OBIE
Episode Twenty-one
THAT CUSSED STICKPIN!
There were very few diversions available onboard ship. When we weren’t busy with our galley duties, the time tended to drag on something fierce! Occasionally we’d take out our pocketknives and play mumbly peg or something, and we even tried to learn the art of scrimshaw, without much success. Needless to say, Lidge had brought along his precious concertina, and he entertained himself and drove me to the verge of apoplexy, with countless hours of practice and repetition. He recreated best he could many of the old Irish folk tunes that he remembered from his youth, and though the constant repetition often grew tedious, the practice did pay off. Lidge and that old concertina got to where they could squeeze out some mighty lively tunes. On a few occasions he entertained the crew.
Probably the best diversion I found was my journal. I tried to make a point of penning an entry every day or so. On occasions when I was feeling too melancholy to write, I’d peruse my journal and read a few lines. It helped to ease the homesickness and reading about home most always made me smile.
On the few occasions when I gave into Lidge’s pestering and let him read a few lines; he almost always got to poking fun. He’d read a couple lines of my most heartfelt recollections and then he’d roll his eyes and laugh hysterically. “If your ma could get a look at this,” he’d say, “she’d figure those years of schooling were a waste of time!” I actually learned an awful lot back in Mother’s classes, and my grammar’s not nearly as bad as you might think. Sometimes the temptation is just too much to forget proper grammar and add a little flair. Sometimes there ain’t no way to keep it corked. Mom always says she exposed me to proper grammar, but I’m evidently blessed with a natural immunity.
Every chance we got; Lidge and I went up topside for some air. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it previously, but the lower decks of the ol’ ship were prone to be mighty odiferous! You got kind of accustomed to it after you’d been down below awhile, but anytime we reentered the lower decks, the stench was enough to send the most seasoned old vulture into fits and convulsions! The deeper into the bowels ya went, the raunchier the ol’ barge got.
Up top, the air was fresh, the sunshine extremely welcome, and once in a while you could pick up on an interesting conversation. Onboard ship, other than the weather and gold of course, two topics made up the bulk of conversation. President Zachary Taylor and his predecessor, President James Polk, along with many other of the country’s movers and shakers, felt duty bound, not to mention financially motivated, to pursue and achieve America’s dream of MANIFEST DESTINY come hell or high water, regardless of the cost, and apparently oblivious to the fact that the country had been populated by countless thousands of Native Americans who’d called north America home from the very beginning as far as anyone knew. The folks who were running the country were hell bent on controlling all the land between the east coast and the west, regardless of who was in the way or the terrible toll it took to get it done.
Through the explorations and promotions of explorers like Lewis and Clark, and John Freemont, and the exploits, real and fictionalized, of mountain men like ol’ Jim Bridger and Kit Carson, America’s appetite for westward expansion was fueled to the point of spontaneous combustion. The inclination to “light out for the territories” became a national obsession. America was busting at the seams, and with the discovery of gold in California, lots of folks painted their wagons and headed west.
The other topic of conversation on board was some silly game that they played with a leather ball. The ballgames ease their tension and take their minds off politics and work. That’s pretty much all they talked about onboard. Ballgames and politics, ballgames and politics, over, and over, and over! Lord, spare me politics and sports!
Of course, the real question on every one’s mind, and the only reason most of these folks found themselves in this mind-numbing predicament, was California’s gold. And the primary concern of all these anxious Argonauts was, HOW MUCH LONGER UNTILL WE’RE THERE? Most of the financial support for this little excursion came from groups of would-be Argonauts who were already sick to death of this little joy ride. They were ready to wade in, roll up their sleeves, and find some nuggets NOW! Some were members of joint-stock companies, and many were backed by a number of investors.
Each man had paid as much as five hundred dollars for the privilege of participating in this grandiose scheme, and all were mighty impatient to see those substantial investments pay off. Accordingly, the captain and those responsible for the best interests of those who were paying the bills, made every effort to keep the passengers informed. To this end, a bulletin board was maintained and updated regularly. On the board was a big map of North and South America, with a line showing our course from Philadelphia, around Cape Horn, and arriving eventually at San Francisco. A stickpin represented our gallant vessel, and its advancements each day indicated the progress of our ship.
Now, you’d expect this well-meaning and painstaking effort to keep everyone apprised of our progress would be a happy blessing and very well received, and I’m certain it would have too, except for one small fly in the ointment. From Philadelphia to Rio de Janeiro by the route we’re sailing, is about five thousand, four hundred, and ninety some od miles. Before we reach San Francisco, we’ll travel a total of over fourteen thousand miles, and day, after day, after long, tedious day, that cussed stickpin barely seems to move!
OBIE
Episode Twenty-two
COMMERATION
April 19th, in the year of our Lord one thousand, eight hundred, and forty-nine, was the 74th anniversary of the battle of Concord and beginning of the Revolutionary War. There were men aboard this very ship who remembered well their fathers’ tales of this country’s struggle for freedom, and many had lost loved ones during this country’s gallant struggle to achieve “one nation, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all.”
We’d been at sea for thirty-four days, and it already seemed like forever! This day began with a brief, but heartfelt ceremony commemorating that Great War and all those who’d contributed to the blessed freedoms that we enjoy today. Before those who’d participated could disperse, there was a commotion of some kind in the crow’s nest near the top of the mizzenmast. The lookout was clearly excited about something and had nearly fallen from his post. Regaining his composure and training his eyeglass on the horizon to our southwest, he let out a war hoop, waved his arms frantically, and hollered in a resounding, celebratory tone, “LAND HOOO!”
You can’t begin to imagine the excitement created by those two long anticipated words! Within seconds the starboard bow of the ship was a mass of squirming pilgrims, shoving, pushing, elbowing, and craning their necks to see what they could see. Lidge and I may be wet behind the ears, but we weren’t born yesterday! Within seconds we were on our way up the rigging. Finding a comfortable and secure position at a height sufficient to afford an unobstructed view, we poked our heads out through the rope rigging and began scanning the horizon. Sure enough, just barely visible off the starboard bow was the easternmost tip of South America. Lidge and I scoped her out for a few moments and then scurried down from the rigging and made our way to the bulletin board and the map.
The tantalizing glimpse of land that we’d just observed was undoubtedly the leading edge of the big bulge on the easternmost tip of Brazil. Our itinerary didn’t call for time ashore at this juncture, but during an uneventful crossing of the equator several days earlier, Jedediah had informed us that the captain anticipated dropping anchor offshore at the Brazilian port of Recife and sending several boats ashore for supplies. The best we could ascertain from this map, Recife was probably still several days sailing away, southward along the coast.
The last couple of weeks had been hotter then, well it was unmercifully hot, and I bet the humidity was at least 100%. It was so sticky at night that I’d been sleeping on the hard, filthy floor of our cabin to keep from being rubbed raw by that scratchy rope hammock. Several nights we’d slept out on the deck to take advantage of the breeze. Of course, you know how contrary sea breezes can be. There ain’t no happy medium! They’re either gale-force, God-awful, or gone! Anyway, so many other rank and snoring pilgrims had the same idea, we finally decided we were better off in the comparative quiet of our dark, dank closet.
Our close proximity to land had a remarkable effect on what had been a pretty dismal atmosphere. Most everyone onboard was instantly in higher spirits, sea birds became thick as flies at a potluck, and all at once several of the crew began catching whopping big fish, faster than they could bait their hooks. Lidge and I were beside ourselves with glee at the very prospect of feasting on all these dandy fish, until all of a sudden each of us realized simultaneously, someone would have to clean ‘em! You guessed it. I was never so sick of cleaning fish in my entire life!
OBIE
Episode Twenty-three
WELL SHIVER ME TIMBERS
Our time offshore at Recife was without incident, and unworthy of mention with one notable exception. We anchored in safe water at first light and spent the entire day expecting to leave any minute. Talk about time dragging! It reminded me ever so much of church mornings back home, waiting on the girls!
Leaving Recife in our wake was call for celebration for three reasons. First of all, just being underway again was a huge relief. Secondly, we were sailing southward away from the equator, and at long last the temperatures and humidity would begin to moderate. Of course, we had no idea at this point just how far they’d drop or how much we were going to miss them later on. And thirdly, we were well over three quarters of the way to our long-awaited shore leave at Rio de Janeiro. The old schooner made good time sailing southwest along the Brazilian shore. Several weeks passed uneventfully and anticipation built.
The morning of May 12th dawned bright and clear. It was one of those glorious spring days when the humidity is low, the air fresh, and it’s invigorating just to be alive. During our first break Lidge and I stood at the bow listening to the gulls, with the sea breeze in our faces and the south Atlantic pounding rhythmically at the hull beneath our feet. The canvas thundered, filled to capacity with a good, strong breeze, seven-to-ten-foot swells broke on the old schooner’s bow, and the fractured waves filled the air with a frothy spray that clung to the rigging and soaked our rangy clothes. The clatter of noisy dolphins accented the joyful scene as they raced the old schooner and frolicked at her side.
Around midafternoon, the captain took the deck, lit his faithful meerschaum, and stood expectantly at the helm. The boson’s mate monitored the depth, the ship eased westward toward the mainland, and Lidge and I watched breathlessly as our ship approached the southeast coast of Brazil. By 3:30 we were within about a quarter mile of a granite bluff that rose up out of the sea, I’d guess two thousand feet above the shore. Just south of the bluff the ship veered westward, left the Atlantic, and sailed into Guanabara Bay. Before us lay one of the most beautiful harbors I’ve ever seen. Probably the most dominant feature of the scene was a spectacular dome of rock called Sugar Loaf. The lonely sentinel looks out of place, like a huge potato upended in the sand. It towers twelve hundred feet above the surrounding beach. Behind it, gray granite hills climb steeply to their summits at three thousand feet, sloping down to the picturesque city on the valley floor. At the periphery of the brilliant blue bay, lay a series of fastidious white beaches, stretching back to the city and the beautiful forests of Brazil wood trees beyond.
As our ancient vessel sauntered toward the shore, shouted orders echoed loudly, ropes and pulleys squealed, and frenzied activity erupted on the decks. Moments later the rattling of colossal chain signaled that the anchor had been released. Long boats were lowered, and the captain addressed the crowd. Ol’ Griz indicated he’d have a word with us. “The good captain has given me the prerogative,” he says, “of awarding you two with a liberty, or assigning you KP duty for the duration of our stay. While I could sorely use the help,” he says, “you boys have done a bang-up job in the face of some trying times, so I’m inclined to let you have the whole night off.” Well about this time Lidge and I were about to bust, but we bit our tongues, and he went on with his piece. “There’s probably five hours of day light left afore the sun goes down, and I figure a couple of game lads like you could par lee that into the adventure of a lifetime.”
Ol Griz glared at this point, pointed his gnarled ol’ finger at us, and says, “Now mind my words you two, and listen up! Be careful, be prudent, and be punctual! By first light tomorrow this ol’ bucket will be loaded and ready. When the cap’m says go, she’ll ship oars and set sail. Twenty minutes later this little slip of paradise will be only a distant memory. Now listen up! At first light you two galley rats had better be back onboard, or sure as sand fleas, its good luck, God’s speed, and audios amigos! The captain won’t wait! Now grab your gear and have a good time, but don’t be late!
Of course, we’d been harnessed up with prickly old ultimatums like that all our lives, and that didn’t mean a hill o’ beans to us. We were hellaciously anxious to be busy getting gone but coming back was the last thing on our minds. We swung by our room for our gear, caught the next available long boat for shore, and shoved off for paradise lost. By the time the longboat had come to a stop on shore, we were already over the side, and sprawled in that luxurious white sand! We turned flip-flops, and do-dads, and summersaults, till we had sand where the sun don’t never shine! I can’t even begin to tell you after all that time at sea, how good it felt to stretch out in that hot, dry, sand!
The next thing on our agenda was to find a place to stow our gear for later. Just down the beach was a thatch roofed, open-air, church, and several of our fellow adventurers were on their knees and praying up a storm. They were thanking God for all He’d done to bring them safe so far; with no clue the worst was yet to come.
We waited for a blessing from that gray-headed old Padre, and he helped us find a place to stow our gear. Our priorities now included climbing that sugar loaf right to the top, exploring the beach and the city, and finding a quiet spot to get a little shuteye. First thing in the morning we’d retrieve our gear and head back to the ship. Figuring that we’d need a couple of bucks for food, I took a leather pouch from my ruck and tied it to my belt. It contained about four dollars and some change.
Folks here had taken the barter system to a whole new level. There were colorfully dressed folks everywhere, most of them merchants desperate to sell their wares. Never in my life had I been anywhere where every soul you meet will sell anything they’ve got for a little bit of nothing and some change. Everything that wasn’t tied down these folks was bound and determined to pawn off on somebody, and if you wouldn’t give a quarter, they’d gladly sell it to you for a dime. They sold shells, and snakes, and parrots, till you didn’t dare to look them in the eye. This extremely personable, elderly black gentleman comes up to me with a line of blarney that made even Lidge’s line of bull sound tame. On his arm is a reddish green monkey about the size of a squirrel, and this guy pleaded and bargained and begged and beguiled, till I was sorely tempted to take the little beast just so this guy would clam up and move along!
About this time this monkey was stricken with what had to be an excruciating itch, and after scratching frantically at his protruding pink posterior, he snatched out and established a death grip on my nose! While I’m fighting desperately to break away, this little boy comes up. This poor kid looks like the very essence of hard times itself, and he’s clearly on a mission. He grabs my arm, and stares into my face, with desperation clearly showing in eyes. “I’ve got sisters at home,” he says, and he’d like us to take a look. Well, we sympathize; we know just how he feels.
Right about now we see our chance and run like the very dickens down the beach. Minutes later we’re bent over and give out. There on the beach is this dandy little bar and grill, with a thatch covered eating area and lots of tables and chairs. We glanced at each other, shrugged, and found us a seat. So, we’re laying our heads on the table, panting and trying to catch our breath, and this voice pipes up, “Good evening kind sirs and what may I fetch for thee?” Well, it’s this kid and he’s just about our age. He’s got a towel and a tray, and he’s waiting to take our order. Lidge and I briefly relate our tale, so this kid pulls up a stool and tells us his. Well, you’ve never heard such lingo in your life. It turns out this kid’s mother is a native here, and the patriarch of the family is a retired Quaker off a whaling ship. This old Quaker hit the beach and just took root. Their family runs this little establishment now, and they seem to have a pretty decent life. This kid speaks a colorful combination of the local native dialect of his mother, and the thees & thys & thous he got from Dad.
This is bar none the friendliest kid you’d ever want to meet! He’s on us like glue, and there ain’t no prying loose! He’s got one thing in common with the other folks we’d encountered down the beach. He’ll sell us something or know the reason why! Finally, I just gave in and bought some cashews. This seemed to pacify him for a while, and then all at once he was determined to bring us a drink! We try telling him that we’re carrying no cash but we paid with cash when we bought the nuts and this kid knows we’re not strapped quite yet. “Not to worry,” he says, “Thy drinks are on the house!” He runs back inside the tavern, and we see him through the lattice, scurrying from table to table, and collecting abandoned drinks for all he’s worth!
In a few minutes he’s back, and he’s got a couple of tall pewter tankards that evidently contain the accumulative effects of collecting every abandoned drink in the house! “This is our best rum punch,” he says, “and I don’t like to brag, but there’s nothing else quite like it on the coast.” Well, we don’t doubt that for a minute! We saw where he got it. If there’s anything else like it, it needs to be dumped! We are mighty thirsty though, after all those salty nuts, and I had to admit the stuff smelled pretty good. Lidge had never as much as tasted alcohol in his life, and my experience with spirits was limited to the little dab of beer and wine the grownups drink back home from time to time.
Lidge held his tankard in both hands, took a sniff, and the tiniest little taste. He smacked his lips and caught his breath and tipped her up some more. “This stuff ain’t half bad!” he says with a great big grin, then he tipped that tankard up and gulped ‘er down! By now I was feeling kind of parched myself! I cupped up my tankard and gingerly took a sip. The stuff wasn’t half bad, so I took a big ol’ slurp! To my surprise, I quickly found I had quite an affinity for abandoned rum punch myself!
Lidge had gotten a pretty good head start, but persistence paid off, and pretty soon I matched him drink for drink. It was all downhill from here! When we were sufficiently incapacitated, our host had another idea. “You guys wait here,” He requested politely, “I’ve something else I believe that thee might like.” Within a minute he was back with a tattered parchment all tied up with string. He carefully untied the string, unrolled the weathered document, and spread it out before us on the table. Then this kid ducked his head, looked around suspicious like, as though someone might overhear, and then whispered enticingly, “What do thee think of this?”
Well, all the boyhood tales we’d heard of pirates and buried treasure, rushed back in our heads like the sea into sinking ships. There on the table before us, right before our bloodshot eyes, where no skeptic could ever deny it, was a map!
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