The Voyagers

Francesco James

Reedsy Writing Contest #257

The Voyagers

Page 1

A warm sunset breeze offers no relief in the sun-scorched backdrop of the harbor, as the intense heat fuels the mirage of shimmering rooftops' rhythmic movement. The line of piers, strangled with crates and barrels matched by the congestion of river skiffs are tied up, three and four abreast, some nose to nose. It is no different on the dirt roads of the town close to two-and three-story warehouses of trading companies, the final point of departure for opium and goods produced by farmers and artisans of the interior. The buildings abut the edge of mud rut paths, walls patched, with the cracked appearance of a dry lakebed. Shards of crumbled mud lay in piles at their base, the windows rimmed by paint chipped and splintered rotten wood. Airborne spores abound, finding refuge in deep cracks, nourished by the sweet nectar of moisture, peeking their tender leaves out for sunlight. The roads and paths shared by people and carts hinder movement. As the stench of waste molests the senses, cows, glorified and celebrated with bright colors, roam the streets freely. 

Captain George first came by the water mentored by his uncle, a Commodore in her Majesty’s Navy, who brought a special gift for him upon his return from journeys abroad. On a trip back from Africa, the Commodore gave his nephew a model sailing vessel used on the Nile by traders and anglers alike. He stood proud, watching his nephew launch the peculiar-looking vessel on the river near his boyhood home. So captivated by the rigging and ease and balance of its motion, George created a small sailboat of the same design, testing his agility by maneuvering the craft around the waterways. Despite the familial connections to English society, his parents are simple folk, storekeepers of general mercantile and specialty rigging for ships. The model boat gifted to George by his uncle still sits on the chart table, a reminder of his modest upbringing and high-bred family ties.   

The Sea Lion, an aging barque, lays tied up against the jetty, weathered by years at sea. The vessel defies the impression with her stately bowsprit and stout masts reaching for the sun in defiance of nature’s tempestuous seas. Cargo lines the jetty waiting to be loaded on board. On the main deck, every breath Captain George takes requires effort, his chest tight and restricted by the heat. His glare on the horizon relaxes into an expression of admiration for the scene before him, as a swirl of smoke rises from a meerschaum pipe limp between his teeth. The Captain is a small stout man, with grey around his temples accenting his tightly cropped salt and pepper beard. His sweat-drenched hair protrudes from under the sides of his woolen cap, matching the bushy tobacco-stained mustache that curls into his upper mouth. The deep creases about his eyes are conspicuous when he squints or laughs; his dark brown eyes hazed by translucent tissue, convey the appearance of being older than his forty-seven years. 

The Captain’s foul language and quick temper are remnants of years spent on ships from a young age. Now offset by a wry smirk, astride the subtle undercurrent chuckle of his seasoned indignant behavior, are not the accurate measure of his character. For he is easily approached and welcomes discussion on philosophy, science, astronomy and the nature of life and death. Yellowing books on subjects of science and literature are crammed into his cabin shelves. 

Giacomo, the second mate, shares Captain George’s fascination with nature’s beauty and power. Giacomo confidently carries himself in an attitude dissuading any challenge. A black ponytail and a mustache that curves around the sides of his mouth accentuate a single gold-wrapped tooth. His pant legs, fraying from exposure to seawater and sun are high on his calf, and the contours of his sun-bronzed upper body accentuate his obvious strength. A dangling earring signifies the badge of honor every sailor earns when surviving a sail around the horn. His tool, securely lashed to his waist, gives this Portuguese sailor the formidable appearance of a man to be reckoned with. Like the Captain, Giacomo is self-taught and learned to read during his travels at sea.

The men share a bond of respect that extends to their opinionated conversations with more profound meaning than mere jovial banter during their heated debates. Their weekly encounters at the galley table with a bottle of rum and a deck of cards preclude no subject for discussion. Wallace, the first mate, sometimes attempts to contribute his knowledge on various topics, but anything outside the realm of sea and ships routinely leaves him speechless and frustrated. Sensitive to Wallace’s limitations, the Captain bolsters his points with support and interest. His crew respects him as a man, a mentor, and the father figure some never had. They endure his wrath and appreciate his supportive pats on the back.

Wallace calls out, “Captain George!” His broad chest, stout arms, and huge hands hardened from years at sea set him apart from other crewmembers. Despite his robust appearance, signs of fatigue are evident. Sweat droplets fall from his nose and chin, as wet ringlets of red hair rest upon his slumped shoulders. The oppressive heat in the confined space of the storage hold below deck causes his labored breathing. Standing before the captain, in a tattered shirt, stained with pine pitch from rubbing against the hull seams, Wallace says, “Captain George, the forward hold is full. We are ready to start on the stern hold; shall I have the men ready the main boom to lower the cargo of opium?”

“Aye Wallace and have Giacomo come up on deck. Tell him to make time; the sun is setting. Don’t want him to miss this one, going to be a beauty.”

“Aye, sir.” The first mate’s long gait makes short work of the approach to the storage hold. Reaching the edge in stride, his left foot upon the adjacent hatch jumps into the shaded darkness. Giacomo is in the far corner, out of the direct sunlight, holding a long stick with a knife sharpened point. His yelping mimics the sound of someone in pain, as the stick moves quickly in and out of the shadows. Finally, a squeal comes from the corner and falls quiet. “Got you ya’ little bastard.” Raising the stick into the air above his head, Giacomo climbs over the bows of silk and heads for the rope ladder quietly. 

“Ah! Giacomo, I see you have been hunting again,” Wallace says, engaging his second mate before delivering his errand. “Aye, sir.” “He is big as a cat with the hair to match. The captain said to fetch ya’, the sun is setting.” Nodding, Giacomo takes hold of the stick in both hands, pulling back. He looks up out of the storage hold and whips the stick toward the sky, sending the rat into a long sweeping arc. A crewmember standing just forward at the rail edge cries out, “Mother of God, what was that?” Clearing the rail, the rat disappears in the sweeping current. Making quick work of the rope ladder Giacomo is in stride as his legs hit the deck.

“Ah, Giacomo you made it just in time my friend. Isn’t it beautiful so large on the horizon?” “Aye, sir.” The two men stand quiet, forming a silhouette against the setting sun. Relighting his pipe, the captain takes a pull on the stem letting the smoke billow from his open mouth. Giacomo lets out a short sigh of pleasure. “I love the sunsets in India Captain, they are different here, the heat, the thick heavy air as you breathe, oppressive yet beautiful.” “I agree with that Giacomo; they are different.” Both remain on the deck as the sun journeys past the horizon. The two are silent, gazing upon the setting sun. Two friends, side-by-side, with hands clasped behind their backs, puffing on their pipes; the captain with his meerschaum and Giacomo with his tobacco-stained clay pipe.

Below them, the rain-swollen river overwhelms the bank, bringing large branches and parts of huts built close to shore swiftly down the river. The rainy season is always difficult in India. People bathe and pray precariously close to the rushing force of current on the river’s edge, taking them off their feet. The currents twirl their victims with crocodile-like grip; twisting and rolling bodies along the bottom of the river, suddenly popping to the surface too late for breath, arms waving in the air as lifeless bodies are propelled by the river’s force. In the rushing froth, two small animal carcasses roll by in the swirling current, quickly followed by the body of a naked child. Facedown and indistinguishable from the brown of the river except for the black hair on the child’s head, the clothing ripped from the tiny body by the river’s force. “There goes another life Giacomo, never to live out their cast, a damn shame.” “Yes, it is Captain, a damn shame for sure, such sweet-hearted people. The family will mourn the loss and ability to properly service his or her soul to ash.” They remain for the last glimpse of the sun’s corona, and without a word, Giacomo turns away to resume his duties. 

Giacomo cups his hands and yells out for his lead deckhand. “Melon!” Melon, a broad-chested Irishman, slender at the waist, has large hands that could crush a man’s throat if it pleased him. Giacomo and Melon met six years earlier when they both signed on in Liverpool. At the time, Melon was a fugitive after killing a man who attempted to steal his tool and money sack while he slept.

On the night of the killing, six years prior, an argument woke Giacomo when it moved into the hall of the brothel where both men were present. Opening the door, he saw Melon with his hand aptly placed around the voice box of a sailor. His face changed color as the grip tightened and began to silence his rebuttal. Looking up at Giacomo, without a change in expression, he pulled the man’s throat from his body. 

Melon stood in the hall staring at Giacomo for a moment and then said. “He tried to steal from me.” Giacomo dragged Melon into his room, instructing him to go out the window and wait for him on the porch roof corner. Melon obeyed his request, as Giacomo walked back out into the hall. Two residents of the brothel stood by in the doorway watching Giacomo stand over the body and puts a finger to his lips. He pulled the body into the room and emptied the sailor’s pockets, then jumped out the window, to reconnect with Melon. Without speaking, the two men ran off towards the docks, as the first slivers of light rose on the horizon. Well away from the murder scene, still silent, they approached the trader ships along the customs wharf. Giacomo turned and asked the sailor his name. “My name is Melon,” he says, “and yours?” “Giacomo. I am from the isles of the Azores. How about you?” 

” I am from the south coast of Scotland.” As they continued their individual stories, a voice called from the deck of the Sea Lion. “Hey, sailors! Are you looking to sign on or do you have port papers?”

“Neither,” Giacomo responded. “At least I don’t. Do you Melon?” “Nah, been bumming around last few weeks after leaving Ireland. Was fishing but got tired of it.” “Well, would ya be interested in working a trader?” They responded, almost in unison. “Never worked one.” 

“Have ya been out to sea before?” Giacomo laughed as he glanced at Melon who wore a mischievous smirk upon his face. “I, for one, never been out to sea except to catch a boat ride to England from my home island in the Azores.”

“As for myself, a bit.” Melon responded. “What ya’ payin’?” 

“Ten bob a month.” “That will get ya’ lantern walker and sail loft work!” They all laugh, but the person on deck was persistent. “If ya’ do a good job the captain may be obliged to pay ya’ a portion of the profit.”

“Well, Melon, what ya’ got to lose. Iffin’ ya’ stay here ya likely get pinched for the dealins’ at the house.” 

 “Your right about that.” Any sign-on bonus if the two of us come on?” 

 “Sure, I will give ya’ ten bob.” What the hell Melon I’m not doin’ anything let’s take her for the ride. How long is the trip?” 

“From here to South Africa, then the Islands. Then to the Americas for a bit and back here, about one year-round trip.” Smiling and full of anticipation, the two men simultaneously offered gestures for the other to step on the gangplank, beginning a new friendship and a new life for both aboard the Sea Lion.