Voyage of Midnight

by Michele Torrey

  But the moment I stepped out of the fore hatchway onto the deck, blinking like a mole in the brightness, wondering why everyone—sailors, cook, carpenter, and all—was gathered about, grinning at me, I was grabbed on each side by the arms.

  “What the devil—” I cried as two sailors, Mack and Roach, pinned me securely between them and propelled me forward.

  “Now none of your fancy English sass,” Mackerel was saying. His name was Mack, but everyone called him Mackerel, not because he looked like a fish but because he smelled like one. Besides being stinky, he was a frightful-looking fellow. He was tanned nearly dark as an African, his chest and arms covered with tattoos of anchors, ships, and buxom women. “You’re coming with us. Got business to attend with you.”

  “Aye, important business,” Roach emphasized, his weasel face looking dour as a witch’s, his breath pleasant as a summer sewer.

  I noticed that none of the male slaves were on deck, though there were blue skies overhead and it was as stifling as a pigpen in July. Tar oozed from the deck seams under the boiling sun, and I winced and hopped as I kicked and struggled. “Uncle! Help!”

  Uncle leaned against the bulwarks next to the two mates, cigar in his mouth, grinning his half grin.

  “No sense crying to your uncle, you little baby,” said Mackerel. “He can’t save you, because we’re in charge today. Now you either behave or we’ll be forced to spank you.”

  “Blood and thunder,” added Roach, “you sure do stink.”

  Mackerel grinned. “We’ll soon take care of that, won’t we, men?”

  The sailors jeered at me, banging spoons and pans, calling me names, laughing and aiming an occasional kick at my bum as they followed us forward. Against my efforts to prevent their sport, whatever it’d prove to be, we now stood at the bow. My chest heaved and my face felt hot as a kettle bottom. The sails rippled with the light breeze, rigging swayed and tightened, swayed and tightened, as the Formidable rolled first one way on an ocean swell, then the other.

  At a signal from Mackerel, music of a sort began. Billy played his fiddle while the rest of the crew banged pots or drummed on buckets. Then, from under the bowsprit, from the very place where I’d clung for my life over the water, came a voice.

  “Shiip ahoy! Shiip ahoy! Back your main topsails and let me aboard. I’m King Neptune, I am, come to greet the Sons o’ Neptune. Shiip ahoy!”

  By the deuce, it was Jonas’ voice! What was he doing out of bed?

  To my shock, Jonas climbed up and over the knightheads, dripping wet and breathing hard. Protuberant, yellowed eyes stared at the crowd from behind a canvas mask that only reached to the end of his nose. Whiskers of oakum covered his lower face. Layers of fishnet hair flowed from beneath his red crown. He wore a blanket for a robe, all of it draped with rope yarn painted green to look like seaweed, likely. He carried a three-pronged spear, which I knew was meant to look like a trident. “You scurvy dogs!” he barked. “Why in hell didn’t you send me down a boat? There must be one among you who has not yet joined the Order of the Sons o’ Neptune, or else such a blunder would never have happened. Now which of you is it? Don’t keep me waiting all day!” He thumped his trident on the deck.

  My captors forced me to my knees. “Here’s the scurvy knave,” said Mackerel.

  “Philip’s the only one who hasn’t crossed the line, O Father Neptune,” said Roach.

  “Never crossed the line, have you?” asked Father Neptune.

  While the Formidable had voyaged toward Africa, we’d managed to keep her above the equatorial line, but now we were forced to head into the southern hemisphere to catch the trade winds that would take us home. “No,” I replied. “Never. I mean, this is the first time.”

  Father Neptune pointed his trident out to sea. “Well, look! There it is! The equator! A line round the waist o’ the earth.”

  When I looked where he pointed, everyone burst out laughing. My face flushed as I realized he’d been joking. Of course there was no actual line; the equatorial line was only drawn on charts.

  Father Neptune glared at me. “You stupid, pathetic waste of fish food! Who says you’re worthy to join the Order? You look more like a scurvy rat than a Son o’ Neptune!” Though Jonas’ voice was nasty as bilgewater, I could see the laughter in his eyes. I saw I was in for it but knew no one would hurt me—at least I didn’t think they’d hurt me. Not with Uncle watching. Not with Jonas in control of things. I decided to let them have their sport.

  Cookie, the cook, stepped forward. “I think he’s worthy! He stomachs my food, anyways, and that’s got to count for something.”

  “No he don’t,” said Billy. “He was puking just a minute ago.”

  “Come, come!” cried Father Neptune. “Surely someone must believe this pathetic runt is worthy.”

  There followed a moment in which the men variously added their twopence on the subject:

  “Well, I just don’t know ‘bout this feller. He’s always got his nose in some book. No self-respecting Son o’ Neptune would be caught with his nose in a book. All books’re handy for is wiping those hard-to-reach places.”

  “Yeah, ’cept Shakespeare can be a bit scratchy.”

  “The little rat probably can’t read a word of it, anyways.”

  “Yeah, it’s all Greek to him.”

  “Speaking of Greek, he’s always babbling in different languages. You ever notice that? Pretending to be smart.”

  “It’s just babbling, far as I can tell. Who’s to know the difference? You know Greek, Calvin?”

  “No, I don’t know Greek. You know Greek, Harold?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “Well, he is a doctor, of sorts. Worked on my hangnail for seven hours straight.”

  “No, he ain’t no doctor. I told him I’d a headache, and he told me it was all in my head.”

  They roared with laughter, and I stifled a grin.

  “Clap a stopper on it, you Sons o’ Neptune!” screeched Father Neptune, waving his trident. “I’ll conduct the inspection myself, since all of you are too limited in brain matter to do it yourselves.” He strolled about me, poking me with his trident. “What have you to say for yourself? Are you clean and ready, a fellow worthy enough to join the ranks?”

  I heaved a deep sigh, pretending to be frightfully sore, though I realized I was enjoying myself. “Aye, I’m worthy.”

  At this, Father Neptune’s eyes bulged as he screeched, “Liar! Liar! Your scales have to come off! I’ve got to give you a hearty shave before you can join this illustrious order of sea scoundrels.”

  They pinned me again and blindfolded me. No sooner did I smell hot tar than my face and hair were slathered with it. I clenched my teeth, determined to endure the rite, determined not to cry, though the tar was hot enough to blister.

  “Bring my shaving kit!” Father Neptune cried.

  “It’s here!”

  “Is the razor sharp, keen-edged as a razor clam?”

  “Aye. It’ll cut the throat of anyone not worthy.”

  And so I was shaved, the first shave in my life, though I’d not a whisker to my name. They shaved my head as well, fine curly locks and all. Then flour was thrown in my face and piled atop my scalp to more roars of laughter. Afterward I was christened in a sail filled with salt water. The sun was low and it was time for the afternoon mess as I clambered out of the water-filled sail and removed my blindfold, spluttering and grinning like a fool while the men clapped me on the back and welcomed me as a Son of Neptune.

  Maybe, I thought, they’re not such rotten fellows after all.

  Two days later we finally caught the southeast trades. The Formidable now sailed like a gull before the wind on a heading of west-northwest.

  It was near midnight, and I couldn’t sleep. I sat at the desk in the cabin Jonas and I shared, practicing my Spanish, sounding out words and writing sentences while Jonas snored like a gristmill. The candle in the lantern burned low, swaying on its peg above me as the ship dashed along
. Tonight—amazingly, thankfully—the slaves were silent, and I could hear water gurgling against the hull.

  Dipping my pen in the inkwell, I wrote, “Buenas tardes, Señor Towne. Confío en que su familia esté bien.” “Buenas tardes, Capitán Towne. ¿Estuvo bien el viaje? Están los esclavos con buena salud y contentos?”

  After filling the page, I sat back and sighed, rubbing my temples, wishing I could sleep. Lately, my nights had been troubled. It seemed I had barely closed my eyes when I’d awaken with a start, heart pounding. There were vague dreams of New Orleans, of chained slaves shuffling along. Dreams of Ikoro coming at me with an iron that glowed like the fires of hell. Of Mrs. Gallagher, making me, her little English boy, promise to come home. Of my uncle visiting me at the workhouse, saying, Take care, Nephew, for I shall return someday.

  I’d awakened from this last dream only this morning, sitting up in my berth, catching my breath: Why, Uncle, why didn’t you return to the workhouse for me? Why’d you leave me alone with no word from you? Why? Ashamed, feeling as if I’d just kicked my favorite dog, I’d doused my questions in salt water from the ewer, vowing to never think on them again. I was finished with the workhouse. Forever. And I was here now, on Uncle’s ship, with a respectable position as surgeon’s mate.

  Jonas snorted, coughed, rolled over, and quickly resumed his snoring. Weary of Spanish, I opened the Book of Common Prayer. Prayers were quite handy for putting one to sleep.

  O Eternal Lord God, who alone spreadest out the heavens, and rulest the raging of the sea; who hast compassed the waters with bounds, until day and night come to an end; Be pleased to receive into thy Almighty and most gracious protection, the persons of us thy servants, and the ship in which we serve.…

  A few minutes later, just as my eyelids began to droop, I snapped to awareness. Goose bumps crawled over my skin.

  Someone’s watching me.

  I gasped.

  Whirled about.

  At that moment the candle burned out, plunging me into darkness.

  My heart lurched.

  Oh God, oh God, it’s dark!

  As surely as if a shark had seized me by the leg and shook me in his jaws, terror gripped me. Immediately my chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe, though I heard the sound of my panting.

  “Who’s there?” I hissed as the hair rose on the back of my neck.

  Nothing.

  A light. God help me, I need a light.

  I fumbled in the desk drawer, the thud of my heart in my ears, half expecting someone to grab me from behind.

  I should’ve been watching the candle. How could I have been so foolish?

  It took only a moment for me to grasp that there were no candles in the drawer. Only hours ago I’d ordered Pea Soup to fetch some, knowing he could understand me perfectly well, wanting to assert my position as master once again. Off he’d shuffled, and I’d assumed it’d be done.

  But there were none. Just papers, pens, a book, a few odd shapes.

  Blast Pea Soup! He did this on purpose!

  I sat for a while, motionless, wanting to burst into tears, listening to my shaky breathing, willing myself to stand and walk through the darkness to find a light—please, God, somewhere, a light—until it occurred to me that Jonas was no longer snoring and hadn’t been for some time.

  “Jonas?” I whispered. “Jonas, you awake?”

  Even with all the sloshing and creaking of the Formidable, my voice sounded dreadfully loud. I reached out to shake him but pulled my hand back, suddenly terrified of what I might find.

  I rose from my chair so quickly it clattered to the floor. I fetched the unlighted lantern from its peg and groped for the door latch.

  Please, God; please, God!

  Finally I stumbled into the darkened passageway, up the hatchway, and out onto the upper deck. The breeze ruffled my sweat-soaked hair. Stars sprinkled the night sky like sugar dust.

  McGuire was standing next to the helmsman.

  “Higgins!” he cried. That was what he fancied calling me. “Is there a problem?”

  “My—my lantern’s out,” I said, trying not to sound panicked and out of breath. “Just need a candle or two to tide me over till morning.”

  McGuire grunted, disappeared for a while, then reappeared with two candles. “You owe me.”

  “Aye. And may I trouble you for a match?”

  Lantern finally lighted and McGuire thanked, I went below.

  It was as I’d suspected.

  Jonas Drinkwater, surgeon for seven years aboard the Formidable, was dead.

  Clouds dashed across a sky of powder blue.

  The canvas-wrapped body lay on a grating that was balanced on the bulwarks, held in place by several men.

  We clustered about Uncle. Dressed in his finest black suit, with a tall beaver hat, he cleared his throat. “If anyone has anything to say, now’s the time.”

  At first no one spoke. A hen cackled from the chicken coop. Hemp groaned, stretched tight. Feet scuffed as men shifted their positions.

  Then: “Drinkwater was a fair surgeon, he was.”

  “Leastways knew how to dull your senses before he—well, you know.…”

  “He didn’t leave behind no family.”

  “That’s good. I guess.”

  “I suppose we were his family.”

  Someone slapped an insect on his cheek. Someone else coughed.

  “He made a good Father Neptune. Best I ever saw.”

  “Drinkwater was always free with his tobacco.”

  “He liked his liquor, though. Wasn’t so free with that.”

  “Always knew he’d die at sea.”

  “The sea keeps her own.”

  “Aye.”

  “The devil won’t be hard on the poor fellow.”

  After the comments trickled away, like sand through fingers, Uncle cleared his throat again, opened his Book of Common Prayer, and began reading. The pages ruffled in the breeze. Uncle’s gold teeth glinted in the sunlight. On and on he read, stumbling over a few passages here and there: “… We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body (when the sea shall give up her dead,) and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at his coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like his glorious body, according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself. Amen.”

  The crew echoed, “Amen,” at which time the grating was tilted. The body slid off the grating with a whoosh of fabric and a deep-throated splash into the sea. As one, the crew replaced their caps and began to disperse.

  I peered over the side. Swirls of bubbles rose from the sinking form. Large, dark shapes darted toward the disturbance. Weighted with cannonballs, the body quickly sank out of sight.

  “I hardly think I’m competent to fill a surgeon’s berth,” I told Uncle later, in his cabin.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” said my uncle. “You’re not called upon to be a court physician. Brimstone and molasses, calomel and jalap, and salt water in buckets were Drinkwater’s whole materia medica, and I think you can take a hand at them as well as he.” He thumped me on the back, offered me a goblet of palm wine, and that was that.

  So it was that I, Philip Arthur Higgins—small for his age and without a whisker to his name—became surgeon aboard the Formidable.

  Responsible for the well-being of more than four hundred souls.

  I ordered the infirmary scoured from top to bottom. Hot vinegar vapors to cleanse the air. Towels and bandages boiled in salt water. Every black beetle and rat smoked out and killed.

  Next the hold. Since Jonas’ burial, owing to some nasty weather, the slaves had been confined below. I knelt beside the hatch and stuck my head down, holding my breath. One glance was all it took. Excrement, vomit, and the devil knows what else was everywhere—in the aisles, smeared on bodies—all of it crawling with vermin and fat rats. I was horrified to see the latrine buckets overflowing with waste. Thoug
h it was raining, I ordered all slaves brought on deck and every inch of the hold scoured as clean as a baby’s bottom.

  “After this,” I told the bo’sun, trying not to quail before him like a workhouse orphan, “the latrine buckets must be kept emptied.”

  “Begging your pardon, Surgeon Higgins,” said the bo’sun, thrusting his face into mine. Teags was a greasy sort of fellow with rotten teeth and an equally rotten temper. “But they fill ’em up faster than we can empty ’em.”

  I backed away, my eyelid suddenly twitching, finding the deck boards quite interesting. “Uh—very well. Do your best, then.”

  He snorted and walked away, murmuring, “ ‘Uh—very well. Do your best, then,’ ” in a mocking tone.

  The bo’sun wasn’t the only one unhappy with my new authority. Plenty of grumbling and angry looks were cast my way, some saying I was no Son o’ Neptune; that Jonas Drinkwater, surgeon for seven years aboard the Formidable, had understood the way things were, and they didn’t need any boy to tell them how to do their jobs. Uncle just stood back with his half grin and let me fulfill my duties. I fell into bed each night, too tired even to finish mumbling my prayers before I slipped into a troubled sleep, my door bolted and a ready supply of candles on hand.

  Besides the miserable conditions and the various illnesses and ailments, there were the pregnant women. One day I mentioned to Uncle that one of the women was due to deliver and that I’d never delivered a baby, nor cared for a baby’s needs. He waved his hand as if dismissing the matter as trivial and said simply, “Do your best, Mr. Surgeon. And when she’s delivered, bring the baby to me.”

  “To you?”

  “Aye.”

  “So you can care for it?”

  Here Uncle flashed his gold teeth, as if I’d told a joke. “Aye, Nephew, I’ll take care of it.”

  I returned to the infirmary, where I spent the rest of the day, relieved, at least, that the infant would be cared for. After treating my twelfth case of sore, reddened, swollen, gummy eyes in just two hours’ time, I buried my face in my hands and sobbed like a wretch. I longed for the kindly arms of Mrs. Gallagher; wished my own mother had never died; wished I’d a friend, a real friend—all the while filled with guilt because I wished I were anywhere but where I was at that moment, and that I’d never met Uncle.