by F. M. Parker
“That’s a Southern Royal Albatross,” Tad said. “They’re the biggest kind. The captain told me all about them. Did you know they only stop on land to raise their chicks?”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yep. They fly hundreds even thousands of miles hunting food and then return to feed their young chick every two, three weeks, or maybe once a month. You’d think the chick would starve. But they don’t for they can store enough food in their gut to last them that long.”
“So the captain told you all this?”
“Yep. He knows a lot about sea animals and birds after all his years at sea. That albatross there sure has a lot of white on him. Usually they are brown on top of their wings.”
The albatross continued to sleep for another two minutes as the Huntress drew closer. Then the sound of the ship’s bow cutting water roused the bird. It lifted its head and looked up with it large gold-flecked brown eyes at the ship and the two humans watching it. The bird shook itself a few times and ruffled its feathers as if not liking being disturbed. A wave lifted the bird and it spread its wings stretching twelve feet from tip to tip. As the wave fell, the wings caught the wind and lifted the albatross off the water and it sailed away. Its head and neck and complete underbody were a pure white.
“Almost all white?” Tad said. “It’s bad luck to bother a white albatross that’s sleeping on the water.”
“Do you think we bothered that one enough to bring bad luck down on us?” Patrick asked.
“He was extra white and we did wake him and make him fly. So now we got’a wait and see what happens.”
“We meant him no harm. It was just by chance that we came upon him. I don’t think we’re in for any trouble. Nothing out of the ordinary will happen.”
“I don’t know about that,” Tad said. A sly smile stretched his full mouth. “I saw a white albatross about a month of so ago and something very strange came out of the sea.”
“What did you see?” Patrick asked and caught up in the boy’s tale.
“A man all dressed in red and ice froze in his beard came out of the sea and climbed a rope onto the ship.”
Tad looked at Patrick and broke into laughter.
Patrick joined in the boy’s merriment, pleased at having been taken in by his story. This was the very first time he had found anything humorous in a very long time.
CHAPTER 37
Patrick woke to the clang of the Huntress’ bell striking eight times to mark midnight. He promptly climbed from his bunk and dressed in the darkness of the cabin. His watch began now and Griffith would be waiting to be relieved.
He held a pistol in his hand as he unbolted the door and peered into the passageway. He could make out the dim form of the open hatchway at the end of the passageway. Satisfied that he was alone, he went forward and came out onto the main deck.
“Good evening, Mr. Sullivan,” Griffith called from where he stood on the fantail of the ship.
“Evening to you, captain,” Patrick replied. As he went aft to join Griffith, he checked the helm. Proctor and his watch of three men had just come on duty. Marco and the men of his watch were moving forward toward the ladder leading down to the crew’s quarters. Phelps, one of the older seamen had the helm
“I’ve changed course to northeast,” Griffith said. “That’ll take us almost directly to Frisco. There’s no land within hundreds of miles and with the night clear as it is, we don’t need a forward lookout.”
“Aye, captain.” Patrick glanced up at the cloudless sky and the half moon low on the western horizon. The sea and the night were beautiful. He breathed deeply, enjoying the moment.
“You have the deck,” Griffith said. “Be alert,” he added.
“Yes, sir.”
Griffith crossed the deck to the hatchway through which Patrick had just emerged and disappeared.
“What’s your heading?” Patrick asked the helmsman.
“Nor-east,” replied the man.
“Hold her steady there.”
“Aye, sir.”
Patrick set about inspecting the rigging and the set of the sails. He found the sails full with westerly winds and pulling strongly. All the stays and braces were tight. The taffrail log was spinning and indicating a speed of seven knots. Everything was in order. He went to the galley and obtained a piece of hardtack, and then to the main cabin and wrote his first entry of the watch in the ship’s log.
Leisurely he made his way forward to the bow. Holding to one of the stays of the foremast, he leaned to peer over and down at the sea. The curling wave thrown up by the ship’s sharp bow was all colored with a kaleidoscope of colors, green and blue and yellow and red, that streaked backward along the ship’s side to vanish at the fantail. The pattern and combination of streaming colors were constantly changing. It was difficult to believe as he had read that the bits of phosphorescence were actually tiny life forms. There must be untold billions of them existing in the broad sea.
He put his back to the water and surveyed the ship. To his surprise, he saw Tad in the night shadows at the corner of the forward deckhouse.
Tad hurried over the deck toward Patrick. Twice he threw quick, furtive glances over his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Patrick asked.
“Shsss. Not so loud, Mr. Sullivan.”
Patrick swept his sight over the deck and checking for someone or something that should cause Tad to act in such a secretive manner. He looked back at the boy.
Tad was close now and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “He’s going to kill you, sir, for killing Walloghan.”
“Who’s going to kill me?”
“Marco.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I heard him say it. I came up to take a piss and heard him telling Phelps.”
“How are they going to do it?”
“Just Marco’s going to do it. Phelps said he didn’t want any part of it.”
“What about the captain?”
“I never heard him say a word about him.” Tad threw another quick look back across the ship. “I’ve got to go. If they find out I told you, I’m a dead mackerel.”
“Maybe you’d better stay close to me until I can deal with Marco.”
“No, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I’d not like for any of the crew to learn I talked against a shipmate. They wouldn’t like it even if they weren’t part of Marco’s plan to hurt you. I’d best get back to my bunk. If somebody sees me, I’ll just tell them I came up to take a piss.” Tad spun about and scampered away down the port side of the ship.
Patrick waited a few seconds and then went along the deck on the starboard side. He saw Tad between two of the boats hanging on their davits. The boy was standing on his tiptoes so that he could pee over the ship’s gunwale.
The huge figure of Marco came into sight from behind the deckhouse and towered over Tad. As the boy shook off the last drops, Marco grabbed him, spun him around, and lifting him off his feet, brought the boy close until their faces were but inches apart.
As Patrick moved swiftly across the deck toward the pair, he heard Marco growl. “I saw you for’ard and talkin’ to Sullivan. What’d you say to him?”
“I never told him anything.”
“I saw you. What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Let me down. My prick’s hanging out.”
Damn plucky lad, thought Patrick. He pulled his pistol.
“Don’t get smart mouthed with me, you little sonofabitch,” Marco said and extending his arms, lifted Tad over the gunwale and held him out over the sea rushing past below. “Now tell me, or by God I’ll drop you in the water.”
Patrick stopped behind Marco and pressed his pistol against the back of his head. Marco stiffened at the touch of the barrel.
“Bring the boy back aboard. If you drop him, I’ll blow your mutineering head off.”
Marco chuckled. “That you, Mr. Sullivan? Hell, I was just havin’ some fun with Tad. I’d never harm one little hair on his h
ead.”
“I know you’ll not if you value your life. Now just put him down on his feet.”
Marco brought Tad back over the gunwale and lowered him to stand on the deck. He turned to face Patrick. “It was just a game, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Sure just a game. Tad, go ask the captain to come on deck.”
The boy stared up at Patrick with wide, disbelieving eyes. “It wasn’t any game, Mr. Sullivan. He would’ve done it and dropped me. I know it for certain.”
“Go get the captain like I told you. Move!”
“Yes, sir.” Tad dashed off over the deck.
Patrick watched Marco standing tense with his hands at his sides. In the small world of the ship, Tad had no way to stay out of the man’s reach, no place to hide at night and be safe. Even if Marco was chained in one of the holds, there were most likely other men who would harm Tad for telling Patrick of the intended attack. The boy would surely be dead before the ship reached San Francisco. He had most likely saved Patrick’s live, and at great risk to his own. Patrick could do no less for Tad.
He noticed Marco’s right hand had crept an inch toward the knife in its sheath on his belt. The man was desperate for he knew Captain Griffith would impose severe punishment for threatening Tad’s life.
“Take your pistol off me and let me go,” Marco said. “I’ll not touch the boy again. You have my word on it.”
“I don’t trust you to keep any promise you make. I think you’d say anything to save your neck.”
“If the captain hung me, that just might cause a real mutiny. There’s others that don’t like what you and the captain did to Walloghan and the other two.”
Patrick knew there was truth in Marco’s words, that there were other men still willing to mutiny. But what to do? As alternatives came and were discarded, his eye caught movement off on his right. Patrick looked that direction. Phelps had left the helm and come out to where he could see in the direction of the boats. Had Phelps changed his mind and decided that now was the time to kill Patrick and was coming to help Marco do the deed?
Patrick brought his attention back to Marco, just as the man drew his knife from its sheath. Patrick lashed out with his pistol and smashed it across Marco’s face. Marco’s head snapped to the side and broken teeth rattled on the deck.
Marco staggered back against the ship’s gunwale. Cat quick he caught hold of the gunwale with his free hand and stopped his fall overboard. He shook his head to clear it of the pistol blow and turned toward Patrick. His hand came up with the knife.
Patrick stepped forward, cocked his right leg, thrust his foot past the raised knife and savagely against Marco’s chest. Marco went reeling away. The rear of his legs struck the gunwale. He made a grab for the gunwale, missed, and with arms and legs flailing upended backward into space. Patrick heard the splash of Marco’s body hitting the water.
“Man overboard,” Patrick shouted.” Phelps, put the helm down, we’re coming about.”
Phelps sprang to the wheel and spun it. The sails began to empty and started flapping.
Griffith, trailed by Tad, came hurrying up to onto deck. “What’s the problem?” Griffith asked. “Why are we coming about?”
“Marco is overboard.”
“What happened?”
“He tried to knife me and I hit him with my pistol. He fell over the side.”
“Fell. Or did you help him?”
Patrick didn’t reply. He would admit nothing more than what he had already said.
“Tad told me Marco had him hanging overboard and threatening to drop him. Is that so?”
“He would’ve if I hadn’t stopped him.”
“And that he planned to kill you too?”
“That’s what Tad heard.”
Griffith shouted out to Phelps. “Stop her swing. Up helm and bring her back on course. We’re not going to turn back for a damn mutineer who tried to kill Tad and Mr. Sullivan.”
Phelps spun the wheel in the opposite direction and the ship came back onto her northeast heading with her sails full. “Back on course, captain.”
“Hold her there,” Griffith ordered sternly.
Griffith spoke to Sullivan in a low voice that Phelps couldn’t hear. “Is there anything you want to add to what you said happened?”
Patrick knew he could have prevented the fight with Marco. He had half consciously looked away to allow the man an opportunity to draw his knife so that he would have a reason to kill him. “No, sir. Nothing to add.”
With eyes showing amusement, Griffith spoke to Patrick. “I see that you are coming around to my way of thinking. That’s good for these are dangerous conditions. I’ll write this up in such a way that there’ll be little chance of an enquiry when we reach San Francisco.”
“That’s good for I don’t want to get mixed up with the officials there,” Patrick said.
“I have friends in the city and should be able to handle it without any trouble for you, or me.”
Griffith stalked off to the helm and checked the compass. “Hold her close,” he told Phelps. He wheeled about and went below.
Patrick spoke to Tad. “Wait here.”
He went to Phelps at the helm. “You heard what happened there at the boats between Marco and Tad and Me?”
“Couldn’t help but hear,” Phelps replied nervously.
“You knew Marco planned to kill me, yet you didn’t warn me. I should send you to join him.” Patrick’s fist clenched and he fought with himself to keep from striking the man.
“I thought he was just talking.” Phelps gripped the helm tightly and stared straight ahead.
Patrick stepped to within half an arm’s length of Phelps. “Since Marco told you what he planned to do, that means you’re a friend of his. You must know who else is. What about Proctor?”
“Marco asked him to help. But he said he didn’t want any part of killing you or the captain. That he just wanted to get back to Frisco without charges being brought against him. Marco cussed him and called him a coward.”
“Anyone else?”
Phelps reluctantly looked at Patrick. “I swear, Mr. Sullivan, Marco was the last one. None of the rest of the men want any part of taking the ship or trying to get even with the captain or you for the deaths of Walloghan and the other two.”
“Maybe that’s the truth. Now I don’t want anybody to know about Tad talking to me. If anything happens to him, even the littlest thing, I’ll make shark meat out of you damn quick and no questions asked. That’s so even if it’s somebody else’s doing. You’d better guard him with your life for it sure as hell depends on keeping him safe. You tell everybody that Marco fought with me and went over the side for his troubles. I killed him, and that’s all. You understand me clearly?”
“That’s the best all right and I’ll tell it that way to the men.”
CHAPTER 38
From his perch in the crow’s-nest of the mainmast, Patrick stared ahead to the north-northeast. Below him every ship’s sail was full and taut with a favorable wind and the schooner plowed the sea at a brisk pace. At noon he had taken a shot of the sun hanging in a clear blue sky and had put the ship at little less than sixty miles from land and on course to strike San Francisco. Now in the growing hours of the afternoon, the land had risen up out of the rolling Pacific waters. From a hazy, gray smudge on the horizon, the coastal range of hills bordering the continent now stretched north and south as far as the eye could see. He felt his heart beating happily. A new life without the heavy iron shackles around his ankles and without the cutting lash of the cat-o-nine-tails upon his back was about to begin for him. It was a fine day to arrive in California, but then any day would have been fine.
With the shore approaching and the day growing old, it was time for him to speak to Griffith and find out his plans for landing. He left the crow’s-nest and climbed down the rope ladder. The entire crew was on deck. Every man was in good spirits and anticipating the landing and stepping foot on the streets of the famous city. Tad had
the helm and was steering by the compass. The duty helmsman was close by, but was paying Tad no attention for the boy had grown to be a fine seaman and needed little supervision. The men were working at a leisurely pace doing ship’s chores, mending sails, splicing ropes, holystoning the deck. Karcher, not knowing whether the captain would choose docking or anchoring, had men laying out lines and others greasing the capstan.
Patrick saw Griffith near the port rail forward and watching a pair of dolphins cavort and swoop just off the bow. The gentle beast had often joined the ship and race along for miles, seemingly liking the company of the humans. He made his way to Griffith’s side, and there spread his legs to brace against the movement of the ship and gazed in the direction of the land. He could make out a break in the range of hills and knew that would be the entrance to the bay where San Francisco lay. That break was named the Golden Gate for it was the gateway to the gold in the inland mountains.
“How long has Frisco been your home port?” Patrick asked.
“Better than thirty years.” Griffith raised his sight to the land.
“Tell me about the city. What‘s it like?”
“It’s what the harbor and the gold from the Sierra Nevada Mountains have made it. A wicked city, and a rich city, and will probably always be so. It has one of the best natural harbors in the world. Ships sail from here to every major seaport of the world. The last census just before I sailed counted 150,000 people. Twenty-five thousand of them were heathen Chinamen. Of course, many other nationalities have come here too. The city’s growing rapidly. There’s plenty of lumber for building material, brought down by ship from the forest on the northern California and Oregon coasts. By the way, there’s a British Consulate in the city.”
Patrick filed away the knowledge about the British Consulate. “A man should be able to find work here.”
“Yes, there’s plenty of honest work.” Griffith’s words held an edge and Patrick knew the man was thinking about him being a highwayman. Griffith continued on in a more gentle tone,” There’s work for every man except for Chinamen and the free blacks. Both groups have a hard road to go to find someone to hire them. The white men don’t like them competing for their jobs. They hate the Chinamen worst of all for they’ll work for a dime when the white man wants a dollar. The China boys sometimes get beat up awfully bad. The law officers don’t do much about that. They’re all white men.” As if an after thought, he added. “A man can easily disappear in Frisco.”