“Hopi, you gave me a start,” I yelled.
“My watch,” he said as he pulled himself to sitting position next to me.
Pointing out to the horizon, I said, “Look at that moon! Have you ever seen it so big and blue before?”
“Nay.”
Hopi was a quiet, half-breed with Wampanoag Indian blood in his veins. He shaved his head each morning, leaving only a stump of black hair at the back of his skull. That stump was tied together with leather and small sticks, allowing the long hair to fall onto his back. Other than bushy black eyebrows, his bronze head was devoid of facial hair. On one cheek, he had a tattoo of a circular blue swirl, and he wore large, round earrings on both ears. If you didn’t know him, you might think him a savage.
In the blue moonlight, I watched his face as he gazed at the moon. Then I asked, “What does your name mean in your native language?”
Turning to me, he answered, “Restless one.”
“Are you restless? Is that why you’re a sailor?”
“Aye, I search for answers.”
“Answers to what?”
Turning his gazed back to the moon, he said, “Life.”
“Have you found any?”
“Aye, many.”
After thinking for a moment, I asked the question that had been on my mind all voyage. “Would you know why the eagle is feared?”
Looking back at me, the blue twinkling ocean reflecting on his face, he thought for a moment and then answered, “Aye… because he can soar.”
This was the longest conversation I had ever had with Hopi, and his answer made me think. After all, Indians would know best about eagles.
A few days later, I helped row the skipper to the flagship for a council. After having coffee in the galley, I went to the forward rail, waiting for the meeting to end. As I heard the ship’s bell signal a watch change, I observed Mr. Haswell, the second Mate, having a problem getting a sailor to turn to. At first, he calmly approached the forecastle hatch and ordered the crewman to the deck. When he received no response, he went down the ladder.
From where I stood, I could only hear what happened next. In a firm, loud voice, Mr. Haswell ordered the sailor topside. The seaman responded with loud and scurrilous language. For a few seconds, the two men just yelled at each other, and then I heard a scuffle and the cracking of a fist. Moments later, the Mate returned to the deck with the seaman, who was holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose.
As this commotion was unfolding, Captain Gray and the Commodore came to the quarterdeck. When Captain Kendrick saw the bleeding sailor, he exploded with anger and rushed forward. He confronted the two men, but instead of supporting Mr. Haswell, he yelled at him. The Mate yelled back. With the two men now loudly cursing one another, and with all the crew watching, Captain Gray came forward to intercede. Finally, calm was restored, and the three officers moved back to the stern...but without anyone saying a word to the bleeding sailor who had started the fracas.
Still angry, Captain Kendrick would not let it go and soon ordered Mr. Haswell off the deck and told him to move from his cabin to the forecastle. The Mate agreed, if he was given leave of the ship’s company. But Kendrick would not agree to that and, after much yelling, Mr. Haswell stormed off the deck.
As we rowed back to the Orphan, the skipper sat quietly, gazing at the flagship. We had just watched the Commodore go a little berserk, and we all knew it could be a bad omen of things to come.
A few days later, our two ships arrived at the easternmost coast of Argentina and changed course for West Falkland Island. As we traveled these waters, the overcast sky teemed with sea birds of all kinds and colors. Sandy pointed out one large albatross with a yellow head and told me that a legend claimed that these birds were the souls of drowned sailors.
Looking more closely at this big beaked bird as it soared, glided, and fished so close to the ship, I thought Sandy just might be right. There is something about stories of the sea and the men who give their lives so freely that always seemed to ring true, like the ship’s bell.
In due course, the two vessels spotted West Falkland Island. The destination of the ships was to be Port Egmont on Saunders Island, just northwest of West Falkland Island. But upon entering a narrow channel that led to the port, the Commodore was confronted with strong headwinds and an adverse tide. He therefore bore away and set sail for Brett’s Harbor, a protected anchorage on the same tongue of land as the port but on the opposite side of the island.
Here, with no other ships in sight, the vessels dropped anchor. Our passage from Port Praya had taken fifty-seven days.
After dropping the bowers, Captain Gray went ashore with the Commodore in search of fresh water. Upon their return, they reported finding many springs and of observing large flocks of duck and geese.
The next day, work parties were dispatched to fill the water casks and to hunt for game. The air was chilly when I went ashore with musket in hand as part of a hunting detail.
A heavy, gray layer of clouds hung over the rocky landscape that looked sparse and barren. There were a few small groves of trees and long, golden sea grass on the hillsides. How humans could survive on this wasteland, I did not know. One thing was certain: whatever game was on this bleak island would have to be searched out. We hunted all that afternoon and returned to the ship weary but with large bags of gutted and plucked game-birds, ready for the cook’s pot. That same afternoon, other parties returned with firewood and with grass for the livestock.
The following day, Captain Gray set about preparing for the Orphan to round Cape Horn. He instructed me to set up a small forge on the deck to repair some of the ship’s iron strapping that had been damaged during the passage.
As I worked the hammer and anvil, other crewmembers caulked the hull planking above the water line. Some timbers were replaced or repaired by the ship’s carpenter while other sailors worked in the rigging, setting in heavy new canvas sails. For three long days, all the ship’s activities were focused on making the sloop ready for its dangerous crossing to the Pacific. Finally, with deck planks fully sealed and the Captain’s final inspection passed, the sloop was ready to sail.
Just as we completed our work, however, we learned that the Commodore was having misgivings about making the southern passage so late in the season. His idea was to winter in the Falklands and begin the passage in eight months.
Staying in this desolate harbor for eight months was not well liked by the officers or by crew. Captain Gray warned the Commodore that it was a bad idea and that some of the men might take “French leave” – jump ship. He even asked permission for us to proceed alone in the Orphan, but his request was rejected. Captain Kendrick vacillated for days, and all the while the weather worsened in the southern seas.
One day, I asked Sandy why we couldn’t sail to Argentina and winter there.
“It’s the Spaniards, lad. They rule with an iron fist from Madrid. If we sailed into one of their ports, they might confiscate our ships, and we could be marooned for years.”
As the days dragged on and we were running out of time, I knew that something had to happen. And then it did. On our ninth day at anchor, we learned that Mr. Haswell, the former second Mate of the flagship, had