Death of the Fox

by George Garrett

… And sailing too swift could cause trouble also. Often we were in uncharted waters. Needing time to sound the depths and feel the way.

  … In a true storm we would come up into the wind and try or hull. But a good vessel rode well that way. And, strange as it may seem, it was the only time when a man could go below and be as dry aboard as a dog’s buried bone. Our ships were wet sailors in good weather, but dry and quiet below when black storms raged.

  … She rolled and pitched aplenty. For she sailed more on the water than in it. Floating like a bobbing cork. But, weighing, and considering all, I’d rather be ever rolled and pitched—providing her rib timbers are sound and solid—than cracked up and sent down to the bottom.

  … It is true she was no good sailer in foul weather, though she could bear the worst by lying ahull. And true that too often—especially getting clear of England—contrary winds could keep us lodged in harbor, waiting there until our victuals were half spent and gone, and every man aboard as pained as a rotten tooth. But when it came to long voyages, it was never a tempest we feared so much as the terrible calms.

  … To be becalmed in the midst of the ocean sea is far more fearful than to weather the worst storms.

  … And the rig and tackle, the design of our ships was such that the least faint ghost’s sigh of breeze could make us sail.

  … A man cannot shoot a bow in opposite directions at one and the same time. We feared calms more than storms. So we built to sail by a breeze so faint and light that you could scarcely feel it. Flags and pennants might droop but our canvas could catch it and could set a high-riding galleon to moving again.

  … But enough of ships. Whether they are new and yare or rotten and leaky as a fishnet, graceful as a dolphin or clumsy as a Yorkshire sow in May mud, ships are no better or worse than the men who handle them.

  High time to think of the men who sailed and handled the ships, hauling ropes and lines and spars, furling and unfurling corses, handling the helm at the whipstaff, pulling oars, eating rations, curling upon the covers of hatches or the packed, stacked cargo to sleep when and where they could. Men who died of fever and diseases and sometimes of starvation and black thirst. Or lived to fight at sea and by land. Perhaps to die then, or be crippled and maimed. Or to be taken by enemies. Then to be whipped, well tortured, hanged. Or, perhaps, clad in the Fool’s Coat of S. Benitos, yellow with red crosses fore and aft, chest and back, and a high-pointed cap like a dunce schoolboy’s, and each man carrying a fat green wax candle, to be tried before the Holy Inquisition. Then burned to ashes at a stake. Or, more fortunate, their naked backs opened up raw and dripping slick with blood from public lashing. From which chastisement, if they survived, they were then sent off to a decade in the galleys.

  Perhaps they lived through all, escaping all dangers, hale and hearty, to come home at last for good and to try to tell some truth of it in taverns. To die in bed like their neighbors and find a place in a churchyard or space in the church to be shared with others dead long before or after them.

  Each vessel, large or small, on a voyage beyond land and horizon, was a place to itself—a village afloat. Except they could grow no crops of food though the sea might offer a bounty harvest of fish, and must find fresh water ashore when they went dry. Carried victuals for six months to a year. And hoping, praying these foods were well packed and preserved, kept tight in casks of seasoned wood with sound hoops to hold the seams against wet and vermin. Not forgetting that the most mortal blow against the Armada was Drake’s expedition to Cadiz. Not for the sinking of ships or the singeing of metaphorical beards, but destruction of the well-seasoned wood gathered for casks. Forcing the Spaniards to sail with inferior casks. And to suffer for it.

  Carrying also firewood for cooking when they were able to have fire. And they preferred food cooked and hot and managed to cook it most of the time.

  Carrying all other stores and equipment they needed, from the gunpowder to sandglasses to keep the half hours. And allowing for breakage and spoilage. Allowing, too, for the ceaseless tasks of maintaining and repairing. With a carpenter, a cooper, and a caulker aboard, and likely a blacksmith and a barber-surgeon.

  There was neither a cook nor a sailmaker. All must be able to cook. Any good sailor must be able to sew and mend sails.

  The carpenter charged with the care and keeping of the hull, the masts, and spars.

  The caulker forever busy. All wooden ships have leaks, but he must try to keep her watertight and direct all pumping.

  Cooper charged with care and keeping of all casks. The cargo and all the food and water aboard. An unenviable charge, judging by endless complaints about the spoiling of goods and food, the loss or ruin of priceless water.

  All repairs were carried out by the crew. When they had to, they cut trees and made new masts and spars. When ropes and cables wore out, they made new ones from raw hemp. Building of new boats and longboats was usual. Repaired or replaced lost rudders at sea.

  And many times must clean the ship’s bottom of barnacles and weed and growth. Would find a shore and careen the ship, tilting her first to one side then the other, scraping her clean, caulking her, paying a fresh coat to protect the wood and discourage the teredo worm.

  And at the same time they would rummage the ship. Pump out sewage and garbage of the bilges, shovel the stinking sand of the ballast, scrubbing bilges clean, sprinkling all with vinegar, and then shoveling in a new and carefully balanced ballast of sand and stones.

  Patching up their own wounds and injuries as best they could and living with them.

  Sailing from here to there. The final destination, often known only by rumor or hearsay, or by a memory from years before. Using charts which were at best grandiose portolani, whose coastwise pilotage directions extended outward, and, beyond known waters and near distances, more decorative than useful. Or maps done in the Medieval manner, valuable for cosmographers, but inaccurate for the navigator. Depending on dead reckoning, and with so many variables and unknowns as to make this seem impossible. But knowing what these variables were and aware of the unknowns. Passing along word of mouth and through books knowledge from the Portuguese and Spanish schools of navigation.

  Working with instruments they were able to bring aboard and use. And working always out of the necessity of following the known winds and not shortest nautical distances.

  Finding their way by means of a crude and uncorrected compass; by an elementary quadrant; by backstaff and cross-staff; by an imperfectly understood and only partially useful small astrolabe; telling hours with a sandglass turned every half hour by ship’s boys who sang out announcement as they turned the glass; estimating speed of the ship by a length of rope with knots.

  Feeling their way, in all but the deep, with frequent soundings of lead and line; working within sight of land whenever possible for the sake of the pilot’s art of caping from one known promontory or landfall, often at great risk with land to leeward. Remembering strengths and currents of the tides of harbors and calculating tides from the age of the moon in the month.

  Mistaking the tides, even in familiar harbors, being the most common cause for distress.

  Yet sailing off on the longest voyages. Often with an agreed rendezvous halfway across the world. And, amazing, making that rendezvous. Finding a spot in the ocean, more often than not. Failure to reach a destination was seldom the fault of navigation.

  Now the men and the order of the crew:

  The captain, most often a gentleman and sometimes the owner. Commanding all and charged with everything.

  A lieutenant to be his legs, voice, translator of wishes into orders. Few good words have been wasted on lieutenants.

  The master, chief navigator, pilot, and master seaman of the ship.

  Master gunner, charged with all ordnance, powder and shot, and weapons, readiness, care, practice and use.

  And besides carpenter, caulker, cooper, blacksmith, and barber there are junior sailing officers:

  Boatswain for ropes, rigging,
sails and flags and care of the longboat; also for punishments.

  Coxswain, keeper of the ship’s boat, lowest rank to carry a pipe and whistle for commands.

  Purser, the clerk of records and keeper of money.

  Quartermaster, responsible for victuals and the ship’s hold; he cons the ship from the deck.

  Swabber, to keep the ship clean; it’s common punishment to be sent to serve under him.

  Four kinds of seamen: the ship’s boys, nine years old and up, for service and errands and high work on the masts; younkers, the ordinary seamen; mariners, able-bodied, experienced, and skilled; sailors, older with much experience and the lightest duties.

  Wages, not to be lower than the Navy Royal’s ten shillings a month.

  Rations: a gallon of beer a day and a pound of sea biscuit; two pounds of beef (or pork or peas) four days a week; on other days fish and butter and cheese. Most captains carried oranges and limes and dried fruit for the men. There was flour, but heavily sotted to discourage rats. Hooks and fishing lines were ship’s equipment, for catching fresh fish when they could. Sometimes chickens were kept aboard, but seldom live sheep or cattle.

  Though regulation stores were ample, they were often depleted by waiting for wind or spoiled on a voyage.

  So a seaman’s food could be described as being “shrunken ration of moldy cheese, rancid butter, weevily biscuit, putrid beef and sour beer.…”

  … Amen to that. It is the God’s truth.

  And now he is more than his voice, coming out of the dark and into a twilight shadow.

  A tanned man, his face a map, a chart of wrinkles, well- and often-plowed courses. A lithe, lean, smallish, small-boned man. Conveying sure quickness and balance, nimbleness, though he stands relaxed. Size of a boy. A boy made of leather and, when he chooses, of light-footed, graceful, sure-handed movements, easy, with no waste of motion or strength. Can vanish with a dart into the dark again if it pleases him. Can disappear forever in response to a threatening move. Not betraying fear, though, in his spread-legged, shoulder-slumped stance, his head ducked, chin tucked down toward his chest, pale eyes raised, light-rinsed and unblinking, short-bearded, beard and trimmed short hair sun-bleached. A skeptical smile on chapped lips.

  Who would have imagined such a mighty voice from him?

  Though alert and suspicious as a spring bird pecking in grass, looks harmless enough. Except for his hands. The left on hip, crooking an elbow, the right loose and open, palm down, across a taut belly. The right hand a few inches away from the hilt of his knife. And, even sheathed as it is, its plain bone sheath solid to grip and almost colorless, that blade can be imagined. Thick and clean and bright, keen of point and honed along edge until it will cut through a hair dropped across it.

  What that blade can do to the carcass of a man, so quick he would see only a flashing before he felt the heat of pain and ice upon flesh from the cold of the blade. He considers himself well armed for anything he might meet on shore.

  But the hands … Large, bulked and dark as if he wears gloves. The fingers long, square-ended, nails clipped close, one of them blue; yet these large, relaxed hands, grown so from years of gripping and pulling, with long, square, blunt-shaped fingers, imply much dexterity. Not for lute or viol or virginal. He would not have time or patience to tune a lute. But for the swift, sure, subtle tasks. A tailor or lacemaker might envy those hands and fingers at sight. A fool would ignore them.

  The palms unseen but calloused, layer upon layer. Gloves cannot serve him better.

  You can tell him by his clothing at a distance. He has canvas breeches, or tarpaulin, baggy and loose with many folds, a doublet or jerkin of the same; a white, tough linen shirt, to which he may add a short ruff for a ceremonial occasion, greasy-wool stockings for his calves, shoes of lightest, thinnest, toughest leather, with a metal buckle to tighten and loosen them. And he wears the old-fashioned thrummed cap. No doubt disdains the newer Monmouth cap.

  … I will have neither when harbor is cleared and we are at our business. If I need a cap to cover my head in wind and spray or the rain, why, I’ll wear one of my own making, cut from the wool of an old pair of socks where the toes wiggle in a naked dance and will not be darned.

  … Well now, there are things I want to tell. That for heavy work, dirty work, wet or cold work, we had our long gowns if we pleased to wear them, to spare both body and clothing. And that canvas gown, though it might bag and luff like a sail—and we have sewn sails of them of necessity, will keep a man warm and dry if he knows how to wear it. ’Tis too clumsy to be used aloft—excepting in crow’s nest or topmost—but is good service to a seaman on deck or under hatches when we are taking in water. And it serves well for a blanket to roll in too, if it has been kept dry.

  … Though our clothing was scant enough (one shirt was all a good seaman could afford for a voyage and enough if he looked to the care of it), it served for our kinds of labor. Light and sturdy with nothing to catch or snag, and loose to leave limbs and body free. But I tell you, seamen nowadays, in the reign of the King, are a disgrace. A shame to England, to the King, and in truth, to themselves. I swear I have seen savage men in Africa, Ireland, and the Indies more bravely clad than poor wretches of the King’s Navy Royal. In southern waters I have seen an English ship manned by a crew of naked men. Perhaps in the cold North they cover themselves with their gowns. Or else shiver like bones on a gibbet. They die for lack of proper clothing. And, barefoot in the cold northern routes, they will lose toes as easy as if by an ax.

  … Well, things are not what they once were, I’ll be a witness to that.

  … And speaking of victuals; evil as they may sound to some landsman, even moldy cheese, stale bread, and sour beer are a feast when the choice is those or an empty gut all twisting like a dying snake and the black weight of the tongue when there’s nothing to drink.

  … Let them laugh and call a seafaring man a fool, ignorant and foolish. Most likely he knew little of reading and writing, words and ciphers. If he could read, he would read nothing much but the Psalms and some verses of Holy Scripture. No Latin or Greek, it’s true. But bear in mind that after he’d sailed a voyage or two, he could buy and sell, curse and make love, order food and drink and ask direction in the Spanish, Dutch, French, Italian, and Portuguese tongues. Which, I’ll wager, is more than many a gentleman at home. And there were plenty who could bargain and make talk with all kinds of black Africans and savages of the New World; could talk with the Turks and Lapps and Moors. And I, myself, after a perilous and icy voyage, have talked sweetly with a broad-beamed Muscovite girl.

  … Except when a ship is direct commissioned on navy service or, say, upon a short merchant voyage, a seaman is not likely to be living off his wages. On a proper voyage, where prizes are taken along the way, the crew has the lawful right and custom of dividing among them one third of all profit when time comes for breaking of bulk and the disposing of it. One third of the value of prize and the cargo. And this comes together with the rights of pillage. Meaning that, excepting for a captured ship’s instruments, charts, and the captain’s chest, all goods and valuables not part of the cargo are fair pillage for the crew. And that would mean, too, the belongings and clothing of all of their crew, living or dead, and any passengers on board. Including even every shred on their bodies and backs. Unless, of course, a captain should feel full of the fear of God and give order against stripping them bare-arsed.

  … So, anyone can plainly see that on a voyage of privateering a man could make plenty, even down to the topmost boy of the crew, if it was a saving voyage.

  … Now, back to our subject of victuals again. On that kind of voyage, victuals are charged against the cost of the voyage and count against profit. No man would want to stuff his gut with dainty fare. Even if he were so sea-seasoned and brass gutted he could keep such things down. He can always spice up his rations ashore or on the victuals of a well-stocked prize.

  … The crew on these voyages were like holders in a joint
-stock company. A fair wind of incentive to pull and labor together. And by rights the crew had a say in matters. When you hear gossip of mutinies and suchlike, it is well to remember that, before you jump to judgment. A captain who will pass by a likely prize or will risk ship and crew for a longboat full of codfish, you can be sure he will be told about it soon after. If not before.… And if he is a wise captain, he will listen to right reason and follow the will of the crew.

  … You’ll hear of many a voyage that changed at sea from its purpose and destination. Study and weigh each tale. You’ll see that sometimes the will of the crew prevailed, even against reason. But, as often as not, the captain never planned to follow the intended course. He would keep his plan to himself till he put enough leagues of water between him and home so a spy would have to swim to report his intelligence. Or sometimes over the horizon here comes a sail or two ripe for the picking. A man with a good ship and crew would be a fool not to give chase, though he must sometimes abandon his course to do so.

  … Now, on a good fat prize, say a vessel out of Portugal or Spain, when there’s plenty of wine and pillage to quarrel over, there can be trouble. Especially if it’s been a lean voyage with thin pickings, and there’s been bloody work and the loss of shipmates. Trouble for which a man cannot be blamed. A good stiff fight at sea will scare a brave man into flux. After close chances and the sight of mates being killed, after having to enter and settle it with blades and hard knocks (and sometimes a ship will slip her grappling and leave you on the other vessel while she tries to sail around and close again), after all that fear and bloody work, with blood still running on the decks and waist and clotting in lumps like fresh tar, bodies of friends and strangers lying about and some not dead yet, but moaning and weeping and praying for death, I have seen good-hearted shipmates break open the first cask of wine and gulp it down like water. I have seen them laughing and cursing and singing and dancing among the dead and the dying. Have seen them strip crew and passengers, women and children too, down to the skin. Heave the children over the side to drown or bash brains on the mast. And lower breeches to the knees to have the women, unashamed, before the eyes of all. Have seen men hold a woman down on a blood-soaked deck while each had his turn with her. And, sir, they will kill any man, the first, who chastises them, even their own officers and captain.