Once well out into the wide expanse of the Atlantic, the Sea Tiger ran smoothly in front of favorable winds—as smoothly as possible with such a diverse crew aboard. The following weeks, past Madeira off Africa’s west coast, and south beyond the Tropic of Cancer and into the tropical regions, were without incident.
They continued on past the equator with sunny weather and stiff breezes. Then, on their thirty-seventh day out, halfway between the Equator and the Tropic of Capricorn, Robbie and Pike were on deck inspecting the condition of the newly repaired foremast clew lines. Throughout the morning the wind had been gradually dying. At first no one had even noticed, though by degrees the ship’s momentum had grown slower and slower. The fair weather had nearly lulled the seasoned sailors into a false security.
Now, however, as if by common instinct, Robbie and the skipper realized that as they stood, everything about them was deathly still. The sounds of motion had fled. The Tiger was sitting dead in the water.
A calm is like waking death to a seaman.
For four days the Sea Tiger’s sails banged hollowly against the masts, hanging limp and impotent. At first Robbie had been able to adjust the rigging in order to gain a slight advantage from the faint breath of air that remained. But before the first day was out even that was gone, and nothing Robbie’s skill could conjure would help. The mighty clipper may as well have been sitting in the middle of a tiny inland lake.
Tensions quickly rose. Pike did not leave the bridge except to sleep. It was the most anyone had seen of him above deck since the voyage had begun. Grumbling and growling about his ill-fortune and the schedule he had to maintain, he paced back and forth, his crutch and wooden leg beating out an ominous rhythm on the poop deck. More than once his crutch shot out in frustrated anger, whacking whoever happened to be close by. His most likely victims were young Sammy, who didn’t know enough to stay away from the skipper in his present mood, or the coxswain who had no choice since he had to remain at the helm even though there was nothing to steer.
Others grew similarly edgy, and petty arguments flared up all over the ship. Robbie found his position as referee almost a more vital assignment throughout the calm than whatever he had to do as mate. Jeremiah Lackey was in his glory, shuffling up and down the decks, prophesying imminent doom.
“We’ll sit ’ere forever!” he cried in despondent and eerie tones. “Thus sayeth the Lord, ‘They shall ’ave no wind to blow at their backs.’”
“Shut up, you old fool!” yelled Digger.
“There’ll not be any more grain nor water in all of Egypt!” went on Lackey. “We’ll sit ’ere till our stores be gone. Thus will the doom of heaven fall upon us!”
“The old blowhard,” muttered Drew. “Wouldn’t know a scripture if it jumped out and bit him!”
By then Sammy was in tears, and Robbie finally had to confine Lackey to his quarters. But that could not stop the old sailor. Even ten feet away Robbie could hear him wailing morbidly, “You’ll see . . . we’ll all see . . . we’ll rot ’ere—we’re doomed, says the Lord!”
He had considered slugging the old man to keep him quiet. Robbie liked this calm no better than anyone else. But they had to get through it as best they could.
The air hung heavy and oppressive about them, so thick it seemed you could cut it. The sky was dim and colorless about the horizon. Even at night the stars were dull and sulfurous, like worlds about to burn themselves out. Yes, there was a tension hanging over them all. Robbie hated the doldrums too, but not because of Lackey’s portentous ramblings. A calm was bad enough in itself. But this one seemed to hold another even more terrifying element, one which added a dread to the quiet. He felt it palpably in the stagnant air: a storm was coming.
He suggested to Pike that they haul in the Royals and topgallants, but the skipper sneered out his reply:
“You ain’t gettin’ lily-livered on me, are you, young Taggart?” pausing only a moment in his restless pacing. “I thought ye was made o’ better stuff!”
“No, I’m not getting soft, Pike!” retorted Robbie tersely, angered mostly that Pike’s assessment might be true—or at least looked that way. He stalked away, reproaching himself for succumbing to the miserable atmosphere and to Pike’s verbal jab.
On the fourth day Robbie found Pike missing from his constant vigil on the bridge. He thought nothing of it throughout the morning, but shortly after lunch, when he still had made no appearance, he asked Overlie where the skipper had been. Torger merely shook his head with concern, and when he said, “He’s gone below,” it was not with his customary grin.
Robbie swung around and headed for the stern hatch. All too common were the stories of captains both literally and figuratively going over the edge—more frequently in calms than storms. Others, unable to withstand the pressures and stresses, but without the wherewithal to jump, merely sat in their cabins and drank themselves into oblivion. Even when on deck, Pike’s presence had been of concern to Robbie. His pacing had been like that of a caged animal, his eyes wild, his emotions taut, as if waiting to break like the gathering storm Robbie felt in the air. Almost unconsciously he had been keeping his own vigilant eye on the skipper, and now wondered if he had finally cracked.
He hurried below and met the Vicar halfway.
“Has the skipper been this way?” he asked.
“I’d leave the old man be if I were you,” replied Drew. “He’s in a fit. I expect he’s more than half-drunk by now.”
Robbie closed his eyes in momentary despair. It might well be that Pike was not the most fit master, but it saddened Robbie to think that he might spoil even this small opportunity he had to prove himself a capable ship’s captain.
“It has always puzzled me,” the Vicar was saying, “why you have so taken to that man. Of course, I might ask the same question regarding myself. I suppose you are the kind who cannot refuse a stray or degenerate.”
Robbie shrugged, but said nothing. He didn’t even have an answer. Neither did he need Drew’s cynicism now. “The skipper is an old family friend,” he said at length. “And,” he added somewhat defensively, “he’s been decent to me.”
“Well, you must be a minority of one in that category,” remarked Drew.
Without commenting further, Robbie pushed past the Vicar and walked on down the corridor. He knocked at the captain’s door, and waited a long moment before there was a response.
“What d’ ye want?” came the skipper’s voice. It was more than clear from the tone that he had been drinking.
“It’s Robbie. Might I come in?”
“Can’t a man get no privacy!” shouted back Pike. Then, after another long pause, added testily, “Oh, come in! What d’ I care?”
Robbie stepped in, closing the door behind him. In the time he had been absent from the bridge, Pike had degenerated considerably—even for one whose normal appearance bordered on that of a vagrant. He sat slouched in his chair, his brass-buttoned coat hung open, and in one hand he held a nearly empty bottle of brandy and in the other a half-full glass. He glared up at Robbie, cursing out a sound that could be little distinguished from an angry snarl.
“So!” growled the skipper, “did ye come here just t’ gawk at me, or do ye ’ave some business?”
“I was concerned,” Robbie replied. “No one had seen you on the bridge, and even Torger—”
“Playin’ the nursemaid are ye!”
“No, Ben. This calm has got to everyone. I only thought maybe you—”
“Ye thought ol’ Benjamin Pike had gone looney, eh? Well, he ain’t! He can still run this ship ’thout no help o’ yers! Calms come an’ calms go just like storms an’ fair win’s, an’ I don’t need the likes o’ a young ne’er-do-well t’ hold me hand through any of it!”
“I know that, Ben.”
“Oh, look at you!” Pike leaned forward and leered at Robbie as if to take his own advice. “Ne’er a ruffle in ye, is there? Just like yer father! Yes, you could command this ship—better’n me, too; I’d wager my crutch on it!”
With a shaky hand he emptied the brandy bottle into his glass. “Yes, you could,” he repeated, “and ye’d like that, too . . .”
Suddenly his face twisted into such contorted hatred that Robbie gasped audibly in surprise. Never had such a look been cast upon him. “But you ain’t!” screamed Pike as he hurled the bottle toward Robbie.
Robbie recovered from his shock in time to dodge. The bottle grazed the side of his head before crashing into pieces against the door. The next moment the door itself burst open and the Vicar entered. He rushed into the room, looking apprehensively about, as if he expected to be greeted by some sordid scenario.
“Another nursemaid—is that what we gots?” yelled Pike defiantly.
“Skipper, what’s gotten into you?” said Robbie, rubbing his bruised head.
“As if ye didn’t know!”
Robbie shook his head dismally. “I don’t understand.”
All at once, with more speed and skill than Robbie could have imagined from a man in Pike’s condition, the skipper leaped up, knocking his chair to the floor. In the hand that a moment earlier had held the lethal bottle, he now wielded a knife.
“Maybe this’ll put some understandin’ into that pretty fool head o’ yours!” cried Pike, waving the weapon about wildly. “Ye walk around here so high an’ mighty. It’s time ye got yersel’ mussed up a bit—brought down to the level o’ the rest o’ us commoners!”
He leaped at Robbie, deftly upon his one leg, but Robbie deflected the blow easily, grasping the knife-bearing hand in his. Then as quickly as the attack had begun, Pike sagged back and fell away, still, however, glowering at the man he had so recently praised in order to make him his first mate.
“Get out of here—the both of you!”
Robbie stood where he was, dumbfounded. The Vicar grabbed his arm and, with as much force as his strength could muster, led him from the room. Outside, Robbie stopped, coming to himself, then turned back toward the captain’s quarters.
“Let him cool off a bit,” said the Vicar.
“I don’t believe all that happened,” said Robbie, his tone reflecting the daze still showing in his eyes.
“What did you say to incite him to such violence?”
“Nothing . . . nothing at all! That’s what’s so puzzling. It sprang up out of nowhere.”
Robbie shook his head again, and rubbed his hands over his face. He winced as his fingers scraped over the spot where the bottle had struck, growing more tender by the moment and swelling slightly.
“Is it bad?”
“No, I’m fine,” replied Robbie. “I just need some fresh air.”
“You’ll not find any topside,” said the Vicar.
With the words Robbie remembered what had provoked the incident in the first place. Notwithstanding, he turned and climbed the ladder, leaving Drew alone in the corridor.
The heavy, stifling air met him as he emerged onto the deck. By now even a hurricane would be a relief. Whatever had been eating at Pike had obviously been stirred by the calm. Perhaps it would all be forgotten once the ship and crew got to work again.
Robbie walked to the ship’s rail and looked out on the placid sea. So smooth and so tranquil was the water, it seemed incredible that it could cause so much tension. Yet here they were in the middle of the Atlantic, the nearest land days off, and they could not move. They were totally at the mercy of nature. Small wonder that Pike reacted as he did—it was not part of his nature to sit helplessly by. Even with his handicap—and perhaps because of it—he was a proud and independent man. Robbie had never once seen Pike seek assistance from another. Possibly that had been the cause of the flare-up; he had taken Robbie’s concern as an indication of weakness. I should have said nothing, thought Robbie.
He turned his eyes toward the dull sky. There were no clouds, not even the hint of a breeze. But something was out there. He could sense it coming, and he didn’t know whether he should fear it or welcome it.
———
Against his own advice, the Vicar returned to the skipper’s quarters, bearing a dinner tray and a pot of one of Johnnie’s special brews. The alcoholic tremor in his hand was markedly pronounced as he raised it to knock on the captain’s door; Elliot Drew knew he shook as much from fear as from drink. He had no idea why he had embarked on this mission of mercy. Some sick carryover from his past life, no doubt. Well, someone had to get the skipper back on his feet, and it looked like Robbie could only do so at the peril of his own life.
“I said get out—and stay out!” came Pike’s response, more feeble now, completely spent of its previous passion.
As if he didn’t hear, Drew opened the door and entered. Pike had regained his chair, but now his head and upper body were sprawled over the small round table he occasionally used for dining. He lifted his head at the sound of the Vicar’s footsteps, and peered at him through half-closed eyes.
“I said—”
But Drew interrupted quickly. “Johnnie sent down some food. You may as well eat it—you know how furious he gets when his crockery is sent back full.”
“Why should I care a blasted farthing about that Chinaman?”
Drew set the tray on one corner of the table and began pouring the brew into a cup. As its aroma wafted up to him he wondered, as he always did, just what it was made of. For he had never seen the like of it for clearing the effect of alcohol. Its flavor—herbs and roots, no doubt, but who could ask a man like Johnnie?—was at once soothing and wretched, and despite the fact that it was positively nonalcoholic, Drew always found it quite pleasant. He hoped Pike was of the same opinion as he pushed the cup toward him.
“What’re you about here?” Pike asked, as if noticing Drew for the first time.
“Only on Johnnie’s errands.”
Pike snorted disdainfully, then grabbed at the cup, spilling half before the brew reached his lips. He drained the remainder, then grimaced sourly, and held the cup out for more.
“Why’d I do it, Vicar?” Pike asked miserably, after taking another long swallow from the cup.
“I don’t know,” answered Drew. “Neither does Robbie.”
“Why should he . . . ?” The skipper squinted as if he were trying to remember something. “Why should he?” Pike repeated. “He were just a baby . . .”
He shook his head and took another drink. “I could’ve killed the boy.”
“I doubt you would have.”
“What do you know?” There was a return of the sharpness to Pike’s voice that seemed to indicate more suspicion than questioning.
“It would be a wicked man indeed who would intentionally try to harm one so kindhearted as Robbie Taggart,” replied Drew.
“Wicked . . .” mused Pike. “Wicked . . .”
Then in a voice that was almost his normal tone, he asked, “You’re a religious man, Vicar. So tell me, don’t the Bible say ‘an eye for an eye, an arm for an arm, a leg for a leg,’ that sort of thing?”
This sudden new line of thought caught Drew so off guard that when he had fully absorbed it, he had to smile, not so much at the question itself, but that it should be addressed to him.
“Religion aside,” replied Drew lightly, “I doubt that Robbie knows the meaning of the word revenge.”
“He wouldn’t!” shot back Pike oddly; he sounded disappointed, and Drew could not help wondering if they had the same thing in mind.
“At least you’ve nothing to fear from him,” said the Vicar. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to apologize to him. Confession is good for the soul, you know.”
“I ain’t got no soul, and I don’t want one!”
“You would, no doubt, be much better off were that the case,” mused the Vicar. “But I would venture to say that your flicker of remorse might indicate otherwise, whatever you say. Thus, if you fancy a good night’s sleep, you’d do well to make it up to Robbie. He’s not a friend you’d want to lose lightly.”
“How well I know it, Vicar. How well I know it,” moaned Pike. “Get out now,” he added unceremoniously with no word of thanks. “I gotta rest.”
When Drew had made his exit, Pike rested his elbows on the table and dropped his chin into his hands as if he were indeed going to sleep. But he could neither rest nor sleep. He merely sat there grinding his teeth together, rocking back and forth.
“Oh yes,” he mumbled to himself, “you’re a good man, Robbie Taggart.”
He then picked up the empty brandy glass and eyed it regretfully, hungrily, his fist tightening around it.
“So—so good!” he said through gritted teeth. “So good!”
Suddenly the glass smashed within his grasp. But even then he did not move, his bloodied fist still clenched about the lethal shards of broken glass.