Wake of the Perdido Star (17 page)

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Authors: Gene Hackman

BOOK: Wake of the Perdido Star
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Serving his watch at the helm, Jack observed as officers gathered on the quarterdeck, shouting at each other. Jack caught Quince's eye. Quince shook his head slightly as if to say, “Learn from this.”
Three officers were nose to nose with each other, all constantly interrupting with a different view of what should be done.
“If we are to maintain discipline we must not allow the crew to see us in dissent.”
“It has been my understanding from every source I have spoken to, that to beat the Horn you must fight her.”
“We must do a combination. We must fight when it's relevant and pull back when prudent. I, for one, would bear off to the north, and in the protection of this bay, try to sneak around the inside of the Horn.”
During all of this, Quince stood silently, legs apart, hands folded behind him, listening.
Mr. Mancy turned to address him. “Quince, none of us have done a passage around this devil, so you might as well voice your opinion.”
Quince stared to port at the vague shore of Wollaston, not looking at the group. “I've done many a passage, sir, and it's my opinion, if indeed you're asking, that the Horn loves a fight and she'll only let you pass to port of her, and then only if you're a worthy opponent.” The first mate turned to the sad group of inexperienced officers. “I say fight the bitch. Fight her tooth and nail.”
Hiding his smile, Jack bent over the binnacle, pretending to study the compass.
Mr. Boyer was the first to speak. “It was my understanding, Quince, that in our recent contretemps with the captain, he stated, and I thought rightly, that none of us ‘lubbers' had made a passage around the Horn. Was that not so?”
The first mate brushed the snow from his red face and blew on his frozen fingers. “May I speak frankly, sir?” he asked.
“Of course. By all means.”
“First of all, none of us would be standing here jawing about how to get around the Horn if the captain was right.”
There was immediate concurrence among the three officers.
“Secondly, I think we would all have to agree that the captain was not dealing with a mind that was fully functional.”
Again a murmuring of assent.
“I've made ten passages of the Horn spread over the last fifteen years. None of them easy and two of them with Captain Deploy. The fact that he didn't remember my name or that we had even sailed together grieves me.” Quince stepped up to the helm and scanned the compass. “You've drifted two points off your course, sailor; bring her up into the wind.”
Jack quickly responded.
The officers stood braced, waiting for Quince to continue.
“If we're to survive this trip—and I see no reason why we can't—I say do as Captain Deploy would have done in better days. Treat this passage as a difficult one, but approach it as a sailing problem, not as a myth that needs to be conquered.” He waited a moment, then continued. “The wind'll blow in this quarter of the world from every direction and seemingly all at the same time, so to hide in the lee of this island with chances of going on the rocks seems foolhardy. We have to be out there driving to windward for all we're worth. Changing the ship every minute if need be, but pushing, pushing till we can make enough seaway to turn the corner. If we have to beat halfway down to the Antarctic, so be it.” Quince looked at each man in turn. “To honor Captain Hans Peter Deploy, let's not hide here like frightened apprentices, but stick our noses in this thing right and proper.”
Quince's reasoning and knowledge of the sea touched Jack in a surprising way. He felt a strange uplifting and sense of pride at being on the
Star
with this man who had never lost his temper among the group of weak officers. Maybe it was worth staying alive, if only to see how it would play.
It didn't take long for the men to make their decision. The
Star
swept out from the lee of Wollaston but couldn't make her way west, so she showed her beam to the wind and beat south, toward the Antarctic. After several hours of relentless sleet, rain, and snow, she came about and started back toward the Cape, hoping to make
at least a half mile on her long tack. But the winds picked up even stronger and she was forced to shorten sail, only to lose a mile instead of gaining a half.
On the quarterdeck the officers were grim with determination. They tried time and again to gain seaway at this famous corner of the world. Finally, they stood down, just before darkness set in, hoping to try again at dawn.
The sun never rose the next morning; the sky just became a shade lighter. But it was enough to see the rocks of the Cape, so once again they set out. When the Antarctic coast lay just twenty miles away, they tried a direct westerly charge, but the five thousand miles of open ocean ahead allowed the seas to build to enormous heights, beating them back to the east. This time when asked his advice, Quince suggested more sail, not less, so they would be more maneuverable—and it seemed to work. They were able to point further up into the wind and were fast approaching the Horn from their extended tack when one of their jib stays parted. It flew to the east like a giant pennant, cracking in the wind.
“Cut that sail, lads!”
Jack and Paul shot up the ratlines.
“Cut her away and be quick about it!” The Horn, less than a half mile away, loomed heavily on the horizon. If they could stay pointed up they would be able to tack just west of the Cape and with luck be through safely.
The officers stood together, transfixed by the event before their eyes. If they made it, they would still have heavy sailing for a bit but they would be able to round the coast of Chile in a few miles and then beat north along the archipelago.
The seas churned the ship. Groaning from the enormous strain, her bow alternately pointed above then below the Cape. They seemed to be headed directly for the rocks; it would take a combination of a quick wind shift and a friendly sea just to get them through. Then they had no choice—they were committed. With just a hundred yards to the rocks, it didn't look like they would make it.
Quince stood braced on the quarterdeck rail. When it seemed the officers behind him were losing faith, he yelled to the helmsman, “Steady as she goes, lad. Don't point her any further up or we'll be in irons. Steady as she goes!” They could hear the surf crashing against the rocks as the old ship caught a wave and brought her bow further west.
Then, as if by magic, the wind swung to the north and brought the ship around. They were past the rocks of Cabo de Hornos, heading west.
One of the younger officers leaned over the lee rail, sick, as the rest just stood, looking at the rocks receding in their wake. If they could have seen Quince's face, they would have been ashamed, for the stout old sea dog wore an enormous grin. They had beaten the Horn. As Quince had said, it was just another sailing problem.
Jack pulled steadily on his oar, relishing the feel of the muscles in his back. Hansumbob stood in the bow of the longboat, one hand stuffed into his coat-front, the other gesturing toward the approaching beach.
In the spring of '76, there was ice upon the sea.
A bunch of us went whaling, upon this we all agree.
The rest of the men, rowing to shore, groaned as Bob recited his doggerel. The old man just continued as if he hadn't heard their protests.
But nothing else about that trip was normal—don't ya see.
For Jim Larue and his brother Bill were lost and woe is me.
We searched the night till break a day. A plenty of whales there be.
But we let them go.
We let them live, for the sea had snatched at we.
“It don't rhyme so good, Bob. It don't make no sense,” Smithers grunted, as he strained against the oar. The rest of the crew were silent, for there was nothing so entertaining as having sport with old Bob.
“It don't need ta, ya idjut.” Bob sulked, both hands deep into his jacket pocket. “It 'spose to be a story, Smithers. It ain't 'spose to be no poem what rhyme, like perfect.”
“Well, ya got that part right.”
Bob waited a moment, obviously thinking about how to defend his poetry.
“Your trouble, Smithers, is that you got no sensitive in ya.”
“Hallelujah to that!” Smithers laughed, encouraging the crew to follow his gaiety.
“I could tell ya tales what would make your hair stand on end.” Bob stopped for a moment and quickly snatched the hat from Smithers's head. “If ya had any.”
The crew roared. Bob had touched on Smithers's soft spot; Jack knew this man's baldness was not to be tampered with.
“The point of the story be, there's these men. An' they all take to whalin' and a couple of them get lost in the sea and the rest of them take to a lookin' for 'em and it ain't to be. They see plenty a whale an' course, that what they lookin' for too. But they don' have the heart to kill the whales when they lost some of their own kin. Ya see, that's what the ‘we' is about. Well, anyway, if ya haff to explain a story, it means your audience not be up to your standards no how.” Bob turned back to the approaching shore. “It be a hot day on old Cape Horn the next time I tell ya lubbers a tale—and ya could bet your grog rations on that.” Ole Bob punctuated his speech with a heavy tobacco spit over the side and the longboat beached in the soft sand.
Quince made up a working party to find fresh water. The high cliffs of the archipelago created enormous falls, which in turn made pools where the sailors filled their casks. A mist kept the cliffs shrouded so that the streams of water seemed to fall straight
out of the sky. The men were relaxed and feeling good after the ordeal of the Cape. They had pushed on to get well away from the bad weather, a hundred miles up the Chilean coast to Desolation Island, which guarded the west entrance to the Straits of Magellan. It was here that they had anchored in a small cove, to replenish their water supply.
Jack rolled one cask down to the boat and started back for a second when he heard shouts from the men around the pool.
Bosun Ben Mentor danced a jig, pointing to Hansumbob, who was exploring the beach. “Bob!” he shouted, breathless from his dance. “You be lookin' for whale down there?”
Bob picked up a tusk. “Not a whale at all if ya need to know, but maybe a sea lion.”
“Well, is it still good to eat, Bob? Or do it need a bit a cookin'?” Smithers asked.
Jack could tell he still smarted from the crew's laugh at his expense. Smithers reminded Jack of an older version of Billy Slocum, Jack's schoolyard nemesis. Always looking for a weak spot in someone's character, the victim would usually be someone smaller or weaker. Jack took a deep breath, determined to mind his own business.
“Bob, what ya say you and me Indian wrestle?” Smithers called.
“Nope. Don't wrestle, don't care to. Specially with no bald man, what's thick-skinned.”
“I say we Indian wrestle, ole-timer. If ya can wrestle like ya can pass the insults, you should be fine and dandy.”
There was a rustle, the men sensing a fight in the making.
“Thankee, Mr. Smithers. I appreciate the offer but I'll decline respectful, sir. And I'll drop my comments—they all be in fun. Just fun.” Ole Bob delivered his speech quietly and sincerely. Jack knew men cooped up in tight quarters needed an outlet sometimes, and that Hansumbob didn't wish to be on the receiving end of Smithers's rancor.
But Smithers felt wronged and needed some satisfaction. He
stood hands on hips, legs apart. “I called ya down, Bob, I called ya and ya slithered away like a dog. Now take my hand, dammit, and be a man.”
Smithers extended his right hand. Bob looked around for support, smiling in a way that would make any man think twice about harming this gentle soul. He walked slowly up to his opponent.
“I'll gladly shake your hand, but to say I'd wrestle would be a lie. It wouldn't be much game for ya.”
He extended his hand. Smithers pumped it and Bob flew ass over tea kettle into the sand, face first. The men shouted.

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