“Ease the sheets! Haul on the buntlines and furl!”
All this was a foreign language to Morgan. He watched as another sailor on the adjacent mast started gathering in the sail. He had never even helped furl a square sail before, much less one eighty to ninety feet above the deck, but he set about his task as best as he could. He clumped together the sail, pulling at the heavy canvas from all directions. Suddenly, the first mate’s voice was directed at him.
“Hayseed, gather the bunt up onto the center of the yard.”
Morgan had no idea what the bunt was. He looked around and below to see if anyone would help him. There was no offer of assistance. Hiram was sent aloft to show him how to furl a topgallant. Reluctantly, his bunkmate took on the role as his teacher. Hiram showed Morgan how the buntlines and the clewlines were used for hauling up the foot of a square sail, and how, once the sail was furled, a gasket was used to tie it in place. Despite the helpful instruction, Hiram offered no sympathy.
“I reckon the second mate’s gonna beat you when you get down on deck. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.”
When Morgan landed on deck, Mr. Brown boxed him in the ears and set him to work cleaning off tobacco stains on the decks. On that first voyage as the new cabin boy, Morgan was already getting used to being kicked and cuffed by every bully on board, particularly the second mate. Sailors held the belief that the more punishment they gave a cabin boy, the better sailor he’d become.
The worst job he was given was to clean up after the farm animals on board. Day after day, Mr. Brown chose him for this lowly task. Most of the packets had an outdoor area on deck in the middle of the ship where they kept a cow for milk. The sheep, pigs, ducks and hens were all destined to end up on the table for the cabin passengers. Morgan mostly showed deference to Mr. Brown, but one day he made a big mistake of talking back when the mate took away the small wooden shovel he had been using to scoop up the manure.
“I need a shovel to do that job,” Morgan said with some conviction, his fists clenching. “At home on the farm we do this kind of work with shovels.”
Brown locked eyes with Morgan and Ely noticed that they were twitching.
“Is that so, Hayseed? You hear that men? Hayseed here is making demands.”
Brown grabbed Morgan by the ear with one of his large, calloused hands.
“What do you think this is, Hayseed? Your ma’s flower garden? We’re here on a ship. We don’t use shovels to clean the pigpens. We use our hands. That’s why we need a farm boy like you. So start cleaning up the pig shit. Then you can move on to the sheep dung, which we know you like to wipe all over your face.”
He laughed and pushed Morgan into the pen, knocking him down onto a mound of wet, oozy manure. As he heard laughter from the men nearby, Morgan’s spirits sank even lower.
4
Shivering with the November cold and wet as he helped reef the main topsail, Morgan wondered what he was doing in the middle of the Atlantic. The bell had just struck as it did every half hour. He still had several hours to go before the end of the first watch at midnight. The mast swayed from one side to the other while he hauled out the reef tackles for the topsails. He climbed higher out onto the more challenging and dangerous topgallant yards, resting for a moment on the crosstrees before climbing higher to tend to the royals. He was slightly more comfortable climbing the ratlines and wrestling with the sails now, but it still terrified him to look down.
He was now in his second week at sea, and he had gotten to know his way around the 106-foot-long ship. The lower hold below the waterline was where the heaviest freight was stored. Above that was the upper hold area, where fine freight and the low-paying steerage passengers went. He had already been sent below to the bleak steerage compartment to distribute wooden buckets to the seasick passengers. It was a dank, windowless, enclosed space some twenty by forty feet with stacked, narrow, wooden bunks made of rough, unplaned boards. He remembered the distressed faces. The smell was putrid, making him want to vomit. He had quickly dropped the empty buckets, scrambled up the ladder to get on deck, throwing his head over the bulwarks as he emptied his stomach into the ocean.
One time he had peeked through a glass skylight into the passenger cabin below the quarterdeck at the stern of the ship. The captain was lounging over a decanter of wine. This area was called the saloon. There through the skylight he had seen finely carved mahogany pillars, polished tables, and sofas. One of the stateroom’s ventilated doors opened out onto the dark saloon area, and he could see a small berth with shiny silk curtains, a washbasin, and some drawers. A woman’s figure disappeared into another cabin, a forbidden territory for sailors. Only the captain and occasionally the first mate mingled with the first-class passengers. Mr. Brown had yelled at him before he could see much of anything else.