A Conversation Fixed wi' Heaven (I.P. - Thanksgiving)

Again he heard  the dry bounce and rub of metal on wood.   Dry wood.   The notable feature; dry wood at the bottom of a water butt.   A fine yellow line appeared on the horizon and the man muttered neath his breath.  A prayer repeated? A childlike catechism?   The ship's mate, a Venetian, thought it had the cadence and form of a scientific formula.

'Watch your course there,' he shouted.

'Aye Captain.'  Peering back at the wheel, the man realised he had located the erring sailor from memory. The quarterdeck remained in darkness, even in the broadening dawn. Not even the hint of fear, or servility in your voice, thought the man.  The same lack of respect was evident throughout the crew. Two or three of the hands leaned over the ship's water barrel.   Fear robbed their faces of disappointment. A few days ago, they would not have risked his displeasure lounging on the quarterdeck.   But that was when the water had run out.   He'd removed the sentry from the barrel. Guarding an empty store was a fruitless exercise.  The sand in the glass had run out too.  Promises unfulfilled.  A month ago he had asked for their forbearance. Asked, not commanded.

'Give me your patience, your trust, and I will make landfall within a month.’   The three Portuguese sailors, a deputation from the crew, had stood face to face with him and  the Mate, in his own cramped quarters.

The new day shone bright upon the sails.   It pierced the corners of the upper decks. And it pierced the armour of the man's resolve.

'The last day,' he whispered. The helmsman exchanged a glance with the group of sailors around the water barrel.  The Mate heard it and saw the changing expressions on the faces of the crew.  Fear. Anger too, and a sudden fierce resolve.  The whispered admission had called down the Furies.  In disbelief, The Mate saw the weapon in each sailor's hand.

'Deck there. Land Ho!'  

The man resumed the soft, murmured catechism.