“It ain’t him,” Father said with finality. Bulgar heard the discussion but he appeared to be oblivious to it. He just went on chewing his wad of tobacco and spitting with unerring accuracy into the codfish keg near the wheel. Occasionally he lifted his eyes from the compass to watch the full spread of wind-taut sail. The topsails were set and pulling, and when the weather permits topsails it is a sign of fair wind.
The mate had no patience with Father’s fears.
“There ain’t nothin’ to jaw about with this fair wind, Cap’n,” he argued. “We had a good trip so far. Only one man, that Swede, had to be put in irons for trying to kill the cook.”
Swede had caught the cook in the act of putting a dead cat into the slumgullion, as ship stew is termed. Cook was holding out the salt beef for himself and pawning off dead pussy. Taking fo’c’s’le justice in his own hands Swede caught Cook by the back of the neck and began to shake the liver out of him. The cook managed to get his meat cleaver and attempted to assassinate Swede. There would have been a dual murder in the galley if Bulgar and Oleson hadn’t intervened in time. Father put Swede in irons for attempted murder, but we needed the cook, so all that happened to him for bad conduct was forfeiture of one month’s pay.
“Been nothin’ but trouble ever since we sailed from Newcastle. Two men at the pumps night and day to keep down the water leakin’ in the hold. Fights in the fo’c’s’le. Joan not eating, and I been dreamin’ about a broken anchor.”
To make matters worse a large rat came up on deck one night shortly after that, looking for water. I tried to catch it to play with. I chased it off the poop deck, down the main deck and into the scupper. I had it cornered behind a rain barrel and was just about to grab its tail when it darted back into the scupper. In its fright it ran out a hawse hole and fell into the sea.
“My old rat got away from me, Stitches,” I confided. Stitches was aghast with fear.
“Did a rat leave the ship?”
“No, I chased him overboard,” I answered.
“Don’t you tell your Old Man a rat left the ship. He’s like a seethin’ volcano now, ready to erupt ’cause he can’t lay his finger on trouble he smells in the wind,” Stitches warned me.