Authors: K Martin Gardner
Several more came and went until Midnight, when a lone sailor came strolling up sober and straight as an arrow, and said, "I'm here to relieve you.
I have word from the First Mate that you are to have breakfast ready for the crew at oh six hundred, and you need to prepare the Captain's quarters for departure.
Anything I need to know?"
Arthur had not expected a relief.
He was happy that the man did not come at one of the times when Arthur had sneaked away from his post and fetched a cup of coffee from the galley.
He was overjoyed to parrot the words that he had been taught for his first land watch. "No Sah, all conditions normal.
Aft draft is high and dry and the tide is drawing nigh.
I stand relieved."
IV
Warm, soft lamplight flowed over the Captain's desk and flickered across the large map in Arthur's outstretched arms.
Although he could not read, Arthur had become familiar with world geography. He could readily identify all the continents and oceans on the globe.
He found nautical symbols easy to learn as well, along with some of the simpler math that sailing required.
Everything about seamanship came naturally to Arthur, he thought, as he sat surreptitiously in the seat of his ship's superior officer. He fantasized about one day becoming a great sea captain himself.
Perhaps when he returned from whaling, he thought, he and Lalani could purchase a boat of their own.
Arthur's musing was interrupted by the clamor of a commotion occurring on the pier.
He stepped to the portside porthole above the Captain's bunk and peered out.
Coming across the gangway in a hail of hysteria and flamboyance was a tall, raven-haired woman in a frilly red dress.
Even though she looked like one of the carnival dancers, she was alone.
Her clothes were Spanish, and along with her brown complexion, she appeared to be as well.
As she stormed across the gangway to the surprise and dismay of the watch, one of her heels stuck in the boards, causing the shoe to come off.
Infuriated, she wheeled around to retrieve it, but she was foiled by the fault of her own fashion: The folds of her skirt hung too far, obscuring her feet. She whipped around in frenzied circles screaming and cursing, finally abandoning her efforts and blasting past the sentry.
The topside guard, recognizing her as the Captain's wife, let her pass by.
As she crossed the deck, she disappeared from Arthur's view.
He quickly resumed readying the Captain's chamber, in case the visitor was an acquaintance sent ahead to spring a surprise inspection.
Arthur heard her irate, irregular clumping, as the mysterious woman lumbered unishod across the upper deck.
He heard the clunking shift, as she stumbled down the mid-ship ladder.
Her faltering gait sounded like a renegade with a peg leg escaping some hollow gallows stage.
She burst through the Captain's cabin door and stood over Arthur at the desk, breathless. She stammered, "High yam Senora Stewhart.
Who are
hugh
?"
Poised in the Captain’s high, rigid chair, he said, "I am Arthur."
"Lieutenant Arthur.
I have not heard of
you
.
But that is typical.
My husband did not mention that he had a Moroccan officer under his command.
Pleasure to meet you."
She lurched forward and put out a dainty, quivering hand.
Arthur stood up and shook it handily.
He said, "A pleasure."
She broke down and slumped onto the Captain's bunk, sitting and staring at nothing with glassy eyes.
With a heavy Spanish accent, she began to speak, "Well I am here because the good Captain would rather spend the evening drinking rum with his crew than be with me.
His last night in port, and he is acting like a little boy!
Can you believe it?
You men are all the same."
Arthur sat fiddling with stacks of maps and nautical instruments at the Captain's desk.
He took advantage of her pause, and said, "Yes ma'am."
She studied him with far away eyes. She said, "You are nice.
Why are you not enjoying yourself?"
Arthur, putting on his best airs, said, "The ship gets underway tomorrow.
I am sorting the Captain's charts, Mrs. Stewart."
Senora Stewart said, "Please, call me Monica."
A curious smile floated on her face. She held out a small, delicately wrapped package, roughly the size of a pen box, and laid it on the Captain’s desk. “He was not here to receive his gift. So, you may have it instead.”
Arthur, keeping his eye on his work, replied, "All right."
Monica, jumping up suddenly, sprang across the cabin and began rifling through shelves.
She exclaimed, "I know... let's have a brandy.
You have worked enough.
You stop now, all right?
Let us drink and talk!"
Arthur, not wanting to disobey the wishes of the Captain's wife, removed the decanter from its secluded spot on the top shelf.
He produced two glasses; and she hastily poured ample splashes of the Captain's liqueur.
She quickly drank the better portion of hers, as if very thirsty, and sat back down on the Captain's bed.
"He treats me like chit!
Just like
chit
.
Does he treat his whole crew like that?
I hope not for his sake.
I don't know why I put up with it."
Arthur sat across the cabin, paying attention to her.
She continued, "He doesn't give a damn about me!
Eight months!
Eight months
I wait; and does he write to me?
No!
Does he send me any word or gifts by way of one of his captain friends?
No!
Like chit
, I say."
She began to cry, lightly at first, and then she burst into tears.
Arthur did not know how to respond, except with a kind look and open ears.
She went on through her sobs, "I am sorry.
Forgive me.
I think it is because I am Spanish.
He does not think of me as a real wife.
I am just a plaything that he visits for pleasure.
Besides, he makes fun of me, I know.
I hear his crew mock me and the way I talk.
I cannot help it!"
She blubbered.
"I think you sound jes' fine, Miss Monica.
I would be proud to have you as a wife.
Captain Stewart is very lucky."
She suddenly stopped. Her head bolted upright. "Oh you kind man.
You are so nice.
Please, come sit here.
I want to talk to you."
She patted a hand beside her on the bed.
Arthur looked at her one bare foot, her wet face, and her puffy eyes.
He felt sympathy for her as he carefully sat down next to Monica.
She stared into his eyes and asked, "Tell me.
Does he treat anyone else this bad?
I want to know."
Arthur averted his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I don’t know.”
Monica ducked her head down to capture his stare again. "You do know.
Tell me, is there anyone whom he treats like me?"
Arthur hemmed and hawed another moment. "Yes."
"Yes.
I knew it!
The bastard.
Tell me what he does to other people."
Arthur looked at her sheepishly, and like a child confessing to his mother, said, "I think he called me a nigger.
I just didn't 'spect that from Mister Stewart.
And now he picks on me.
I can't do nothing right.
I don't think he likes black folks."
Monica regained her senses as she stared sternly at Arthur.
"Are you serious?
This is terrible."
She spoke in a rational, concerned tone, but inside she was becoming even more enraged than before.
Her mind began to clear, thwarting the effects of the evening's libations.
What began as a coquettish quest for sympathy suddenly became a keen resolution to get emotional vengeance.
Deep down, she only wanted to be cherished for the person that she was; and part of her was African from her father's side.
Her husband was fully aware of that; and now the thought that he would harbor any bigoted opinions only further fueled her cruel doubt about his boorishness.
She defused her anger with a sudden realization:
She had married the wrong man
.
As her newfound calm settled over her, she sauntered over to the Captain's desk and extinguished the oil lamp.
Slipping back to Arthur through the dark, she came to rest in a single stark ray of light that shined through the porthole above the skipper's bunk. Her face illuminated, she placed a hand softly on Arthur's shoulder. She said, "Please, teach me how to speak better."
Arthur said, "I don't know."
Monica said, "Yes, I want you to teach me, sometime.
But for now, I want you to do something for me. Let me unwrap your package."
Arthur rose obediently and did as she wished. He grabbed the present and handed it to her.
He stood rigidly as she slowly grappled with the intricate lacing of ribbons around the box.
She fumbled with the lid and tossed it aside.
Finally, she reached her goal and put her wet, willing mouth on his organ. In her drunkenness, she blew a few sour notes on the shiny, brass harmonica before handing it to Arthur.
“Play with it.” She said.
Looking back fondly many years later, Arthur would recall that it was not the kind of schooling he had in mind at the time.
But as the music lesson came to a climax, the unthinkable happened.
Returning to the ship, the Captain could be heard rambling loudly down the passageway.
As he burst through the door of his dark cabin, he paid no mind to his wife seated primly on his bed.
Nor did he notice the haunting figure hovering behind his open wardrobe door.
No, the Captain did not see much of anything as he continued to sing a slurred sailor song at the top of his lungs.
Rambling on and ringing the rafters, he lifted something to his face and squinted at the stiff, black form of the object he had picked up coming in.
A flash of recognition filled his foggy eyes, and then the Captain passed out drunk. He landed squarely on his face with a sickening thud, the high-heeled shoe rolling from his hand to rest at Mrs. Stewart’s bare foot.
V
Heading for Cape Horn could be the best or worst part of the voyage.
At best, it was the halfway point of the trip. Rounding it meant beginning the downhill leg of the long journey. Sadly, it also meant the last sight of land for another two months. So, even in the best of conditions, it received only a reserved amount of adulation from sailors.
At its worst, it could sink a ship within minutes.
Set deceptively off the mainland of the tip of South America,
The Horn
as it was known, was actually an orphan island rising from the end of a sunken spit.
Similar to the Florida Keys, the area consisted of shallow reefs and narrow straits, which when combined with the awesome storms that arose from the waters meeting between two major oceans and a polar ice cap, could create a calamitous climatic cauldron that was capable of stirring and cold boiling a ship to pulp.
Circumnavigating the tip of the horn was an artistic symbol in itself.
Sailing between land and the horn would split a ship in two. Dropping in too far below the horn would miss the turn north, sending the ship too far south into the icy waters of the Antarctic to be crushed. Cruelest of all was marking the turn spot-on only to slam straight into a lurking squall.
The actual
rounding
of the horn was the literal challenge.
Getting
around
the horn was the word used. Ironically, that
Horn
was not so round.