Jordan at five-card stud, and once Jordan was slow payin' up. So Joe Reddy hired a horse an' galloped in there an' shot up the molasses jugs. They had a helluva time moppin' that stuff up."
"I've never heard of a cap'n like him," I said.
Nils replied, "He's slowed down now, but ain't above usin' his fists if you git uppity."
"Why do you sail with him?"
Nils eyed me. "The
Conyers
works harder'n any, but the pay is good an' she feeds well. Never mind the cap'n if you watch your tongue an' do your job. Only man to keep in mind is the bosun. He's a stomper."
My gills were dry as we plodded on along Front Street.
11
F OR THOSE who do not know much about seafaring before the wind, a bark, which is not short for barkentine, is considered a full square-rigger, having mostly square sails, with fewer, smaller fore-and-aft (schooner) sails. A barkentine, on the other hand, has a combination of square sails and equally large schooner sails. Even on the Banks, people sometimes mixed them up, saying "barkentine" when the ship lying off was actually a full-fledged square-rigger, as was the
Conyers.
A pure windjammer.
Soon I stood on the pitch-seamed, scrubbed deck of Cap'n Reddy's vessel, seabag at my feet, and looked up the tall mastsâfore, main, mizzen, and after, with crossing spars, the yardsâmouth wide open, wondering if fd have the hardiness to climb clear to the royals, the topsails of all. The rest of the crew had already disappeared forward with their gear.
In a moment of cherished dream, I could almost see myself up there on a yardarm, the captain shouting to me, "Ben, give a look to that lee mizzen brace."
"Aye, aye, sir." A fond hope, perhaps to come true.
"Vel, vat you doin standin'?" yelled the bosun, looming suddenly. "Go to de Bravaman."
I had no idea what a Bravaman was, nor his location. I was struck speechless as the bucko mate glared down at me.
"Go to de fo'c'sle," Gebbert roared, lifting a boot toe, and I scurried that way. I well knew what the fo'c'sle was: the forecastle, or forward house, near the bow, where the crew lived.
En route, I chanced on the skinny sailor who'd given me the high sign not to dare come aboard the previous day, and learned his name was Barney. He came from a place called Jersey City.
"You did it, anyway," he said. "You'll be sorry."
"Had to," I replied, and quickly explained about Reuben down in the Caribbean.
"Watch out for that bosun," he warned.
I said I surely would.
In a moment, the two tipsy sailors came by, laughing and joking. That lasted just long enough for the bosun to grab them both by their collars and run down the deck with them full bore. Just before he reached the afterhouse, he let go of them. They drove on into the wood, their heads hitting like ripe melons, or so it sounded. They fell back on their behinds.
The bosun said to them, "Sober up."
Yes, he was a man to watch out for, I thought as I continued uneasily on to the fo'c'sle in search of the Bravaman, and I soon found him in the galley, which was mostly occupied by a big, six-hole coal range. A sink, chopping block, food shelves, and lockers took up the rest of it. On one bulkheadâwallâwas a small statue of the Virgin Mary.
Meeting up with a Bravaman was to see someone smoking a long cigar, short and tubby, dark of skin, hair, and eyes, wearing a stained towel around his neck beneath which hung a small gold cross on a chain. I stood there nervously and said I was the new boy. He looked me over and said something like "Bong dia." That was not the way we spoke on the Banks, and I had no answer.
He laughed and said, "You work for me, you learn Portuguese." And that's exactly what
bong dia
was, just a cheerful good morning. That ship was full of foreigners and I won't attempt to spell it out the way he talked. His
j's
sounded like
s's;
so did his
g's.
His voice rose and fell like fast tides. "In" was "om" and "bom" was "bong."
Anyhow, Eddie Cartaxo had bad feet and limped along the
"I've never heard of a cap'n like him," I said.
Nils replied, "He's slowed down now, but ain't above usin' his fists if you git uppity."
"Why do you sail with him?"
Nils eyed me. "The
Conyers
works harder'n any, but the pay is good an' she feeds well. Never mind the cap'n if you watch your tongue an' do your job. Only man to keep in mind is the bosun. He's a stomper."
My gills were dry as we plodded on along Front Street.
11
F OR THOSE who do not know much about seafaring before the wind, a bark, which is not short for barkentine, is considered a full square-rigger, having mostly square sails, with fewer, smaller fore-and-aft (schooner) sails. A barkentine, on the other hand, has a combination of square sails and equally large schooner sails. Even on the Banks, people sometimes mixed them up, saying "barkentine" when the ship lying off was actually a full-fledged square-rigger, as was the
Conyers.
A pure windjammer.
Soon I stood on the pitch-seamed, scrubbed deck of Cap'n Reddy's vessel, seabag at my feet, and looked up the tall mastsâfore, main, mizzen, and after, with crossing spars, the yardsâmouth wide open, wondering if fd have the hardiness to climb clear to the royals, the topsails of all. The rest of the crew had already disappeared forward with their gear.
In a moment of cherished dream, I could almost see myself up there on a yardarm, the captain shouting to me, "Ben, give a look to that lee mizzen brace."
"Aye, aye, sir." A fond hope, perhaps to come true.
"Vel, vat you doin standin'?" yelled the bosun, looming suddenly. "Go to de Bravaman."
I had no idea what a Bravaman was, nor his location. I was struck speechless as the bucko mate glared down at me.
"Go to de fo'c'sle," Gebbert roared, lifting a boot toe, and I scurried that way. I well knew what the fo'c'sle was: the forecastle, or forward house, near the bow, where the crew lived.
En route, I chanced on the skinny sailor who'd given me the high sign not to dare come aboard the previous day, and learned his name was Barney. He came from a place called Jersey City.
"You did it, anyway," he said. "You'll be sorry."
"Had to," I replied, and quickly explained about Reuben down in the Caribbean.
"Watch out for that bosun," he warned.
I said I surely would.
In a moment, the two tipsy sailors came by, laughing and joking. That lasted just long enough for the bosun to grab them both by their collars and run down the deck with them full bore. Just before he reached the afterhouse, he let go of them. They drove on into the wood, their heads hitting like ripe melons, or so it sounded. They fell back on their behinds.
The bosun said to them, "Sober up."
Yes, he was a man to watch out for, I thought as I continued uneasily on to the fo'c'sle in search of the Bravaman, and I soon found him in the galley, which was mostly occupied by a big, six-hole coal range. A sink, chopping block, food shelves, and lockers took up the rest of it. On one bulkheadâwallâwas a small statue of the Virgin Mary.
Meeting up with a Bravaman was to see someone smoking a long cigar, short and tubby, dark of skin, hair, and eyes, wearing a stained towel around his neck beneath which hung a small gold cross on a chain. I stood there nervously and said I was the new boy. He looked me over and said something like "Bong dia." That was not the way we spoke on the Banks, and I had no answer.
He laughed and said, "You work for me, you learn Portuguese." And that's exactly what
bong dia
was, just a cheerful good morning. That ship was full of foreigners and I won't attempt to spell it out the way he talked. His
j's
sounded like
s's;
so did his
g's.
His voice rose and fell like fast tides. "In" was "om" and "bom" was "bong."
Anyhow, Eddie Cartaxo had bad feet and limped along the
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