“And if you hear anything on deck, you stay below,” he added and swung up to the poop deck. He searched the horizon for some sign of a storm to bring relief. If another day passed and no fresh water fell, there was no foretelling what uprising would occur. The sky was red, and the old legend, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight” gave no promise that the morning would bring water.
Father heard the men mumbling in the scuppers, for in some way they blamed him for their plight. Old Stitches, whose loyalty to father was like iron, came up on the poop deck beside him, and casually started to smoke his pipe. Beneath his nonchalance were grim, tight lips. He knew there was going to be trouble, and he wanted Father to know he was still swinging a belaying pin on his side.
I could feel something was going on that I didn’t understand, and whenever I felt there was something being kept from me I just had to find out about it. So after I had been sent to bed, I sneaked back on deck and hid out of sight of Father. Nobody on the ship was asleep. I could hear the men stirring and grumbling for’ard.
Hour after hour passed, and in the deadman’s watch, which was from twelve midnight until four, the men broke. Larsen, who had always been one of the best sailors, led the rest of the crew up on the poop deck, seething and snarling.
“What do you want?” roared my father.
“Water!”
“Where in the hell will I get water for you?” Father asked, as he eyed the men who were closing in on him.
“Water,” came the accusing chorus again.
Stitches put down his pipe, and edged closer to Father.
“The barometer is low, we ought to run into a squall ’fore daybreak,” explained Father.