Chapter 4

“See that you coat them well, Young Jake, shrouds and ratlines both!” advised Sam Sanford.

I nodded tiredly and dipped the swab into the bucket of hot tar, ensuring that it was well-covered with the smelly stuff. Inevitably, some of the sticky tar wound up on my clothing and on me. I wiped the swab on the upright shrouds, then the ratlines between, pressing hard and then smoothing the new coat so that when the sail-handlers heading aloft put their hands and feet on the lines, they wouldn’t slip. I’d already coated the wooden battens that served the same purpose lower down before moving up. Being allowed to climb higher in the shrouds than my head was a sign that I was gaining confidence, not that I took much pride in that. Far above me, there were more shrouds from the mast-tops that led to the upper masts, connected by ratlines just like the ones I was working on now. That was where the real sailors worked!

Was this how novice sailors gained confidence, by working on the lower stays for a few days as I was doing? Then climbing to the next level during each daylight watch? Maybe. For now, I was content with my status as ‘waister’, a lowly landsman who labored in the ship’s waist.

Swabbing a fresh coating of tar on lines was one of the easiest jobs on the ship. The rest of the work was hard, but required little thinking. Manning the capstan when the anchor was hoisted, hauling on halyards to align the yards when the wind shifted, re-balancing cargo in the holds as supplies were used up; in each case, the chief requirement was brute strength and endurance. I’d thought myself inured to hard labor when I joined Eureka’s company. Had I not loaded and unloaded packs from mules, wrestled the stubborn beasts to make them stand still while being saddled?

All that I had done, and more? Yet I had found during that first week that I was sore in places I didn’t know I had! And tired, which soon became a constant state of affairs. Sleep was something to be caught whenever possible, because the cry of “All hands on deck!” could come at any time and the penalty for not responding fast enough was being turned out without warning from your hammock! When that happened, you landed on the deck whether you were ready or not.

I grew irritable, and I confess, savagely mean. I was easily provoked during that period before I became accustomed to life on board a ship. My messmates understood, and most avoided me when possible. Others there were who thought to try my readiness to defend myself, and I conducted myself very well in the brief exchanges. A boy who lives with male cousins learns early how to wrestle, and yes, to fight.

Sam Sanford was my teacher on board ship, and strict he was but not overly so. From learning the names of the standing and running rigging to the location of lines, which I had to be able to lay hands on in pitch blackness, to learning of how shrouds supported the masts by connecting to the ship’s framing timbers; from knowing how the rudder-lines were rove through pulleys belowdecks and brought up to the wheel, even to reading the compass card in the binnacle, these things he taught me, and more. He was unsparing in praise when I did well and harsh with criticism when I forgot.

I rarely saw Isom, which, according to Sam, was by design. “You must learn to work with your messmates, lad. They must be able to depend on you at all times and in all weathers, and if we sight pirates, well ... you’ll not be allowed to shirk that duty either! The great guns, such as they are,” he chuckled, “are fit for wiping away boarders, but of little use else. You’ll be called on to help when the time comes, and that smartly, but ‘tis easier to handle canister than solid shot.” He’d gone on to explain that canister was a tin of musket balls that broke apart during firing, spraying the balls shotgun-like across a pirate’s deck. The balls were deadly at close range, worthless beyond a hundred yards.

But the greatest danger Eureka would face during the voyage to New Orleans, when all hands might be called out at any time, was not from pirates but from weather. Late summer in the Gulf is prime hurricane season.

Sam, being an able-seaman, often had duties more important than serving as sea-daddy to a raw landsman. When he was otherwise engaged, I found myself often in the company of Jean-Louis Lafitte, who was about my age. Not so tall as my own 6 foot of height nor as strong as I had become, he was cat-quick and well educated, which I envied. He was also guarded about his forebears, revealing little, yet willingly did he share much other knowledge with me. He helped me improve my writing, something I sorely needed, and later he was outgoing when teaching me to speak French and Spanish.

“When we reach New Orleans, Jake,” he said, “you’ll be glad you can speak properly! The men might be soldiers from Spain or Mexico so you’ll need to know Spanish if you’re to stay out of trouble, but it’s the women who’ll appreciate a polite command of French! Otherwise, you’ll find yourself restricted to the company of doxies along the waterfront, and that I’d not wish on my worst enemy!”

So it was that on any given watch, we might spend our time conversing solely in French or Spanish while others sat around in idleness, telling yarns or doing scrimshaw when not needed to work the sails or yards. Later, Jean-Louis asked permission of the master’s mate to begin instructing me in the use of the sword. That’s when I discovered just how quick he was, for I could never touch him! He seemed utterly confident, even bored, when a riposte took my bated-blade out of position, leaving me open to the touch of his bare weapon. I, the novice, must use a sword with a covered tip; he, the expert, disdained such.

And there was more. “Your pistol is fine for one shot, Jake, but you’ll have no opportunity to reload in a fight. When that day comes, you’ll know the true value of a blade!”

“Did your father teach you, Jean-Louis?” I asked.

“I hardly knew him,” he said softly. “He was often away, leaving me in the care of my aunt and her friend Dominique You. From the time when I was barely able to hold an epée in my hand until he went off to fight the British, he taught me. A master not only of blades, Dominique was, but of cannon too. He’s retired now, or so I was told.

“You’ll not see many landsmen wearing a sword openly nowadays, Jake, but don’t be fooled. The bravos swagger about with knives patterned on that of James Bowie, but the really dangerous men are armed with pistol and sword-cane.”

“I met Jim Bowie once,” I recalled. “He’s as nice a fellow as you’d ever want to meet. A little stocky of build, quiet, and very good manners, nothing like what you might expect from his reputation. He and my uncle Harry did business together, which is how I came to meet him. We brought Texas mustangs from San Augustine across the Sabine to Alexandria, and Jim or his brother Rezin bought them from us. They then sold them to buyers in Mississippi and Alabama. He was engaged to a girl from Alexandria when I met him, but I heard that she died.”

“I believe he worked with ... a close relative at one time,” said Jean-Louis cautiously, “but that was several years ago.” After that, he changed the subject and refused to say more about his early life.

From time to time, I saw Captain Jennings. I’m sure he knew what I was about, but I was too busy most of the time to concern myself with his doings. If he wanted me, he would send for me.

I saw nothing of New Orleans when we anchored in the river, other than what was visible from Eureka’s deck. I had no money, so was not disappointed in not being allowed to go ashore. There would be other opportunities. I did manage to write a letter to my aunt, and when he heard what I was about the captain paid to send it.

Meanwhile, I was kept busy on board, obeying the orders of William Moore, captain of the mainmast. He seemed pleasant enough during the first few days, but then went ashore and remained there for two days. When he came back, his attitude had changed. My uncle had strict rules about alcohol on board, especially for the hands, but perhaps the rule was different for petty officers. Moore was often either drunk or recovering from the excesses of drink. Then it was that I learned why his nickname among the crew was “Bully”, for in one of his rages he came at me. The footwork I’d learned from Jean-Louis kept me from serious injury, yet I was unable to avoid many of his punches.