For the freedom of the seas

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Light winds, or no wind at all, had been the Jonas Clinton’s fortune for a month. The eastward voyage had been made in twenty-two days, Boston to Havre, but once rid of her cargo of lubricating oil for the armies in France, she had been forced to swing at anchor for two weeks. At last, despairing of a fair wind, Captain Troy had had the schooner towed across to Falmouth, England. Another wait had followed, a delay especially regrettable when ships were scarce and freight rates high. But at last a brisk breeze had started the Jonas Clinton on her homeward voyage only to peter out at the end of the second day, leaving the skipper, who, as half owner in the ship, was deeply concerned in her fortunes, decidedly glum. The skipper’s frame of mind was reflected by everyone else aboard, from Mr. Cupples, the mate, down to the latest addition to the crew of eight, the tall, raw-boned Nova Scotian lad who, whatever his real name might be, was known as “Bean Pole”; though the gloom extended in a lesser degree to two inhabitants of the four hundred ton craft, Nelson Troy and Pickles.

These two were at the moment seated side by side on the forward hatch, as though awaiting this introduction. Nelson, Captain Troy’s son, was seventeen, a well-built, nice-looking lad who was making his second voyage in his father’s ship. He was down on the ship’s papers as apprentice, since a merchant vessel may not carry passengers, but his position as a member of the crew was nominal rather than actual. Not, however, that he didn’t take a hand when there was something to be done, for he had picked up a fair amount of sailoring, and, perhaps, had inherited a taste for it. He was a broad-shouldered, healthy boy, full of fun and very fond of Pickles.

Pickles was—well, Pickles was just Pickles. First of all, he was a dog. Beyond that I hesitate to go. Leo, the big, two-fisted Swede who had sailed with Captain Troy for seven years, declared that “he ban part wolf-dog an’ part big fool.” But that was scarcely fair to Pickles, because, no matter how mixed he was in the matter of breed, he was certainly no fool. Even Terry, the cook, acknowledged that. No dog capable of stealing a piece of mutton as big as his head from right under the cook’s nose can rightly be called a fool. And Terry didn’t call him a fool, although he applied several other names to him! Visibly, Pickles was yellow as to color, shaggy as to coat, loving and faithful as to disposition. For the rest, he was long-legged and big in the shoulders, and just too much for a lapful.

Captain Troy, keeping the first watch, came along the deck from the stern, a tall, rather gaunt figure in the dim light, and paused where Nelson and Pickles sat. The captain was well on toward fifty and had followed the sea, boy and man, for more than thirty years, just as his father and his father’s father before him had followed it. Several generations of Troys had been born within sight and sound of Casco Bay and had taken to the sea as naturally and inevitably as ducks take to water. The captain was a slow-speaking man, with a deep and pleasant voice that could, when occasion demanded, bellow like a liner’s fog-horn. He was a good Master, stern but never unjust, and a good father to the boy who sat there holding the front half of the dog across his knees. Nelson not only loved his father very deeply—how deeply he was very soon to realize—but he both admired and respected him. No one could make two trips over and back with Captain Troy, watching his handling of his ship, his behavior in moments of peril and his attitude toward the men under him, without feeling admiration and respect for the simple-minded, big-hearted, cool-thinking man. The fact that Nelson’s mother had died when he was eight years of age had focused all his affection on his father, and, since Nelson was an only child, had, on the other hand, concentrated all the captain’s love on him. Besides being father and son they were excellent companions, and neither was quite contented when away from the other.

The captain gazed up at the half-filled foresail. “I’m fearing it’s to be light winds all the way across,” he said. “I hate the thought of going into steam at my time of life, but there’s no denying that a couple of screws aft there would be a big help just now. If I knew where to pick up a small steamship I’m not sure I wouldn’t take her over, son, for the next voyage. It’s maddening to think of all the cargoes awaiting bottoms back home, and us wallowing along at five or six knots; and in ballast, at that!”

“Mustn’t be greedy, dad,” answered the boy, smiling up in the dark. “We made a pile of money this trip, didn’t we?”

“Money? Yes, we did pretty well,” replied the captain with satisfaction. “I’ve been blowing east and west, north and south most of my life, son, and this is nearly the first time that big money has come my way. We ain’t rich, and I’d like to see a bit more in the bank before I quit. You’ll be needing some, and so’ll I when I join the fireside fleet.”

“You needn’t worry about me, dad. I’m going to earn my own money in a year or two.”

“Maybe, but not so soon as that. You’re going to finish your education first, I’m hoping. I want you to have all the trimmings before you take the wheel. Have you thought any more about that college?”