Timothy of the Cay by Theodore Taylor

Author:Theodore Taylor [Taylor, Theodore]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

14. Bark Gertrude Theismann

APRIL 1886—In sultry late spring, Timothy was rowing Charlie Bottle's boat, laden with the grass they'd cut on Thatch Cay—which wasn't really a cay at all; fresh water was beneath its soil. The grass was for Charlie's livestock.

A sheen of sweat coated Timothy's supple body, making it look oiled. As he pulled the oars, his arm and belly muscles flowed like warm molasses. He'd filled out since the Amager, had added two inches in height.

He said, "Almost two year I 'ave tried. Dey say, 'Grow up, boy...'"

"Tell de mates an' coptins you be sixteen. Den yuh may git de job." Charlie Bottle's bloodshot eyes were locked on Hannah Gumbs's foster son.

Timothy frowned. Tante Hannah had always said, "Talk d'truth an' shame de debbil."

"Long's yuh tell 'em yuh fo'teen, dey say, 'Grow up, boy,' an' yuh got no wark."

Timothy nodded. Charlie Bottle was known for his wisdom, like Tante Hannah and Wobert Avril.

"An' yuh look sixteen, yuh do. Yuh a big boy now," said Charlie Bottle.

There was no breeze to fill sail this day. The knock of the oarlocks, the slap of water against the bow, were the only sounds as they went south toward Coki Bay, where Charlie's donkey cart awaited.

Timothy nodded again. That was true, he thought. Big as most men. Strong as most men.

Six days later, he announced to Tante Hannah that he was finally going to sea, on a bark bound for Rio de Janeiro. He'd heard of that place down in Brazil. He'd seen ships from there. He'd heard their Portuguese-speaking sailors.

Tante Hannah congratulated him with a sad face.

***

Even though he'd signed an official-looking paper with his X (all the words on the document meaningless to him), Timothy still wasn't sure that he was finally going to sea in the four-masted Gertrude Theismann, a ship that called Philadelphia home port. She was square-rigged, except for fore-and-aft sails on her aftermast, some jibs and headsails forward. She was the color of milk; pretty as a giant butterfly.

He remembered Mama Geeches saying two years ago he'd get a goat-mout' ship, a bad-luck ship, unless he or Tante Hannah paid her two kroner. They'd talked about it and decided that was an idle threat. How could Mama Geeches know one ship from another, which was a bad-luck or a good-luck ship? Mama Geeches had gone too far that time. But he thought about her as he signed his X.

Because of what had happened with the Amager, Timothy didn't actually believe he was going out in the Gertrude Theismann until Luther Oisten, the boatswain, boss of the deck, issued him a blanket and the cook handed over a tin plate, fork, and knife.

His board-slatted bunk, soiled straw-filled mattress, and stained pillow were in the cramped pineboard fo'c'sle, in the forward end of the ship, which was also quarters for five other sailors. A table and two benches were against the after bulkhead. The room smelled of sweat but compared to Back o' All it was rich-man living.

Aft of the fo'c'sle was the galley, with a sliding panel, the "pie hole," for food to be passed through.

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