Not One Shred of Decency

by Bob Brown

  Mackenzie looked back at me, or it seemed as if just me, and continued, “The Captain, standing beside me on the stern, also watched my friend disappear. I told him we had to pull about! He said, ‘Son, there’ll be no rescue, we’d be miles apart before we could reset sails, the winds aren’t right, the ocean is too big and he is too small. He can’t stay afloat that long  and we’d lose a day of sailing. Give the boy’s name to the officer of the day’ he said, ‘ so he can enter it in the ship’s log.’ Then he turned and went about his business as usual. I confess, tears flowed freely as I stood alone on that stern.”

  The captain appeared to be in deep thought for a moment. “Since then I’ve seen many men go over, and I’ve forgotten some, but I can’t forget my friend. The background vision as he fell past me is blurred, but my central vision of Marshall’s face, the echo of his agonizing scream, is crystal clear  and will be on my death bed.”

  After a prolonged silence while everyone seemed to be absorbed in their own thoughts, someone asked if all overboard men are lost? Mackenzie answered, “Occasionally, as in the tropics, the sea is calm, the visibility good, and the winds favorable. Then a man may be saved. You must quickly launch four men in a small boat to pick up the overboard man. Then the ship’s crew turns to setting the ship about to rescue all. But the Captain must exercise good judgment, for he may also lose the small boat with four more men.

  “Men, there’s a lesson here. Life is a never ending theater; sometimes we’re the actors, sometimes the patrons. I tell you now, detach yourself from personal involvement. There’s comedy, love, pain, and tragedy, and we can’t write the script. We must play our parts the way they’re written. As patrons we don’t leave the theater when there’s pain and tragedy. When the final curtain falls, we cry, we smile, we stand, we shout Bravo! Bravo! That’s life  and death. So enjoy it men, for that’s all there is, that’s all we have.”

  After the talk, the midshipmen asked about Commodore Perry’s naval strategy, but no one asked any more questions about men overboard or Mackenzie’s lesson of life.

  Ganse thanked Mackenzie for the informative talk and the group was dismissed for noon mess.

  It was plain, Mackenzie feels passionately about everyone being actors in the play of life. But I do not view life as that simple. To follow a pre-written script is too passive. I think man should exert a prominent hand in writing the script and thereby assume more control over his destiny. Our Captain seems to have a decided bent toward aloofness, or should I say indifference, for the pain of his men. Perhaps watching a good friend drown when he was only 12 accounts for some of this.

  All things considered, I learned a lot about my Grandfather this morning and will long remember Mackenzie’s lesson.

  Oliver Perry’s notebook was his friend. It was someone trustworthy that he could talk to. Besides his brother, who did not talk much, he did not feel close to anyone else on board the Somers. He reviewed the notes he had written to make sure he had not omitted anything important. When satisfied he had done the best he could, he slowly closed the notebook, wrapped some twine around it, and carefully placed it under some clothes in his locker.

  **********

  Dense black storm clouds billowed on the horizon to the south and frequent lightning bolts slashed from cloud to cloud and from cloud to the sea. Some flashes were mixed with dense gray rain that smeared from the clouds to the sea. The lightning was too far away to be heard, but nature’s little temper tantrum captivated the attention of Mackenzie and a few of the boys on deck. Other boys tussled in their endless horseplay. Elsewhere the setting sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, ignoring the tempest to the south like a tolerant parent. It had been hot, but now a comfortable evening breeze batted about on the spar deck where many of the boys milled about for a while before going below for the night.

  Spencer was on duty with Cromwell as boatswain for the watch. Spencer huddled with Cromwell and Small on the bow. The meeting of these three had become habit in recent days. Spencer said, “Look at these damn wormy boys. If I had my say, I’d get rid of half of them. They’re not worth all the biscuits they gulp down.”

  Cromwell replied, “The whiny varmints just make more work. I could throw most all of them over the side and laugh whilst I was at it. And all them snooty officers expect me to wipe their runny noses all the time.”

  Midshipman Rogers, standing on the cabin trunk, called, “Let out some line on the main sail.”

  The three men on the bow turned and looked at Rogers. Spencer said, “Speaking of runny noses, there’s another one I’d ‘deep six’ and I wouldn’t miss him for two seconds.”

  Rogers called twice more but the three just kept talking and laughing. Mackenzie had heard Rogers call out and ordered the nearest boy to summon Spencer. Spencer said, “Wait here mates, I’ll see what the old bastard wants this time.”

  Small said, “Don’t forget to curtsy and kiss his hand.”

  The three of them laughed as Spencer started to walk slowly aft.

  With an insolent sneer he had perfected for such occasions, he drawled, “What’s the matter, Captain?”

  “You’re not paying attention to your duty, Mr. Spencer. Have someone tend to that rigging, and in the future, pay more attention.”

  “But I didn’t know any rigging needed attending, sir.”

  “You heard Rogers. Do it now, Mr. Spencer.”

  Spencer angrily ordered two boys, “Report to Rogers, on the double, and do whatever the hell he wants.”

  He rejoined Cromwell and Small. “God damn him, I’d like to catch him on deck some dark night and plunge his ass overboard. It’d be my pleasure.” He muttered, “I’ll be god damned if I don’t do it!”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Liberty for the starboard watch!”

  The Somers had arrived in Monrovia, Liberia on the coast of Africa on Thursday, November 10, 1842. Equator-baked Monrovia was named after President James Monroe. The United States needed a place to return slaves who had been rescued from slaving ships captured in the Atlantic. In spite of strong American influence, the population was almost entirely black.

  The crew gave a loud cheer that reverberated around Monrovia harbor. Even the larboard watch held some hope they would be allowed to go ashore when the starboard watch returned. The majority of the crew had not set foot on land since leaving New York, over eight weeks ago.

  Mackenzie hoped to find the Vandalia anchored in the harbor when they arrived. Since it was not there, he assumed they had sailed for home and any attempt to catch up with it would be fruitless. With no urgency to catch the Vandalia, he decided to grant half the crew liberty while the other half would re-supply the Somers.

  If Mackenzie agreed with Ganse that the crew needed some time away from the Somers, he never admitted as much. He simply said, “We won’t need all the men to re-supply, so let the larboard watch have twenty-four hours of liberty while we’re here.”

  “Will the starboard watch have equal liberty time after that?”

  “We’ll see, Ganse.”

  Ganse relayed the information to Cromwell who then ordered, “All you miserable urchins line up. I’ll decide who needs haircuts and beards trimmed. Soon’s you pass my inspection, shed your clothes. You ain’t goin’ ashore smellin’ like dead herrings.”

  Weaver, in a daring moment, whispered to a mate, “Strange orders coming from Cromwell. If he put one foot in the water all the fish in the harbor would surely keel over dead.”

  After hair pruning, they bailed water from the harbor and dumped it on nude bodies standing on the spar deck. The water supplying the harbor came from the Saint Paul River. In spite of a few unknown tropical creatures that swam in some of the buckets, the fresh water felt invigorating after months of sponging in salt water, or not bathing at all. Laughter and wisecracks were exchanged as the cold showers sharpened their wits.

  The excitement of liberty must have instilled Weaver with a wish to live dangerously. Taking note of the
effects of chilling water on Small’s appendage, he said, “Hey Small, what can you do with that little thing while the rest of are having fun?”

  The direct assault on Small’s manhood could not go unchallenged. He puffed up like a blow fish. Those close enough to hear Weaver suddenly became silent, expecting a violent response. Small glared at Weaver for a few seconds, then unpuffed and with a big grin said, “Where’ve you been all your life, Weaver? Haven’t you heard  from tiny acorns, mighty oaks grow?” This response relaxed tensions and encouraged even bolder remarks and responses. Small’s witty reply did not end the matter for him, he vowed that Weaver would pay for his insulting remark. Full satisfaction would come when Weaver least expected it.

  **********

  None of the crew had been granted liberty simply for pleasure since leaving New York. They were bursting with anticipation and the first sight of the African coast had been breathtaking. Emerald green foliage crowded the shores and towering green hills rose in the background. Yelling and laughter echoed across the water as the small boats approached small rotting docks on the river bank. The Somers resting in the harbor was now steady, but many boys staggered a bit, not having found their land legs yet.

  Only a few boys noticed that the emerald green foliage that had looked inviting from a distance was now merely dense jungle tangles, more intimidating than inviting. But the abundant animal life captured the attention of all. Bright colored birds, monkeys, and boa constrictors moved about in the trees. Sleeping crocodiles lay on the banks and thrashing fish were plentiful in the water. A short distance away hippopotami were wading in the river. At last they had something to tell family and friends  if they ever got back home. Excitement filled the air as they talked among themselves.

  **********

  Harsh reality greeted them on land. Shacks with door-less openings lined both sides of the mud road. Most shacks were on poles which raised bamboo floors up from the mud, but some were on the ground and had dirt floors. Layered broad brown leaves formed the roofs. Chickens, birds, and a variety of varmints were free to enter and leave the shacks as they pleased. Outside many shacks, fish were nailed to boards in the open sun. Flies abandoned the older dried fish in favor of the fresher ones, which they covered in sufficient numbers to make the fish look like pads of black fuzz.

  “This must be the slums. Maybe this road will take us into town.”

  “This gummy mud’s pulling my shoes off. Lot of good it did to clean up. This place’s a slime pot.”

  “It’s so hot and humid, I’m soaked in sweat and these damn gnats and flies  you can’t knock ‘em off  they come right back.”

  “I know, they keep getting in my eyes.”

  “I haven’t seen anything but dirt shacks and niggers so far.”

  “It does sound as if they’re talking English.”

  The nearly nude black people moved slowly and glanced occasionally with disinterest at the foreign sailors. A few naked children played but the absence of laughter was noticeable. Other children sat and stared blankly, leaving the impression they would do that for the rest of their lives. They ignored flies crawling around their eyes and mouth. About a dozen children with solemn faces and big eyes followed the sailors and held their hands out.

  “How can we stop them from following us?”

  “Coins, I guess.”

  “Don’t give the beggars anything, we’ll never get rid of them.”

  “They’re so skinny and with bellies hanging out, they look like tiny zombies.”

  Suddenly the boys had to stop. Only jungle vines and broad leafed trees were in front of them. There was no more town. Their expectations of finding some interesting things to do on liberty suddenly evaporated in the steamy atmosphere. The town was all slums. They had no choice but to retrace their steps. Besides the dirty stucco customs house, the most they had found were a few outdoor sheds with improvised tables displaying crude knives, colorful sea shells, and strange looking fruits.

  One boy puzzled over the brown spherical objects laying on the ground under one of the tables. “Is that a coconut?” he asked.

  “Hell yes, let’s try one.”

  “Hard as stone, how do you open it.”

  “There’s liquid sloshing inside. Maybe, you can punch these plugs out on the top.”

  “Where’s Small? He’d know.”

  “Him, Wilson, and Cromwell went in that shack that had those grinning niggers with the bare tits.”

  “If they like that, they can have them. I’d have to be blind to get any pleasure out of that.”

  “Me too. I’d rather do without. Let’s get in the shade, it’s so hot I can’t breathe.”

  The most substantial structure in town had a Spanish style. Large chunks of dirty plaster had flaked off of its side exposing crude brown bricks. Two white men fanning themselves could be seen through an open window. Faded brown wooden shutters sagged from iron hinges embedded in the thick walls. Heavy plank doors with iron hardware were on either side of a single arched doorway. A weathered sign with only one word “CUSTOMS” was over the doorway.

  “Did you see Spencer go into the customs building? I wonder what for?”

  “Who can fathom Spencer?”

  “He’s not there now. I saw him come out with a piece of paper and go down a jungle path.”

  “God has forgotten this place. Nothing’s happening here, no taverns, no dry place to sleep. The only girls you see are black as pitch with tits that hang down to their belly buttons. What’ll we do here all night? Have you seen anyplace selling rum?”

  “We’d better find a dry place. See that rain coming?”

  They could hear heavy rain noisily advancing in the jungle. “Glory be. That’s a damn waterfall. Run!”

  The storm passed over as abruptly as it arrived. The cool air that accompanied it also left with it. The heartless sun returned and it was hotter and more humid than before. Misty steam boiled up from everything, the mud, the puddles, the shacks, even the scrawny flea-bitten chickens that constantly appeared and disappeared from nowhere in particular.

  Within two hours, dispirited boys straggled back to the dock, to wait for small boats to take them back to the Somers. Apparently the insects had found this foreign white meat to be tasty and had called all their relatives for an impromptu banquet. All the boys were swatting and batting but they were hopelessly outnumbered.

  Soon after leaving New York little Sammy Trent attached himself to William Collins, a husky easygoing gunner’s mate. Sammy insisted that he was 13 but he looked more like 8 or 9. Harsh early years as an orphan roaming back alleys probably accounted for his chronic look of hunger and oversized brown eyes. At first he was teased for staying so close to Collins, but taunts stopped when Collins said, “You swabs belay the jabs. Sammy an’ me are good mates, ain’t we Sammy?” After that Sammy looked to Collins as though he was an older brother or even a father.

  On this sweltering day in Monrovia, Sammy and Collins sat on a rotted bench. Collins slapped at mosquitoes on his arms. Four boys sat on the opposite side of the dock. Collins said, “What in the hell did we think we’d find here? African nigger town on the goddamn equator.” He inspected his rope-callused hands as though he had never seen them before. “God, I’d give anything to be in Baltimore right now.”

  The four boys looked at him with sad faces. Sammy rolled his big brown eyes up at Collins. Then he looked away so no one could see his quivering chin and tear-filled eyes. Collins put his arm around the little boy and pulled him closer.

  **********

  While the larboard watch sought pleasure on land, the starboard watch was pressed into hard labor. They made many trips to shore to find and load supplies and water. Besides exhausting work in the scorching sun, mates returning with supplies found little to brag about in the paradise, Monrovia. Details from returning mates of the larboard watch cooled their enthusiasm for liberty even more.

  But despite reduced expectations, the starboard watch wante
d equal liberty time. After all, they had been at sea for two months. They needed to get away from the Somers for awhile and maybe they would find something the larboard watch had overlooked.

  Once in Monrovia, the starboard watch had the same experience as the larboard watch. Downpours briefly interrupted suffocating heat and swarming insects. As soon as the storms moved on, the sun ignited the steam cycle again.

  Grinning prostitutes sitting outside a shack quoted reasonable prices for their valuable service, but they were not attracting many customers. As with the larboard watch, there were a few seamen with unquenchable sex drives, or perhaps the need to demonstrate their manhood. These adventurers would pay the admission and follow a woman through a dirty cloth draped door and shortly afterwards they would exit from another door  with sheepish grins. When sufficiently recovered from their exhilarating experience, they taunted their shipmates by offering to pay the admission price if they would take the same romantic tour they had. They promised that the beautiful erotic moment would forever be etched in their brain.

  The native alcohol drink, Bumbo, tasted as if it could be used as a barnacle remover. The boys who braved the drink anyway were soon limp as sail canvas. Compassionate shipmates corralled half-sober Johnson and he splashed erratically in the mud puddles when his mates failed to steer him around them. They exhaled a big “Whooo” when they dropped him face down on the dock. Cook sat on the rotted bench and planted one foot on giggling Johnson’s rear to keep him from crawling off. The feet of unconscious Farley formed two mud ruts leading to the dock where he was dragged and dropped like a dead fish beside Johnson.