The Nine Lives of Jacob Tibbs Page 4

  “ ’Tis just come up out of nowhere, sir,” said Archer, looking at the dark sky. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You’ve never seen the like as you’ve never been aboard a ship at sea,” the captain said harshly. This was the first time I’d heard him use a rough tone to anyone, and it scared me from my wits. He quickly went on: “But I have seen the like of this, and these men have as well.” The captain motioned to the sailors on deck. Every man had dropped his work, and all were staring at the ominous sky as if in shock.

  “Our Lord,” I heard the big man called Dougherty say. “It’s a storm of the Devil, it is.” He stroked his muttonchop whiskers and stared up at the dark sky.

  “Don’t you say it, Dougie,” the red-haired fellow called Slattery begged. “Don’t you say that; you’ll make it so.”

  Chippy stepped up to where the captain stood and whispered, “Is it, sir? Is it Devil’s Storm?” His raspy voice was as soft as I’d ever heard it.

  The captain did not answer him, nor look at him. “Ring for all hands, Mr. MacNeil. And bring Mrs. Tibbs to me, when you find her.”

  Chippy ran to the bell and rang hard. “All hands! All hands!” he hollered. But his strong, deep voice didn’t need to carry too far; the men were already lining up in the growing darkness that seemed to cover the ship entirely. Chippy came alongside my mother and me where we stood by the cathead of the ship. He scooped my mother up quick and started back to the captain, leaving me behind. I watched his back as he made his way across the deck, and I crouched low, my belly on the deck, cowering, scared to be alone. I could feel what was coming, just as my mother had hours and hours ago, and I cursed the feeling. It was terrible to know, being powerless to stop it.

  “I won’t have any talk of Devil’s Storm on this ship,” the captain began, addressing the men. “This is no more than a summer thunder. Mrs. Tibbs here”—he motioned to my mother as she was let down by Chippy—“she gave warning, and I chose, unwisely, to ignore both her and the high winds as we set out. So let’s not have such talk; you all know it to be bad luck.”

  The sailors stayed silent and in line, their eyes on the captain. I couldn’t tell from watching their backs if they believed him or not. This was the first I’d heard of Devil’s Storm, but I have learned since that it is the worst type of sea storm one can encounter. It comes without any advance warning, and little is known of it, as not one, man or cat, has ever survived its fury. Said to be a storm that the Devil uses for travel, it comes and goes, destroying all unfortunate enough to be in its wake. It never touches land, only sea and the men and ships that sail her.

  “We’ve barely time for sails down,” the captain went on. “All hands aloft, the foreyard down, before she strikes. Clear what you can; batten what you cannot. All hands aloft!” With that the captain turned to Archer and ordered, “Bring me my glass.”

  Archer scrambled into the captain’s quarters and brought out a long metal tube, which the captain took and put up to his eye, looking out over the sea. He brought the glass down quickly and pursed his lips, giving a quick whistle in three short bursts. My mother came to attention at his side when he did this, but I was ignorant to the call. I would soon learn, as the captain sighed and said, “Mr. MacNeil, bring Mrs. Tibbs her Jacob, where he stands.” Then he put the glass back to his eye and stared out again.

  I felt Chippy’s hand close around me, hard, and I was lifted. “When the captain whistles, you come, rat. Oh, you’ll be the death of me,” he hissed as he roughly jostled me across the deck and fairly tossed me at my mother’s feet before he turned back to the men on deck.

  The sailors raced about, readying the ship, while seconds became minutes and the darkness grew deeper around us. Then from the black sky came cold bits of rain like needles. The captain stood still and held out his hand to catch the drops. Then he did a most unlikely thing—he put his palm up to his mouth and licked the drops. He stood a moment longer and then smiled. “We’ll pass through her, men!” he hollered out.

  The men above him chanted “Aye, sir!” in return.

  Archer watched the captain, obviously as mystified as I.

  “I’m looking for a taste of salt.” The captain turned to Archer. “If the rain tastes of brine, then we’ve real trouble. That’s salt torn from the sea, and means a hurricane, or worse. But this rain is sweet; ’tis from land. A storm has no mind as to where its rain is from, but to a sailor and his ship it makes all the difference. She’ll blow hard, but this storm will run herself out before she takes the Melissa Rae with her.”

  “And putting the rain on your tongue can tell you all that?” Archer scoffed. “Captain, I highly doubt—”

  “I am full up with your opinions at the moment, Mr. Archer, so I’ll kindly ask you to hold your lip. Your father and his company’s desires have put us in this predicament. Now, if you share his passion for profit, you’ll set to work with the men and put this vessel in good order.”

  With that the captain jumped from the quarterdeck and joined his men on the main deck. His glass collapsed into a tidy small tube, which he tucked in his pocket as he took on the rope with Sean and the red-haired boy. All the men were on the main deck, even the one-legged cook, Moses. How they could see around one another, I know not, for it was now pitch-black on deck, and my mother and I had perhaps the best vision of all. I turned to my mother beside me, but her spot was empty. She had followed the captain onto the main deck instead, determined to do her part, I suppose, to help the Melissa Rae.

  Now the rain began to come on hard, and the punishing drops flew from the sky at such an angle it was almost sideways. I did not care for the feeling of it on my fur; it was cold, and I’d never had the sensation of being entirely wet. In just a few moments, I was in a most uncomfortable state, only made worse by the pitching of the ship. Fairly tossed from side to side, I found myself sliding across the wet deck. With nothing to cling to, I tucked in beside the captain’s cabin for safekeeping, and I watched as the youngest boys shimmied up the foremast and ratlines. There was no time for hauling up the wet sails, as the captain said. The four large sails at the front of the ship would need to be cut down. I could see the red-haired boy called Slattery making his way up, his arms and legs wound round the mast, holding on for dear life.

  It was then that I heard, for the first time, a noise that I have since come to know—and to fear—well. Over the sound of the rising wind I heard a crying, like a little baby wailing. It took me a moment to recognize what the sound was—the ship’s metal fastenings crying out, pulling away from the wood. The high-pitched sound cut through the harsh slashing of the falling rain, and with it came the noise of the ship herself, her wood groaning from high atop the masts. Between the wailing of the metal and the sickening creak of the ship and the winds, the sailors had to yell to one another to be heard.

  I’m not proud to admit it, but I will report this as true. I cowered where I stood, tucked by the captain’s cabin at the stern, and watched and listened in terror. I cried for my mother, over and over again, my own ears deaf to my tiny mews under the noise of the storm and the ship. One might think I should be easily forgiven, for this was my first time at sea, and my first storm. I wish I could agree, but the events of that night are not easily forgotten, and I will always question how I behaved. Even now, the scream of the wood and metal and the sounds of that storm on the Melissa Rae still haunt me, and I wonder what might have been.

  “Lash me in!” I heard the captain holler. From my hiding place I watched as Chippy and Sean wound a thick rope around his waist where he stood at the large wooden wheel behind the quarterdeck. “I’ll need someone to be my eyes—send back Mr. Slattery!” the captain yelled to the men as they tied off the rope.

  The captain now stood fast, his hands tied to the wheel that steered the Melissa Rae, his torso tied, too. Without the strong ropes to bind him, he couldn’t possibly have steered the ship—he would have been tossed to the deck, or off the stern altogether, leavin
g the wheel to spin out of control, damning the ship and her crew to the mercy of the waves wherever the storm would take her.

  It looked quite barbaric to me, being tied to the wheel, but I later learned it was common practice during a storm, not just for Captain Natick but for all sea captains. This was why so many captains went down with their ships, because they were literally tied to them—unable to get away even if they did so desire.

  The two men left the captain there, ran past where I hid, and leapt onto the main deck. They collected Slattery, who was suffering badly from a fall, and carried him up to the captain. The boy was white-faced and grimacing, but there was no time to tend him now; all hands were needed. If the boy could no longer work, he could still serve the captain as a lookout on the quarterdeck.

  “Tie him in; he’ll not be able to keep footing on his own,” the captain ordered Chippy as the big man let the boy down on the deck.

  “Aye, sir.” Chippy grimaced at the task. The boy was fairly bad off, with an arm out of place and his face ashen. “Are you fit for it?” Chippy leaned down to the boy.

  “Lash me in.” The boy’s voice was strong, and I envied him his bravery. I turned my attention back to the main deck and watched the sailors as they pulled the huge sails, or tried to. Another boy, young Bobby Doyle, had taken Slattery’s place on the ratlines and was up to cut the fore royal, the very top sail on the foremast.

  A darker shade of black suddenly loomed over the ship; I glanced up expecting to see a cloud. I saw instead a wall of seawater over us, falling fast. All at once we were beneath it! The cold sea crashed on the deck, and I felt myself weightless, rolling sideways, tumbling with no hold, no air to cry out, even for my mother. The silence was overwhelming, a pitch-dark quiet. That was quickly replaced by the rush of air as the ship righted herself and I was thrown, wet as a mop, on the opposite side of the quarterdeck and facing the other direction.

  All around me were items that had no place on the deck: papers and maps from the captain’s cabin, and a barrel of salt pork that had somehow made its way from below. As the ship evened out, the water on deck returned to the sea, sloshing over the sides. “Again!” I heard the captain holler, but I had no time to reason it out before I was plunged under once more, this time tossed against the sidewall of the captain’s cabin, slammed hard enough to knock the air out of me. We stayed under, the ship taking on water as she lay on her side, the wave flowing out before sucking back in. I tried to gain some footing with my paws, but found only water below me as I pedaled.

  Again the ship righted with a sick-making heave, and rolled over to her other side, sloshing between the waves. I slid down the side of the captain’s cabin and landed on my feet in a puddle about as deep as I was tall. I shook myself, and a spray of water flew from my fur. It was then that I noticed that I could see my shadow cast on the deck before me. I assumed that could only mean one thing: the sun was breaking through the dark clouds. But when I looked up, the sky was not blue. It was a greenish yellow, like copper in need of a shine.

  The ship rocked hard, back and forth, then evened out, with water pouring out of every hole and splashing down from the deck. I heard a thick slam as the door of the captain’s cabin burst open, and a very dry and untouched first mate, Mr. Archer, came forth, kicking the wet sail and ropes that blocked his path. “You there, sailor!” he hollered at Chippy, making it all too apparent that he had not bothered to learn the sailors’ names. “Can’t you manage to keep this vessel steady? I’m positively ill from this heaving.” He clasped his white hands over his belly and swayed with the ship, looking more green in the gills than ever.

  Chippy leapt up to the quarterdeck and, in one swift motion, pulled Archer close to him. Holding Archer’s head steady with his left hand, Chippy pulled back his thick right arm as if to bring his open palm across Archer’s face. But he stopped himself, instead releasing the man, sending him sideways on the deck, scrambling to get away.

  Archer sat up, stunned, and looked at Chippy’s angry face looming over him. “What is the meaning—”

  “You lily-livered fool, when we are in need of every hand aboard,” Chippy barked. “I’m in no position to order you, as you are above me in station, but I will promise you this: if you’ve not found your way on deck to clear those sails in two clicks, you’ll be on your back before this storm blows again.” Chippy held up his fist and stood in a true fighter’s stance, glaring at Archer with eyes cold as the sea herself.

  Archer scrambled to his feet and leapt to the main deck, grabbing hold of a sail from one of the other sailors. He was hard at work in the grim yellow light that washed over the ship, helping the men before I could even catch my breath. I felt all hope go out of me—we were not yet through the storm. Could the Melissa Rae weather much more of this? Exhausted and damp to the end of my tail, I did not want to be grouped with the likes of Archer—scared and stupid to the ways of the sea. So I, too, leapt down to the main deck, and I tried to find my mother and what work we could do to help the men.

  “Here’s a sign,” I heard from over my head as I was scooped up. “Look! We’ve still got our little rat!” Sean reported with a laugh. The sailors who were standing laughed weakly, and some sighed deep. From this height I could better see the damage on the main deck, and it was a sight to behold. The railing had been tossed from the gunwale all along one side, and one of the jolly boats was completely gone. The other jolly moved about unstowed, with so many boards missing, appearing too damaged to be of any use. The bigger longboat remained secured in the middle of the deck, but the hatch was thrown open wide, and I spied seawater inside. The remainder of the deck was no longer planks of brown wood, but instead was covered by yards and yards of wet white sail and rope. When Sean set me down on them, I was surprised to learn that the sails, which had looked so light and full of air when billowing above the ship, were really heavy, thick canvas, rough under the paws and now pounds heavier with rain and seawater.

  Sean was barking out orders to the sailors standing: “All able men, move the injured sailors into quarters.” Sean turned to the cook. “Moses, you’ll go see to the captain and to Slattery.” I watched as the man limped off, hopping on his good leg. “We’ll need all who are left on deck to clear these sails. Have I two men who can begin the bailing from the central hatch?”

  Not a word was spoken as the men went about their tasks. It was as if they were all in shock, the life ripped from their waterlogged bodies. I shook the water off me as best I could, and set about the ship in search of my mother. Crossing the deck was made easier by the sudden stillness of the sea, and harder by the slabs of wood and canvas sail that blocked my path.

  “I’m in need of a sturdy man,” I heard Moses call out from the quarterdeck. The tall blond fellow called Smyth quickly made his way up and around to the wheel. I stood stock-still. Could the captain be hurt? I had to know, so I turned and ran across the main deck, my wet tail tucked in behind me. The stairs to the quarterdeck had been washed away; I put out my claws and climbed the wet wood, making my way up to the captain’s cabin.

  There I saw Moses and Smyth untying the body of Slattery, who was still lashed where Chippy had roped him in. His head lolled strangely on his shoulders, and he reminded me, oddly enough, of a rag doll I had once seen Melissa holding. When Moses was done untying him, he put his hands on the young man’s face for a moment, holding his eyes shut. He whispered something quietly and paused before moving the body with Smyth, whom I saw had watery eyes, as they walked past me. They carried him slowly, without urgency, and that was a sign to me: Slattery was not just injured anymore; there was nothing they could do to help him. Slattery’s death was the first I had seen aboard, though, sadly, it would not be the last. Behind the men I caught sight of the captain. He was grimacing in pain, still tied fast to the wooden wheel, his eyes shut tight.

  In a moment, Moses returned. Where he and Smyth had taken Slattery, I did not know. “Captain,” he asked, “shall I tie off that leg for you? Migh
t ease it a bit.”

  “You’re needed more below.” The captain bit back a cry of pain and opened his eyes. It was then that I noticed that his leg was turned around from his body, his foot almost pointing the wrong way.

  “Ah, Captain. What good am I below? I’ll get a bit of this wood we have floating around, and some rope, and we’ll have you in shape before she blows again.” With that Moses picked up a loose piece of the railing and a long lash of rope—the same rope that had held the young dead sailor in his place.

  “My dear wife in heaven—ah, pray for me!” the captain cried out as Moses grasped his leg. In one quick motion he had righted the foot around to the front. “Oh God, the pain! Stop now, man! I beg you!”

  “It will be a moment, sir; you’ve got to keep your wits. Here.” Moses picked up another small slat of wood and set it in the captain’s mouth. The captain bit down hard on the wood and clenched his eyes shut. I could barely stand to watch as Moses set the rail behind the captain’s leg, wound the rope around it, and tightly tied it off. As he did, not a murmur escaped the captain’s lips, though I felt sick in my belly at the pain he must be experiencing. “Better, sir?” Moses stared into the captain’s white face. The captain nodded and spat the bit of wood out of his mouth.

  The captain took a long deep breath. “I’ll not forget this kindness, Mr. Moses,” he said calmly, seeming to return to his old self. “Now back to deck and do what you can to keep this ship on the waves and not under them.”

  Moses nodded. “Aye, sir.” He turned and was hobbling toward the main deck when he spied me. “Captain,” Moses called out, motioning down at me before he moved on to join the other men.

  The captain let out his whistle, the three-note one he used to call my mother, and I looked about, hoping to see her come. But she did not. “You there, cat!” the captain hollered. “Jacob Tibbs, come here.” Then I realized: the whistle was for me. Terrified, I moved forward as fast as I could to where the captain stood on his one leg. His hands were white and rubbed raw where the wrists were tied to the wooden wheel, and I knew at once with great sadness that he would be unable to reach down and pick me up.