DANCING WITH THE TARS
The Saint Lindstrom floats on the quiet sea tonight. Our sails are tightly furled. The decks are scrubbed. Grog is spewing out of kegs.
Bradley is high in the crow's nest watching the moon move against the starless sky. His horn blows and his deep voice calls out, 'Ship ahoy, NE 16 degrees. No flag visible.' Captain Lindstrom, dressed in his evening wear, takes the wheel, orders us seamen to unfurl the sheets. There is little wind and no need to work so hard but we don't argue with the captain. A mist comes from nowhere and hides the phantom ship. We deck hands relax and wait for dawn. Before it comes, we go below for grub. It's all slop but we have no choice and make do. Finding rat dirt in our porridge is not unusual but Mac once found a whole rat. He pulled it out of his dish, threw it away and ate his breakfast. Today a part of a potato swam in my sour milk.
Bradley is high in the crow's nest watching the moon move against the starless sky. His horn blows and his deep voice calls out, 'Ship ahoy, NE 16 degrees. No flag visible.' Captain Lindstrom, dressed in his evening wear, takes the wheel, orders us seamen to unfurl the sheets. There is little wind and no need to work so hard but we don't argue with the captain. A mist comes from nowhere and hides the phantom ship. We deck hands relax and wait for dawn. Before it comes, we go below for grub. It's all slop but we have no choice and make do. Finding rat dirt in our porridge is not unusual but Mac once found a whole rat. He pulled it out of his dish, threw it away and ate his breakfast. Today a part of a potato swam in my sour milk.
The wind picks up a bit. England waits for us. Our families surely think we are goners. Sickness is aboard. Shank, Billybud and Blake were fed to the fishes days ago. Captain Lindstrom announces we expect to reach England in less than one sennight. 'We must be careful of our words when we arrive. Do not gripe, complain. At three bells our cook will slaughter our last goat and prepare it for dinner. We are out of salt so eat hearty anyhow.' The goat meat is tough but is better than gruel. Henry's gums begin to bleed badly. He covers his mouth with his hand and goes below to his hammock.
The last few nights drag. There is little for us to do. We play tiddlywinks, start a game of Faro that is short-lived, fight amongst ourselves and pray a strong wind moves us faster. The wind has shifted. Clouds and swallows guide us to London. As we approach it, a loud, familiar clopping, pounding noise alerts us to watch the ladder rise from the hold. All eyes look. A foot, the one we know belongs to Big John, appears. On his right foot is his hard shoe. Right behind it is his left clog shoe, then the bulk of him. In his hand is his treasure, the one his grandfather had left him, his Celtic hornpipe. He blows it and starts to dance. No one joins him as the dance is very complicated and is usually done alone in a small area. We follow Big John to our only cannon and wait. Casey holds tight to his slightly battered fiddle and almost plucks it to death. Little John moves far enough away from the other seamen and dances wildly, twisting his body as he folds his arms over his chest. His rhythm clashes with Big John's hornpipe but nobody cares. The plug from the last keg of grog is pulled. We drink, do the hornpipe dance, forget our troubles, our losses. London and our silver await.
Sea gulls, horns and flags of other lands welcome us into the harbor. Captain Lindstrom sets us loose while he stays aboard to complete many forms, put our coins in gray cloth bags. Ashore only the women parading, selling their wares, matter. We long to buy their services and for the captain to give us our bags of silver.
Cloggers' shoes are heard in every alley, every busy tavern. Sailors are happy. The ladies see the captain walking towards his men. His arms are laden with their pay. The women are happy too.
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