Much to his dismay, Donald found himself listed with the “starbowlines,” under the broad-faced Mr. Hinkel. Thompson was picked for the mate’s watch and would rank as “acting third mate,” and Chubby Jenkins was along with him. For a watch-mate, Donald had the surly Moore, and he felt that the luck was against him every way.
“Alright, men,” said Mr. Nickerson when the watch picking was over. “Starboard watch keeps the deck until midnight. Relieve the wheel and look-out, and go below the port watch!”
Though dreadfully tired and aching in every bone and muscle, Donald had to remain on deck until mid-night, and Mr. Hinkel, with brutal directness, gave him a lecture on his watch-keeping duties. “You keep oop here und avake and don’t you let me catch you skulkin’. You keep der binnacle lamps trimmed und vatch der time und strike der bells und you keep handy so dot I can see you on der lee side der poop!” And with a few curseful remarks about being pestered with useless, lazy boys, he turned and began pacing to windward. For four long hours, Donald trudged with leaden feet on a monotonous round—binnacle to cabin gangway (to squint at the clock) and gangway to poop bell. Feeling “played out,” he heaved a sigh of relief when midnight came around and he belled the news with a feeling of anticipatory pleasure in the hours of restful sleep to come.
Utterly exhausted with a “calashee” (all hands working) watch of eighteen hours—the most of which was hard labor—Donald kicked off his boots and rolled into his bunk “all standing” and slept like a dead man until Jenkins yelled “Eight bells! Turn out!” at 3.45 a.m. Moore, who had dodged the second mate during the first watch and had stolen a snooze then, turned out, dressed and went on deck without giving his watch-mate another shake. When the starbowlines mustered aft, Donald was missing, and only reported after Thompson had roused him out of a heavy slumber.
The tyrannous Mr. Hinkel had something to say when McKenzie came up on the poop ten minutes after the bell had tolled. “Vy der hell dond’t you turn oudt ven you are called?” he snarled. “By Gott, I’ll make you spry!” He turned and sung out to the bos’n. “Gedt a pot of slush und let dis lazy defil grease down der yigger-top-masdt!” Donald went to the lee side of the poop, nervous and apprehensive at the nature of the punishment to be meted to him for lack of punctuality in turning out on his second watch in the ship.
The bos’n, a kindly Dane, who had sailed so long in English ships as to have sunk his nationality, brought the tin slush-pot upon the poop and called to the wondering Donald. “Here, son,” he said quietly so that the second mate could not hear. “Dam’ shame sendin’ a raw nipper like you aloft on a job like this for bein’ a minute or two late. In decent ships the new boys ain’t allowed above the tops until they’ve bin a month at sea. Howsomever, son,“—rigging a bos’n’s chair to the halliards as he talked—“don’t git narvous. I’ll tend th’ halliard an’ lower ye down as ye sing out. Put the lanyard o’ this slush-pot aroun’ yer neck an’ grease th’ mast wit’ yer hands. Tie this bit o’ line aroun’ th’ topm’st when ye get above th’ eyes o’ the riggin’ so’s ye won’t swing out when she rolls. Don’t be scared, son, you’ll be alright.”
“I’m not scared, bos’n,” answered Donald, taking his seat in the chair, with the foul smelling pot of grease around his neck. Up to the block of the halliard he went—clutching the mast, as the bos’n hoisted him up, to keep from swinging, pendulum-wise, with the roll of the barque. It was dark, but clear, and the stars shone bright in the cold morning air. Far away to port a light blinked somewhere on the Galloway coast, and from his lofty perch, he could see the wake made by the ship’s passage fading into the murk astern. The rolling of the vessel was more pronounced up aloft, and before he commenced “slushing-down,” he took a turn of the line around the mast as the bos’n had advised, but even then, he swayed ominously and the grease smelt indescribably foul.
Dipping his sore hands into the mess, he massaged the smooth pole with the grease as the bos’n lowered him down. It was very cold up aloft and the rolling and the foul smell of the slush was making him dizzy with nausea. Within a few minutes, he was deathly sick and hung to the spar, white-faced and with the perspiration breaking out on him. Try as he might to regain control of himself, Donald had to succumb to the dreadful mal-de-mer, and with a feeble “Look-out, below!” he made his first contribution to Neptune.
A volley of German curses from the poop apprised him of the fact that the second mate had received evidence of his indisposition—Mr. Hinkel having, unfortunately, strode to loo’ard just when Donald was ejecting the “longshore swash out of his stomach.” The realization of what had happened frightened all the sea-sickness out of him, and he resumed his task, fearful of the consequences when he reached the deck. Coming down the mast, he wondered, as he had often wondered of late, what fascination there was in a sea-life that sent lads to sea.
On deck again after the job was done, the bos’n met him with a grin. “Ye put it all over th’ secon’ greaser,” he said. “He’s for’ard cleaning himself off.” Donald felt too nervous to smile. Mr. Hinkel would have something to say to him when he came aft.