Beneath These Sails

Beneath These Sails
By Z. Ephraim Glass

         The sensation of iron against my gangplank jarred me from my reverie. I brought my attention to bear to determine what was happening, but I found only a man, standing astride my gunwale. He wore a long, heavy coat, concealing most of his body, but I could tell that his face was ruddy. I reckoned that he was a sailor, but it doesn’t take a scholar to make such a judgment ten docks deep in a shipyard.

         It wasn’t until he stepped down onto the deck that I realized that he had heavy, iron plates riveted to the soles of his boots. He thumped across the forecastle and paused there to examine my tiller. Working his way sternward, he stopped often, inspecting all of my rigging: “ropes, rings and reels,” as the saying goes. He had reached my mainmast and was running his fingers over the prayers carved there when my Captain, James Astor, emerged from belowdecks to see what was amiss, topside. Seeing the stranger, he strode toward him and called, “Pardon me, sir! What are you doing aboard my ship?”

         The man turned slowly and inclined his head and replied, “I meant no harm, Mr. Astor. I wanted to do business with you and it seemed simpler to conduct it in person than to engage in a lengthy correspondence.” He extended his right hand toward the Captain and introduced himself. “My name is Arthur Winthrop.”

         Warily, Captain Astor took the man’s hand and shook. “The pleasure’s mine,” he replied. “Now, what sort of business, exactly, did you have in mind?”

         “I’ve recently inherited quite a large amount of money. As I’ve been sailing most of my life, I supposed it was only fitting that I finally invest in a ship of my own.”

         Captain Astor tugged at his graying mustache, a gesture I’ve long known to be a sign of interest. “And you think I’m ready to part with Madeline?” he asked.

         Winthrop laughed. “Mr. Astor, I’ve been looking for a suitable ship for weeks. It seems to be something of a public secret around here that you’ve been preparing to retire for years. I can offer a very generous sum, if it will help you to decide.”

         “How much?” the Captain asked.

         “Forty five hundred pounds sterling,” Winthrop replied, his voice firm. I was rather startled at the amount. I’m in fine condition, make no doubt, but a schooner my age oughtn’t sell for more than four thousand pounds.

         Captain Astor continued to pluck at his mustache, but I imagined it wouldn’t take very long for him to decide. As I supposed, he agreed presently and left with Winthrop to see to the legalities.

         The following morning, Astor assembled the crew for a final word with them, while Captain Winthrop was arranging a cargo.

         “Fellows, I’ve been Madeline’s captain for more than twenty years.” He removed his cap and indicated the first mate. “Arnie, you’ve been with me for fourteen of ‘em and some of you others nearly that long. All of you are fine sailors and it’s been an honour to work with you. Now, I’m passing on Madline to a younger man, but I want all of you to take care of yourselves and work as hard for Mr. Winthrop as you did for me.”

         This said, a few of the men helped him carry his chest down to the dock, then returned to the ship to relax until Captain Winthrop returned. Around noon, the Captain arrived with shipping bills for American goods bound for South Africa. He watched men closely as they gathered up the cargo and packed it in my hold.

         Once they were finished, he called them together and addressed them. “We set sail in the morning. If the weather is favourable, we’ll be in Cape Town within six weeks. If you’re all as good sailors as Madeline is a fine vessel, I trust this will be a pleasant voyage. He dismissed them until the following day and then retreated to his quarters.

         Morning broke beneath a clear sky and with a stiff wind to fill my sails. So we departed England under fortunate omens. Despite the fine weather, my crew was ill at ease. As the day drew on, I too grew anxious and I finally realized how unsetting it was for us all to have a new skipper. Captain Winthrop seemed unaware of the tension as he moved among the crew, overseeing their labor. By the week’s end, some of the deckhands were grumbling openly. Captain Winthrop readily expressed criticism for sloppy seamanship and had quickly offended many of the younger sailors. I sympathized with the crew, for Astor had never been a hard taskmaster, but the changes that Captain Winthrop had wrought seemed to be improvements, which brightened my disposition markedly.

         The senior crewmen, either out of empathy for my fine mood or from more even tempers, adopted Winthrop’s suggestions without a word of complaint.

         The second week found Captain Winthrop to be more lenient, at least in part because his new policies had taken root. With a lighter workload, my crew had time to catch fish or to gamble among themselves. The Captain remained aloof from these activities, even when he was invited by the first mate, Arnie, to dice with his mates. In fact, Captain Winthrop spent most of his spare time in his quarters, reading or composing correspondence.

         Dawn of the thirteenth day revealed a broad, crimson swash staining the horizon. Taking note of the clouds in the eastern sky, Captain Winthrop took aside the first mate and the helmsman. “We all know that such a sky might mean trouble, but then again, it could pose no threat at all. Keep a close watch and be ready to lower the sails and drop anchor, if the weather turns foul.

         Around midday, the storm rolled in overhead. It turned out to be nothing more than a brief squall and while my sails were slackened, there was no serious danger to either me or the crew. Following a few hours of cool rain, the sun broke through the cloud cover and the voyage continued.

         Had this been the severest weather we faced, we would have been fortunate, indeed. However, six days later, I found myself suddenly assaulted by the acrid tang that accompanies lightning. Within moments, the previously clear sky was a seething maelstrom. As my crew swarmed topside to bring down my sails, my mind drifted to another such storm, twenty years prior.

* * *

         James Astor, then a sea captain of only two years, had emerged from his quarters in the morning to a clear sky and an even wind. There was nothing at all to presage the catastrophic storm that was brewing in the deceptively placid atmosphere. As the sky darkened with clouds toward the onset of evening, my crew and I grew wary.

         Expecting rain, none of us were prepared for the weird precipitation that fell at first from the leaden sky. As the crew waited on deck, fish, some of them still alive and wriggling, began to fall, striking my hull with grotesque thuds. Fearing bedevilment, most of the crew panicked. Himself terrified, Captain Astor had sent all men below, then roped himself to my tiller and bade God have mercy on his crew.

         The fish presently ceased to fall but what followed was the most fearsome tempest through which any ship could ever expect to live. With my sails yet unfurled, I was subject to the full measure of the storm’s fury. At each moment, I feared that my mast would be ripped away by God’s breath as easily as the stem might be plucked from an apple. It was providence alone that preserved me. Just as the strain on my burdened timbers threatened to overcome me, a frayed rope, poorly maintained, snapped, leaving my sail to flap like a pennant from my mainmast.

         Many hours later, when the storm had abated only enough to allow the men to venture above, my crew crept out from belowdecks to survey the damage. Expecting to find no trace of Captain Astor, they were shocked to find him still bound to my tiller, exhausted, but alive and uninjured.

         Upon our return to England, Captain Astor had prayers of thanksgiving, dedicated to Anthony of Padua and Brendan the Navigator, inscribed on my mast.

* * *

         As the demon sky howled its rage around me, I offered my own petition to Saint Brendan, begging his protection on behalf of my self and my sailors. Captain Winthrop would have no man shirking his duty, though, until I was safe. Forsaking his lofty airs, the Captain leapt in among the men to help them lower my sails. As they struggled with my rigging, the driven rain became intermixed with flecks of ice. The waves continued to swell and when they grew high enough to wash over my sides, two of the crew, my first mate, Arnie and my eldest deckhand, failed to find good purchase and were swept overboard. In seconds they were lost to the sea, their shipmates too preoccupied with their frantic labours even to notice.

         Only when they finally succeeded in furling my sails and had descended below did they realize the loss. Shivering and grieving, they could only await the end of the storm.
Following the gale, cursory repairs were necessary. The crew was somber but diligent as they patched my sails and mended my rigging. Within two days, we had resumed course for South Africa.

* * *

         The entire crew speaks fondly of James Astor, who had prayed each day and who cared for his crew like brothers. Kind words about Arthur Winthrop are scarce, for he is feared more than he is loved. But the wind, the sea, and I all know which is the better sailor.