Ancell awoke with an aching head, feeling confused and angry, and wondering why Chad had unaccountably hit him and Misty was sailing. Stumbling up the companionway he asked The Cook for a mug of tea. None of the crew bade him good morning.
‘All gone,’ said The Cook, and turned his back.
Ancell accosted Chad. ‘What’s going on! And why did you hit me last night?’
‘Quickest way of getting you on board. You were being stupid again.’
‘What do you mean by ‘again’?’
‘Three times you’ve denied this call you say you’re answering. You dither about sailing with us; as soon as we lose the wind you want to turn back, and last night you stay on the island when the skipper orders us on board. Doesn’t seem the best way to follow a dream.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ muttered Ancell, staring at the deck. ‘The truth is I’m no adventurer. I’d rather have stayed at home. It’s just that I know someone needs my help.’
Chad sighed. ‘If anyone needs looking after, it’s you. Goodness knows what will become of you when you step off Misty.’
‘Something will turn up. Meanwhile, the next time I do something stupid, hit me, but not as hard as last night; my stomach still hurts.’
Chad smiled. ‘That was just a poke.’
‘I still don’t understand why we left so quickly.’
‘The skipper felt uneasy about the place. That’s a good enough reason for me, and it should be for you. If a member of the crew had delayed us last night they’d be scrubbing the deck.’
Ancell came to a decision. ‘Where do I find a scrubbing brush?’
‘You! You wouldn’t last ten minutes.’
‘Try me.’
Chad grinned. ‘We’ll make a sailor of you yet,’ he said, and fetched a bucket.
Ancell scrubbed, the sun burning his back and his head spinning. He stuck at it for an hour, and was about to give up, when Chips complimented him on his work. He redoubled his efforts, and after another hour, Skeet stopped to chat and explain the importance of maintaining standards on a long voyage. He scrubbed on and The Cook brought him a mug of tea. He was still scrubbing when Truegard came on watch.
‘What’s come over Ancell?’ the first mate asked Capt. Albern.
‘Chad had a word with him about last night.’
‘A bit hard to make him scrub the deck, Skipper.’
‘He volunteered. I imagine Chad has got through to him that the moment he stepped on board he belonged to Misty. He’ll feel more at home now.’ Truegard watched the bosun replenish Ancell’s bucket.
‘Well done Chad,’ he murmured.
Five days after Careless Island had dropped below the horizon, Misty picked up the trusty southeast trade winds, and with a favourable current under her, surged south. The crew settled to their watches, and Ancell made sure he helped with the menial tasks of the shipboard routine. He was rubbing down rust with Chad when Truegard stopped by. The first mate gazed up at the billowing sails. ‘A few weeks and we’ll be at The Cape,’ he said.
Ancell vaguely remembered the charts Capt. Albern had unrolled the day he had first stepped on board Misty.
‘Would that be Cape Horn?’ he asked.
‘The tip of South America, more than forty degrees south,’ confirmed Truegard. ‘We’ll have to battle against the westerly winds down there to beat round it.’
‘The roaring forties they’re called,’ added Chad. ‘That’s where you’ll feel some wind.’ He smirked. ‘If you weren’t already short of a tail you’d need to hold onto it then.’
Ancell ignored him.
‘And after The Cape?’ he asked Truegard.
‘We cross the wide Pacific to Australia,’ said the first mate.
A full moon, lighting Misty’s sails a ghostly white, hung low on the horizon at the midnight change of watch. Skeet, Tam and Thom retired to their bunks. Pickle took the helm, humming a sea shanty and Jobey yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Truegard gazed astern, watching the silver wake. He felt a long shadow fall across him and shivered, though the night was warm. He heard Pickle catch his breath and fall silent, and turning, took a step back as the apparition of Larren staggered towards him, looming large in the face of the moon.
‘Water – give me water,’ croaked the grey squirrel.
‘How did you get on board?’ gasped Truegard.
‘Clung to the bowsprit until I saw a chance to hide in the launch,’ whispered Larren.
Jobey brought a mug of water, which Larren sipped, then drained. Truegard roused Capt. Albern, but the stowaway was too weak to talk, and after devouring some biscuits and drinking again, was half carried below.
‘He’s a tough one; long time to last without food or water,’ commented Pickle. Capt. Albern said nothing, but paced the deck for a long while.
Larren recovered quickly, and the following morning was able to walk unaided to the captain’s cabin, where he told his tale. The dreadful night of the shipwreck there had been a mutiny and the captain and first mate killed. He had pleaded with the rats to spare them, but to no avail, and was about to suffer the same fate himself when the ship drove on the rocks. Fearful of finding themselves castaways, the crew then started fighting among themselves, all blaming each other.
‘I fled,’ said Larren. ‘But it’s a small island, and a search party soon found me. If I wished to live, they said, I was to exercise my authority as second mate and restore order. And so I became the prisoner of those I command.’
Capt. Albern stroked his whiskers. ‘Why did you not tell me the truth when we landed?’
‘You saw how closely I was watched and every word I uttered marked. I had no hopes of escape.’
‘But you did.’
‘I overheard them plotting to seize your ship. I managed to slip away to warn you, but as I drew close you prepared to sail. If my absence had been discovered before I returned I would have been held to blame and certainly killed.’
‘So why hide for five days? Why hide at all?’ asked Capt. Albern.
‘For fear of you putting me ashore.’
‘In other words I might not believe your story. We can yet turn back.’
‘Then you will send me to my death,’ said Larren.
All morning the grey squirrel stood alone at the plunging bow. He noted with satisfaction that Misty had not changed course. Capt. Albern paced his cabin, and at the midday change of watch called Truegard, Skeet and Chad below. He repeated Larren’s story.
‘As you know, gentlemen, we can ill afford losing ten days taking him back,’ he added.
‘Unthinkable to return him lest we put his life in danger,’ said Truegard. ‘We should keep him safe on board and let him tell his story to the authorities when we make landfall.’
‘He seems very capable, and an extra hand would be useful in the Southern Ocean,’ added Skeet.
‘Put him in irons,’ growled Chad.
‘We don’t know if he’s committed any crime,’ argued Truegard. ‘We can’t condemn him out of hand.’
‘I’d be inclined to lock him up if we were close to port,’ said Capt. Albern, ‘but holding him a prisoner day after day would demoralise the crew. He’ll have to work his passage. Mr Truegard, I’d like you to take him on your watch. Keep an eye on him – and please inform the crew of my decision.’
‘Personally I’d chuck him overboard,’ muttered Chad to Skeet as they trooped up the companionway.
Larren kept to himself, not caring to talk about the island and ignoring Pickle’s persistent questioning. He worked quietly and capably, only once flaring into anger when Chad informed him he was to share the crew’s quarters in the fo’c’sle with The Cook. Chad had retorted that if he cared to sleep on deck in the bitter cold of the Southern Ocean he was welcome to it.
As the days passed, the soft blue water of the tropics hardened to the steel grey of the South Atlantic. The nights grew chill and the crew searched their sea bags for warm clothing, struggled into oilskins and drew sou’westers tightly about their heads – in Chips’s case, over and above his bowler. Under Waff’s watchful eye, Misty’s lightweight sails were changed for heavy weather canvas as she pitched into breaking seas.
Having received little more than an occasional nod from the grey squirrel, Ancell was surprised when one evening Larren squeezed through his cabin door.
‘I thought it was time we had a chat,’ said Larren.
‘By all means,’ Ancell stammered. He was a little in awe of the stowaway who had endured hunger and thirst for so long.
‘I understand you’re on a quest,’ said Larren.
‘Sort of,’ Ancell mumbled. Larren embodied all the qualities of the courageous adventurer he lacked.
‘I thought there was something special about you,’ continued Larren. ‘I admire your resolve, and I will be glad to help you in any way I can.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Ancell, pleased at the compliment. ‘I’m glad to have you on board.’
Larren talked of the mutiny, and of his determination to bring the perpetrators to justice.
‘We’ve a good crew on board Misty,’ said Ancell.
‘By and large excellent,’ agreed Larren, ‘though I worry about the first mate.’
‘Truegard’s admired by everyone. The skipper and every single member of the crew trust him.’
‘Maybe, but popularity doesn’t make a good officer. I just wonder if he’s up to the job if things get tough. Perhaps it’s because he reminds me of the incompetent first mate on my ship who cared only for himself.’
‘Truegard cares for everyone.’
‘I hope you’re right. At least he looks the part, which is more than can be said of that dead-beat of a bosun. I apologise! I’ve spoken out of turn. I hope Chad’s not a friend of yours.’
‘Oh no!’ said Ancell quickly. ‘No particular friend of mine.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Larren, and eased himself out.
Ancell shifted uneasily on his bunk. He supposed a fine creature like Larren would think Misty’s bosun a little coarse, but he also felt he had let Chad down.
Reefed to less than half her canvas, Misty beat into the tumbling waste of the Southern Ocean, an old sea, cold and spiteful. Jobey glared at his dinner as he clung to the galley door to save himself being flung across the rolling deck.
‘Those plates have got more than me,’ he complained.
‘Special for the officers,’ grunted The Cook.
‘I deserve anything they get.’
‘It’s sauerkraut. You won’t like it.’
‘If they have it, so should I.’
The Cook sighed and spooned a large portion onto Jobey’s plate.
‘I’ll have some too,’ demanded Pickle.
‘It tastes awful,’ spluttered Jobey.
‘I said you wouldn’t like it. I told you it was more to the taste of officers,’ confirmed The Cook.
‘My taste is as good as theirs,’ declared Jobey, and forced it down.
The Cook handed Merrie a plate to take to the captain’s cabin.
‘Don’t drop it, and hold on when you move. We don’t want you going overboard,’ he instructed. Merrie slithered along the deck and delivered the meal intact. Capt. Albern poked a fork at the sauerkraut.
‘Do you know what this is?’ he said.
‘I can’t remember the name Sir, but I could ask The Cook for you,’ offered Merrie helpfully.
‘It helps keep you healthy when we’re out of fresh provisions. Make sure you eat yours.’
‘The Cook said it was for the officers.’
‘It’s just his way of encouraging everyone to eat something they may not like,’ replied the captain. ‘If he told them it was good for them they’d probably throw it overboard. Remember to hold on when you go back.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Merrie, and promptly attempted to return with his arms outstretched, immediately to be pitched across the deck. Thom hauled him to his feet.
‘You could have gone over the side,’ she warned. ‘You must remember to…’
‘I know! I know!’ interrupted Merrie as he limped back to the galley nursing a bruised shoulder and a painful shin.
Misty drove further south. The wind turned icy, and the duty watches stamped their feet and threw their arms about their chests, willing the time away until they could crawl into the warmth of their bunks. Ancell and Doc spent much of their time in the relative comfort of their cabins, Doc engrossed in his books, and Ancell wondering if Misty would soon sail off the bottom of the world.
‘How long to the end of our watch?’ Pickle asked Truegard, one early evening as he shivered at the helm.
‘Half an hour, but I want the fore topsail furled before you go below.’
‘Can’t it wait. Tam and Thom will be able to cope,’ pleaded Jobey.
‘I think it may blow up a little. Better to make her comfortable for the night, and better to do it when they come on watch. I’ll let them sleep until then.’
‘But it will take an hour – an hour of my sleep!’
‘I’m sure Mr Skeet would do the same for you,’ said Truegard.
Larren listened, but said nothing.
It was hard and tiring work securing the thrashing canvas to the wildly swaying yard, and it was nearly dark before the two watches climbed down to the deck. Skeet, Tam and Thom commenced their duty, and Pickle, Jobey and Larren hurried below to at last pull off their oilskins.
‘Now I’m colder than ever!’ grumbled Jobey, ‘and I thought it was going to be an easy watch.’
‘But on the bright side, at least we won’t be hauled on deck as soon as we get our heads down,’ replied Pickle, climbing into his bunk.
‘It was poor judgement,’ interrupted Larren. ‘It’s a weak first mate who dithers. He should have got the sail in earlier when there was plenty of light. He put us all at an unnecessary risk.’
Jobey kicked off his sea boots and advanced on the grey squirrel. He stood no higher than Larren’s chest.
‘You watch it!’ he pronounced, jabbing Larren in the stomach. Larren took a step back.
‘I was merely agreeing with one of your perfectly justifiable complaints,’ he muttered.
‘Well don’t!’ seethed Jobey, continuing to prod. ‘I’ll have you know Truegard chose me to be on his watch. It’s my right to grumble if I want to. That doesn’t mean you can criticise. Truegard’s the best.’
‘Fine! If that’s what you want to believe,’ retorted Larren. ‘Personally I’d like to see your gentlemanly first mate pull his weight a bit more.’
‘Shut up, and go to sleep,’ said Pickle.
Larren did not sleep, but considered his likely fate. He had been on board Misty long enough to realise Capt. Albern would hand him over to the authorities the moment Misty made port. Also his hopes of causing dissention among the crew, engineering a mutiny, and taking command were fading by the day. He had quickly recognised he could never isolate the captain from his first mate; the bond between them was as father and son. Truegard would never forsake Misty’s master. But he was also failing to turn the crew against Truegard, whom they trusted without reservation. He thought it ironic that the red squirrel who thwarted his plans should be the one who treated him most kindly, and he hated him all the more for it. He consoled himself that Misty had yet many thousands of miles to sail. He would have to bide his time.
Ancell was awoken early one morning by a thorough shaking from Doc.
‘Get up, you lazy animal! Come and have a look!’ urged the owl, and hurried up the companionway. Ancell groaned and followed. Misty barely heeled to a gentle breeze, the sea had moderated to a long swell, and abeam the cliffs of Cape Horn stood stark in the watery light of the dawn.
‘I wish we’d sail nearer, I’d like to take a closer look,’ said Doc. Ancell watched the white surf surging onto the jagged rocks and shivered.
‘This is close enough for me,’ he said.
In his cabin, Capt. Albern stared hard at the barometer and redrew a line on the chart, taking Misty ever further south. He climbed on deck and gave Skeet the new course.
‘Not turning west yet, Skipper?’ asked Skeet. Capt. Albern motioned at the rocky headland.
‘Can’t risk being driven back on that lot. I’m afraid we’re in for a blow. I’ve never seen the glass fall so quickly.’ Skeet looked up at the clear sky and surveyed the placid sea.
‘I’ve never known you wrong, Skipper, but I bet that in twenty-four hours we’ll be round and safely on our way.’
‘I wish you were right, Mr Skeet, but I fear the twenty-four hours you need we lost by landing at Careless Island and it will cost us dear.’
Ancell overheard and uneasily remembered praying for the wind that carried them to the isle. He also recalled it was he who had delayed their departure.
Throughout the morning the crew prepared Misty to meet the storm. Capt. Albern ordered double lashings on the launch, the gig and the anchor. Below deck, anything that could move was made secure, and in the galley The Cook stowed everything but the bare essentials.
At midday The Cook served a meal of such generous portions, Jobey was lost for words. In the afternoon Capt. Albern suspended Chad’s endless routine of chores and ordered the crew to get as much sleep as possible. Throughout the night Misty sailed serenely deeper southward, her progress falling away when the clement breeze died, abandoning her to await what the Southern Ocean held in store.
At dawn, Capt. Albern looked at the sky, looked at the sea and sniffed the air.
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost your bet, Mr Skeet,’ he said, and gave the order to reduce Misty’s canvas to storm sails only.
‘Your captain’s mad,’ Larren told Waff as they lowered the mainsail. ‘No wind, and he reduces sail! If it’s going to blow, why doesn’t he wait until it does.’
‘Just get the sail down and secure it well,’ grunted Waff. ‘The skipper knows what he’s doing, and you’ll soon find out why.’