The Horn

The chill was enough to permeate the bowels of the ship, in which weary and broken men huddled around the flickering oil lamps for warmth, covered in their own chilled and threadbare blankets as well as those of the unfortunate men above. Some still nurtured the lukewarm rum ration that the Captain had ordered, while others looked wistfully at them, regretting their haste to feel the burn in their throats and their bellies. A deep and thrumming sound passed through the stout wooden beams that separated them from the tumultuous sea outside. The icy wind rushed down from above, a wailing and invisible ghost whose touch crumbled the recipient into an even tighter huddled mass. The thrumming water passing outside of the ship; the wailing wind; the faint cries of the men on watch; these were the only sounds below deck, for none could spare the energy to speak.

Then, the terrible sound of fabric tearing, of ropes suddenly cast loose drumming against the hull. The awful crash of wood on wood, and every man's eyes went up, towards the top, and the Creator.

* * * * *

As icy shards of rain pelted the deck like grapeshot, Martin noticed his ears were beyond numb to a sort of dull ache that stabbed a thousand tiny daggers into his skull. His gloved hands were merely without feeling as they worked, heaving with four other pairs to lift the yardarm off of the deck, off of the Spaniard; off of Mr. Green. The former shrieked as the heavy timber collapsed him on the deck. The latter had merely attempted to dive out of the way. Both would survive, but the surgeon might have his work cut out for him. The limp men were dragged by the Captain, featured darkened under his hat. He clapped a man on the shoulder and went back to directing two men on the mast to secure the mainsail, torn and flying like a giant pennant above and behind the ship.

Martin wheeled and his gaze was caught for a moment by the roiling ocean. The sheeting hail poured into that grey and rollicking surface. Chunks of ice tumbled in the waters and passed by the ship. And the bow stood in open defiance of the scene, pointed forward, and though the bust of the maiden that adorned it was battered, still she looked out with certainty into that grey haze.

A shout from the Captain, and the ship lurched, groaning and creaking against it's new heading. Some men took up a ragged cheer, but it was quickly squelched as each man returned to his work. They still stood on the razor's edge of survival, but the ordeal was half over. They had turned north, away from this place.

The bell clanged three times, a relief to the men above and a terror to those below; it was time to change shifts. Martin gave his work over with a nod to the bearded man who replaced him, and walked on the slippery deck to the hatch. A hot mug was pressed into his hands, and the acrid smell of warm rum mixed with the putrid whale oil and sweat and deep varnish of the interior. He passed by the curtained area of the surgeon, crossing himself and made his way to an empty seat on the bench. His gloves felt thick as he reached into his coat, to his breast pocket and withdrew a small portrait of Maryanne, her elegance at odds with the grim and disheveled world. Nine months, and he would see her again. He took a sip of the rum, it's warmth working it's way down his throat. Nine months, and another trip round the Horn.