The Boy, the Man

By Stan A Cowie

From his quiet farm home in the north of Scotland, young James Gordon Cowen dreamed of more than just a life tending sheep. When hes offered the opportunity to join a Nantucket whaling crew, he signs on to set out for a new life. On the journey, the young boy becomes a man as he experiences the worst the North Sea can throw at him. He also comes to know the meaning of true friendship.

On board, he and a new friend dive into life on the high seas, riding out ferocious deep-water storms in pursuit of the whale harvest. From the beautiful shores of Brazil to the mountains of New Caledonia, the crew battles the elements in search of their own goals. Once in America, they find themselves in the middle of Mexican conflict while on a wagon train on the Oregon Trail. They try their hands at fur trapping and gold mining as they attempt to secure their share of the frontiers bounty and do their best to avoid encounters with the dreaded Redcoats. With hope the only thing that keeps them going some days, James and his companion clamber up out of a life of poverty to build new lives for their families in the New Land.

Through it all, their friendship only grows deeper. Its all put to the test when they make the final push across the Great Divide. In the New World, they find that they must make their own fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475967159

Stan A Cowie

Stan A. Cowie left school at the age of fifteen and worked in the shipyards and foundries of Scotland. He eventually took on a five-year stint in the British military, serving in the Middle East, Bahrain, Yemen, Kenya, and Tanganyika before moving to Canada. He now spends his summer months in British Columbia and winter months in Arizona.

Book preview

CHAPTER    1

It was a clear sky, blue as far as the eye could see with a couple o’ little puffy clouds scudding by. With the sun in my face, I had my back against a warm rock and my arse in the damp grass. I always had a blade o’ it in the corner o’ my mouth. I vow, if they ever cut me open, I’d be green on the inside for I was never without it. I’d chew it till the stem disappeared, then chew it some more and without thinking, just stoop and reach for another one. My father would say if I would just stop grazing he could probably run a couple more sheep, o’ which we had thirty-five. They were the skinniest, scrawniest, most stubborn animals ever created to walk on this cold, barren land. We had lost four to a bad winter. They’d huddled together up against a stone dike only to be drifted over with snow and suffocate.

My sole responsibility for the week ahead was to be minding the flock on the cliffs, one hundred feet above the sea, overlooking the village o’ Pennan. Pennan was north o’ Aberdeen on the west coast o’ Scotland. It was from there that I would watch for ships. This was the time the whale ships came every year to pick up extra crew. They liked the hardy Scots, Greenlanders and Fins as we were not a complaining people. Once my brother had sold me off as a cabin boy and I ended up shipping out on the Portuguese Princess mastered by a Capt. Taggert. It was a strange name for a vessel out o’ Nantucket. The Princess was the third o’ a fleet o’ five belonging to the Nantucket Whaling and Fishing & Cargo Company. The voyage lasted four months and three days. After that trip the captain told my father that I was the worst cabin boy he’d ever had.

If my head had been iron, I’d have broken every beam on board his ship! he had said.

I puked continuously. I couldn’t make up his sack and ate everything that didn’t move and some things that did.

That, he had said pointing at me, will never be my cabin lad again!

With that he put me ashore on the dock back at Pennan. The second year the Princess had dropped anchor in the bay and taken the longboats ashore for water and fresh meat. My father and I were rowing out to drop our creels. I was on the oars while my father cut the bait. There was a good swell and I was pulling hard. I loved the oars. I was twelve years old, 5'10" tall and so skinny you could slide me under the cottage door.

We were pulling past the Princess when the unmistakable voice o’ Capt. Taggert hailed us.

What will you take for the oarsman?

If you can feed him, you can have him, my father said.

Taggert then said he needed an oarsman for one o’ his whalers; he didn’t say what happened to the last one.

I’ll give you 500th o’ a share.

Done, my father said.

So I climbed the rope and went to sea in what I wore. I didn’t think bad o’ my father; he was proud o’ my skills. I could edge steel so fine you could cut the clods off a sheep’s arse and it wouldn’t know you’d touched it.

There wasn’t a lot I didn’t know, or so I thought. I’d climb a straight cliff in my bare feet and come back with a sack o’ gulls’ eggs that would make any old fishermen slobber at the mouth. There was nothing more an old sea dog liked better than kippers and gulls’ eggs. So my talents were many.

When the old boys talked, I listened. A 500th share o’ a farthing, provided you didn’t sink or get eaten by a sperm whale, was a fair wage. Capt. Taggert had probably been in a bind and aghast when he saw who he had taken on board. I first thought he might throw me back overboard, but he just scowled and said to come below to sign the papers, which he wrote up at 550th o’ a share. That I brought to his attention right sharp like.

Oh, you can read, can you?

Aye, that much, and count too, I said.

He must’ve thought me a right little bugger, I’ll bet.

The 550th stays, be damned you eat so much, but if you earn it you shall have it. That’s my word and I’ll stand by it.

This was new to me as you didn’t have to sign to be a cabin boy. It would have to be your guardians or a member o’ your family that signed for you, like my brother had done for me the previous year.

So I signed amongst all the thumbprints and marks made by the men that couldn’t write and I did it with a flourish. He paid it no mind, but I knew he had taken note o’ my name, James Gordon Cowen, and I hoped he’d mind it on pay off day.

It was the first time I’d put pen to parchment. I’d learned with chalk and a slate, the kind that was split from the quarries for roofing the city houses in Aberdeen.

It seemed kind o’ funny, the first time I’d seen Aberdeen, which sat between the rivers Dee and Don, was on an American ship sailing south. A fair town it was. It sparkled in the sunlight, whenever it shone, that is. I know most Aberdonians thought it was the most beautiful town in the world, but most o’ them had never seen another. So who’s to know? When I returned from that voyage, I was two inches taller and ten pounds heavier, but with not an ounce o’ fat on me. I’d split my wool pants and my arse was hanging out. The captain said he could take it no longer and had me patch it up with a piece o’ sailcloth. My pants were almost at my knees so I just slit them till they were. I made myself a vest with the leftovers. Sail canvas, not too fancy I’ll tell you.

I pulled the oars all that season till the harpooner was cut in a deck fight. Now, that is bad as every man has a job to do and you don’t have spare hands waiting around to fill in. Most ships sailed shorthanded and picked up on their way. That’s why they had such a mixed up lot o’ lads from every corner o’ the globe. You’d find a lot o’ lads who couldn’t read or write, but could speak three or four languages. The captain or the mate would be yelling at someone in English then at someone else in Portuguese. It’s amazing how quick you picked up the other’s tongue, especially at my age. It seemed that every day I had a new word or a new verse, whether it be curses or not.

Now, old Taggert didn’t stand any nonsense and he’d not tolerate us young ’uns cursing. We knew he was a miserable old bastard, but we kept it to ourselves. I’ll not forget the day he came to me and told me to ride the bow in the Greek’s place. Now I was replacing the harpooner that got cut in a deck fight.

As he turned away he said, There is no pay for misses.

I didn’t miss and the tally was good. After eight months at sea we docked in Aberdeen as the weather had been too rough in Pennan. I came ashore with 500th o’ a share o’ a full vessel. I went up the street as fast as I could with the bairns laughing at my patch britches and canvas vest. That gave me a right, red neck, I’ll tell you.

The first seaman store I came to was on a little side street just down from the castle gate. I rushed right in with my bare feet slapping on the cold, slate floors. Now, after about an hour o’ dickering, I managed myself a fine looking outfit from the boots to the toque with a nice duffel jacket on top and a kit bag with some spares, in which I stuffed my old pants and vest for my wee brother.

Down by the docks there was an old codger that worked the steel with his forge. From needles to harpoons, he made the finest you could find in the north and that’s where I went. I needed good sewing needles for everything from sails to sacking. He had a good spike for the heavy hemp and a fine, bone one for the lighter things, all in a leather pouch. You could slip it onto your belt so they’d not get lost and be right with you when you needed them.

The old boy also made knives like you’d never seen. It was a style o’ his own. They were a little more than knives, weapons without a doubt. He would roll the steel repeatedly till the temper was just right and it would hold an edge forever. Well, a long time anyway.

He had a piece there that he had forged for a captain. It had been built to his specifications, but he had never come back for it. It was found out later that the captain had died. An accident on the docks was not uncommon if you were carrying silver and letting it be seen. Only a fool did something like that. Many times a fine, seagoing lad was found in some alley with his throat slit and his purse gone.

This piece was a work o’ art. The blade was fourteen inches long with a grip o’ whale ivory at least eight inches. It had a thick, brass plate at the heel that could lay a man cold. The steel was a quarter o’ an inch thick in the middle o’ the blade and tapered both ways. The old boy had worked hard at it and said it made a fair throwing piece. With all that weight it would surely pin a man down. In the right hands, he said, you could split a man from the skull to his belt buckle.

I made up my mind; the only hands it was going to see were mine. We bickered on the spike, the needles and other odds and ends, but I had to go full price on the knife. There was no giving in with the old fellow, not for the blade. He told me that if I lived long enough, I’d appreciate it. That scowling, old bugger, I thought! So I paid more than I should’ve and left a proud man. It was the best piece o’ steel I’d ever seen in all my worldly travels. In my twelve years that is. With that, I headed out for my thirty mile hike back home to the croft. There was a few bob left for my mother and father as well.

I was fair swollen up with pride, shined boots and all, ready for my next trip.

So there I sat, impatiently waiting for the glimpse o’ sails on the horizon. This time I had a plan. I’d heard so much about this new land, the America’s, just being settled. So much to be had, they were saying. All those old sea dogs, it was all they would talk about when off shift and smoking on the deck. The rest o’ us would all get in a huddle and listen to them newsing away.

You learn so much by just listening. Land for the taking, they said, with gold, silver and copper just under the ground. Fur bearing animals from mink to bear so big you could cover a horse with the hide. Now that, I knew, was a load o’ dung. They not make furry things that big. Then they said there were horses running wild. I know I didn’t go to school for a long time and didn’t pay a lot o’ attention when I did, but I didn’t think I was daft either. Horses for the taking, not likely!

I didn’t like them anyway, the damned things would shit all over and bite, too. I’d no use for them, none at all, but just in case there was a smidgen o’ truth, I’d like to see for myself. So I talked to my father and asked if I could stay on board, go to Nantucket and take a look at this new country that was supposed to be so wonderful. Now, he wasn’t willing as I was just starting to earn my keep building dikes and cutting peat for winter fuel. That was something I would miss the rest o’ my life, the smell o’ burning peat and the fishing for crabs and cod.

My younger brothers were eleven and ten, both good stocky lads. John was one good wrestler taking any lad his age and older, too. He and I used to get into some good boughts. Peter was the more studious type and had no problem with his books. He was always scribbling something on his slate to ask the teacher. Our little sister was eight and a little lady about the cottage, helping mother with all the chores: feeding chickens and the collecting and washing o’ the eggs. The laird didn’t like his eggs with dirt on them, so washed they were. The laird had come and raised the rent; even with what we had, it was a slow death. Crofting was a hard life.

I knew deep down I didn’t want it. I got a taste o’ the sea and it was luring me away. All the stories, some o’ them just had to be true. My older brother David had been to sea for four years, two as a cabin boy and two on the deck o’ a freighter. He was only fourteen at the time. I think the sea was in us all. Mother used to fret, but always stood behind father; his word was gold in our house. I told my father I’d send half my take from the whaling to help out and if the New Land was as good as they said it was, I’d send some more.

I had to go. The curiosity was just burning me up. There were nights I’d lie awake thinking about it and dreaming these dreams I’d not discuss with anyone else. I think he thought I’d just go anyway so he gave me his blessing and wished me the best.

If it is as good as they say, which I doubt, then maybe there’s a way for us all to come. Otherwise, I’ll work for the laird till I die and your mother deserves better, he said.

This put a responsibility upon me as we were a tight family. We took each responsibility we were given seriously and tried to do it to the best o’ our ability. So now I felt I had a purpose for this adventure. My father had three brothers and two sisters; my mother had two brothers and two sisters. All had their own families except my father’s youngest brother, who we hadn’t seen in years. My father said he was sailing with a pirate, running guns and slaves in the tropics, but no one knew for sure.

The rest o’ us would get together for a caley for birthdays and the New Year’s. Now, that used to be a pretty wild bunch. We had a lot o’ mutton and kale. I’d eat haggis till I almost burst. Then there was the lifting o’ the jug, from which I didn’t get a sniff. I was still considered a bairn, but in a man’s body. I didn’t care anyway. Once I had had a wee nip with my cousin Joe behind the haystack and it tasted terrible. I think I spat for nearly a week. My mother gave me some funny looks and my father never took any notice so I knew that he knew! Maybe that’s why my cousin and I never took to the whiskey. My God, if that was the best Scotland had to offer we were in a lot o’ trouble for I’d not spend much change on it.

We tried smoking the chaff o’ the wheat in an old clay pipe with Joe and his older brother Bob, or Robert as he liked to be called. I didn’t care for him. He would hang about with the younger lads and act tough, but it did not wash with me and I think he knew. Joe and I were close, not that we got to see each other very often with all our chores and having lived four miles apart.

We did, however, manage to get together once in a while and have a wee smoke o’ the chaff. We would smoke it till our tongues were nipping so bad we couldn’t feel them. We liked it, or at least we thought we did at the time. I told Joe my plan and he said he’d miss me. His father wouldn’t let him go, not ever. In the summer, Joe would have to work from sunup to sundown cutting peat to sell for winter fuel. This could take as long as eighteen hours and if he ever complained he got a beating.

His father was a mean, old bugger. He would tell my father that he was too soft with us young ’uns and that I shouldn’t be getting off to sea like I was. He paid him no mind, thank my lucky stars for that. All he said was that I gave my word and I’d not go back on it. I was proud o’ my father. He had fought with the Gordon Highlanders and kicked the arses o’ the French more than once. That’s how he got the croft we rented, by fighting in the wars. I’d seen my father with a claymore that used to be my grandfather’s. It was two yards long and he could wield it with one hand no bother. Now, that was a man I was proud o’ and I’d not let him down.

I found that the best place for a blade was under my right arm pit about four inches down. I had a scabbard with a strap up over my left shoulder; with my coat on, no one could see it. Woven into this strap, right in front o’ my chin, I had a four inch blade, slim and fine. It was good for sheep with the bloat when you would have to let the gas out o’ them. They would get it in the spring from eating the fresh, spring clover; they could die from it. I would have to hold them steady for my father while he made a small puncture in the belly to let the gas out. Success was not a guarantee and if it wasn’t done just right you’d lose another one.

I had an eight inch dirk. I kept it in the top o’ my boot. It was the done thing when your father thought you were man enough. You got your dirk and if you didn’t wear it, it was like boots without buckles. Around my neck, I had a leather thong with a six inch blade down my back in a fine lamb skin pouch. My mother had sewn for me. The blade was a slim, little thing, double-edged with no handle. You held it between your first two fingers and your thumb and its uses were endless. The Red Coats used to throw men in the stockade for congregating or even wearing the Tartan. They would take all their weapons, but not notice that little thong a lot o’ them kept around their neck.

Enough said about that. It may sound like I was a little warrior, but not true. We all did it. Those tools were hard to come by. You would sooner go barefoot than without your knife. You kept it clean and sharp or you’d not have it. Your father would take the blade away from you if he thought you weren’t man enough to look after it. So it was with pride you compared the blade and your ability to use it.

We’d spend hours throwing them at stumps till we could spin and nail it in the centre every time. Then we would leave the scabbards on and fight with them, allowing each other points for cuts or stabs. I was especially fleet o’ foot and hand, and being left-handed it seemed to give me an advantage. I could flip my blade from hand to hand using one as good as the other.

One o’ our favourite little games was to take a piece o’ twine or willow a yard long and hold it in our teeth with our opponent holding the other end in his teeth. We’d fight with the scabbards on and if you won, someone else would jump right in and take the loser’s place. This would go on till you lost. I used to love the game and got so good at it that nobody would take me on. I remember my father watching me and my uncle saying that I was a natural. He always said that it was going to be the death o’ me. My father just said that the other lad would have to be awfully good before that happened. My uncle just grunted and walked away. If you weren’t one o’ the lads and didn’t get in the scraps, you might as well have taken up weaving and stood with the lasses. If they had you, that is.

Now, we weren’t allowed to carry our blades to school, which my sister, brothers and I attended two days a week. We would carry our slates and chalk with a peat each for the fire. I would always take a damp one and put it in the pile with all the rest; when it was on the fire it would smoke to beat all. Mr. Pringle wouldn’t be happy.

Mr. Pringle was a long, dour man who never smiled in all the time I went to that little school. You’d think if he’d o’ smiled it would’ve cost him money and he was really trying to save it. If you so as much as blinked, scratched or shuffled your feet, maybe took a wee peek out o’ that dirty, little window, you would get one o’ his big hands on the side o’ your head. From there on it just got worse. For every spelling mistake or if your arithmetic wasn’t right you’d get the cane for not absorbing it. That was the phrase he liked to use. I’d heard it enough. I think all the years that I spent at that school I was in constant pain. If I wasn’t being slapped, I was being caned.

We used to get it on the hands till one o’ the lads laughed at him. So Mr. Pringle took a good look and saw the calluses on his hands from cutting peat and building the dikes. Carrying all that rock and stacking it would soon put calluses on your hands so thick they would crack in the winter. Before we’d screw up our faces like it was hurting and not let on. Then Geordie let out the snicker and Mr. Pringle took that look and saw his hands. You could almost see the light come on. That’s when he started bending us over his desk and caning our arses. We were all very mad at Geordie for letting the cat out o’ the bag.

Sometimes my arse and ears would ring for days. Mind you, with an unwilling brute like me, the only way you would teach me anything was to beat it into me. Now, I could read, write and count fair to middleing and I was thankful for it. My cousins were out in the bog cutting and stacking the peat to dry at eight years old. My mother said that they are going to school every day there was school.

Ma never raised her voice, but you knew by the tone o’ it how much trouble you were going to have. My father liked to be the boss, and he was, but he knew when to give ground usually by agreeing. He hated to lose face. If it was a bad idea it was yours, if it was a good idea it was his. Mother got her way more often than not and that’s why everything ran so smoothly around our cottage. Father was a handy carpenter and all our dikes and fences were the straightest around. There wasn’t a pothole in the road and all the gates swung good. In the spring, when everyone else was stealing or mooching, our peat stack was still high. The croft was only five acres, but we took care o’ it. The laird used to say it was the only place in fifty miles he could make any money off, if he was to sell. Lying, old bastard.

We didn’t have a horse, which I didn’t mind as I didn’t like them anyway. They would eat more clover than three sheep and shite more than you could get on a plate. Every time the laird showed up, whether to collect the rent or scrounge up some help with his crops, his muckle horse would shite in our yard. Mother used to get excited and make me scoop it up to take to the garden as it helped things grow. I sometimes thought the kale tasted like it, but I’d not say, as sometimes that was all there was and it was better than going hungry.

I had been in Peterhead with my father and carried a big bag o’ kale on my back. I brushed past this horse’s tail with my bag and he up and kicked me right on the arse sending me sprawling in the dirt. It then stood there, quite calmly, eating my kale which I had brought to sell. The old bugger riding him just turned to me and said that I should watch the horse’s hind end as he’s not partial to anyone touching it. So, I don’t like horses. I could walk and run all day for twenty miles, rise in the morning and do it all over again with bare feet. My father and I would take turns pulling the plough with one o’ my brothers holding onto the shafts. So what in the world did we need a horse for? Little did I realize I was going to eat my words in a big way! After that kick in the pants I think I limped for a fortnight and had a big, blue ring on my arse. I don’t want you to be mistaken; I wasn’t scared o’ them, I just didn’t like them.

All the good-byes were said and my mother had given me a wee pocket Bible. To help me with my reading, she’d said. Aye, likely! She always thought I wasn’t quite godly enough. Well, so much for that. Now, all this was two months ago and I was still waiting. In five more days I was going to be a year older, on 6 June in the year 1798. So there I sat, with my arse still in the damp grass, dozing with the sheep running all over. I was moping, not minding my duty.

They were on me before I knew it, two triple-rigged merchant ships, full sheets to the wind, and not even slowing down. They were not close enough for me to determine their origin. They had the look o’ the Dutch who made fine ships and dominated the seas for many years.

I leapt up so fast the sheep took off in all directions. Now there I was, chasing sheep and looking over my shoulder watching the ships sail by. My frustrations were building, thinking they were off to Greenland or Iceland. Otherwise they wouldn’t be so close to our shore. They were likely loaded with cargo, anything they could trade or sell. The tea market was expanding at a terrible rate and tobacco was in big demand, fetching a good price. I would’ve sailed on a ship hauling dung right about now, I wanted to go so bad.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my home, my family and surprisingly enough, the work, but I craved the sea and the adventure o’ this New Land till my heart ached with frustration. I herded the sheep home to their pens till the morn which was when I would repeat the ritual day after day till the end o’ the week. Then my brother would take over. He had far more patience than I. He could mind the sheep, read his Bible and make notes on his slate all day. It used to amaze me.

Whereas I managed about an hour, then started throwing rocks off the cliffs or climbed down them to get the eggs the gulls had laid in the crevices. Then I’d be good for another hour. That was how I got through my day.

The next morning we all sat at the table with our bowls almost empty. The oatmeal was gone and I could see the bottom o’ the bowl when my mother set down two fried eggs in front o’ me. Now, I knew something was different. The eggs were for selling, not eating, unless it was something special. I came out o’ my chair like I had sat on a burning peat. I was through the door and at the cliff’s edge in no time. There it was, the Portuguese Princess in all her glory. The most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I’d not be crying. I walked back inside trying to keep my excitement down.

Well, I better go, I said all grown-up like. Capt. Taggert wont not wait forever.

I could see from the cliff that they were taking on water in barrels and other needs such as heads o’ kale and turnips. They kept well, but when the greens were done, that’s when the salt pork got lonely. With a whaler you were often close to the coast and the skippers knew the crew performed better with a lot o’ greens so they tried to keep it stocked up.

Eat your eggs! my mother said sternly. And your father will see you off.

I don’t remember eating them, but that yoke was on my chin and my mother wiped it off. For once I didn’t mind. She looked me in the eye and gave me a smile.

It’s all right. Now give me a hug and that will do me till I get your letters that you are going to send to me every month!

Aye, mother. I’ll not forget.

We all hugged in a huddle with my sister and brothers. My father gave a wee grunt and said that he’d start out. I went to my crib where my kit bag was under and dragged it out.

Ma said, Hist you back.

It was then that I knew I’d never be back. I also knew I’d miss it, but I’d made my plan.

CHAPTER    2

It was a mile from the top o’ the cliffs at Pennan to the jetty where they were loading. As I waved my good-byes I could see the start o’ the caves way back behind the croft and remembered the games I’d played with the other lads there. I ran to catch my father with my kit bag banging on my arse and my boots all shiny. It was the first time I’d wore them in weeks.

We walked without saying too much. The skiff was tied to the jetty. We shared it with my two uncles on my father’s side. It seemed like we fixed it and they used it. I jumped in, my father took the oars and we set out to the Princess. It looked good with new paint and the masts were standing tall. My father looked at me for a long time and it wasn’t till we were under the bow that he finally spoke.

"I am proud o’ you lad. I know you’ll not let us down. You got a good name and a proud heritage, live up to it. Treat the other man like you want him to treat you and if that’s not good enough for him, don’t wait for him. Just get on with it and don’t forget to give him a wee smile before you send him off.

Now be off with you and good luck.

I wanted to hug my father and tell him that I loved him, but as we were shaking hands Taggert’s welcome broke in.

If you’d taken any longer I would have left without you.

I went up over the side and met some old faces and some new. I looked over the side and saw my father pulling away. The croft on the cliff stood out with its white wash sparkling in the sun.

Capt. Taggert said, in a quiet way, Lad, let’s get the signing done. I want you on the oars again and as backup as a spear chucker.

I was disappointed as I wanted to throw the harpoon, but it wasn’t to be. They all seemed to be good men with a lot o’ experience and I felt honoured to have been chosen to row with them. When I went below I told the captain my plan.

I just had an inkling there was something up this time around, he said. "I wondered just how long it would take you to let that curiosity get the better o’ you about this New Land.

Don’t believe all you hear. The streets are not paved with gold and any gold that is found seems to end up in someone else’s hands. But I’ll not lie to you, it’s a grand land if you want to work hard. You can make something o’ yourself and that’s all I’ll say.

Taggert was a hard man, but was always fair and honest with me.

"I’ll give you the 500th o’ a share and I can take the half back to your father, if that’s what you want. But when the barrels are full, my contract says to drop you off on the return trip or at any port o’ your choice. To take you back to Nantucket I’d have to take a fare and roof and board off you. That’s the company rules.

Now if you are determined to go, it won’t be long till you get a freighter going that way to Boston or the Maritimes, Hudson Bay or the Great Lakes. You could work your way as a deck hand, something you’ll pick up on the route there. This trip could take a year. The company would not take kindly to ships coming home with half a cargo. We’ve been all right till now and not had any bad luck, but that can change, as you well know. And this depends on if I’ve still got a full crew myself. You might be able to get a ride on the Princess, but I doubt it once all the barrels are full. My steady whalers become full deck hands, but we’ll just have to wait and see.

All those places he named were making my head spin. I had not heard o’ them before. It seemed we had not set sail yet and already things were getting complicated. I knew there were more whalers out o’ Nantucket than the whole British whaling fleet put together so that was where I was heading. The thing was, if we were down in the tropics when the barrels were filled, it could take me months or years to get to the New Land. In addition to that, paying off the roof and board would take a good slice out o’ my pay. So there was food for thought, a lot o’ it.

When I hit the deck, we were under sail and heading north. We sailed past the Hebrides and across the tip o’ Greenland picking up two more crew. A little stocky Greenlander for the deck and a Viking for the oars, like me, and as linesman for the harpooner to keep his lines free for when he made a strike. That was a dangerous job. Many a lad lost a hand with the lines when the whale headed down. It was with great speed and strength that they dove and if a line tangled with you, you were over the side and gone before you knew it. Whales could go down one hundred feet in no time, but this Swede looked like he knew what it was all about. He didn’t smile much, a mean looking bugger I’d say.

There were four whalers, including us. Two boats, on each side. Each boat had two oarsmen, a harpooner and a lead hand who was in charge o’ us all. Our harpooner was a big mulatto, not black, but damned near it, with a pigtail down his back. It must’ve been a yard long and thick-braided right down to the end. It had been dipped in tar to stop it from unfurling. Besides that, there was not another hair on his head. It was shaved right to the topknot just like it was growing right out o’ his skull. He carried that harpoon everywhere he went. It was in a nice scabbard, painted and all done up with beads and little pieces o’ ivory.

He never spoke a word, at least not to me. Our lead was Sebastian, a fellow out o’ Barcelona. He spoke good English, better than me, but that wasn’t hard, Spanish and Portuguese as well. I loved hearing the Spanish; it sounded kind o’ musical.

The Swede must’ve been close to my age. He had long, blonde hair hanging down his back and over his face hiding those blue eyes that never seemed to miss anything. His big, harsh mouth held straight, white teeth. A blond fuzz covered his lower face, no question a Viking if there ever was one, and he’d probably fight at the drop o’ a hat. My kind o’ lad, I was sure. If it ever came to pushing or shoving I’d want him pushing on my side.

That left me probably the ugliest o’ them all. My hair was long, black and straight all the way down to my shoulders. Sometimes I had it in a horse’s tail, but mostly it was just hanging down my back. I’d managed to keep my face clean till now. I had thick, black eyebrows, not quite touching in the middle and blue eyes, maybe closer to gray. My arms were too long for my body. They were thick at the wrist and all the way up leading to good shoulders, right into this skinny body with no waist, no arse and long muscular legs. Not a pretty sight. It seemed everything else grew and forgot my body. My folks told me not to worry, saying it would catch up later, but I was worrying in case I looked like a freak. It didn’t take much to give me a red neck. I’ll tell you that and I had one now.

I didn’t smile much either. You couldn’t go around smiling all the time, folks would think you were daft. You would see those fellows sometimes just standing around smiling at nothing. Now, you know it’s not right so you keep clear just in case it’s something you might catch. What an infliction just to grin your life away. I think my biggest infliction, and a real worry, was the size o’ my feet. There were bloody, big chunks o’ meat turning up at the end o’ my legs. I could see them without looking down.

My father had told me not to worry as my body, when it started to grow, would catch up to my feet. I figured I’d probably reach nine feet by the time I was thirteen. I started having bad dreams about it. I used to catch the lads looking sideways at my feet. I’d give them a right scowl and they’d look away kind o’ quick leaving my ears burning. Now, I’d been watching all the other crews and they all seem to come together nicely. They’d be kind o’ chatting away and teaching each other all the little tricks it took to make the job easier. Our crew prepared as individuals, which was not a good thing when you were in a position in which your life depended on another fellow.

I remember the day the comradeship ended. I had just spent some time on the poop deck with the mate. He was trying to make a better sailor out o’ me and I was trying to learn, thinking ahead to when I might have to go on a freighter and work my passage to the New Land. There was a bit o’ a commotion below us on the main deck. The mulatto was there facing three deck hands who had nothing better to do and were thinking they would have some fun with the gollywog, as they were calling him. The big lad in the middle was saying that he would like to have that long braid o’ his, making a pass with an ugly, long blade. It looked like something Eastern or Arabian with a real hook to it. It was a mean looking tool in the right hands and he thought those were his, without a doubt.

On the left side o’ him was this Frenchman. I didn’t know his name; he had one o’ the whaling spades. It looked like a regular spade, but this tool is kept razor-sharp and is used for cutting the blubber off the whale. It had an eight foot shaft and he was poking at the mulatto while grinning with a set o’ the ugliest teeth I’d ever seen. You would think, with them, he’d keep his mouth shut, but there he was. So this was the fellow I targeted.

I dropped the eight feet onto the main deck right between Frenchy and the mulatto. As I landed, I went down in a bit o’ a crouch and came up with my dirk in my left hand. I flipped it over to my right then held it out in front o’ me and went back down into a crouch. There was a bit o’ a titter that went up. I suppose it looked a bit funny, that a little, eight inch dirk and that eight foot spade facing each other. That was about the time the Swede decided to drop in the same way I had. He had been on the poop deck putting a monkey’s fist on a throwing rope when he saw the odds and thought he would be the equalizer. He landed with both hands out in front o’ him. Then, just as smooth as you like, he slips his right hand behind and under his long hair and slides out this Viking battle axe. Oh, a real piece o’ work it was; you’d never have seen anything like it. It had braided leather down a shaft that could’ve been two feet long. The blade had a curve to it, about ten inches, and right above the shaft there was a good, four inch curved spike. Both ends, at a glance, looked pretty sharp to me. Not that I had the time to ponder, but I did notice it was the first time I’d seen this Swede smile, just a wee grin. It made me think o’ my father and what he had said so I turned on a wee grin as well. Frenchy was smiling away too with those crooked buck teeth.

I’ve always wanted one of those little things, he said referring to my dirk. You’d better give it over here before you hurt yourself.

A bunch o’ the hands started to laugh. It seemed we’d drawn a bit o’ a crowd. So I flipped it over and held it out to him, handle first. He was still laughing. When he reached out to get it I flipped it back and gave him a wee prick on the wrist. Now, that got rid o’ the smile real fast and he took a jump back.

I stepped in with my left hand going under my right arm and came out with the blade in one move with a good bit o’ force behind it. I nipped that spade off about an inch in front o’ Frenchy’s thumb and the spade fell to the deck with a clatter.

Now what are you going to do with that walking stick Frenchy? I asked still smiling.

This brought an uproar from the hands while Frenchy started turning kind o’ pale. The third lad wasn’t looking too good either. All he had was a bung facing that grinning Swede with the axe, who looked like he was just thrilled at the thought he might get to use it. Meanwhile, the mulatto lowered that harpoon o’ his and let the fancy scabbard slide to the deck. I’ll tell you what, my blood ran cold, and I was on his side! There wouldn’t be much o’ a future in facing that, not with that hook knife, not much at all. That harpoon just shone. There was no question you’d die clean. The mulatto lowered into a crouch, you could tell this fellow had been there before. He was no beginner to the ways o’ the docks.

Now, the lad with the bung was backing up in little steps with the big Swede closing in on him. In a matter o’ minutes the tables had turned and I knew that I was in good company. Frenchy was looking kind o’ bewildered at what had once been a formidable weapon and was now, just what I called it, a walking stick. So he was shuffling in the same direction as the bung man. That’s when the mulatto raised the harpoon up over his head and took a step forward kind o’ fast. Mr. Hook Knife threw his hands over his head and damned near cut himself. He spun around in a fumble and collided with Frenchy. The three louts took off stumbling between the hatches in a flat out run.

The mulatto threw back his head roaring with laughter. You know, that is one thing that is universal, good laughter and it’s kind o’ contagious. It didn’t take long before we were all at it and the little crowd that had gathered was having a good giggle as well. It wouldn’t take long for that episode to get around. It was going to be a long time before those three would live that down.

There was a little bit o’ a hush so I looked over my shoulder and there, on the rail o’ the poop deck, was the captain and the mate. Both were leaning on the rail looking down, most likely having witnessed the whole episode. Usually fighting on deck was punishable with a flogging from the mate with the cat o’ nine tails, it was not a pleasant thing to experience or to witness. I say that because the whole crew had to watch any punishment. It was usually a good deterrent for any more trouble. All the captain did, however, was take his pipe stem out o’ his mouth and point at me with a wag.

You’d better re-shaft that spade. And don’t forget, when it comes time to cut up the whale, the one with the short shaft is yours.

He then just turned and went below. This kind o’ bothered me as I had a great respect for old Taggert and didn’t want to do anything to let him down or appear as a troublemaker in his eyes.

Don’t fret, the mate said. Those three were trouble the day they signed on. I’ll not be sorry to get shut of them. You two better watch your backs as you made them look just a tad silly in front of their shipmates. I was wondering when you boys were going to pull together, but I don’t have to worry about that anymore now, do I?

The Swede was named Hans and the mulatto, which I believe, was Rupert Aliwishes Stevenson. He had an accent like he grew up in London. I’ve never been there, but a couple o’ the last crew were from there and I had a terrible time with them. No worse than they had with me, I suppose.

There we were, like long-lost friends, shaking hands and slapping each other’s backs like we had just won a race. With some arranging and swapping we all managed to get our hammocks side-by-side in the fo’c’s’le with the rest o’ the whalers. There we sat and yammered into the night. Sebastian, the lead, told us to hold it down or we’d be up against the whole crew and they were a salty lot, if I might say so.

CHAPTER    3

We’d been to sea for two months and nary a whale. Places where we had found schools the year before were desolate. I was starting to get a little impatient and wondered if I’d ever get to the New Land. It seemed that something that started as a thought became an obsession; it consumed me. A couple o’ those boys from Nantucket, that sailed the year previous, were bragging about it all the time along with a couple more from the Great Lakes. I was constantly hounding them for stories about this great land. I’m sure they were trying to avoid me.

I’d noticed that Hans was picking at me and showing an interest. One night after supper we shared a pipe. Well, it was Hans’ pipe and Rupert’s tobacco. We got to talking about it: the trapping for fur, the gold in the streams and all the horses that were supposed to be for the taking. We were just passing ideas back and forth. The more we talked, the more I got the inkling that he liked the idea. His story was similar to mine. His father and two brothers had a small fishing boat with barely enough work for them all. So when the Princess was looking for more crew he made up his mind and, with his father’s blessing, set sail to try his luck at the whaling. He had spent a lot o’ time on the sea, show me a Viking that didn’t, and he was no slouch. He knew his stuff. He was fifteen, two years older than I. There were no bad feelings at home, he just knew he wasn’t needed and his future looked bleak.

He had the Viking adventurer’s spirit, always wanting to see what was on the other shore. I don’t know where it came from, but you found a lot o’ lads from the northern shores going from ship to ship wherever they were needed. A lot o’ folks thought that if you were British you sailed under the Ensine, but not so. You sailed on whatever ship needed your expertise. Now for me, it was the ship that wanted a cabin boy, planned be back the following year and would be willing to take me again. It just so happened to be a whaler out o’ Nantucket. It could just as well have been a Spanish tobacco boat.

The first time out, you took what you got, till you had some skills worthy o’ pay. You take what you can get and work for your hammock and board on some o’ the bigger triple masters with a captain and five or six officers. A cabin boy’s family might have to pay for his fair or hammock and board till he was worthy o’ pay. So I was feeling quite proud o’ myself. Besides that, I liked the mixture o’ all the cultures and you were able to pick up the tongues. Before you knew it you were stumbling through another language. Sebastian, being our lead, helped us pick up Spanish a lot faster.

We usually had our practice runs when we hit the doldrums. That was when there wasn’t a breath o’ wind. The skipper would order a fly to and all the whalers would head for their posts. We’d drop our harpoon boats over the side, slide down the ropes and position ourselves ready to go. Then the lead would give us the order to pull, likely in a hail o’ Spanish, and we’d lean on the oars and pull the Princess for a ways then load back up again. If the skipper wasn’t happy with the performance, we did it again. This would go on till we found whales.

It was now three months and nary a whale. We had passed through large quantities o’ brit. This is a substance that rises to the surface and gives the ocean a golden, yellow colour. It’s very desirable to the whales, usually making it a prime feeding area, but still there were no sightings. Fourteen day later we had our first sighting. We weren’t in the doldrums, but next thing to it, every sail was out and barely moving. The ocean was nearly flat.

Suddenly there was word from the nest above, loud and clear.

Whale ho! Off the starboard bow.

There was a rush o’ bare feet slapping on the deck as men hit the rigging for a better look. We were looking for a big one. A sperm whale will sometimes give ten barrels to the ton and we wanted a good start. Hungry for the hunt, the whale crews were starting to get jumpy and impatient with each other. The shout went up again.

Five spouts: two bulls and three cows.

They weren’t running and we came painfully slow upon them with all boats over the side. We didn’t want to alert them with a yell or a thump. We were just passing them when the captain gave the word in amongst the lads. We hit the water in a flurry o’ oars. All four whalers were pulling for the school. Sebastian steered us right into the first bull. The bow rode right up on his back. The mulatto, standing right up in the bow, waited till the bull started to roll and sank in his harpoon about a foot behind the blowhole. He hoped for a good hold as sometimes they tear out. The old bull headed deep and out. The hemp fair whistled and smoked as it ran through the shives. It happened so fast. Sebastian yelled for all hands to hit the deck and just as we did, the hemp hit the stop. The whale turned right around and headed for the Princess with us all looking on in horror. My eyes were fair poppin’. The Princess was right over us and baring down. The bow pushed us aside like a leaf and brought that line up so tight that we only had inches o’ freeboard. Another jerk from that bull would put us under so Hans and I dragged our oars to slow him down. The deeper he went, the sooner he would die. The amount o’ pressure that is on him causes all the blood to just bump out. It was a rough ride, but it was soon over. The mulatto had made a good hit; he probably punctured a vital organ as the blood came fast and the sea was red with it.

Two other boats latched onto a big cow further back with good, strong hits. She went in the opposite direction, spinning both rigs around so fast two men went overboard: the harpooner and an oarsman. The rope had jammed in the block and came up short, not giving the lads time to get down. It dragged them right into the fourth boat tipping it over and all in it. Now, you have to move real fast with the pickup longboat, for with all the blood in the water, the sharks wouldn’t be long and they came by the dozen.

All were saved except a thirteen year old Greenlander who was grabbed right out o’ the mate’s hands. The mate held on and was left with a head, one arm and a shoulder almost going over himself. The other lads managed to grab the boy while the rest o’ his body was ripped to shreds right in front o’ them. In the end, we had six men left over one lost. That made us wary, let me tell you. We got two good sperm whales and spent two days, and the night, peeling them and getting all the best oil out o’ the heads.

A man has to ride the whale as it is slowly turning in the water and with the spade, cut the hide with the blubber on it. It’s just like peeling an apple. There’s a hook in one end o’ the hide and a line on a block and tackle up on the rigging, slowly tightening. This turns the whale as the hide is cut. The hide just unwinds. As the load gets too heavy, another tackle is set and the hide is cut off and swung on board where it’s rendered into barrels which are then sealed tight with pitch. It sounds easy, but it’s brutally hard work. It can be blistering hot or, on the other hand, freezing cold. You work till you’re done, that’s the rule.

The lad on the whale has a harness tied about him with a line running up to a fairlead with two good strong lads on it. If he slips or falls, they yard him out and fast. If he hits the water, his weight doubles and the sharks are fast, just waiting for the next mistake.

The blubber is about two inches thick in places and very fragile. It runs away fast. You lose a lot, but there’s not much you can do about it. It seems like a lot o’ work to go through, just to fill some folks’ bedside lamps with oil.

When our luck hit, it just did not seem to stop. It seemed for the next six months we had continuous sightings. Our best luck had been on the Ivory Coast. We had been ashore for supplies, fresh water and all the fruit we could carry. It had taken a week as there was no one to help us; we had to do it all by ourselves. We didn’t need help anyway. It was a tricky spot to be in as a lot o’ slaving went on there. It was all Spanish and Portuguese forts so you had to find a spot away from them. No point in looking for trouble.

While loading the barrels it gave the Swede and I a chance to chat a little. He made it quite clear that he wanted to make a partnership out o’ it and we’d go together to the New Land. This pleased me as we became good mates. I’d have missed him, but I’d not let that out. So I just said that it sounded fair as splitting the cost o’ travel would be cheaper.

Aye, that’s right, he said.