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Another storm during the night. Don't know how Fowler kept her on an
even keel. He fought the wheel half the night. Rankin came on during the
late watch, offered to take over, said Fowler looked half dead. but he
snarled, told him to "hie yerself outta me sight"; so Rankin went below
again.
My teeth are getting loose again, gums sore. The ship's biscuits harder than a cartwheel and full of life. Hardy creatures those weevils, can't figure how they make their way through the hardtack. For my part they can have it all. Captain says it's scurvy, what some of us gets, says he's going to start examining us regular. Whoever shows signs of the bone sickness he's going to leave at the next port. Doesn't want his ship a sick ship, says he's had a good record and we're thick-skulled not to follow orders.
"I've provisioned enough limes to do us the voyage. Never mind those sour looks! Just follow orders, and my orders are every man-jack of you take daily portions of the fruit. Take my word for it or don't take my word, you'll do as you're told, or be dropped off this ship."
When the bosun's whistle blows three short ones we drop whatever we're doing, assemble aft and listen to him. He likes to be listened to. Anyone who doesn't listen, look halfway respectful of the man, lets his fool self in for a tongue lashing no one else can deliver half so well. Try it more than once and it's another kind of lash that's employed. Runs a tight ship, does Captain Vancouver.
So why're my teeth loose, demmit? My mouth's in a constant pucker, that demmed fruit sours me for the morning's duration. As ship's surgeon, I support the Captain, take the medicine as prescribed. Wonder how many others have trouble with their teeth? He'll notice, I fear, that I leave the biscuit. No other officers' mess serves biscuit but the captain says the officers should have it no better than the men.
As I say, he runs a tight ship. Morale had been reasonably good at first, too. We hadn't the losses suffered in the rest of His Majesty's Fleet, nor quite the number of desertions.
That last contingent of city-bred lads the press gang brought in was a sorry lot. But reputation precedes acts of desperation and this time out there was but one desertion. Captain must have been sorry for him. He'd the Cat all right, thirty lashes and then out to the small craft with him, to go from one of His Majesty's Ships in Bristol Harbour to the next. Additional five lashes in each. Total of, let's see - fifty-five. Delirious for a week. Back festering, oozing pus. But draining nicely. I've kept the night-air miasma from him, though the cabin grows rank from decaying flesh. I feel another week and he'll do service again.
A stout Lancashire lad, he. Rambling on about his Tess. Pity, he'll never see his Tess again. Serve this voyage he may, but not many more.
More fortunate he was, than that other, the voyage previous. Wouldn't submit to the Captain's authority, the demmed fool, so he was keel-hauled. No one survives that. Betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea he was, hoisted down after the lashing, strung under the bow and pulled along from one end of the ship to t'other. Brought up at the stern properly keel-hauled. Barnacles torn the living flesh from his body. Completely flayed.
Couldn't tell when he'd drowned, near the start or to'ward the end. Sewed him into the shroud, said the words and shipped him below. Ah, there's no glory, none at all, for them that works the ships of His Majesty's Navy.
Yet there's some strange compelling need that brings me back, again and yet again to stand on the deck of another ship and look out over the vast eternity of sea, jealous of the free-winged albatross, waiting to see the first glimpse of the Humpbacks breaking water, hear the clarion-clear call of 'Land-Ho!' from above.
This time out, we're weary of the wait. The sea a raging beast in mid-winter. It was poor judgement to sail this late, but he would have it so. The lines, the masts are devilishly iced and hands cleave to the lines as though human flesh loves the deathly cold and grieved to let it go. Leaving as surety flaps of skin behind.
Days pass, mature into weeks of nothing but the blind raging sea and the murky grey sky overhead, the swooping form of a seabird followed closely by another and we look, desperate for sight of land. Ship's water has gone bad and we need fresh. Even cutting it with rum does little good, it is so brackish. We need to re-victualize. The galley crew canna do much with victuals running short.
Captain ordered Metcalf to the Crow's Nest. Him especially, known as the most sure-footed and -handed among the surly crew, but the man hung back. Fear spoke loud in his face. Pride, too. His admiration for the captain boundless, yet he was defiant, would not climb in that high wind. Captain Vancouver is a good man, but his face can assume the blackest proportions. Most threatening of any man I've sailed with. And he had his way.
We watched, bating breath, as Metcalf gripped the hawsers, drew himself upward, tortuously slow-like, his legs gripping the pole and sliding back occasionally. Then pulling himself up again, determined, swinging toward the Nest. And a cheer went up from us all, as though we were one tongue in one hopeful head, the scared-witless lot of us.
Turned to a groan as he missed and fell. Ah, Lord, how slowly time churned as he fell. Twisting, tumbling so agonizingly slow as we watched mouth agape. Fell in a languid motion in the frigid air to finally thump the deck. Head turned awry on his neck, so he was as though looking backward, over his shoulder, in the direction of the Auld Sod he'd never see again.
Doesn't do to get sentimental. Must be age advancing on me. No excuse for that kind of thing; sentiment. One less hand to reach greedily for the evening grog. One less mouth to mumble clandestine mutinies. One less man-jack to chase the aboriginal women and strip the deck to offer barter for bodies.
The Captain is a good and God-fearing man. I have no doubt this journey will conclude with a rare and new discovery. Those who travel the bosom of the sea must needs prepare for adversity.
My teeth are getting loose again, gums sore. The ship's biscuits harder than a cartwheel and full of life. Hardy creatures those weevils, can't figure how they make their way through the hardtack. For my part they can have it all. Captain says it's scurvy, what some of us gets, says he's going to start examining us regular. Whoever shows signs of the bone sickness he's going to leave at the next port. Doesn't want his ship a sick ship, says he's had a good record and we're thick-skulled not to follow orders.
"I've provisioned enough limes to do us the voyage. Never mind those sour looks! Just follow orders, and my orders are every man-jack of you take daily portions of the fruit. Take my word for it or don't take my word, you'll do as you're told, or be dropped off this ship."
When the bosun's whistle blows three short ones we drop whatever we're doing, assemble aft and listen to him. He likes to be listened to. Anyone who doesn't listen, look halfway respectful of the man, lets his fool self in for a tongue lashing no one else can deliver half so well. Try it more than once and it's another kind of lash that's employed. Runs a tight ship, does Captain Vancouver.
So why're my teeth loose, demmit? My mouth's in a constant pucker, that demmed fruit sours me for the morning's duration. As ship's surgeon, I support the Captain, take the medicine as prescribed. Wonder how many others have trouble with their teeth? He'll notice, I fear, that I leave the biscuit. No other officers' mess serves biscuit but the captain says the officers should have it no better than the men.
As I say, he runs a tight ship. Morale had been reasonably good at first, too. We hadn't the losses suffered in the rest of His Majesty's Fleet, nor quite the number of desertions.
That last contingent of city-bred lads the press gang brought in was a sorry lot. But reputation precedes acts of desperation and this time out there was but one desertion. Captain must have been sorry for him. He'd the Cat all right, thirty lashes and then out to the small craft with him, to go from one of His Majesty's Ships in Bristol Harbour to the next. Additional five lashes in each. Total of, let's see - fifty-five. Delirious for a week. Back festering, oozing pus. But draining nicely. I've kept the night-air miasma from him, though the cabin grows rank from decaying flesh. I feel another week and he'll do service again.
A stout Lancashire lad, he. Rambling on about his Tess. Pity, he'll never see his Tess again. Serve this voyage he may, but not many more.
More fortunate he was, than that other, the voyage previous. Wouldn't submit to the Captain's authority, the demmed fool, so he was keel-hauled. No one survives that. Betwixt the devil and the deep blue sea he was, hoisted down after the lashing, strung under the bow and pulled along from one end of the ship to t'other. Brought up at the stern properly keel-hauled. Barnacles torn the living flesh from his body. Completely flayed.
Couldn't tell when he'd drowned, near the start or to'ward the end. Sewed him into the shroud, said the words and shipped him below. Ah, there's no glory, none at all, for them that works the ships of His Majesty's Navy.
Yet there's some strange compelling need that brings me back, again and yet again to stand on the deck of another ship and look out over the vast eternity of sea, jealous of the free-winged albatross, waiting to see the first glimpse of the Humpbacks breaking water, hear the clarion-clear call of 'Land-Ho!' from above.
This time out, we're weary of the wait. The sea a raging beast in mid-winter. It was poor judgement to sail this late, but he would have it so. The lines, the masts are devilishly iced and hands cleave to the lines as though human flesh loves the deathly cold and grieved to let it go. Leaving as surety flaps of skin behind.
Days pass, mature into weeks of nothing but the blind raging sea and the murky grey sky overhead, the swooping form of a seabird followed closely by another and we look, desperate for sight of land. Ship's water has gone bad and we need fresh. Even cutting it with rum does little good, it is so brackish. We need to re-victualize. The galley crew canna do much with victuals running short.
Captain ordered Metcalf to the Crow's Nest. Him especially, known as the most sure-footed and -handed among the surly crew, but the man hung back. Fear spoke loud in his face. Pride, too. His admiration for the captain boundless, yet he was defiant, would not climb in that high wind. Captain Vancouver is a good man, but his face can assume the blackest proportions. Most threatening of any man I've sailed with. And he had his way.
We watched, bating breath, as Metcalf gripped the hawsers, drew himself upward, tortuously slow-like, his legs gripping the pole and sliding back occasionally. Then pulling himself up again, determined, swinging toward the Nest. And a cheer went up from us all, as though we were one tongue in one hopeful head, the scared-witless lot of us.
Turned to a groan as he missed and fell. Ah, Lord, how slowly time churned as he fell. Twisting, tumbling so agonizingly slow as we watched mouth agape. Fell in a languid motion in the frigid air to finally thump the deck. Head turned awry on his neck, so he was as though looking backward, over his shoulder, in the direction of the Auld Sod he'd never see again.
Doesn't do to get sentimental. Must be age advancing on me. No excuse for that kind of thing; sentiment. One less hand to reach greedily for the evening grog. One less mouth to mumble clandestine mutinies. One less man-jack to chase the aboriginal women and strip the deck to offer barter for bodies.
The Captain is a good and God-fearing man. I have no doubt this journey will conclude with a rare and new discovery. Those who travel the bosom of the sea must needs prepare for adversity.
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