THE VOYAGE OF PATIENCE GOODSPEED by HEATHER VOGEL FREDERICK

Author:HEATHER VOGEL FREDERICK
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Published: 2002-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Ten

“Oh pilot, ’tis a fearful night;

There’s danger on the deep.

I’ll come and pace the deck with thee;

I do not dare to sleep.”

“Go down, go down,” the pilot cries,

“This is no place for thee;

Fear not but trust in Providence

Wherever thou mayst be.”

—The Pilot

November 15, 1835

No wind, no whales now for nearly a week.

We left Fayal with a hold full of water and fresh stores and picked up the tradewinds directly. A solid fortnight of fine sailing followed as we were pushed toward South America by a smacking breeze, and we even managed to take another sperm whale, along with three blackfish, which is well, as they fuel the lamps aboard the Morning Star and our supply had grown low. Papa says we have nearly a hundred barrels of prime oil already, a fine start to our voyage.

Now, however, we are becalmed in the doldrums, lolling on that windless stretch of sea that lies between the northeast and southeast trades and bedevils sailing ships. Papa has declared make-and-mend to keep the hands from mischief and all of us from going mad. The Morning Star fairly gleams from all the swabbing and polishing and painting she has received these past few days, while Thaddeus and I have tidied and retidied our tiny stateroom a dozen times. Cousin Jeremiah fusses with the logbook like a medieval monk with a manuscript, adding flourishes and embellishments and small drawings to the margins, and even Glum has been busy, turning out the galley and scrubbing it from top to bottom. This morning he pressed Sprigg into service, and as I write this the two of them are seated on overturned buckets, taking inventory of the provisions, both of them as irritable as owls.

There is one benefit to the enforced idleness, however, as Thaddeus and I have received a windfall of small gifts from the crew—whalebone whistles and egg cups, napkin rings for each of us, miniature animals for Thaddeus, and even a doll bed for Miranda, courtesy of Chips.

Still, it’s exceedingly dull, as well as hot, the closer we draw to the equator. Papa says there’s nothing to be done about the lack of wind but wait. “What can’t be cured must be endured,” he says. But sailors are a superstitious lot, and I often see them furtively whistling in a vain attempt to call up a breeze.

So far the only thing that answers is my new kitten, whose ears perk up at the sound. He’s a dear little thing, gray like his mother, but with a comical white tip to his tail that gives it the look of a paintbrush. I have named him Ishmael. He’s curled up asleep right now on the deckhouse sofa beside me. Perhaps I’ll curl up for a nap too. It’s not as if there’s anything else to do.

—P.

The southern tradewinds finally picked up and ferried us to Rio, a lively port that’s a favorite amongst the hands, by the sound of the hearty cheers that went up when it hove into view.

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