The monotonous routine of uneventful sea-life saw the big barque across the equatorial line, and the usual spell of windless calms had to be endured when the Kelvinhaugh left the dying trade winds astern in nine degrees north. After a stretch of twenty-five days, “bracing up” and “squaring away” to innumerable “cat’s paws” and flickering zephyrs, the vessel picked up the south-east trades a few degrees south of the line and, braced sharp up, made brave sailing for such a huge heavily laden craft. So far the weather had been fine and the barque had not yet been called upon to match her clumsy fabric with angry wind and sea.
It does not take a ship’s company long to size up the condition of things aboard ship, and fo’c’sle and half-deck gossip showed that the hands had pretty well taken the measure of the after-guard. Captain Muirhead turned out to be a cheap skipper, a sulky old bear, an indifferent sailor and over-fond of the bottle. In the calm, windless doldrums, he never came up on deck but what the aroma of whisky travelled with him. On these occasions he was more talkative than usual, and exhibited a fondness for yarning with the second mate. The big German would act so openly servile during these phases of the captain’s favor, that the crew had him designated as a “ruddy skipper licker.” Curiously enough, when the Old Man was sober, he treated Hinkel to the rough side of his tongue pretty frequently, and would often call him to task for errors and omissions in seamanship.
With Mr. Nickerson the case seemed to be different. The master had very little to say to him at any time, but the mate acted on numerous occasions as if he had but little use for his commander. Nickerson was undoubtedly a splendid seaman, and Martin, the bos’n, openly averred that he was the smartest mate he had ever sailed with as far as his seamanship was concerned. Thompson bore testimony to the Nova Scotian’s skill as a navigator, and stated that he had taught him wrinkles in working difficult problems which would have stumped many an extra master. But Mr. Nickerson’s harsh treatment of the crew did not win him their affections, though it commanded their fear and respect.
As the days passed, Donald prayed fervently for the voyage to end. Hinkel was fast making his life a burden to him, while Thompson’s and the bos’n’s gloomy prognostications of the future in the barque did not tend to hearten his outlook on the days to come. The boy did not worry much about the third mate’s prophecies of disaster, but when Martin began growling, it was time to take notice. “Mark me well,” croaked he to the hands, “we’ll catch hell in this hooker. Th’ pitch o’ th’ Horn in July ain’t a good season for this big hulk down there, an’ she’ll be a man-killer! Mark me well! Them big heavy yards an’ sails an’ a long ship an’ a deep ship means work an’ dirt. She’s slower’n blazes in answerin’ her helm and a lazy swine in coming about—always gittin’ in irons. An’ she’ll be wet ... a ruddy half-tide rock! Th’ grass’ll grow on them there decks afore we get around. Aye! Mark me well! There’ll be th’ devil to pay an’ no pitch hot when we git down there!”
The continual croaking about “down there” had but little effect upon Jenkins and Moore. Both had never rounded the Horn; could not imagine its frightfulness, and were not worrying. “Come day, go day, God send Sunday!” was their motto. The barque was so big and new that the Horn had no terrors in their imaginations. In a smaller, older ship it might be bad, but in the big new Kelvinhaugh?—Tcha! there was nothing to it! Donald, however, was not so optimistic. Possibly the nigger-driving he was continually subjected to somewhat obscured any rosy outlook on the future. Anyhow, he prepared for the worst and did what he could to make his poor kit fit for dirty weather and a long spell of it. Jenkins and Moore had plenty of clothes—they would pull through alright, but Donald, with his wretched rig, knew that he would get nothing more to augment it this side of the Horn. In such straits a boy could not but wish that the voyage would end.
Hinkel became more tyrannous as the barque reached to the south’ard, subjecting McKenzie to numerous petty tyrannies known in seafaring parlance as “work-up jobs.” A favorite trick of the second mate’s was to tug slyly on the bunt and leech-lines—breaking the twine or yarn which kept them from chafing the sails. He would then sing out for McKenzie to lay aloft and overhaul and stop the gear from the royal down, generally around the end of a watch. Poor Donald would have to skip up with a fist-full of rope-yarns and finish the task by the time his watch had been anywhere from half to an hour in their bunks. Aye, there are a hundred and one ways in which a despotic officer can break the spirit of a man or boy at sea! One incident north of the Plate showed the true calibre of the man, and gave Donald an experience he was never likely to forget. It was one of the outstanding incidents in his career and one of the most humiliating. Thompson had called him at the end of the first night watch. There was a strong breeze blowing aft and the barque was slugging along under all plain sail. As he pulled on his clothes, Thompson remarked jocularly, “You’re shapin’ up not too bad as a shell-back, nipper, but there’s one thing you can’t do yet.”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t chew tobacco,” replied the other with a grin. “Until you can masticate a quid you can’t call yourself a genuine deep-waterman.” “I’ll go you,” said Donald. “Gimme a bite of your plug.” And with a liberal chew in his cheek, he jumped out on deck and reported aft.
The second mate had some work for the watch for’ard and told Donald to take the wheel. The sea was slapping under the ship’s stern and causing the wheel to buck heavily, and the boy could only manage her by putting his foot on the spokes at intervals in order to rest his sorely strained arms. For almost an hour he steered and chewed on his quid, but the wrenching of the wheel was beginning to exhaust him. He had just put his foot on the lower spokes when he was conscious of Mr. Hinkel’s presence at the lee side of the wheel-box. At the same moment a heavier sea than usual smashed under the counter and the wheel jerked savagely—knocking his foot away. Grasping the spinning spokes with his two hands he tried to arrest the violent whirl, but before he could exert his strength, he was hurled completely over the wheel-box and up against the second mate. The officer slipped to his knees, but jumped up in a flash and arrested the whirling spokes. Donald lay across the grating with all the breath knocked out of him and deathly sick through swallowing the tobacco he had been valorously masticating.