate as if to catch Quince in a lie. “What’s yer name, sailor?”
“My name be Quince, sir.” The first mate’s dismay was evident; Jack knew he had been aboard the Perdido Star for five years and had served under the captain nearly three of those.
“Of course. I know your name, man. I didn’t ask you that, you fool. I said, ‘What’s our present course?’”
A sailor standing next to Paul whispered, “Oh God, he’s absolutely around the bend. We’re lost.”
The captain looked expectantly at each man in the circle around him. A grin on his face seemed to explain to all in attendance that he had caught them unprepared and would now divulge some secret.
“None of you lubbers have made a passage and God bless you for it. But I’ve made more than a few and I tell you, it’s pure hell. So, here’s my plan. We’ll bypass the Cape and sneak through the Straits of Magellan. It’ll save us three hundred miles and be damned with the East India Company and its duty. Time is money, I always say.”
The captain turned again to the aft ports and began speaking to the openings.
“If it pleases the board of inquiry, sir, we came not through the Straits, sir, but ’round the Horn. It be five weeks to the day as noted in my log, sir.” Jack could see the old man gesturing as if speaking to a court. He mimed opening a log, showing the imaginary group how he had dutifully kept it, how it showed clearly their epic journey around the Cape. Then, in a definite change of voice to one of command, he ordered: “Mr. Quince, set a course for the Straits and keep us several hundred miles off the South American coast. I’ll not have any of the East India’s cutters spying on us.”
The captain had just spoken to a nonexistent board of inquiry. A course change of several hundred miles offshore would put them at the mercy of the westerly winds, driving them even further offshore.
“Excuse me, sir.” The navigator Boyer started softly with great care. “A course change of this magnitude, will, sir, expose us to—”
In a sudden rage, the old Dutchman flung his grog at Boyer’s head. The tankard whistled past his ear and sailed into the companionway, landing in the hands of Hansumbob, who looked down at it, stunned.
“You dare countermand my orders! You stand there and deliberately try to undermine my authority with these fine officers, you slackard. I’ll have your hide on a yardarm.”
Quince stepped forward with great authority. “Given your permission, sir, may I take this offending sailor on deck and deal with him in the appropriate manner?”
“I’m tired of all of you. Get out of my sight.” Shaking, the old devil dropped into his chair. “We’ll be in Boston in a few days. I’ll deal with this mutinous behavior then.” The group in the companionway looked at each other and whispered as one: “Boston?”
The captain’s trembling hand turned the spigot on the grog cask. He watched as the precious liquid spilled onto the deck. Quince herded everyone from the room and on up topside. The group gathered in the waist of the ship above deck. Paul and Jack, anxious to hear, stood on the fringe.
“Quick thinking, Quince.” Mr. Boyer was trembling. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a hellish situation. My God, the bastard is totally gone.” Boyer looked at the shaken officers for confirmation; a chorus of agreement came in return.