Voyage of Ice by Michele Torrey Read Free Book Online

sleeping, or picking our nails, or writing a letter, as Briggs gagged and spluttered and cursed and told everyone he was going to kill whoever had done it.
    “Ah, now, Briggs,” said Irish finally, “you got to admit it was no more than you deserved.”
    “Shut your face, Irish.”
    “Bad day, is it you're having?”
    “I almost choked to death!”
    “What a pity,” drawled Dexter. “Why don't you go tell the captain? He'll wipe your tears with his fist.”
    Just then, the wind shrieked and the ship heeled sharply. Briggs crashed against his bunk. Boots and clothing slid across the fo'c'sle floor. Feet hammered the deck overhead as someonehollered down the companionway, “All hands! All hands to shorten sail!”
    Men tumbled out of their bunks and pelted for the ladder, scrambling to don their boots and oilskins as they cursed and ran.
    Moving quickly, Briggs scraped up the peas and plunked them into his tin pint pot. After stowing them, he put on his oil-skins, snugged on his sou'wester, and said to me, “What're you staring at? Finders keepers. They're mine now.” And out he went.

esides seeing dried peas poured down Briggs' throat, there were two good things about being on the sick list, stuck in the fo'c'sle for three weeks straight.
    First, I began to carve whale teeth like my father used to. Scrimshaw, it was called, and I believe I was right good at it. Fact was, Irish peeped into my bunk to see how I was feeling, and when he saw the tooth I was carving, he whistled and told everyone to come have a look. Everyone straggled out of their bunks, excepting Briggs, of course, and admired my carving. It was of an eagle snagging a fish from the water, struggling to lift its prey. Right then and there the boys bid for my tooth. It sold to Irish for two doughboys, one plum duff, and a new pair of wool socks straight fromthe slop chest. I was proud. “Never knew you had it in you,” said Dexter.
    The second good thing about being on the sick list was that Elizabeth came to see me. Well, her mother came too. And not just to see me, but to see all the fellows who were sick or hurt. And there were plenty.
    On that day the door banged open. Wind gusted through the fo'c'sle. The lanterns flared and I smelled a faint scent of perfume. Lilacs, maybe. Armed with bandages, iodine, scissors, and such-like, Mrs. Thorndike and Elizabeth climbed down the companion-way. Duff, the steward, followed and began pouring coffee for everyone, slopping more onto the floor than into the cups. It was eight bells and the change of watches, so the women first tended one watch, then another, while the door opened and closed, men going in and out dressed in their oilskins and sou'westers.
    At first, Elizabeth looked scared, as if she'd never been in the fo'c'sle before. Certain it must have looked wretched, what with clothes piled knee deep, coats moldering on pegs, cockroaches and rats, men groaning in their bunks, and a stink that would shrivel a dog. Nose and fingers pink with cold, slender like her mother, with high cheekbones, Elizabeth dabbed the moisture off her face with a lace-trimmed hanky. I swear I could see the entire ocean in her eyes.
    Tucking her hanky down the wrist of her sleeve, Elizabeth saw me and smiled. I felt color creeping past my collar, remembering the last time she'd seen me—getting chewed out by her father for being a poor excuse of a whaleman. When she looked away, I licked my hands and smoothed my hair back and scrubbed my face as best I could. It wouldn't do to look as if I'd been wallowing in a pigpen during a hurricane.
    “Elizabeth, pay attention,” said her mother, yanking her arm. “A good captain's daughter will someday make a good captain'swife. These are duties to which ye must attend.” So saying, Mrs. Thorndike leaned over Irish's wrist and made a quick incision on a boil. Irish paled as blood and pus drained into a bowl. Mrs. Thorndike cleaned the boil with iodine and wrapped it in bandages,