by Lee Henschel
“You need not call me sir, young man. Gottlieb will suffice. And I do not partake in alcohol.”
“Aye, Gottlieb.”
“I am glad you did not cut yourself on Cara.”
“Cara, sir?”
“My scimitar. I name it for the oasis. Both necessary . . . if you wish to live in the desert.”
“It looks most sharp.”
“Yes. Most sharp.”
“May I bring you tea?”
He ignored me as he removed a small rug from his sea chest.
“Kindly point east.”
I looked at the compass secured on the bulkhead.
“The compass says east is near direct out the stern gallery, sir.”
He unfurled the rug on the cabin deck, spreading it lengthwise toward the transom. The rug was about three feet wide and five feet long. Tightly woven in raw wool and unadorned. I recognized the weave from mom’s loom. Once satisfied, he turned to address me.
“What is your name?”
I told him.
“How old are you, Harriet?”
“Twelve, sir.”
“You are very young to serve on a ship.”
“Aye, sir. But not the youngest. If you require no refreshments, sir, is there anything else you wish me to do?”
“Yes. My sea trunk. Remove my cooking stove and set it in a safe place, but easy to reach . . . along with my charcoal. I will prepare my own food.”
He handed me a small brass pot with a long handle.
“What is this?”
“A dallah . . . for serving coffee.”
“Oh! I’ve heard of coffee. And I once I even smelled it. What is it?”
“A beverage. I brew it on my stove.”
I removed a dozen packages from his trunk. They were light and smelled of mum’s root cellar.
“These smell most good, Gottlieb.”
“And you smell like a horse, young Harriet.”
“Sir?”
“Two other people have been in this room with us. They have both left, and the smell of a horse remains. It is not me. It must be you.”
I laughed. “I’ve not been aboard overlong, sir. Before that I was with horses all my life. My father’s a farrier. A horse’s smell can’t help but rub off on a farrier, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize. It is a good smell, just not expected on a ship.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Since you are a farrier’s son perhaps you can assist me with my cousin’s horses. Do you ride?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Bareback?”
“Only bareback, sir. My legs still won’t reach even the short stirrups.”
“I can see that. No matter. Perhaps you are familiar with Arabians?”
“Oh yes, sir. A most fine horse.”
Gottlieb smiled. “Indeed. Willing, but sensitive. They must be handled with competence and respect. Are you capable of that?”
“Aye, sir.
“Good. I will pray now . . . toward the east.”
“Toward a church, sir?”
“No. Toward the river. You may leave.”
By first light the wind carried off the fog and Eleanor got under way. The Eleanors said nothing but each watched pensive as we slipped past Gosport and then Southsea, wondering when they might return home. For two days we came about a great many times, with every tack setting us on another long and punishing beam reach but never resulting, it seemed, in much headway.
I’d found out during sea trials that, thankfully, I was not likely to become sea sick. But not so for Gottlieb. He spent much of his time hanging out the stern gallery windows, retching into the channel. Ajax rigged a hammock for him, stretching it diagonally across the great cabin to counteract Eleanor’s motion. And he advised Gottlieb to stay in the hammock and focus on the lantern gimbal.
The hammock and gimbal relieved Gottlieb enough for him to sleep. And for the next few days that is what he did, except when Ajax fired the captain’s Prélat out the stern gallery windows for the noon sighting.
“Young Harriet! We are we under attack!”
“No Gottlieb. It’s just the gun for noon sighting, sir. Eight bells in the forenoon watch, sir. That’s noon.”
“Oh. Well please ask him to quit.”
“I will, sir. But Ajax is under orders to fire the thing, sir. And he likes it overmuch, I think.”
I checked on Gottlieb every hour and on one occasion I saw his trunk split its lashings and slide along the deck, crashing against the bulkhead. I’d emptied the trunk and stowed his clothes and belongings, so when I went to secure it I assumed the thing would be rather light. But the trunk was still most burdensome. Then I realized that Gottlieb’s sea trunk contained a false bottom, with something substantial resting inside it.
We finally made the Lizard and after one last broad reach stood into the Celtic Sea. By then Gottlieb felt somewhat better and asked after Captain Cedric.
“He’s on the quarterdeck, sir.”
“Summon him.”
“He’ll not leave the quarterdeck, sir. He’s been on deck most constant . . . in this sea he must stand his post.”
“Then I will go to him.”
The sky had turned most black, lightning shredded the dense clouds and the sea came ominous alive. Silver white spume leapt from every wave and the wind drove it onboard. It stung my face. Eleanor carried storm canvas now. The foretop sail was set, as well the main royal staysail. All double-reefed, but still a perilous amount of sail in such a wind. It drove Eleanor like a wild mare, leaping and plunging and at times shipping it green over her bow. Even below decks I’d feared this storm. But now, as I stood for the next mountainous heave I remembered what my uncle said when he first saw me . . . “No more than a pip.” I panicked and thought to escape below but stood fast, if only for Gottlieb. He slipped on the deck and his hand trembled as I helped him stand. He looked most afraid and I felt I must be strong for him—for both of us, while Eleanor rose, shivered and shook, and prepared for the next sea.
We regained our balance but as we worked toward the helm I held back. The quarterdeck was hallowed ground. Only the captain and officers, the helmsmen and other ratings whose duties brought them to the quarterdeck were permitted. I caught the eye of Lieutenant Goodwin. He called for me to approach, trumpeting to be heard above the shrieking wind and deafening sea.
“What do you want, boy?”
He bent to hear, and I stood on my toes and screamed in his ear. “Gottlieb wishes to speak to the captain, sir.”
“I’ll take him aft. You go below.”
“But I’m supposed to attend him at all times, sir.”
“Very well.”
Captain Cedric held his own to windward on the quarterdeck with the bosun, yelling to be heard over the din.
“Starky just sounded the hold, sir. He says eight inches of water. The seams are opening, sir.”
“Good! We need more ballast. Put men on the bilge pumps though. Tell them to stand by until there’s another four inches before they start pumping. I want water in the hold until this blows over.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gleason worked his way off the quarterdeck and Gottlieb tried to reach the captain but Mr. Lau, the sailing master, pushed him aside.
“First rate weather, captain!”
“Aye. We’ll shorten sail.”
“Hold off a bit longer if you will, sir. We must be sure to weather Ushant. If this weather holds then we can run full and by all the way to Navé.”
The captain laughed. “Indeed! I’ll give you five more minutes of this, Mr. Lau.”
“Aye, sir. That should suffice. And do you feel it now, sir?”
“Aye. An Atlantic swell, to be sure. And there’s a charge in the air.”
Mr. Lau nodded, then clawed his way to the binnacle to consult with Goodwin. Once more Gottlieb tried to approach the captain but Towerlight shoved him aside, yelling at the captain.
“I’ve triple-lashed the
guns, sir, and bolted their chocks to the deck.”
Captain Cedric nodded and was about to comment when the black sky split apart in a blinding flash and a crack of thunder exploded direct above, knocking Gottlieb and me flat to the deck.
All went silent, my ear drums pierced through. I stared at Gottlieb. His nose was bleeding. He tried to stand, but slipped and crashed again to the deck as another sea rolled Eleanor near beam ends. Gottlieb sprawled on the deck panting, staring straight up, his eyes filling with fright. I heard an unearthly hissing in the air, and followed Gottlieb’s eyes staring wide-eyed now and high into the rigging as green fire shot from the main topmast, and then from both tips of the royal yard. The thing moaned and shrieked as it leapt to the mizzen topmast and then on to the royal yard. It spun furious, buzzing and changing shape before leaping once more, this time plunging and hissing into the sea. It trailed a pungent odor that even the howling wind failed to carry away. I lie there stunned and confused, yet managed to grab a rail and draw myself up. I helped Gottlieb as he made to stand. When the next sea smashed on Eleanor his legs gave out and he went down once more.
“Gottlieb! Are you all right, sir?”
“I have sprained my ankle. Never mind that. What did we just see?”
By then Goodwin stood over us, standing broad on the pitching deck and laughing uproarious.
“Oh! Oh the look on your precious faces! To be sure you’ve not either one of you seen St. Elmo’s fire!”
“No. But I have seen the likes of it, sir,” Gottlieb replied, “spitting from the mouth of a jinni.”
Captain Cedric arrived and helped Gottlieb to his feet.
“Are you injured, sir?”
“Very minor, I think.”
“You must go below for your own safety.”
“I must talk to you.”
“Not now. We’re coming about soon. Then we’ll have weathered Ushant. After that I must go below to open my orders. Only then will we have something to talk about. Please go now.”
We near tumbled down the companionway on our way below. Very shortly Eleanor came about and at once the pounding eased as we changed our bearing, making near south-by-south. I stayed with Gottlieb in the great cabin, waiting for the captain to step in. But it was Ajax.
“Come along, boy.”
He brought me to the chart room where the captain was busy changing into a dry slops. Ajax left, closing the door behind him, and I stood before my uncle.
“Report.”
“Sir?”
“You were ordered to observe our passenger. Have you neglected to obey your orders?”
“Yes, sir. I mean aye, sir. I mean no, sir.”
The captain smiled grim. “Just what do you mean, boy?”
I cleared my throat and stood straight. “Gottlieb’s been most sick, sir. He’s better now. He sleeps a lot.”
“Is that all you have for me, boy?”
“Oh, no, sir. He has a sword, sir. He called it a . . . I forgot.”
“A scimitar.”
“Aye, sir. It’s splendid. Most sharp. With a jeweled hilt. Except there seems to be no scabbard. And it has a name, sir.”
“A name?”
“Aye, sir. He calls it Cara. That’s an oasis.”
“I see. Have you seen any other weapons? A pistol? Or a knife?”
“I’ve not seen either, sir.”
“What does he do when he’s not sick or sleeping?”
“Now that he feels better he cooks his own food. And makes coffee.”
“He cooks?”
“Aye, sir. With charcoal.”
“No fires allowed, boy. Diplomat or not I will tell him to cease and desist. What else?”
“He kneels overmuch on his rug, sir, with his face mashed on the deck. I think he’s praying.”
“He is. That’s how a Muslim prays, boy, and you must leave him at those times.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Does he have any reading material?”
“He reads, sir. I don’t know the books. But I know some of the letters . . . and a word or two.”
“Perhaps it’s time for that to change.”
“I would like that very much, sir.”
“Very well. That will be all.”
“There’s one other thing, sir.”
“What is that?”
“His sea trunk, sir.”
“What of it?”
“It has a false bottom, sir. Something most heavy is in it.”
“Well done. Now you must find out what’s in it as soon as you can. Dismissed.”
“Aye, sir.”
But instead of leaving I stood staring at the large books secured in the bulkhead shelves.
“What are you waiting for, boy?”
“Sir, may I ask a question?”
“Very well, what is it?”
“These books, sir. What’s in them?”
“Navigational logs.”
“Are they yours, sir?”
“No. They belong to Mr. Lau.”
Ignatius Comet Lau. I knew him for more than twenty years. There is much to say about the man, though he’d not like it overmuch if he knew I wrote of him at such length. He was my first teacher and the very best I ever had. On my first months aboard Eleanor it was he who recognized my worth and strove to bring it out.
He would suggest that he was a man of reason who relied on empirical evidence, yet he based many of his decisions on some elusive sort of ‘osmotic pressures,’ as he called them. Even he could not explain what he meant by osmotic pressures, but certain he had them. His book racks held countless maritime ledgers and charts, alongside a good many of the natural philosophers—Sir Isaac Newton, David Hume and John Locke. He read Mary Wollstonecraft and, later, her daughter, Mary Shelly.
I knew none of these names as a cabin boy, of course, and would have been at a loss to hear their ideas. I only wondered why Mr. Lau had not been much seen on deck during Eleanor’s sea trials. It turned out he’d remained below to study his charts. And only after sailing orders did he spring to life with his telescope, with his middle name, Comet, etched on the brass tube. He spent much time on the quarterdeck then, as much as Captain Cedric.
Mr. Lau was about fifty when I first met him. A short and lively man. His pink, balding pate marked him, and below that his white hair stood out stiff. His ears, also pink, were overlarge. He had bushy brows that knitted studious. And watery blue eyes magnified by the thick glasses he wore constant. He had a bulbous nose and a plum coloured wen on the left side that he massaged with a pudgy index finger. His bristling side whiskers near met below his weak chin and small, cherry red mouth. Mr. Lau wore dentures, wooden uppers. At times he would shoot them half-way out, often unbeknownst to him, as when working a navigational problem, and at other times knowing full well what he was about, meaning to shock someone newly met. The men loved Mr. Lau for that habit, and always made sure to mimic him in their games of make-a-face.
Mr. Lau had previously served for twenty-two years on Zealous, a sixty-four gun relic. Captain Cedric came to know him during that time when he was a junior officer. They served together on several voyages. Eventually the old ship paid off and when her officers and crew were reassigned Mr. Lau was posted to Admiralty House in London.
He lived in London for a year serving in the catacombs of the Royal Navy’s Log Office, where the daily logs kept by all officers from admirals down to midshipmen eventually ended up. Every log was scrutinized by a series of examiners beginning with representatives from the Exchequer. Each entry was compared to those of every other officer serving on the same ship on the same voyage to determine, among other things, whether an enemy’s proclivity might be parlayed into a weakness, or to confirm if some questionable action ordered by a commander was reasonable and correct. Also, to get an overall impression of how the Royal Navy conducted itself on a daily basis.
Of particular interest were the navigational logs of the sailing masters. And Mr. Lau, because of his first-ra
te reputation, was assigned to the first revision of the Nautical Almanac. Maps and charts are most critical in the defense of an island nation, but despite the considerable improvements derived from Mr. Lau’s revisions, he found no joy in his work. He was not meant for shore duty. He longed for the sea.
Captain Cedric heard of Mr. Lau’s plight so when the captain was offered Eleanor, a new ship with neither officers or crew, he rescued Mr. Lau from his bleak routine. The captain wanted Mr. Lau to serve as Eleanor’s sailing master because the man would provide not only decades of deck experience, but bring onboard his corpus of bound volumes. Personal charts and notations. It was a most bounteous compilation, a thorough treatment of coast lines, reefs and tidal anomalies.
Without question though, Mr. Lau’s most valuable asset was his uncanny ability to recall instanter and with unerring accuracy the thousands of notations he’d recorded over his years as a sailing master. Coordinates, dates, times and all other pertinent factors as well. The man was a living repository of nautical facts and figures.
Mr. Lau had never married, claiming to be wed to the sea. He never drank while at sea, and was satisfied to trade his ration of grog for a plug of banded jacky. He was the first to admit that while on shore he was a desperate sot. That was one reason he accepted Captain Cedric’s request, so as not to drink himself death on shore. Mr. Lau was simply withering away. His true place was on the quarterdeck, or logging his entries in the comforting fug of his chart room.
Chapter Seven
By dawn the storm blew off leaving behind a monstrous sea that rolled and pitched Eleanor with disregard, dipping her yards uncertain close to the water. Reggie and I squinted at McFerron, a tiny figure high in the rigging, one leg wound tight around the flag staff at the very tip of the mainmast, shrieking unbound as he re-rove a downhaul that had failed in the storm. The roar and thunder had blown out, and we heard McFerron plain.
“Is he singing or screaming?”
“Singing, Reggie.”
“Well the man must be moon struck! Singing away at two hundred feet off the deck.”
A topman standing near replied, “He’s no moon struck, mate. Well, a wee bit. But mostly he’s singin’ for the glee.”