Rough Passage to London(11)
“Go forward, you two no-account rum-holers,” the man with the porkpie hat said as he kicked the two men again. “You two nancy boys can kiss up in the fo’c’sle.”
The other men all laughed at this homosexual reference, and the curly haired man continued his lecture as he squirted tobacco juice on the two men’s shoulders. This was Morgan’s introduction to the ship’s second officer, Jack Brown. He was a short, stocky man with a red face framed by black whiskers. He had piercing gray-black eyes that darted about the deck. His broad frame, long arms, and hairy chest made him look like more of an animal than a man.
Brown’s lips turned up slightly at the edges, giving his mouth a cruel expression. His lips were stained with tobacco juice that trickled down his stubbly chin.
“I want no more scuffling, men. If you have a mind to make trouble, I’ve a right to flog anyone I’ve a mind to. Now throw your bundles in the fo’c’sle. This packet sails with the tide. Remember tide and time wait for no drunken sailor.”
With that vivid demonstration, Mr. Brown squirted another stream of tobacco juice, this time in Morgan’s direction, narrowly missing his head as the squishy, brown gob flew over the side of the ship. Morgan caught the man looking at him with a predatory stare that seemed to hold little hope of good tidings to come. He cast his eyes downward, as he could already tell that Mr. Brown was the kind of man who expected others to submit to his will. He thought of his father at that moment. He followed behind the sailors as they walked to the front of the ship. Morgan watched as the men heaved their wooden chests and duffels into the dark hole in the deck, which was the entrance to the fo’c’sle. It was too late to run now.
Cautiously he stepped down the steep ladder, his hands gripping the man rope tightly until his feet finally touched the floorboards. He groped his way forward into the darkness. He felt clammy and uncomfortable, overwhelmed by the smell of old ropes and tar, mixed with the musty odors of unwashed men and alcohol. Someone lit a lantern. Finally he could see where he was going. Amid the boxes, duffels, and bundles of bedding, the old hands greeted one another with bursts of laughter, slaps on the back, and gruff calls. Someone else tried to light another lantern, even as another silhouetted figure bumped his head, cursing at the darkness. Morgan put his hand into a black corner of his new sleeping quarters, reaching out until he found a bunk with no mattress. He started to throw his canvas bag onto the simple wooden bunk when a voice cried out.
“Don’t you put your bundle thar’, you worthless critter. Move away!”
Startled, Morgan jumped back. The unseen voice continued.
“You better pull foot out of here now or I’ll slash the hide off you.”
Morgan stammered an apology. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t see anything.”
The light from another passing lantern revealed a boy his age, or slightly younger, who was stretched out on the wooden planks. He had auburn hair, freckles, a round face, and a snub nose with a few stubs of hair growing from his dimpled chin and over his upper lip. In the flickering light, he was glowering at Morgan as his hand clutched a piece of wood.
“This here bunk is mine,” he said defiantly, lifting up his makeshift club.
“Where can I throw my duffel?” Morgan asked, backing away quickly.
The boy shrugged with cold indifference, and then pointed upward at the stacked bunk above him.
“Just stay out of my way, you hear. You can’t be too careful in a ship’s fo’c’sle. Some of these old tars are a bunch of sodomite codfish and there’s nothing they like better than to land a young mackerel.”
Morgan quickly dismissed this as an exaggeration and decided he would try to be friendly even if this gesture wasn’t reciprocated. He clambered up into the upper bunk. Right over his head was a piece of glass inserted into the deck to provide light. He thought to himself that at least he might be able to read on sunny days. He had brought along a tattered copy of William Cowper’s poetry which included his favorite, the comic ballad John Gilpin. The book had been given to him by his old tutor, Margaret Carpenter, a year earlier. He looked down at his new bunkmate.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Smith,” was the curt reply. “Hiram Smith.”
Morgan nodded to himself. “My name is Morgan, Ely Morgan.”
The next frightening encounter Morgan had was with the first mate, a big man with a powerful chest, arms like tree trunks, a squashed nose broken down the middle, and a prominent beard covering most of his face. His name was Tim Toothacher, a Connecticut man from Middletown who had sailed since the age of thirteen to China with the old-timers. He was a firm believer in young sailors learning the hard way, or as he would say, “coming in through the hawse holes and not through the cabin doors.”