One Man's Calling : One Man's Calling, Ch 37 by Wayne Fowler |
In the last part, the ship survived a storm. The captain made Ben the ship’s chaplain. It was Ben’s third Sunday preaching. He managed to extend it to half an hour without complaint. An eye more on the congregation than Sly or the captain, Ben watched for fidgeting. Absent that, Ben simply closed the service when the message dictated. He wasn’t interested in embarrassing anyone, so he kept his invitations to sailors who would like to speak with him about anything at all. Sly was accommodating when it came to allowing crewmen time with Ben and allowing them to use the hold for private conversation. “Tell me, Ben, how’d ye come ta be here?” an ABS named Phillip asked. “You bein’ such a decent type, an’ all.” Ben smiled. “Same day I got to San Francisco. I was wandering around the city, looking for something to eat and a place to stay. Got to Stockton Street and saw a policeman. He pointed out a café that turned out to be a saloon that served bacon and beans.” “Aye.” Ben was surprised at how quickly landlubbers adopted the lingo of the seamen. “Aye. The Barbary Coast.” When Ben furrowed his eyes, the seaman explained that that section of town had gained the Barbary reputation. “And the police are in cahoots with the saloons, brothels, gambling halls, they’re all in it together. That officer prob’ly followed you in to get his bounty. Your coffee was drugged. Your skull got whacked, and you woke up in our hold.” Ben nodded. They’d already spoken of the sailor’s needs, a long-ago wife that Phillip had left, never to return. “Oh, she’s remarried, I’m sure. But I have this …” Phillip beat on his chest with his fist. “Guilt,” Ben said. “Yeah, I guess. Landlord prob’ly threw her out after a few weeks. I signed on to crew a ship to round the horn near ten year ago. Had some whalin’ experience. Turned out I like the life.” Ben nodded. “Not saying it wasn’t a bad thing, Phillip. But you can be forgiven. You just have to ask.” “Asked, I have,” Phillip answered. “Was a mission church in Hawaii. Where we’re goin’ now. I’d take ya, but you’ll be locked up ‘fore we port. Just gonna get fresh water. Fruit and vegetables. Storm blew us off a might, but we got ‘nough ta reach Honolulu. “Are you truly sorry for the predicament you left your wife in, Phillip?” “Aye. I am.” “Then I’m going to step away for a minute. You need to speak your sorrow to Jesus. He’s the only one can forgive you. Not me. Not any priest. You need to let Jesus see your heart. And then be still until you feel his forgiveness. If you’re serious, it won’t take long.” Ben rose, leaving Phillip to fold his hands where they sat. Within a minute Ben heard Phillip crying like a baby. A moment after that, Phillip walked past Ben, nodding his gratitude, his lips pinched as if he would burst out sobbing should he open them. Ben expressed his gratefulness to Jesus. +++ “Hawaii,” Ben said to Hans as a sailor up in the crow’s nest shouted “Land ho.” “How would you know that?” Hans asked, surprised. Ben smiled. Looking about them, Hans said, “They’ll be locking us in the hold soon.” Looking at the position of the sun, he added. “Probably right after mess. I’d go light, I was you. There’s no privy down there. A pot, but …” Ben nodded his thanks. Ben was locked in, but at daybreak, just after their morning gruel was brought to them and they had time to eat, the hatch was opened again, Ben and Hans’s names were called out. “Don’t think we’ll let cher big muscles lay away when there’s work to do, do ye? Inta the boat. Soon ’nough ye’ll be wishin’ ta be back here hole’d up.” Ben manned an oar. The first trip was for kegs of water, filling the landing craft, a boat larger than a dinghy. The water staged on the dock, Ben had no time to even look around. Sly stood on the dock between the water kegs and the shore. On the second trip, the crates of fruit and vegetables had not yet arrived. Ben followed the men onto the dock, unchallenged. Though the mass of them blocked the dock to the shore, diving over and swimming to shore would be simple. He was certain he could avoid Sly’s cap and ball pistol. He wondered why he didn’t have a revolver, a Peacemaker or a Cimarron 45. Suddenly, Ben looked to the sky, wondering where the sound was coming from. It was like a swarm of bees that must have been as large as a barn, and as near as a head-knocking tree limb. Ducking wildly, Ben heard explosions to burst eardrums. “Are ye gone daft on us, Ben?” Sly asked. “We need ta brain ya, do we?” “Something terrible gonna happen right here, Sly. Right here.” “Right soon?” Sly asked, looking about nervously. Ben did respond, but began to settle. “No, I don’t think so, Sly. But I need to pray for this place. This place and for the souls of a lot of men. Soon’s we get back aboard.” Sly nodded. “Ye c’n pray all night ‘n the hold quick’s we git them crates.” Sly pointed his pistol toward the head of the pier where men were bringing crates on their shoulders. +++ “Sly,” Ben began as they rowed back to the Superbia, “how long until high tide?” “Not ‘til near dark t’day.” Ben felt that it was fairly low tide based on the water marks and height of the water at the pier. “A couple things, here, Sly. Why would that British ship have oarsmen moving her about, like they might row themselves out of the bay in low tide? And have you ever seen a British ship with such a dark-skinned crew?” Ben had no idea whether or not the British would employ ethnics. He just remembered school history of British ship claiming every English-speaking Caucasian as British subjects and taking them from American ships, one of the precursors to the war of 1812. Sly studied the four-masted, barque. “She’s not a warship, but she’s got twenty eight pounders. Row hard, lads. Row hard.” At the ship, Sly ordered the men return to the pier for the second half of the load of food stuffs, appointing an ABS to take charge while he went to the captain. “She’s a pirate, shor’s the world,” Sly told Ben, greeting him on the landing vessel’s return. “They not knowin’ if we be leavin’ on the eve or morn tide, they rowed out ta be ready. Cap’n wants ye, with yer sharp eyes up in the crow’s nest. See did they lean east, or west. An’ then stay up there, an’ soon’s ye see trouble, drop one a’ this rag.” Sly handed Ben two rags, each weighted, one white, one black. “The white one means we put to starboard, the black, to port. Don’ mix ‘em up. “Say east ‘r west when ye c’n tell. The rags ‘r for when we set sail and run ta sea in the quiet an’ the dark.” Ben tucked the white rag in his right-side waistband, the black on his left. Anticipating Ben’s question, Sly added, “I be tellin’ ye when ta be comin’ down. We’ll all be dependin’ on ye, Chaplain.” Ben appreciated the title, though knowing that it was an appeal to his honor, and an acknowledgement that a great deal was entrusted to him. “Can not see it,” Ben called down in a moderate voice that was evidently loud enough. “Keep yer lookout,” came the reply. “They may hoist sail.” For the briefest moment, sitting precariously on the tiny platform only a few feet from the very tip of the iron center mast, Ben wondered the wisdom or value of his comments that the ship might be pirates. He felt it sway several feet in what seemed like every direction. It was a quarter moon night. No moon would have been better for a stealthy escape, but at least the moon would have passed well beyond its zenith before the Superbia would enter the sea. Harder to see the pirate ship, but hard for them to see the Superbia as well. And the pirates would not be expecting any nighttime departure. But any departing vessel should engage normal lights and make normal noises. Mimicking the pirate ship, the Superbia crew towed her to the port’s mouth, prepared to catch a wind and sail out. Knowing that their expressed route was west, the captain charted an easterly escape, rounding the island and well on their way. The heavy barque would never catch the Superbia. And even should they lay in wait at the western point of the isle, the Superbia would be under full sail and uncatchable. Ben perceived that the rowing crew was returning, hoisting up the landing craft. At the same time, he felt a man scaling the mast beneath him. “Ben,” the sailor whispered. Ben recognized him, but didn’t know his name. He felt it not unusual, since Ben was in front of the entire crew preaching every Sunday. “Woulda brought chee a plate dinner, could I manage,” the man said, a smile on his face. “Bread an’ water’s all I could do.” Ben expressed his gratitude. “Look, Ben. I could say I found the nest empty and thought it best to keep watch. Keen me? Was you ta slip down quiet like, three hops an’ over the bulwarks. Some might here yer splash, but nought ta do ‘bout it. Short swim an’ yer free.” Ben couldn’t stop himself from looking landward. Taking longer to consider it than he wished, Ben said, “Thank you, friend. But I’ve been assigned a responsibility. And I must see it through. It’s not that I don’t truly appreciate what you’ve offered me, though. Thank you.” Ben extended his hand. Taking his hand, “I’m Andy. Andrew like as in the Bible.” Andy grinned large enough for Ben to see his teeth. “Can’t say I sorry you don’t take yer freedom.” Shaking Ben’s hand a second time, Andy descended back to the Superbia deck. Ben shook his head at the lost opportunity for his freedom.
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Wayne Fowler
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