Kingston by Starlight

by Christopher John Farley

  The inward direction of the innards was a common complaint among the newer members of the ship’s crew, and while the motion of the vessel ’gainst the waves was a primary culprit, Sugar-Apple’s concoctions, no doubt, played no small part. Piss-tubs were allocat’d throughout the ship, but they were rank and rarely emptied, since Bishop was of the opinion that the contents would provide some use during the occasion of a fire. To relieve the bladder in other cases required one to scramble onto the nets strung about the bowsprit and to let loose in full view of the hands on deck— tho’ none dared get too close if the wind was blowing full. In other cases, if speed was of the essence, one could position oneself over the bow, and the waves, if the sea was high, could provide a cleansing function as well. There was a plank with a hole set in the beakhead— it was also called the head— but it was invariably in use by one of the twins, when they were not at the watch.

  Zayd provided for those whose constitutions were found to be in variance with the conditions of the sea and from his medical chest— a great mahogany box with inscriptions in some Arab tongue— he doled out various potions and powders. These medicines included Cassia fistula (which was a syrup of senna, which is derived from the pulp of cassia pods) and Succus Glycyrrhiza (a blackish, brackish substance that, as it turned out, was merely licorice juice). When a sea-pup was taken with a large bowel, Zayd would take a more drastic step and apply hot towels to the fundament, and also advise the lad to balance on his head and hands and keep his legs spread apart. This last bit of prescription would be taken only if the sailor in question calculated that the laughter of his mates upon assuming such a position would be less discomforting than the ailment itself.

  One time I spied lying upon his chest a wooden figurine about the size of a baby’s fist. When I picked it up, it was heavy and fit easily into my palm. It was a well-carved thing, of a mother and a child; I could not guess its medical purpose, but it seemed related to fertility. It was smooth to the touch, as if it had been well handled. Along the base there were runes of some sort, etched into the wood in black. Whether this foreign object was a charm or a curse was beyond my powers of discernment. I had no time to consider the matter further, for I heard Zayd’s footsteps in the corridor. I replaced the object on his chest and scuttled away before he entered. However, he may have sensed something amiss for, as he passed me in the hallway, he bore an expression that was difficult to read, as if his emotions had been written across his face in some foreign script.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” he fairly spat at me as we approached each other.

  “What?” I said.

  “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh.”

  “I did not remove anything from your cabin, nor did I pick up the heavy figurine on your chest.”

  Zayd met my gaze and did not blink.

  What sorcery was this? What spell did he mean to cast on me with his strange words? I walked away, my curiosity about Zayd and his work unsatisfied. Zayd’s surgical arts, tho’ sometimes painful for his patients, were said to have saved a number of crewmen, and it was generally held that he was far better at the task than was the last crewman to hold the post. That previous surgeon was a devoted acolyte of the technique of phlebotomy or venesection— which is also called bloodletting— and recommended and performed the procedure even on healthy men. He believed in the doctrine four humors— phlegm, blood, yellow bile, and black bile— and did, with regularity, attempt to bring these substances into equilibrium with the crew by sweating or introducing various liquids into the nose or ear. He also practiced the art of cupping, and would heat the mouth of a glass and clap it onto a patient’s body until the flesh was sucked up and thereby purified. His arts, unfortunately, left the men bleeding, sniffing, and burnt, with the majority of the crew leaking two or more of the four humors from some orifice. In the end, the surgeon was left maroon’d on some isle by Rackam, and Zayd, with his sharp tools, replaced him.

  Days and nights on the William, as on most sailing vessels, were divided into seven periods of duty (Sugar-Apple gave me his take on their relative merits):

  Noon to four o’clock: afternoon watch. This was the easiest assignment, as the sun was up and sightings of target ships came more readily. Crew members who were just waking up would often down a mug of grog to take the edge off the lingering effects of the revelries from the night before.

  Four o’clock to six o’clock: first day watch. Another plum period, in which the light was often good and didn’t begin to fade until the final moments. A mug of grog was usually imbibed to toast the close of day.

  Six o’clock to eight o’clock: last day watch. This was dinnertime, and grog was drunk to wash down the food.

  Eight o’clock to midnight: first watch. When the sun was down and the moon was not yet up, disaster could strike if another ship crept up without being sighted. There was no good reason to drink grog during this session, but it was done all the same.

  Midnight to four o’clock: middle watch. Perhaps the toughest time— many a man had fallen asleep, and faced whipping or worse for dereliction of duty. It was said that grog could help keep one alert, which of course was pure hogwash, but none could be found to argue against it, and so it was practiced.

  Four o’clock to eight o’clock: morning watch. Attacks often are staged at dawn, so a sea-dog was well advised to stay vigilant. Grog helped to keep up the courage.

  Eight o’clock to noon: forenoon watch. The mists of morning could sometimes obscure clear observation— another time to be wary if one was on duty. A mug of grog was usually lifted to toast the new day.

  “Is there a time when the drinking of grog is not customary?” I asked.

  “After your heart stops, and the angels take you, perhaps then,” replied Sugar-Apple. “And if they’re only serving milk and honey in heaven, I reckon most of this lot, if there’s grog to be had, would rather be in hell.”

  My first assignment on the ship was being the man in the masthead for the upcoming middle watch, relieving Hunahpu and Xbalanque. It was customary for privateer ships at the time to keep a man at the lookout on the main masthead. I was to be station’d on the maintop gallant yard, which is the highest of the large wooden spars that cross the mast horizontally. Before I took up my new post— and I was eager to do so, tho’ not so eager to have any truck with the twins— Bishop whistled all hands on deck. Sea-pups and veterans alike were mustered on the quarterdeck. Then the captain strolled in front of our rather ragged ranks and faced us, front and center.

  Night had come and the stars were ablaze. On land, heaven’s illumination is ofttimes obstruct’d by trees and the like; here, on the open sea, celestial glory stretch’d from horizon to horizon, uninterrupted in its brilliance. Polaris, the North star, shined particularly bright; we ignored her beckoning light, however, and continued in our course due south. Calico stood before us, his features and form clear and sharp in the starlight. He held in his hands a long roll of vellum.

  “These are the articles of our pyracy, which all you fine ladies must sign,” he said. “You may choose also not to consent to these articles, which is your right.”

  There was murmuring in the ranks.

  “Yea, the Creator has imbued mankind with the gift of free will, and that attribute we do honor,” Calico continued. “So choose to sign or not, and if not, to honor the almighty, by my troth, we will strangle you with a length of wire in such a manner that you will meet your Creator as swiftly as possible.”

  A bottle of ink and a quill pen were produced by First-Rate, and the vellum roll, along with the writing implements, was circulated among the assembled men. The veterans, whose names were already on the scroll, passed the materials on; the sea-pups, eager to seem unreluctant members of the crew, sign’d the articles with little hesitation or review. Most of the crew seem’d unable to read, given the blank way they scanned the document; still, every new man managed at least to scrawl an X with the pen. Now the articles were given over to me: the vellum wa
s sturdy and golden brown, like a quadroon’s skin, and the writing on it was in fine black calligraphy. Having seen my good-for-nothing pater familias wrestle and contend with his share of contracts in his days as an attorney at law, I paused a bit in my turn and tried to read as much of the document as I could before giving it to the next man.

  Article the First read: Every man has a vote on the affairs of the moment, but the captain is the final arbiter of decisions made in the heat of chase or battle. . . .

  Article the Sixth: No boy or woman is to be allow’d amongst the company whilst at sea. If any man is found seducing any of the latter sex, or is found carrying a boy, girl, or woman to sea for carnal purposes, he is to suffer death.

  Article the Seventh: To desert the ship, or one’s quarter, in battle is punishable by death or marooning. . . .

  Article the Eighth: There is tolerated no striking of another of the ship’s company whilst on board; every man’s quarrel is to be ended on shore, at sword and pistol, with the boatswain presiding. . . .

  Article the Ninth: No distinction shall be made among the members of the ship’s company in terms of treatment in regards to national origin or ancestry. . . .

  This much I was able to read before putting down my name and then passing along the vellum, quill, and ink.

  After Bishop collect’d the signed vellum, Calico addressed the group once more. “Pay you mind to part the fourteenth of the articles,” he said. “The captain, his navigator, and his boatswain will all receive two shares of any prize, all others a share. Now, in the main, sea-bitches sail until they are killed or are caught. Not so we men of the William. I swear to you by Aphrodite’s snow white thighs that we will live to enjoy our spoils in this life and let the Creator take whatever retribution he might in the next.”

  The veterans cheered that line, and Calico continued.

  “So mark you this: a hundred thousand pieces of eight shall we endeavor to collect, or its rough equivalent in treasure or tradable goods. Divided amongst us all, we happy seventy, that should be enough to comfort us all for the remainder of our days and make our hardship on the sea well worth the pain.”

  Now the veterans and the sea-pups cheered and there was much general backslapping and playful thumb-biting. I noticed that Sugar-Apple had made his way on deck and, with his cook’s helpers, was rolling out barrels of grog. He smiled and passed me a mug of grog twice the size of any other.

  “We Cork boys must watch out for one another,” Sugar-Apple said in a brogue that I recognized as belonging not only to the Emerald Isle, but to my fair county.

  Surprised to hear him speak in anything but his Swedish accent, my jaw fell open. Sugar-Apple put his finger to his lips and continued to distribute the spirits. The mood on deck grew considerably brighter.

  “When do we sail ’gainst the Spanish galleon?” said one

  sea-pup, his mug of grog in hand.

  The veterans ’round him burst into loud laughter.

  “If I lied about the riches we will pursue, then pardon my poor mistruth,” said Calico. “But we are all liars here— and thieves and roustabouts and scoundrels. It may be that the Spanish galleon is a myth. It may be that there is no golden treasure ship upon these waves that will suddenly provide for our fortunes. So for now, we hunt for what goods we can find. It’s all about money, ladies, and it ever will be! Tonight we celebrate the riches that may come— and if they come not, we drink to the devil and curse heaven!”

  Sugar-Apple, holding a mug aloft, began to sing (his Swedish voice had returned):

  “To the mast nail our flag it is dark as the grave

  Or the death which it bears while it sweeps o’er the waves”

  At this, the veterans of the crew, with lust and abandon, joined in:

  “Let our deck clear for action, our guns be prepared

  Be the boarding axe sharpened, the scimitar bared”

  In a brief enough time, the new recruits were so sodden with grog that any resentment, if there was any, toward the ruse that was used to get them on board was forgotten. For immediately following Calico’s address, there commenced a period of revelry so untamed and wild as can be scarcely imagined. Freed from cultural boundaries associated with land and cities, my new fellows uttered oaths, cavorted about, and did such things that would pollute a draggletail’s eye, nevermind the uncorrupted sight of a maiden fair. There was much quaffing of grog which, truth be told, is a horrible beverage, composed of rum much diluted with three times the amount of water, plus a little (mostly rancid) lemon juice to ward off the scurvy. But, in the midst of such a revel, the demonic mixture was the nectar of the gods.

  “It shall never be lowered, the black flag we bear

  “If the sea be denied us, we sweep through the air

  “Some fight ’tis for riches, some fight ’tis for fame

  “The first I’ll not refuse, the last is a name

  “For I strike for the memory of long-vanished years

  “I shed blood where another sheds tears”

  How far away from me now seem’d that world of girdles and petticoats, curtseys and courtship! By my faith, I never felt my womanhood so intensely as when I became a man of the sea. In that pampered other world, tho’ you’ll never hear it said aloud, a woman feels all the lust and rude emotions as are experienced by men, a woman yearns, in her secret heart, to experience all the adventures and challenges that men embrace— and yet it is all denied, and all that desire is hidden in smiles and dimples. Let that world be damn’d! I lifted a mug of grog and drain’d it, and after hours had passed, and many more mugs besides, I climbed up to my new posting at the masthead and, with the whole of the ship and the sea and the celestial canopy spinning around me, I began my first watch.

  chapter 11.

  Ahhh, but how I wish you could feel the breath of the Chocolate Gale. I experienced it for the first time on my virgin night on the masthead. Ascending the fully erect length of main topmast was no small feat. My head and belly were full of grog. In my drunken state, the pole seem’d to bend and throb, and all the handholds were slick. A tipsy warmth had spread over my lips, my cheeks, along the flanks of my breasts, to the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes. At that point in my career as a mariner, I knew nothing of spotting ships, and could hardly tell a schooner from a frigate. In addition, I, on occasion, transposed larboard and starboard, more often than not confused the boom with the gaff, and, I must admit, at that time I couldn’t tie a bowline knot if all creation depended on it. However, I felt, despite my many failings as a man of the sea (the first being that I was hardly a man), I felt I was well suited for duty atop the masthead. Since, in that assignment, I was in the most favorable position to see and render judgment on what was floating on the waves, none down below would be able to gainsay my observations. My ignorance was thus well disguised as expertise. In any case, I was overjoy’d to be out of my dank, cramp’d quarters in the lower deck. The spirits made me perhaps more unmindful of the danger as I climbed the mizzen yard. At one point, I fell down the ropes a few lengths, regain’d my hold, and continued upward. I was, in truth, not merely intoxicated with the grog, but with ship life in its entirety. I was so happy I burst into loud song, a tune that I had often heard men singing while raising gourds of ale in taverns in New Providence:

  “Drain, drain the bowl, each fearless soul

  Let the world wag as it will”

  I stopped my song and frowned at myself in the dark. I had been singing my tune in my maiden’s pitch, high as a bird in flight. I hoped that the men in hearing distance were, like me, in such a condition as this would all be a dream come the morn. Adjusting my voice to adopt a more masculine level, I continued with my tune:

  “Let the heavens growl, the devil howl

  Drain, drain the bowl”

  Ahhh— but my voice still had a feminine lilt, despite my attempts to lower its register. It seem’d my subterfuge was not expert enough to encompass song; in flirting with smooth-voiced Euter
pe’s craft, I was revealed. I made a promise that very moment that I would never sing again. This was no small thing since warbling is an expression of joy that increases the happiness it celebrates; many times afterward I sat in glum silence as fellows sang around me, my tongue eager to join the chorus. But, to maintain my manly artifice, I seal’d my lips and kept that oath all these long years, excepting one sad time.