by Cylin Busby
It was the Gray One. The one I had met in the galley, then again in the hold. My first battle. I would know that terrible face anywhere: the huge top teeth, the piercing eyes. And now I would have my revenge. The thought of leaving this huge rat’s body outside the captain’s door was enough to boost my bravery. The rat hissed quietly, a warning. We were now about the same size—a very small cat and a very big rat. The battle would be somewhat more even—yes, the rat had his wretched teeth, but I had my claws. And I also had a taste for vengeance and a victory for the captain to achieve. Tonight I would be unbeatable.
When my stare did not waver, the Gray One turned and scurried down the narrow path between two rolls of cloth. I leapt and followed him in a heartbeat, close enough to nip at his tail if I’d chosen to. When the path ended and we found ourselves on the other side of the hold, the rat paused, unsure of where to go next, while I crouched to leap. If he stood still for even a moment, he was mine. It was dark below, but my eyes were fast to see in the murk, and I’d learned the stockpiles here well—I now knew my way through these barrels, stacks, and trunks by heart. Then he made a fatal mistake: the Gray One leapt over a wooden chest, and I knew that on the other side was nothing but wall, and that I would at last have him cornered. The biggest rat I’d seen aboard! How proud I would make the captain in the morn. I could hardly wait to see his face.
I leapt down and made to pounce, forcing him back into a corner from where he could not escape. He scampered backward, then would go no farther, standing his ground and hissing, showing me his big yellow teeth. I crouched low and felt my back legs twitch, muscles ready to pounce…and then I saw something move behind him.
Something small—no, there was more than one.
A rat’s nest! This was home, and those tiny gray fur balls were babies. There must have been eight, maybe ten of them, each no bigger than one of my paws, their little eyes not yet open. Smelling their mother, one of them set to squeaking, begging for food. The Gray One hissed again and backed up a bit more, now standing over her nest tucked in the corner. And he was indeed a she—this giant rat that I had feared since my first days aboard was a female! Her young ones nudged her underbelly to nurse, completely unaware of the danger I posed to their mother, and to them.
If I took her now, which I could do easily, they would die here in the course of a day or two, starved to death. I paused, then took a step back, then two. I could not do to those creatures what had been done to me, even if they were my sworn enemies. In time they would grow and be worthy adversaries, but now they were innocents, too young to be a part of this fight. I eased backward, keeping my eyes locked on hers, then leapt onto the wooden box and picked my way over the parcels, heading for the deck. I would rest there, by the captain’s door, until the sky grew light again.
I had taken only one rat, not my mother’s record—not even close—but still I thought she would have been proud of the choice I made, and I felt her warm blessing in my chest as I slipped through the hole and breathed in the fresh night air, the stars bright and shining on the wooden planks that I now knew by heart, my home.
While I had been below in the hold overnight, the mood aboard the Melissa Rae had changed. It was not so much what was said, but more what wasn’t. I noted early the next morning that the sailors were not happy and jovial going about their tasks. There was not the usual ribbing and teasing, and absent were the songs and smiles that commonly greeted me as I sat outside the captain’s quarters. I would soon learn why. There was a disagreement on board, and stubborn anger was brewing. On one side were Moses and the captain’s trusted mates, who wanted to turn back to Liverpool in order to save the captain’s life. On the other side were Archer and a few of the other sailors—Daly, Dougherty, and Smyth among them—who wanted to keep on course.
Being on a ship for a long spell, I’ve learned, is a strange thing indeed. Confined, as we are, to a small space and with only each other for company, men find their tempers begin to rise, and even little slights—one sailor getting an extra biscuit or cup of tea—can escalate into a true disagreement that boils over. I had heard, in the galley and on deck, sailors grumbling about each other and about the captain’s condition. Gossip and speculation, anger over extra shifts and Archer’s favoritism, foul insults of Moses’s meager cooking skills—these all spilled over and swirled into an angry mess of talk.
With the ringing of eight bells at noon for the afternoon watch, a meeting was called on deck with Sean yelling, “All hands!” Sleeping night-watch sailors tumbled up to the deck and stood outside the captain’s quarters, grumbling. The sailors who were now on watch dropped their ropes and soapy brushes and also made their way to stand in two lines. I had remained curled in a ball outside the captain’s quarters for most of the morning bells—my one measly kill from the night before beside me—waiting for the captain to acknowledge my work. Usually by this time of the day, Moses would have been on deck, bringing the captain a bite and tallying my kills from the night before. But on this day, he had not yet arrived and I wondered at the change in schedule. Now I roused myself and tried to tidy my fur quickly. I could tell from the quiet and solemn faces among the sailors that something serious was afoot.
“What is the meaning of this?” Archer stumbled out to the quarterdeck, leaving his room as he rarely did during the day. After the captain’s accident and illness, the command of the ship had fallen to him, as first mate. But he had been happy to let Sean and Chippy run the Melissa Rae while he sat in an overstuffed armchair in his quarters, reading from a leather-bound book. He seemed to think that that was the job of a captain—to do nothing while others worked. The rest of us usually laid eyes on him only at mealtimes. Now he stood before us, his shirt untucked and his greasy hair uncombed. “I am first mate, may I remind you, and I’ve not called for all hands.” His mean little eyes met Sean’s warm brown ones as they stood beside each other next to the bell.
Sean turned to address the sailors without responding to Archer. “There has been talk, above and below, of the captain’s condition. As we are all aware, he is gravely ill.” Sean’s eyes went to Moses, who removed his hat and crumpled it to his chest, looking down. “Can you report further, Cook?”
The small man had tears brewing when he looked up, and I knew at once that the captain was no more. That was why he had not congratulated me on last night’s kill, why the door to his quarters had not opened all day…
“He’s had a turn these past days, and is as sick as any man can be and still be called living,” Moses said quietly. But I feared he was not telling the whole truth. Was the captain still with us?
Sean nodded and went on: “We are almost three weeks out, with another three to reach America—that is, with perfect conditions, more than we can hope to expect. But if we return now to port, turning today—”
And here Archer cut him off: “This is foolish talk—nonsense! What difference does it make if the man spends his last days coming or going? He’ll not survive either way.”
Some of the men nodded in agreement, but Sean continued to explain his point. “The west-to-east currents are faster: a return should take no more than fourteen days—and with this crew, and the captain’s life at stake, I expect we would do better than that.”
“Aye, ten days!” Chippy barked out, and a few of the men cheered him, willing to take on the challenge of racing back to Liverpool.
Archer walked across the quarterdeck, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down. He stopped beside me and nudged the dead rat with his black boot, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. “And what then?” He looked up into the faces of the men. “We arrive back in Liverpool in fourteen—or ten—days’ time, as you say, most likely with a dead man aboard who was once your captain, and a hold full of undelivered goods. Goods for which we have collected no fees.” He stopped pacing and looked at the men. “Do you expect that the Archer Shipping Company will gladly dole out the coins, pay you your wages, and you will all toddle off the docks a
nd go home to your loved ones?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
The sailors looked from one to another and realized what he was saying. There would be no pay, after spending over a month at sea. In fact they would be in debt to the shipping company for room and board, and the likelihood of another job aboard any ship—not just an Archer ship—would be slim.
“I say we press on: it’s what the captain would have wanted,” Archer said calmly. “We sail through to New York Harbor. The captain’s health is not my concern.”
Sean stepped forward to speak, but Archer cut him off, putting a hand to his chest. “You will hold your tongue, second mate, or I will lower your rank! Now dismiss these men and go about your business.”
I stood quietly at the feet of the two men, just outside the captain’s door, wondering what, if any, of the argument the captain had heard.
“I respectfully refuse your order,” Sean replied. “I will not dismiss these men, not until a vote has been had. A vote to see who among them would return to Liverpool, and who would push on.” Sean towered over the smaller man and looked down at him now, waiting for a response.
Archer stood his ground, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, I second your idea—let’s have a vote,” he spat out. He turned back to the men. “All those in favor of a return to Liverpool on this watch, say ‘aye’ and raise your right hand.”
The men stood silently, in two lines. Most kept their eyes down, inspecting their own bare feet or the boards of the deck. The sound of the canvas sails in the wind and the soft, rhythmic clunk of the waves against the ship were the only sounds to be heard.
“Not one of you?” Archer scoffed, glancing at the second mate.
“Aye,” Sean spoke first, raising his hand, his eyes locked on Archer’s.
Chippy followed, raising his right hand by his chest. “Aye,” he boomed in his deep voice.
“Aye.” Bobby Doyle stepped forward, the youngest sailor on the Melissa Rae other than myself. He proudly raised his hand.
Moses lifted his three-pointed hat back to his bald head and spoke clearly: “Aye.”
The other sailors stood quietly. Dougherty sniffled but kept his eyes down, while Smyth glanced cautiously around, as if nervous. A rope slapped the main mast in a sad echo, catching the wind. Archer waited a full moment more before asking, “Is that all of you, then? Four men, out of a full crew?”
The men who had raised their hands stood in place, heads up, defiant even in the face of a losing vote. “Dougherty, you are now first mate. Please escort these four to the hold, where they will serve the remainder of this journey.” Archer spoke quickly, turning on his heel.
“What’s that?” Dougherty asked, confused. The other sailors looked to each other, unable to make sense of what had just happened.
Archer turned back to the men, speaking in a stately way. “If the captain is truly unconscious, as Moses reports, then I, as first mate, am now the captain. These men are guilty of planning a mutiny against me, and I will not abide it!” As he spoke, his voice grew louder, his face redder. He paced the quarterdeck above the men, and as he neared me, his boot almost caught my underside.
“Pardon, sir,” Dougherty began to say.
“You will take them to the hold and lock them in, until such time as I have decided on their punishment.” Archer reached swiftly into his jacket pocket and came out with something black in his hand. The men cowered at the sight of it, and, as I watched with curiosity, he waved it over his head. “Do as you are ordered, first mate!”
“Aye, sir.” Dougherty looked cautiously at the black object in Archer’s hand—a gun, I now saw, which was pointed directly at him—and moved to Chippy. “Come, I’ve no choice in the matter.”
Chippy looked at Dougherty and scowled, shoving the bigger man back. “You’re a coward,” he spat. He looked to his friends around him, fellow sailors he had known and traveled with for years. “You’re all cowards! You’d let this mouse of a man push on for profit, and cost us the life of Captain Natick?”
Dougherty moved quickly this time, around Chippy, pulling his arms behind him to hold him tight. But Chippy was faster still, spinning to strike the man in the face with a closed fist. It all happened in a flash, and then blood was pouring from Dougherty’s nose and all down his front. His hand went to his face and came away with bloody fingers. You could almost see steam come off his shoulders from his brewing anger.
Dougherty’s bloody hands went round Chippy’s neck, two big, meaty paws encircling his throat as if to choke the life from him. Chippy reached up to claw at Dougherty’s hands, but the former fighter was too strong: Chippy’s face began to redden, then turn crimson. It was a terrifying scene—our two biggest sailors in a tussle! There was not a man on the ship strong enough to pull them apart, and I felt sure one would gravely injure the other. I crouched, ready to leap onto Dougherty’s back and sink my claws in to loosen his grip on Chippy’s throat, but before I could move, Archer stepped in front of me. He motioned into the sky over the sails and pulled back his arm, eliciting a huge boom and a rain of hot sparks. Black smoke filtered down, and a smell I recognized from the barrels stored below in the hold: gunpowder.
“Cease!” Archer yelled into the mess of men now piled on the deck, wrestling each with the other. It was as if they had all been waiting for just the right moment to bring out their grievances in physical form. They stood and brushed themselves off, Dougherty wiping with the back of a hand at his nose, which still dripped red blood like a broken barrel of dark wine.
“Again, I order you to kindly remove these four men and enclose them in the hold. Or I will end them here, one by one.” He waved the pistol in front of the sailors. Standing so close to him, I could see that his hand, as it held the large black gun, was shaking. Even with the weapon he was a scared, soft man.
Then, from behind me, through the captain’s door, I heard something, faintly. Someone calling. It was the captain! The sound of the commotion and the gunshot had been enough to wake him. I heard him let out a whistle for me, and I raced to the wooden door and set my claws into it, digging furiously. I had to reach him.
A hand closed about my middle, pulling me back while my claws were still engaged, and I found myself flying through the air, tossed as if a bag of flour. I landed on all four paws on the deck, digging in to steady myself. I looked up to see Archer standing behind me, a sickening grin on his face. “And don’t forget to take that animal with them,” he hissed, turning on his heel and returning to his quarters without a backward glance.
Though I had never had trouble weaving my way in and out of the iron bars that lined either side of the hold, the men were too big to slip through. So that was where Dougherty and Smyth brought us, Sean carrying me in the crook of his arm, and locked us up tight. The bars were in place to hold cargo steady, and that they did, on either end of the ship. So filled was the space with all the packages, there was no footing here for man or cat, no open floor at all. So we sat, perching atop the many crates and cases that were shipping to America.
“If we had any more light, I could see the barrels of gunpowder and the chest of pistols I know is stored down here,” Sean grumbled, scratching his bushy beard. He was not correct, though, as I knew those items to be stored in the center of the hold and on the bow side, not here in the stern, where they were now trapped.
“What would you do with those, if you could get hold of them?” Moses asked. “The captain always says it’s a weak man who turns to gunpowder to do his work for him.”
I leapt down from Sean’s lap and slid between the bars to the main section of the hold, sniffing about for vermin, as was my habit. The men took no notice of me, so worried were they over their own predicament.
“If the captain does wake, and hears of this…,” Chippy started.
Sean let out a light laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to be Archer when that man awakes! He’d make a cat-o’-nine sing against his back.”
“But what chance of that?” Bobby ask
ed. His young face in the dim light looked so innocent and childlike. “What’s the chance the captain might be all right?” I turned and paced back to the men, eager to hear what Moses might answer.
Moses shook his head. “I wish I could say otherwise, but the captain will likely not wake.”
Chippy shifted on the crate where he was sitting and brought his palm down hard, cursing. “And you should be tending him, not caged up down here!”
Moses looked over at the large man and tried to calm him. “Don’t raise bile over it, Chip; he’s past all that. His soul is in God’s hands now—there is no difference tending can make.”
The men fell silent, each thinking his own thoughts and perhaps offering prayers for the health of their captain. We were there for only a handful of hours before a lantern came down the main hatch and moved toward us in the darkness. I expected to see Archer’s face, but instead it was another sailor, the man called Daly.
“So I’ve come to let you up,” he mumbled, fitting the key into the lock and swinging open the iron gate. He seemed unable—or unwilling—to meet the eyes of his former friends. “Archer wants a word.”
As the men filed out, Daly closed the gate behind them and followed them across the hold and to the ladder. “And, mates, it’s Captain Archer now,” he whispered. “Or he’ll go right mad.”
I heard Chippy let out a laugh, and I knew he wouldn’t be calling Archer his captain any time soon.