Liberty (9 page)

L
ife at sea was hard
; nature made sure of that. Life on the
Hallowe'en
was even harder because the crew had to please Captain Kingsley, and he allowed for no weaknesses in his crew. “Eight days from now, we'll catch the
Cormorant
in St. George's Harbor in Bermuda,” he declared. “I want that map.”

Everything was focused on speed, which meant the ship had to run at top efficiency.

Meanwhile, Santiago was having his own difficulties. He was on his feet all day, running errands for Frenchie or the other officers, or fetching and putting up maps. He had to pay attention to the sky and the sea and the sails and the wind and anticipate how all these affected their course. The past year, spent hunched over a desk, had ill prepared him for the tasks he was now required to perform with speed, efficiency, and courtesy.

Fortunately, Captain Kingsley was a good navigator himself. His white hulk often towered over Santiago as he checked Santiago's figures. In snatches of conversation between tasks, Santiago told Penelope that the Captain might look like all muscle and sound like a dictator, but he had a sharp intelligence and a knack for calculating in his head.

After two days of sailing, though, Santiago complained to Penelope while they readied for bed. “We are using outdated maps.” He tapped one of his own maps, which was spread out on their bunk. “Look: we're here. But according to Lt. Maury's charts, we'd have better wind to the west.”

Penelope studied the map. “If we keep this course, we risk being stuck with no wind for days. Captain Kingsley wants to be there in six days. Show him your map.”

Santiago nodded. “You're right. These are important maps, not because I made them, but because I'm right. Besides,” he said in a half joking manner, “I'm a master mapmaker; my maps deserve respect.”

His pride was showing again, Penelope thought. But if pride gave him foolish attitudes, it was also the source of his ambition, and they needed that ambition to get ahead in this world. Since Penelope was already demoted, Santiago needed to shine all the more.

Penelope thumped his back. “He hired you out of Cricket's map shop. He knows that you understand maps. Be brave.”

She fought the bitterness about her own failures that tried to overwhelm her. Instead, she put all her feelings behind her and vowed to help Santiago succeed, for them both.

The next morning, Santiago knocked at Captain Kingsley's cabin door. Penelope stood behind him to bolster his courage. They had dressed in their best uniforms and polished their hooves.  

Captain Kingsley's voice boomed, “Who is it?”

“Excuse me, sir. It's Santiago Talbert. I'd like to show you something.”

There was a short pause and the sound like a door shutting. And then, “Come in.”

For a captain's cabin, the room was tiny; a wide bunk took up the port side, a birdcage with a green parrot took up half the floor. The cage door was missing, so the parrot could fly around as it wanted. No intelligent creature liked caging up another animal. The parrot was seldom seen outside the captain's cabin, but they often heard him talking, “Captain, Captain, Captain.”

The birdcage only left space for a tiny desk and chair. Confused at the small size of the cabin, Penelope looked closer. In the ebony paneling behind the desk was a door. It looked like the captain's quarters had been divided for some reason into this tiny room and another room, the purpose of which she could only guess. Captain Kingsley seldom let any crewman except Frenchie into his room, so there wasn't any ship gossip about it.

Looking up, Captain Kingsley motioned for Santiago and Penelope to stand at ease.

Santiago held up a parchment. “May I?”

Captain Kingsley nodded toward the desk.

Penelope gingerly closed the logbook and put it on the bunk, so Santiago could spread the chart on the desk.

“These are the latest charts from Lt. Maury,” Santiago said.

“Those.” Captain Kingsley rolled his eyes, and then bent to gaze out the porthole.

Santiago pointed toward the Atlantic, where currents and winds were charted. “These should help us go faster.”

Captain Kingsley stood with his legs wide apart, his paws clasped behind his back. He didn't turn to look at Santiago or the map. “Lt. Maury is a landlubber.”

“He's studied ships' logs. Thousands.”

Penelope was surprised at Captain Kingsley's scorn. Boston had been full of praise for Lt. Maury's work. But she'd also heard that some Captains refused to look at the charts because Lt. Maury had never commanded a ship.

“Studied,” Captain Kingsley said in scorn.

Santiago tried again. “Without the charts, it's like sailing blind.”

Captain Kingsley's voice took on a deadly calm. “I know these seas.”

“Of course, sir.”

“That's it, then. Dismissed.”

Reluctantly, Santiago rolled up his charts, jammed them under his arm and saluted.

Back in their cabin, Santiago threw the maps onto the bunk. “Why wouldn't he look?”

Penelope stored the charts under their bunk. “Change is hard. They're good charts, and we'll need them some day. Maybe soon. Captain Kingsley wants to reach Bermuda in five days, and he won't make it on the present course. Be patient.”

Fortunately, their life was too busy to worry much about maps. Because of their different positions on the ship, Penelope and Santiago learned to get along with different groups. As navigator, Santiago was expected to eat with the officers; as cook's assistant, Penelope ate and worked with the crew.

“They're standoffish,” Penelope complained.

“They don't quite trust my navigation,” Santiago complained.

That night, Odd, the shanty man, banged on the door of the navigator's cabin and insisted Penelope and Santiago come on deck to see something astonishing.

It was so dark that only pure white was visible: the white blaze on Santiago's face, Penelope's white forelegs, and Odd's white shock of hair.    

Odd handed a telescope to Santiago. “Look to the east. You'll see a green glow in the water. Phosphorescent algae.”

Santiago held the telescope to his eye. Nothing but black sky, black water and brilliant stars.

“Let me try,” Penelope said.

“Yes,” Odd said. “Let her try.”

Penelope hesitated at the laughter in Odd's voice. But she looked through the telescope; she saw nothing unusual, either. Aggravated at the loss of sleep, they tumbled back into their bunks and snored until the ship's bell turned them out an hour before dawn. Still dark, they stumbled to their stations.

When Cactus saw her, he stopped abruptly and started laughing. Behind him, Frenchie sniggered behind his tiny wing.

“What's wrong?” Penelope said.

Cactus laughed all the harder and refused to answer.

Penelope checked her clothes, but everything was right side out and buttoned correctly. She stood straighter, but when the third mate saw her, he laughed, too. What was going on?

Penelope disliked the long hours in the galley without ever seeing the sky. That made one of her favorite duties carrying coffee to those on duty; it was a chance to be outside. This morning, she climbed the steps to the poop deck. She handed steaming mugs to the officers there. When she saw Santiago, they both stopped short.

“You've got a—”

“You've got a—”

They both had a white ring of paint around their eyes; Odd had dipped the telescope into paint before they looked through it. And the whole crew was in on the joke.

“—a bull's eye,” finished Penelope.

“And it's the funniest thing I've ever seen,” Santiago added.

His great belly laugh filled the ship until everyone, crew and officers, was laughing, too.

Because the Talberts took the prank in stride, they were more readily accepted by both crew and mates. They had passed an initiation of sorts.

On the fifth day out, they hit the doldrums. The wind slackened, and the sails hung limp. Santiago paced their tiny room and complained, “According to Lt. Maury's maps, if we were fifty miles west, we'd have winds. Not stiff winds, but enough to keep us moving.”

Penelope said, “Talk to the Captain. He wants to be in Bermuda in three days.”

Instead Santiago fumed all that day.

At dawn the next day, he clutched his maps and stomped out of their room, mumbling to himself. “Two days. Only two days.”

Penelope followed him to the deck above. The boat was quiet; no water was shushing past their ship, no wind moaning, and no singing by the shanty man. They were dead in the water.

Using his sextant, Santiago took his sighting of the morning stars and charted the
Hallowe'en
's position. When his watch began at eight bells, he ordered the wheel turned to head farther west.

Penelope had to admire Santiago. He was foolhardy, yes, but he was also brave. He did what he knew was right, even when he knew the Captain would be mad. It was a bold move, and Penelope was proud of him.

And now they had to wait. Either Frenchie or Captain Kingsley would stand the next watch in four hours. When they came on duty, they would check their position. Santiago had four hours to find wind.

The first hour passed slowly, with no changes; they were still dead in the water.

The second hour, the sails still hung limp, but it seemed a lazy current tugged at them. They moved sluggishly.

Santiago stopped by the kitchen to whisper to Penelope. “If we had more time. This current should pull us toward a corridor of wind. It's on my charts.”

But they only had two hours left.

Now there was a whisper of wind, just enough to taunt the sails and remind them of their function. But not enough to move the tall ship. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the slight wind died, and the current slowed.

The ship's hourglass turned again. Half an hour till the end of their watch. A quarter hour. The sun was hot; the water, glaring. Sailors dipped rags in the water and wrapped them around their necks to cool off.

Just a whisper of wind returned. Finally a puff of wind filled the sails, making them flap before leaving them limp again. Penelope felt the change and leaned out the galley's door. Where was the wind? They had to find it.

The hourglass was almost spent. Santiago called to the helmsman, “Head due southwest, please.”

The helmsman spun the great wheel, until the
Hallowe'en
was aligned with the compass, heading straight southwest. Slowly, steadily, the sails filled with wind, as if it was being poured straight out of a bottle into the canvas itself.

Precisely at noon, when the ship's bell rang and the hourglass was turned, Captain Kingsley emerged from his cabin and climbed the ladder to the poop deck. He stopped halfway up the stairs and squinted upward. “Tighten that mainsail,” he roared.

Santiago stopped in the galley's doorway to grin at Penelope. She looked up from the stew pot and grinned back. “Good to hear him shouting orders again, isn't it?” she said. “He's pleased.”

Off duty, Santiago waited until Penelope finished serving and was free to eat lunch. They leaned against the foremast, where they could feel the breeze that now blew.

From the poop deck, Penelope heard Frenchie roar. “Captain. We're fifty miles west of where we should be.”

Captain Kingsley found Santiago a minute later. He began without a preamble. “Explain our position, Mister.”

“Ah. Yes, sir.” Santiago brushed breadcrumbs from his uniform and stood. “If I may?” He motioned to the charts beside him.

Penelope watched them climb the poop deck, where Santiago spread out the charts. There was lots of gesturing, and then the Captain slapped Santiago on the back, almost knocking him down.

“I let pride get the better of me,” Captain Kingsley said. “You were right about Lt. Maury's charts.”

Had Penelope heard right? Captain Kingsley had admitted he was wrong? She'd never heard a sea captain risk losing face like that. It made her warm to him, despite everything.
Santiago could take humility lessons from the Captain
, she thought with wonder.

Santiago's belly laugh rang out across the ship. He and the Captain looked up to where the mainsail was just starting to strain against the rigging.

“Unfurl the lower-main-topsail!” the Captain bellowed.

Santiago had taken a risk, and it had paid off. Penelope didn't like to think what would have happened if they hadn't found the wind. She didn't think Captain Kingsley was a forgiving sort.

Still, the doldrums had set them behind. After nine days at sea, they finally arrived at St. George's, one of the most beautiful tropical islands in Bermuda. They learned the
Cormorant
had left just two days before, with a load of oranges to deliver to St. Michaels in Maryland.

Captain Kingsley slammed his great paw on the center mast, making it shiver all the way up to the main-sky-sail. He vowed, “We'll catch the
Cormorant
, and I'll have that map before the end of the week. Or else.”

They only stayed in harbor long enough to take on fresh water, no fresh food.

And the chase was on.

Tension ran high amongst the crew. Each order from an officer was carried out with exacting speed, aided by Odd's fast-paced shanties. Everyone's eye constantly went to Hammer, the crewman with the sharpest eyes, who was posted in the crow's nest with a telescope.

Because there wasn't a quarry visible on the horizon, the hourly calculation of their speed was their only measure of how close they were to their goal. Under Frenchie's supervision, they dropped a rope into the wake, counting how many fathoms it paid out in thirty seconds, and then calculated their speed; each time, it was higher.

But Captain Kingsley wasn't satisfied. Each time, he bellowed, “More sail!”