Not One Shred of Decency
Page 3
Mackenzie looked with scorn at the bored boys scuffling in horseplay. Boys, men, people and their problems, the biggest drawback to sailing. He envisioned a perfect world where he would captain a ship all alone. Phantom sailors would appear only when needed to perform necessary duties, and when their chores were done, he would watch them fade away and become invisible.
Finally the only laborers still working were the men loading perishables. It had not rained, and the prospects for decent weather for the morning’s cast-off looked promising.
A few of the crew had wives and family who lived in Brooklyn, but most of them were young boys who took advantage of every liberty as though it would be their last.
Except for a few stragglers, the seamen, in varying degrees of fitness, reported onboard by sunset. Mackenzie would have those who reported in after sunset properly punished.
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Late that evening Ganse was watching a schooner drop its anchor when he heard a commotion on the gangway. He could tell from the deep throated groan that it had to be First Mate Cromwell. He had stumbled, triggering an eruption of heavy laden naval oaths.
Cromwell could have remained on liberty until sunrise the same as the officers, but had decided to report back early. The gigantic man swayed backwards and might have crashed back on the wharf except for his huge hand strangling a gangway rope. His glazed eyes and toppling stance stripped him of any claim to sobriety. A brute by every measure; big, tall, dense as an anvil, he dwarfed every other man on board the Somers. An old brawling scar meandered across his forehead and into his tousled black hair. An unbuttoned jacket exposed a hastily adorned and twisted blouse that failed to conceal his hairy belly. His swarthy, sea-toughened face and heavy beard framed a mouthful of stained and decaying teeth. Never a handsome creature, but inebriated, he looked evil. He paused for a moment, slapped his belly with sufficient force to press out a long bearish belch, then stumbled on, growling oaths with each step.
Midshipman Charles Rogers, even knowing Cromwell’s explosive temper, could not resist a mischievous gouge, “Need a hand, Cromwell?”
“I’ll see you in hell, Rogers. If I weren’t celebratin’, I’d smash your measly skull.” Cromwell’s loud deep voice seemed to smother Rogers’ low key voice.
“What’cha celebrating, Cromwell?”
Cromwell negotiated the gangway and stepped on deck. “Got married last night, and now I’m celebratin’ getting away from her.”
Ganse slowly shook his head, partly in dismay and partly in disgust. He decided to ignore Cromwell’s sloppy dress and drunken entrance. As he turned to leave, Cromwell shouted, “Come here Lieutenant, I ain’t saluted an officer or the flag of this here brigantine yet.”
Ganse turned. Cromwell, standing at exaggerated attention and saluting, towered over Ganse by at least a foot. Ganse looked up at the barrel-chested, swaying giant, and returned the salute. Cromwell’s hand fell like a dropped anchor, and he staggered toward the hatch to the berth deck. Ganse grimaced at the brewery smell as he passed. Cromwell mumbled, “Damn bitch. Betcha she’s already in the sack with some greasy old salt.”
Relieved to see him go below, Ganse hoped he would not see him again until he was sober. Ganse hated his weakness, but Cromwell was the only man on board that made him feel uneasy every time he gave him an order. He loathed his urge to soften his commands with “please” when giving Cromwell an order. Such a devious mental bully, the only man that he had ever known who delighted in constantly penetrating his shield of manhood. Ganse dared not even admit to himself that Cromwell was so worldly wise he could pluck out his soul, bit by bit, without ever uttering one word of insubordination. Some day he would find a way to put an end to Cromwell’s outrageous affront. He wished Cromwell was not assigned to the Somers, but he would die before he would let anybody know how he felt.
**********
Tuesday morning, September 13, 1842, visitors clamored on board and people milled about on the wharf. It had rained earlier, but now the sun occasionally broke through fast moving clouds. All Navy personnel were dressed in their formal uniforms.
Secretary Upshur stepped from the gangway onto the spar deck. Commodore Perry said, “Good morning, sir, how was your trip from Washington?”
“Boiler blew sky high killing the fireman and injuring the engineer just after leaving Philadelphia. I thought I would miss this ceremony, but another train was right behind us and so I lost only four hours. All the men got off and heaved the damaged engine and cars off the track. It was near midnight when I got to the hotel.”
Mackenzie said, “I think I’ll stay with sails.”
Upshur said, “Trains can save a lot of time if they don’t break down. I tell you, they are noisy and it’ll take me two weeks to get all the soot and cinders out of my ears and hair. Everyone got cinders in their eyes.”
Perry said, “Steam ships will replace sailing ships eventually, I’m afraid.”
Mackenzie preferred to avoid such unpleasant thoughts and remained quiet.
Upshur said, “Captain Mackenzie, I’m sorry you had to sign up more men than you would wanted, but this mission is so visible the politicians couldn’t resist sticking their finger in the pudding.”
“We will manage, sir, I’m determined this cruise will accomplish our goals.”
“I’m sure you will, Captain. I’ll invite President Tyler and Secretary of War Spencer to attend a celebration on your return.”
“I’ll be honored, Sir.”
Ganse asked the harbor pilot, “There’re some ominous clouds pushing up from the southwest. If a strong breeze whips up, will it effect the harbor currents?”
“Not for a few hours. You should be in deep water by then.”
Families huddled in small groups on the brigantine or on the wharf. They talked in low tones with the seamen and officers they would not see for months. Mothers and wives blotted their eyes with their handkerchiefs. Fathers and sailors strained to be witty and maintain small talk. Several dirty barefooted boys with protruding bellies meandered around the wharf begging coins from the visitors. One little beggar came up the gangway but Cromwell caught him by the belt, turned him around, and gave him a boot. Several bystanders laughed as the boy tumbled down the gangway. Hardened to such treatment, the boy got up and continued to beg for coins just as though it had never happened.
Older seamen on the spar deck enjoyed telling hugely embellished sea tales to wide eyed, open mouthed, spellbound boys. With squinted eyes and screwed faces the seamen would talk in low tones and then suddenly burst out loudly, waving their arms and making gestures with clinched fists. The boys would flinch and gasp. Now and then a nervous giggle would relieve some tension.
Other children feverishly inspected the brigantine with only an occasional reprimand for climbing too high or being too noisy.
Seamen without families stood on the spar deck talking and joking amongst themselves. A few young boys preferred to stand away from everyone. It would be their first cruise and they had not made friends yet. They did not yet even feel a closeness with others like themselves, each harboring his own special loneliness and apprehensive about what would happen next. But whatever happened, it would be a relief to be done with the ceremony and shove off.
At three bells, Mackenzie had Ganse use his brass speaking trumpet to get everyone’s attention. Mackenzie stood by the bulwark so that both the people on board and on the wharf could hear. He made a few brief remarks that no one would remember, and then introduced Secretary Upshur. The Secretary described the history making features of this cruise, that no one would remember. He ended by praising Perry and Mackenzie for working so hard to make this cruise possible. Everyone applauded when he finished.
A local minister blessed the mission. Mackenzie led everyone in the pledge of allegiance. He motioned to Ganse to ring the brigantine’s bell again as a signal that all visitors must now leave. Time for last hugs, a few tears, and the visitors began to shuffle down the gangway.
Vigorous shouts, flag waving, cheers, and tears, wished the Somers a safe journey as the brigantine stubbornly surrendered to the toiling men rowing the small boats. Limp sails dropped one by one and slowly filled. The Somers creaked and groaned, the sailors repeated commands, sea gulls voiced their objections when startled into flight, the captain’s pig oinked, and the chickens squawked; all but one man noisily joined in the celebration. Philip Spencer missed all the festivities. Alone and back in a dimly lit corner, he squinted to read Pirate’s Own Book by Charles Ellms.
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The next day, newspapers reported the results of the Tuesday night Chris Lilly and Tom McCoy lightweight prize fight. Lilly won the $200 purse, but McCoy lost more than the fight. After one-hundred and twenty flesh cutting rounds, fans jeered as he fell mortally wounded. The Somers crew would have to wait three months for this news. Neither the Herald or the Courier and Inquirer found space to print the Somers’ departure. In a paragraph, buried on page two, the Tribune noted the departure of the Somers and listed the officers. The Somers return to New York in December was destined to be more newsworthy.
CHAPTER 5
Away from the protection of wharves and buildings, the Somers encountered gusty winds. Sails billowed pressing the Somers to heel to larboard. Turning east into the open sea the brigantine rolled with the ground swells and strong wind. The bow plowed deep into the swells forcing geysers of spray to rain down on the deck. When it had overstayed its plunge it would rise up angrily and press the stern deep into the sea.
New recruits had practiced raising and pulling in sails when the Somers was tied to the wharf, but handling sails on a rolling brigantine at sea presented hazards they had not anticipated. Standing on ropes draped under the yardarms and handling stiff wet sails was hard enough for new hands, but to add forward-to-back and side-to-side motions with the noisy sea in turmoil was confusing and frightening. Pendulum movements of the mainmast carried them high over the water before swinging them back over the spar deck and on to the other side. Even with the wind blowing and the horizon moving in crazy ways they were expected to obey boisterous unintelligible commands from below. Would they ever master this?
Cromwell had no patience for young boys high overhead with scant understanding of naval terminology. He barked commands saturated with abusive oaths. The brave, the cowards, and all in between tried to simultaneously hang on, listen to Cromwell, and understand experienced seamen’s interpretations of Cromwell’s orders.
Finally on deck, frightened boys compared harrowing experiences. “Jesus, my hand slipped and it I hadn’t had my foot tangled in the ropes I’d fallen in the ocean.”
“Look at the bloody hands I got from rope burns.”
“Ha, did you see Wilbur Byrd? He got so scared we had to pry him loose from the mast to get him down.”
“Shut up, you’re a damn liar! I weren’t scared neither. I just got my shoe buckle caught on something.”
“Haaa ha. Sailor Byrd went to sea. Got so scared he couldn’t pee.”
“Go to hell, you bastard. I didn’t see you swinging around like a monkey up there.”
Sails pulling on tall masts and the weight of cannon on the Somers’s top deck made the brigantine top heavy, which resulted in excessive rolling. The rhythmic motion of the brigantine in rough seas was not the new recruits’ biggest concern while they were busy, but as activity slackened, queasiness set in with many of the boys. By the time they reached open sea, many faces resembled day-old crab meat.
Waves of nausea befell the young boys as they watched their homeland slowly sink into the horizon. Stop the motion! That would cure their nausea, but this option was not theirs for the choosing.
Young Jameson moaned, “I feel sick.”
With an un-smiling smile, his friend Smith replied, “Your face is as white as my Uncle Hector when he laid stone cold dead in his coffin.”
With chin in his chest, Jameson slowly rolled his eyes up to look at Smith and then made a dash for the bulwark.
Smith slid to the deck, leaned back against a small boat and shut his eyes. After listening to Jameson’s retching for a few minutes, he bolted for the side himself. “Move over, quick.”
Over the length of the bulwark, other heads would appear for a few minutes and then withdraw. A few who went to the windward side, quickly regretted their decision.
After Jameson had heaved repeatedly and nothing more came up, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I’m going below and finish dying in my hammock.”
Smith asked, “What’ll I tell Cromwell if he comes looking for you?”
“Tell him if he can make a dead body work, he’ll find one in my hammock.”
Smith moaned more to himself than to Jameson, “I’ll stay here for a while and see if I can figure out why I thought Boston was so bad then I’ll jump overboard.”
Jameson said, “Bye friend, see you in hell.” and he staggered towards the hatch to go below.
If Jameson expected the berth deck to provide relief from his miseries, he was destined for disappointment. The dimly lit berth deck, living quarters for over one-hundred seamen, was fifty feet long and 17 feet wide. Part of that space was needed for the galley stove, gangway, spare anchor, rigging, sail material, and food supplies. Hammocks were swung three high in the headroom of less than 5 feet. Horizontal spacing was 3 feet. Personal items were stored in ditty bags hanging on pegs in the overhead beams.
There was reason enough for young boys to be sick and heartsick. Hanging lanterns swaying with ship movements cast haunting patterns of restless shadows. A groaning ship that never rested the stench and sound of churning bilge water the smell and sounds of tightly packed mates regurgitating food from one end and erupting gas from the other nauseating odors from the galley obnoxious chit-chat of sailors with cast iron stomachs scurrying rats chasing scurrying roaches And worse, no opportunity for nauseated, confused, homesick boys to change their minds about their chosen profession.
Strong winds and churning water constantly playing fickle tricks enhanced the sea’s character for Mackenzie. Alert for the next challenge, rolling decks, chilling spray in his face and he was the commander. What mortal could ask for more. His stoic expression belied the thrill and excitement he reveled in. Only in a few very rough seas had Mackenzie experienced even light sea sickness and he resented men who did suffer from it. They were somehow marked as un-seaworthy to him and should be abandoned at the next port.
But from experience he knew many chores would have to wait until the men found their sea legs. For the next day or so he would depend on men like Cromwell and older seamen who never suffered from sea sickness. Cromwell would choke on his own vomit before he would admit being sick.
Spencer was in his top bunk and facing the bulkhead when Ganse found him. “Mr. Spencer, you’re late for your watch.”
Still facing the bulkhead, “Sorry sir, but I’m indisposed at the moment.”
“Try Mr. Spencer. We’re short handed.”
“I really feel sick, sir. Perhaps Perry will stand watch for me?”
Ganse sighed, “All right, we’ll manage.”
Alone again, Spencer pulled Slaving For Great Wealth from under his blanket and read in the dim light coming from a small port hole.
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On the second day out strong gale forces struck, extending the sickness period. Skysails and topgallant sails had to be pulled in and lashed to the yardarms or the leverage on the tall mast would roll the brigantine over. Waves crashed on the spar deck and foaming water would find its way to the bilge. Men had to weather the
elements on the open deck to man the wheel and bilge pump. Yelling was necessary to overcome the assortment of ship, howling wind, and rushing water noises.
Curses and complaints were plentiful as able-bodied men became exhausted. Cromwell made frequent visits to the berth deck, loudly chastising the sick men for being suckling babes in their cribs. When he found a boy who showed signs of recovery, he yanked him out of his hammock and, with a boot, sent him topside.
Cromwell’s frame, over 6 feet, was ill suited for the berth deck headroom of less than 5 feet. He was forced to lean over and his large arms hung down to his knees. On one visit, one young boy spoke too loud, “Look sick mates, here comes ape man again.”
Cromwell swelled with anger, his eyes rolled about emblazoned cheeks and he bit his lip. He lifted the howling boy bodily with one ham hand wrapped about the boy’s neck and the other through his belt. He threw him up and out of the hatch on his way to get Mackenzie’s permission for a flogging. A half hour later, the overhead hatch opened, and the boy was dropped in a heap to the berth deck. Sick boys staggered out of their hammocks to view the half-conscious, wet, and writhing body with blood streaks soaked through his shirt. One low voice spoke for all, saying, “Jesus.” The message was clear, as Cromwell knew it would be.
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Large swells became small swells and pressed by favorable winds, the Somers was moving at good speed on a southeast course. The boys began to feel better. Most of them viewed their stinking berth deck as a filthy prison and were glad to go topside and fill their lungs with fresh sea scrubbed air. Cromwell greeted them, “Well, well, another one of me babes has learned to walk. Now get your ass forward and start stoning the deck. And don’t look up ‘til it’s as white as your face.”