“Starboard watch on deck!” Cheatum’s booming voice rang through the crew’s quarters.
Whether it was minutes or hours later, Jack hadn’t a clue.
“All hands show a leg. Look lively now, bear a hand to shorten sail, she’s blowing a norther real proper.” Cheatum paused to boot a laggard, still intact in his hammock. “We’re awash fore and aft, so it’s foul weather gear and all hands bear to.”
His back stiff with pain, Jack bolted out of his hammock, cracking his head on a stout oak beam. He took a deep breath and reached a handhold on a stanchion, the wood worn smooth where many had grabbed before him.
The ship was violently alive; her heel was to port and seemed stuck there. Jack felt his feet and lower legs growing suddenly heavier and knew the ship was rising with a huge swell. The weight left just as quickly and the ship plunged.
Paul was being sick in a port scupper as Jack came on deck. Jack knew the feeling; the queasiness had been with him since they had departed O’taheiti three weeks ago.
“I don’t think I can make it, Jack.” Paul couldn’t meet Jack’s glance as he approached. “I’ve been sick for two days and can’t get my strength.” The gray of his face matched the lightest part of the sky.
Cheatum pulled himself expertly up the companionway to the main deck. “Lay aft, you lubbers, and report to Mr. Quince—or would you prefer my boot?”
Again the mate asked questions without answers; perhaps it made life simpler never to commit to a direct statement.
Jack covered for Paul’s sickness by stepping between him and the mate. The air crackled, an acre of canvas bursting with the mean wind. Sheets and halyards snapped against the mast and sharp gusts tore at their clothes. The two young men made their way aft by the lifelines, rigged by the port watch while they had slept.
Quince was shouting orders as Jack and Paul arrived. Helmsmen Peters and Smithers battled the wheel. Like a spooked horse, the ship attempted to buck herself free of human will. The helm was alternately down hard to starboard and then sliding quickly to port. Jack knew this was a dangerous situation, as the ship jerked 20 degrees on either side of her course. If she was pooped and a huge wave came over her fantail, she would be in danger of drifting sideways, into one of the huge rollers breaking ten feet above her bowsprit. Once in the trough and hit by a huge wave, she would surely broach.
Jack and Paul awaited instructions with a group of seamen. Finally Quince ordered them topside on the foremast, to begin taking in sail. The wind seemed to be coming from several directions, and the air was heavy with water. The pounding of the boat and the wind and the waves made for a hellish noise. A nightmare of conflicting colors darkened the sky in the north. To the south Jack could still see some patches of blue, and the west was spotted with the red of the setting sun. But the north was pure black, purple clouds boiling and expanding in plumes that lifted for thousands of feet.
The wind increased to forty knots, and the big ship dove and cut from one wave to the next.
“I don’t like it much in the trees when it’s like this.” Paul grabbed a ratline and pulled himself up till he stood on the starboard gunwale. “I’m feeling bad, Jack. Real sick.”
“Well, look at it this way.” Jack was following Paul up the ratline. “Quicker we get her shortened up, the quicker we’ll be back in the sack.” Jack had started to feel better; his rage had not diminished, but now it was tempered by his will. He felt an enormous kinship with Paul and would always be in his debt for his understanding.
Jack loved being aloft in foul weather. “Remember, one hand for the ship, one hand for yourself.”
“I’ll have two hands for myself, thank you.” Paul attempted a grin.
They approached the first spar. Some members of the port watch had secured the fore gallant sail and had started up before them. All hands turned aft to a loud ripping sound; the lower fore and aft sail on the main mast had split. The wind backed around and the boom broke free and swept across the bridge deck.
A sailor who had levered himself up on a backstay above was swept overboard. Jack could see him thrashing in the waves, swimming after his departing ship. A line tossed to him fell short as a bolt of lightning split the sky. Again the line was tossed and again it fell short. The drowning man’s head, covered with foam from the pitching waves, reared one last time before disappearing into the sea.
Jack fought down his bile. He could not rid himself of the look in the drowning man’s eyes—questioning as much as terrified. Paul’s arms gripped the spar.
Mr. Quince turned from the doomed sailor and shouted orders. “Look lively, you men. Up the mast you go and be quick about it, or I’ll have your hide!”
Faced with adversity, Jack felt his senses sharpen. He could smell the fear on Paul.
“My God. That sailor—he didn’t have a chance.” Paul’s legs were failing him. “Did you know him?”
“No.” Jack remembered only that he was an older hand and from the port watch. “Get topside or it’s going to go heavy on us.”
Paul squinted down at the deck below, took a deep breath, and proceeded up the rope ladder. When they got to the spar just below the topmost one, they were ordered to spread out and begin taking in sail. Jack’s purchase was outermost on the spar. The ship heeled badly and the distance from the deck to the spar accentuated the movement.
Forearms and backs aching, they strained against the heavy sails and slippery reef lines. Jack sometimes forgot to keep a hand for himself in the heat of keeping up with the older mates. He was relieved to see Paul close to the mast, one leg looped through the ladder and the other placed firmly on the stepping line. The wind backed clear around and came in from the southeast.
In his brief time at sea, Jack had experienced Cape Horn. But this weather seemed heavier; his back was wet from the blood of freshly opened scabs and scalding from the cold seawater, but this, to him, was exciting. He felt alive. One of the older men was frozen in place next to him, fear-filled eyes peeking out at the storm. He appeared incapable of moving on his own.
“Come out of it, there’s nothing for it but to put your back into it,” Jack said.
Without changing expression, the man started down the ratline.
“The mate will have your ass,” Jack yelled.
The deckhand never looked back. He had taken two steps down when a sudden gust snapped the mast above Jack’s head. The crack of the breaking wood was followed by a shout from the working party on the top spar. The mast had parted.
The spar seemed to pause momentarily in midair and then mast, spar, ratlines, sheets, and halyards all passed in front of Jack on the way down to the deck. Jack reached out for a sailor falling in front of him who flailed at the air as if he would climb the wind to salvation. Jack grabbed the man’s sleeve, his hand jerked once, and the apparition was gone. It could have been a dream except for the torn piece of blue-and-white-striped shirt Jack clutched in his hand.
The tangled lines slowed the progress of the spar. But each time it stopped, the accompanying jolt loosened another sailor’s grip and he plunged to the deck or over the side. Jack found himself withdrawing to a place deep inside himself, disconnecting with the mayhem around him. He felt a strange calm. For a brief moment he dispassionately considered his recent beating, his mother’s courage, his father’s face. Seconds later he was back to the reality of his predicament.