Chain Locker by Bob Chaulk

simply to hang on in the hope that the weather would settle down, but the old ship that had survived so many battles with the northern ocean was now into one that seemed determined to avenge all the times she had emerged victorious. He had no idea how long they had been at sea; the scant light coming through the two holes had disappeared and eventually returned. That was hours ago, and he was emotionally and physically exhausted.
    If I have to take much more of this, he thought, I’ll be beat to a pulp. If the captain wants to go ashore and boot me off, then I don’t give a shit anymore. At least I proved to Eddie Carnell that I could do it.
    An hour later he was considering the unthinkable: showing himself. Doubtless, the captain would throw him off at the next opportunity, but it was that or risk being beaten to death in the chain locker.
    Struggling to his feet, hanging on to whatever he could find to keep from being pitched headlong, he made his way up the companionway and eased the hatch open a couple of inches. The scene he beheld through the thin slit stunned him. Torrents of dark water sloshed around the deck, crashing onto fixtures like rapids over rocks. The ship was being overwhelmed. There was no sign of the deckhouse and there was not a soul to be seen. The ghastly thought crossed his mind that everybody had been washed overboard, and he was left alone on the ship. Had the Viking ever had to cope with the likes of this? Surely not.
    But in that dire moment she rose like an angry beast turning on her tormentors, hurling the water from her decks like a bear flinging away a pack of wolves. She was fighting back and even though a wave slammed the cover down on his head, Jackie was buoyed by the knowledge that she was prevailing.
    Stealing another peek, he saw men. And they were swinging axes. At first Jackie feared they were chopping up the ship to end their misery. But no, they were knocking ice off the rigging and the deck. And there was somebody at the big wheel in the stern; two men, in fact. He was feeling better by the minute. Nimshi Crowe had told him stories about lashing the helmsman to the wheel to keep him from being swept overboard. There might be hope, after all. Raising the cover higher for a better look, he thought he saw somebody up in the crow’s nest, a lookout for icebergs, no doubt. Oh man, that poor bugger must be gettin’ the guts shook out of him, he thought, as the rolling ship sent the mast slicing through the air like a conductor’s baton.
    Another hopeful thought entered his mind. Perhaps the captain won’t send me ashore. He needs all the help he can get. At least I could help them chop the ice away.
    His stinging eyes moved from the lookout back to the huge smokestack, nearly half as high as the mainmast and painted with Bowring’s familiar red X. The black smoke that had puffed gently upwards from the boiler fires when he boarded in St. John’s was now being whisked off and sent in a flattened spin from the stern into the descending darkness. The wind roared among the cable stays holding the stack in place as the intrepid old sealer clawed her way into the storm. The two jibs and the staysail that she had set were of little help as she battled for survival, relying almost completely on her tired engine for propulsion.
    Jackie glanced towards the forecastle door, longing for the shelter, warmth, companionship, food and water it offered. He had long since eaten the bread that he had taken from home, and had eased his raging thirst with any little bits of ice or snow he could find. Living under a sky that disgorged so much rain, he had never expected to need water. Bruised, tired and cold, and now with seasickness lurking in the shadows, he ached for a place to lie down and rest. He could not stay in the chain locker any longer.
    Perhaps his luck would hold out long enough to get past the point of no return for stowaways. There must be such a point. Repeating