Bone Deep (8 page)

“Why do you call Dr. Hunter the captain?” I asked as I followed her down the steep set of stairs into a cramped hallway.

“When we're out on the water everyone calls him that. He's in charge of the boat and of the expedition so it just seems fitting to call him Captain.” We walked down the narrow hallway, past the noisy engine room, a lab, and some private quarters. Finally we came to what looked like a dining area.

“Here's the galley where we prepare and eat our meals. You'll be expected to help out … just wanted you to know in case you thought you were on one of those fancy cruise ships with endless buffet meals.” She smiled.

Next, we came to some cupboards with shiny brass latches. “We keep all the life vests, the life raft, supplies, flares, and so forth in here. Captain Hunter expects everyone to know procedures and how to use the equipment. He's been known to give surprise emergency drills so we all have to be ready.”

“What time are these drills?”

“Just like you'll never know when a real emergency arises, neither do we know when the captain will call for a drill … so like a good scout, ‘be prepared.'” Amanda handed me a small craft safety manual. “Study this later. Captain Hunter is very serious about safety and expects you to know it by bedtime — just like the rest of the crew.” I must have looked worried. “Don't freak out, and don't hesitate to ask questions if you're unclear about something.” It hadn't gone unnoticed that Amanda said the word “crew” as though I were one of them. That's when I realized that besides Dr. Sanchez, everyone else was expecting me to pull my own weight. I secretly promised right there that I wouldn't let them down. And I was going to prove to Dr. Sanchez that I wasn't some “leedle” kid tagging along who needed babysitting.

“Here's where you and I will sleep.” Amanda pointed to two small bunks hanging off the wall. “And down there is the head. It's finicky so make sure you never flush anything down besides the natural stuff and never pull the chain more than once.”

“Why? Will this place turn into a poop deck?” I snickered at my witty boat joke.

“Ha ha ha. As a matter of fact it could. And if you think Dr. Sanchez is grouchy now, wait until you find out what he's like if he doesn't get his morning potty time!” I squirmed — now that was a seriously gross image.

“Why is it called the head anyways?” I asked to change the subject … slightly. “Kind of silly when they could just call it a toilet.”

“That term came before the days of toilets. In the old days sailing ships had a tiny platform at the bow for sailors to use as a makeshift outhouse. By being in the very front of the ship, the area naturally became cleaned by splashing waves, and since the wind came from behind, it kept odours away from the rest of the crew. The bow also happened to be where they always fastened the figurehead of a beautiful woman or a bronze eagle or something. So if a sailor needed to relieve himself he would say he was going to the head of the ship.” Amanda had a way of making even the history of crapping sound interesting. Definitely some trivia TB would want to know when I got home.

“I'm going on deck to check in with the captain. So why don't you settle yourself in and come on up when you're ready.” After Amanda left I crawled up onto my bunk and unpacked my clothes, placing them into a small compartment above. I felt like I was in a cozy little cave, being gently rocked by the waves. It must be how a baby in a cradle feels. Soon the rocking made me a little tired. I decided I'd lie down and read some of Captain Whittaker's journal — just for a few minutes.

February 27th, 1812

All is ruined!

Yesterday, while I was afoot in the village making arrangements for the grand dinner party in honour of King Kamehameha, I foolishly left Mister Lockhart aboard. The king arrived early and asked for a tour of the ship. When they came to the weapons room Mister Lockhart rudely refused our guest access, telling him “coloureds” are never permitted in our weapons storehouse. As told to me by my first mate, Mister Carver, the king was enraged — his face red with anger over Mister Lockhart's comments. Thereafter he hastily left the ship.

Typically it is my rule to never encourage aboriginals to board the ship in the event that their motives prove to be hostile. But on this occasion the king was guest of honour, so to refuse his request was not only foolish, but lacking manners. Had I been aboard this never would have happened.

With Mister Lockhart's previous failures in decorum we were already on shaky ground with the king. Indeed, the dinner aboard the
Intrepid
was intended to mend this rupture in our standing.

The moment I returned to the ship I knew something was amiss from the wide-eyed stares of the men. When I was told the story I immediately sent out a messenger, but he was met at Kamehameha's fortress by angry guards. When he came back visibly shaken I knew then that relations with the king had been severed.

After the murder of my dear friend, Captain James Cook and his crew, I knew full well the potential danger with which we were faced. I ordered the men to be on the ready and to prepare for departure. After we had become enemies of King Kamehameha, I was sure that none of the chiefs from surrounding islands would do business with the
Intrepid
.

Clearly we had no choice but to leave. Miserably, Mister Smythe, our assistant blacksmith, and two other crewmen, Mister Archiebald and Mister Lloyd had not yet returned from the east side of Big Island where they were exploring for usable minerals. I waited for them for as long as I felt was reasonably safe. If things had been different I would have sent forces to bring them back, but the longer we lingered the greater the risk to the rest of the crew and to the ship.

When Kamehameha's men started gathering by the hundreds on the shore I decided there was nothing further to be done and ordered that we pull up anchor and set sail. The best I can hope for now is that future relationships with Mister Astor's fleet are not jeopardized and that the three crewmen left behind will go unharmed. My men were horrified that I left without Smythe and the others, but none will have to bear the guilt with which I am now burdened. I vow that on our return to New York I will find the first ship departing for the Sandwich Islands and instruct them to search for my men. I pray they remain safe until then.

We are secure in our food source. The cattle which we brought from St. Catherine's were in good circumstances, having been well refreshed on shore, and we were successful in procuring a good supply of grass for them. Nevertheless, I am worried about the men's reaction and I fear we are in for an especially difficult stretch. They know to whom they can thank for this abrupt departure from paradise and the abandonment of their friends. I fear there may be some retaliation. For a time I will need to keep close eye on the crew, and keep Mister Lockhart close at hand so that no harm comes to him.

Captain James Whittaker

“Okay, Peggy, what needs to happen should we discover there is a leak?” asked Dr. Hunter as the crew sat around the galley that evening. I knew it was important to make a good impression, so I had to get this right.

“Okay, once the deck hatches are opened, a crew member starts the bilge pump, while another gets out the extra buckets. The engine is not to be shut off, unless the leak is from the engine hoses.” The captain kept a steady gaze on me that made me a little nervous.

“What if it's not a leak? What if there's an explosion or fire?”

“Right, well then all crew needs to be ready to go overboard … with a life jacket. If possible use fire extinguishers. If not, cut off air to the area. If that doesn't bring the fire under immediate control, someone should be on the radio calling out MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY!” I shouted, forgetting this wasn't a real drill. “Use flares if help is in sight, gather all flotation devices available, and prepare to abandon ship.”

“Good. What if the emergency is a man overboard?” Dr. Hunter continued testing.

“MAN OVERBOARD, MAN OVERBOARD,” I shouted. “You keep shouting that until the skipper cuts the engine, all the while you never take your eye off the person in the water. When you can, throw a life ring or seat cushion to him. Whatever you do, don't jump into the water to assist. That could mean two drowned crew members.” I suddenly realized those last words were written by Captain Whittaker in his log as he watched poor Albert Smedley drowning. The memory of it oozed back into my mind like soggy mud and made me shudder. I was glad that I was a strong swimmer.

“Good work, Peggy. Now I can see why Edwina has so much faith in you. You're a bright young lady.” I squirmed as the rest of the crew applauded — well, everyone except Dr. Sanchez. “Okay, it's getting late. We're going to let down anchor and catch a few hours of sleep.” I glanced out the porthole and was glad to see the town of Powell River nearby.

“Dr. Hunter … I mean Captain Hunter … it's only eight thirty. I'm a kid, and even I never go to bed this early.”

“By the time we secure the boat, update our location with the Coast Guard, and tuck ourselves in it will be nine p.m. We're up again at three thirty so we can get an early start before the wind and waves pick up.”

Up at 3:30 a.m.?
What was the point of going to sleep at all?

Soon enough everyone aboard was fast asleep … everyone except me. I had all the ingredients for a good sleep … cozy berth, gentle waves, my favourite pillow from home … and I'd had a long and exciting day. But all the same I couldn't sleep a wink. I reasoned it must have been because of the nap I'd had earlier in the day after reading Captain Whittaker's journal. I tossed for a while longer hoping that I'd eventually nod off, but soon I knew it was futile. I had the top bunk so when I quietly rolled out of bed I did my best not to rest my feet on Amanda's bunk. I sighed with relief when I heard her snoring softly. Then I made my way down the narrow hall, passed the engine room, which was eerily quiet, and on to the galley. I flicked on the small lamp that set off a warm glow in the tiny room. I noticed for the first time a small bookshelf above the porthole. On it was a neat row of books. I scanned the titles:
Essays in Maritime Archaeology; Techniques for Identifying Trade Beads; Historic Relations Between European Traders and First Nations of the Northwest;
and
Methods for Preserving Artifacts Removed From a Saltwater Environment.
They were all titles that would put your typical kid to sleep — but not me. I was about to reach for the book on preserving artifacts when I noticed another neat row of books — novels with covers worn from years of use. Maybe this is where I'd find myself a nice bedtime story. I scanned the titles:
The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner; The Ghost Pirates; The Flying Dutchman; Curse of the Black Pearl; Pirates of the
Caribbean
. Not exactly the kind of stories that sweet dreams were made of, but maybe I could at least tire myself out with one of them. I pulled down
Treasure Island
by Robert Louis Stevenson. I'd never read it, but I remembered Uncle Stewart saying it was one of his favourite books when he was my age.

From the moment I cracked open the dry old pages on that leather bound book I was hooked.
Treasure Island
was not one of those stories you start and then put down easily. The kid, Jim, seemed to be close to getting his throat slit, like, five times in the first three chapters. What was the matter with this guy … he should have known from the moment that the old pirate showed up at his father's inn that trouble was close behind. Just when things were getting really tense I heard a noise coming from outside the boat — like water splashing. It gave me a creepy feeling, especially since I was alone. Well, I wasn't actually alone, but with everyone asleep it sure felt that way. I knew I was a little jumpy just because my imagination was already in high gear. I'd just come to the end of the scene where Jim and his mom heard the pirates ransacking the inn in search of the treasure map and were hiding under the bridge. I was about to start the next chapter when I heard the splashing noise again. My heart skipped a beat and then started to race. I got up on my knees and glanced out the window but could see nothing but thick fog. Not even the night lights of Powell River were visible any more. As I sat, ears pricked, I heard the sound of water splashing a third time — it was coming from the aft of the boat. One side of my brain told me to hide, or at the very least get back in my bed. The other urged me to find out what it was. Before I had time to change my mind, I jumped off the seat and went through the galley towards the back, climbed the stairs and came out on the deck that led to the helm where Captain Hunter steered the boat. As I stood in the black silence, I heard the lapping of the waves on the boat, and felt the cool air tickle the hairs on my arms. The silence and the fog were like backdrops to some scary movie and I couldn't shake the images of throat-slitting pirates hauling themselves up over the sides of the boat.

“You're nuts, Peggy Henderson,” I said aloud for reassurance. Just then a swift dark figure surfaced from the water and just as quickly sank down again with a little splash that left the boat rocking. I didn't know what it was and didn't stick around to find out. I ducked back inside the cabin as fast as I could, dropped the book off on the table as I passed through the galley, painfully stubbed my toe on the bench, and finally stumbled back to my cabin out of breath. When I finally found the ladder I grabbed onto it and hauled myself up to my bunk. I panted as quietly as I could, trying to catch my breath and hoping Amanda didn't hear me.

“You didn't flush any toilet paper, right?” Amanda's sleepy voice came from below. “Remember, only the natural stuff.”