Not One Shred of Decency

by Bob Brown

  **********

  By early Sunday, all but one of the crew had been accounted for. In more attractive ports, several men might disappear and never be heard from again. In Monrovia only Daniel McKinley missed the last boat. From the way he waved and yelled from the river dock, it was clear he did not miss the last boat on purpose.

  Mackenzie first thought that suitable punishment would be for McKinley to watch the Somers sail over the horizon. But this would be awkward to write in the brigantine’s log, so instead he purposely let him sit on the dock until the last minute. Then he ordered a small boat go after him. Later he would be flogged for missing the small boat.

  Weigh anchor, set sails, sea breeze again. A welcome contrast to the stifling humid days in Monrovia. No one uttered a plea to stay longer in this port. After the labors of setting sail were tended to, Mackenzie called for the customary Sunday reading of scriptures and naval code. These assemblies had become routine. Having heard it all before, the boys substituted thoughts of religion with thoughts of home, or the next port, or the next meal.

  Mackenzie finished his message and announced that the next port would be Saint Thomas in the Danish West Indies. The crew began to rustle and whisper, and then someone gave a cheer. That triggered a loud cheer from all, even though most of them had never heard of Saint Thomas and were just cheering because someone started it. Ganse and the other officers grinned broadly and Mackenzie managed a puzzled half-smile. He felt the Somers provided for all their needs. Why would they be so interested in which port they were going to next? Raising his hand to subdue excitement, he ordered Cromwell to proceed with the floggings for the day.

  Twelve hard lashes with the cat produced bloody welts across McKinley’s back for missing the last small boat shoving off from Monrovia. Mitchell, nine lashes for accidentally cutting a rope. Manning, nine for fighting. Travis, nine for foul language. Three others were flogged for assorted insubordination. Seven in all for Sunday, but there had been nine floggings on Saturday.

  **********

  Eighteen year old Edward English had sailed for several years. Some of the younger boys considered him to be an experienced man of the world. He enjoyed the attention he received when telling about past cruises and female conquests. “I tell you mates, I was in Saint Thomas in thirty-eight. After Monrovia, Saint Thomas is as if rising from hell and going to heaven.”

  “What about girls?”

  “Oh yes mate, of course there’s plenty of niggers there too, but enough white girls to go around. And pretty! One hour with them will leave you blind, helpless, and begging for mercy.”

  “Jesus.”

  “But I tell you what’s nicer than Saint Thomas. We’re sailing west, and every mile’s taking us closer to home.”

  “Whoo damn, all hands lay to some paddles, let’s speed this brigantine up.”

  “That’s not fast enough for me. I’m going to jump over the side and swim ahead.”

  “How far is it?”

  English said, “Three-thousand miles, I s’pose.”

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  CHAPTER 11

  A full moon and a steady trade wind brought the sea to life. Flying fish sailed hundreds of feet, often landing on the deck. They would flop until dead or by chance find a drain port in the bulwark, allowing escape back to the sea. William Neville manned the wheel and occasionally he looked skyward at the mast and sails. Silhouetted against the moonlit clouds the rigging moved in pendulum fashion from starboard to port as the Somers rolled over the crest of long swells. Everything that could creak, creaked, and everything that could groan, groaned, as ropes strained, then relaxed, and rubbed wood spars. The brigantine’s murmuring proclaimed, for anyone who would listen, its dominance over mere man. It would patiently yield to their commands now, but it reserved the right to submit to the master of them all, the sea, whenever beckoned.

  To escape the hot and odoriferous berth deck, a few men had defied Mackenzie’s orders and sneaked topside to catch a few hours of sleep in the night air. They accepted the risk of a flogging, if caught. Neville watched the men sneak out of the hatch, but if asked he would swear under threat of severe flogging that he had seen nothing.

  Spencer, Cromwell, and Small huddled at the stern as they often did on Spencer’s watch. The breeze carried occasional words to Neville’s ears. He had little interest in their conversation, but with nothing better to do, he listened. Cromwell’s deep voice came through the most often. “I don’t trust those Italians  they’ll double cross you, that’s why  you’re gullible, Spencer  they’d tell you anything  lie like snakes.”

  Small’s higher pitched voice sounded persistent. “You know what I think of slaving  there’s better things  I won’t do that ”

  Spencer’s voice was garbled and Neville could not understand him often. “ we’ll take what we want and ”

  Small again, “ Gill  son, don’t fret him  if he don’t heave to  son-of-a-bitch  sharks’ll have him for chow ” Neville wondered who Gill, or Gillson, or whoever, was. He could not think of anybody on the Somers with that name.

  Cromwell said, “Spare some more rum ”

  Spencer, “ are we in agreement ’ain’t Thomas ’ine days or more ”

  Cromwell, “ need charts, Spencer ”

  Small, “ only Garty has  arms  ”

  There seemed to be a long and sometimes heated discussion over a list or something, but Neville did not want to appear curious by looking back. Anyway, he could not hear much of it and he began to think of his girl friend, Sarah. He wondered if she was still waiting for him to return as she promised.

  When the huddle broke up, Cromwell and Small wandered forward and Neville could see them engaged in more discussion on the bow. After a bit, Spencer came abreast of Neville. Neville glanced at a wrinkled paper Spencer was folding. In the moon light it looked like a list of foreign words, or strange geometric marks. Spencer saw Neville glance at his paper and quickly clenched his fist around it. Spencer’s eyes flashed and Neville thought he was angry with him for seeing the paper. In an effort to divert Spencer’s attention he said, “Nice night, isn’t it Mr. Spencer.”

  “Do you like the navy, Neville?”

  “I manage sir.”

  “Do you plan to re-enlist?”

  “I think I will look for something else, sir.”

  “When I get a ship, would you like to sail with me?”

  “I would like that, sir.” Neville felt that a more honest answer would not be in his best interest. He had resolved that if he ever got back to the United States he would never go to sea again. He would marry Sarah, be a farmer, raise corn, chickens, and children.

  Spencer looked as if he was going to say something, but changed his mind. After a minute, Spencer nodded his head. “I’ll remember, Neville.” With that, he went to the bulwark crossed his arms, leaned back, put one foot back against the bulwark, lost in thought, or so it seemed to Neville.

  **********

  “Ahoy, sails on the horizon, closing fast on the larboard bow.” Ganse sent a seaman to inform Mackenzie. With his telescope, Ganse searched for the ship’s flag without success.

  Mackenzie asked, “What nationality, Ganse?”

  Ganse handed the telescope to Mackenzie. “It could be a war cruiser, but I don’t see any identification.”

  Mackenzie peered through the telescope and could not identify the ship either. “I’m not concerned. There’s not any ships faster then we are and only a handful that are more heavily armed.”

  “Should we take any action, sir?”

  “We shouldn’t take chances and this is a good opportunity to test the crew’s readiness. Call all men to battle stations.”

  Ganse turned to Cromwell. “Clear the deck for action.” He could not read the thoughts behind Cromwell’s scowl. Cromwell took so long to implement Ganse’s order that Ganse wondered what course of action would be appropriate if Cromwell disobeyed
him.

  He sighed when Cromwell left in an obvious half-hearted manner to ready the crew for battle. Cromwell was steadily becoming more obstinate. Was it a temporary mood, would his attitude improve, would it get worse? Ganse thought he should think about such possibilities and how he would respond in the future if Cromwell’s temperament did not improve. Could the crew’s poor spirit be tied to Cromwell in some way?

  Cromwell blew his silver boatswain’s whistle for all men to report to their battle stations. He blew with great vigor, not because he was ordered to, but because he loved to blow his silver whistle. He delegated battle-ready supervision to older seamen. Then he leaned back on the roundhouse and viewed with out comment the furious activities of the crew getting the cannons ready for combat.

  Sergeant Garty, the only marine on board and the keeper of small arms, unlocked the gun chest and issued pistols and ammunition to all of the officers and midshipman.

  Young boys had visions of cannon balls crashing into the Somers causing destruction, fire, and death. They talked to themselves, and clumsily tripped over their own feet. Perhaps they would be ordered to board the enemy ship and engage in hand-to-hand combat. They had meager training for that, but training and the possibility of real action seemed to be as different as porpoises are to sharks. Many of them might lay butchered and dying by sundown. They had talked boastfully of such possibilities earlier, but that was on a dull day. Today was not just another dull day at sea  forget heroics, reality was here and now and they wondered how brave they would be if ordered into action. Trying not to display fear to their shipmates, they offered silent prayers, “Lord Jesus, watch over me this day and I promise to be better for ever more.”

  Spencer approached Cromwell. His widened eyes darted spasmodically. “Think we’ll do battle, Cromwell?”

  “Don’t think so, but Lord help us if we have to depend on these confused shrimps to save our ass. I’ve been aboard vessels where shots have been fired, with not half so much turmoil as this.”

  Spencer was silent for a moment and then with a high pitched chuckle, “Yeah, I’d noticed that.”

  Mackenzie said, “I think it’s an English cruiser, Ganse, their flag is fowled in rigging.”

  “With our sleek appearance and raked back mast, they may have mistaken us for a pirate ship.”

  “Quite possible, Ganse. They appear to be pulling about now.”

  “Shall I cease battle readiness, sir?”

  “Wait until I’m sure they are pulling away.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Mackenzie watched the cruiser for several minutes before closing the telescope and handing it to Ganse. “Secure the brigantine, Ganse.”

  Ganse relayed the command to Cromwell. Cromwell had another opportunity to blow his silver whistle, then he nodded to seamen who are standing beside him. “Stow everything shipshape mates, the kiddy games are over.” He smirked, “Hummp” and walked forward to join Spencer and Small. Maybe Spencer would offer him some rum.

  With the Somers secure and back to normal duty, boys gathered on the forward spar deck. “I’m disappointed. I thought we’d be slitting some sea scums’ throats by now.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “I would’ve cut ‘em from gizzard to gizzard and tossed the pieces over to the sharks.”

  “Another day blown to the winds. A marble game in my home town of Massies Mill, Virginia, could be more exciting than this.”

  “God man, I’d rather be on this louse riddled scow than have to live in Virginia.”

  “You wait and see. I bet your Rhode Island has fallen in the Atlantic by now. You won’t have anyplace to go home to.”

  “Virginia, Rhode Island, even South Carolina, God forbid, set me down in any of ‘em. Bad as they are, they’re better’n Monrovia.”

  “You poor ignorant bastard, South Carolina is God’s country.”

  Friendly scuffling ensues. Each man proclaiming the state he was so anxious to leave had now been touched by the hand of God.

  CHAPTER 12

  J. W. Wales, the Purser’s Steward, had quickly adjusted to the realities of his job. That is, reveal as little information as possible about the Somers provisions. Stay pleasant and friendly with the crew, but not too friendly. Secretly accommodate demands of arrogant and greedy officers, if at all possible, and be willing to suffer punishment in their stead if caught. Not talkative ordinarily, he was a quick learner with submerged ambitions, but on occasion he could be a bit boisterous, a bit boastful, a bit devious and, when drinking, a bit obnoxious. He was physically strong, well proportioned, larger than most, and acceptable in looks and dress.

  On the evening of the 25th of November, Wales stood by the bits near the bow. Spencer joined him and they stepped over to the bulwark. Wales crossed his arms so that Spencer could see the bundle of cigars in his hand. Spencer turned to see if anyone might be looking. Satisfied that it was safe, he stuffed the cigars in his shirt and dug in his pocket for some coins to give Wales.

  Looking at the ocean, Spencer said, “You were flogged the other day.”

  Wales replied, “I can take it.”

  “Do you think the skipper was fair with your punishment?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to get even?”

  “The bastard will get his comeuppance some day.”

  Spencer said, “Climb up on the crosstrees with me.”

  Wales paused and started to ask why, but Spencer did hold superior rank.

  Spencer sensed Wales’s reluctance and said, “I want to discuss something of great importance with you.”

  Wales nodded and they began to climb the Jacob’s ladder. Once on the boom, sails blocked them from view of everyone except the ones who might wander around on the bow and even those would not see them unless they looked up. They were high enough on the booms so that the ship sounds would make it impossible for anyone to overhear their conversation.

  Spencer asked, “Do you fear death?”

  Surprised at the unusual question, Wales glanced at Spencer to see if he was serious. Spencer’s eyes blinked several times, but it was obvious that he was anxiously waiting on him to reply. “I’m not ready to die yet, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Are you afraid of a dead person?”

  “No, I’ve no cause to fear a dead man.”

  “Would you dare kill a person?”

  This conversation made Wales uncomfortable, he looked again to verify that Spencer was indeed serious. He was. Wales’ grip tightened on the ropes he was holding, he pursed his lips, and pondered the question. He had never before considered whether he could kill a person. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Should a man abuse me or insult me, I think I could muster sufficient courage to kill him  if necessary.”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  What was Spencer leading up to? He instinctively felt he should terminate this conversation, but curiosity crowded out his better judgment. Wales answered, “Of course.”

  “You swear that you’ll never communicate this to a solitary soul, so help you God.”

  This sounded too serious to Wales, but he had gone too far to turn back now. He said, “I swear, so help me God.”

  The conversation continued for over a hour and was terminated when Spencer noticed Small standing on the bow, looking up at them with a worried frown on his face. Small did not climb the Jacob’s ladder, but jumped up on the rail and talked with Spencer for a minute in Spanish. Small’s disposition seemed to improve, but only slightly. He kept glancing at Wales as he talked.

  Spencer said in English and loud enough for Wales to hear. “You need not fear on Wales account, I have sounded him well and found he is one of us.”

  Small looked sourly at Wales and managed a labored grin. Wales nodded as if in agreement even though no words had been exchanged.

  After Small left to attend to some duty, Spencer grabbed Wales’s arm so tight that Wales wanted to pull it away, but he suppressed the desire. Spence
r said, “You breathe one syllable of what we have talked about and I will murder you, or have you murdered. Go where you might, your life will not be worth a straw.” With a last tight squeeze on Wales’s arm, he said, “We will discuss this more tomorrow.” With that, Spencer went below.

  It was late and Wales was tired and perplexed. The night was dark and the surrounding water was invisible except for phosphorus sparkling like fireflies in the wake. The absence of visible water made the Somers appear to be magically floating in space. The fireflies would slowly drift outward into oblivion as newborn fireflies chased them to the same fate. If only Wales could muster some magic to make Spencer’s tormenting conversation disappear into oblivion like the fireflies. He wanted to organize his thoughts, but it was hard to figure out where to begin. After another minute, he decided that with Small watching him closely, he might be giving the appearance of being perplexed and thus confirm Small’s suspicions, so he decided to go below to his hammock.

  Most of the crew were asleep in their hammocks. Stale, fart-laden air contrasted with the fresh sea air, but this was an accepted fact of life and Wales ignored it. It was quiet except for creaking ship sounds and some creative snorts and wheezing. Walking straight on a moving deck between tightly spaced hammocks without disturbing anyone was difficult, but Wales steadied himself by holding the overhead beams and moved with care. After removing his outer clothes and jamming them down in his ditty bag, he grabbed an overhead beam and swung into his hammock. As the hammock swung gently back and forth, he stared at the barely visible wooden beam above him and knew he would not sleep now.

  When Spencer asked if he could keep a secret, he should have said, “No, I don’t want to hear it” but that could not be changed now. He needed to organize his thoughts, make a plan, do something  but what? The full impact of all he had heard was crashing down on him now. It would have been a relief to scream out, but that would be childish and surely would be the end of him. As a substitute for screaming he took deep breaths but his lungs resisted holding enough air to bring relief. Perhaps he should wait, do nothing, maybe a reasonable plan would fall in place. No, waiting would be toying with disaster. What would be best for him? Where would his ambitions be best fulfilled? He had readily accepted stealing a little, lying a little, all logical compromises for survival on this brigantine, but this . . .? That Spencer, a strange one  is he believable? Is he trustworthy? He suspected that Spencer was just a foolish dreamer but his threat to murder him could not be shrugged off. And Small, a hard one to figure. And who else was on the list? He had often seen Cromwell with Spencer and Small huddled together. He thought they were just drinking pals, but was it much more than that. Wales could not think clearly and no ideas magically popped into his head. Minutes ticked away. He must decide something by morning. Think Wales, think! He felt he was swirling deeper and deeper into a whirlpool and he was all alone without even a witness to his fate. Of course Spencer, Small, and no telling who else would be watching him; he must be alert, careful of every move  everything he said.