Chain Locker by Bob Chaulk Page A

his strategy when he came aboard, he would nonchalantly walk in among the occupants as though he belonged there. He eased his way out of the hole and closed the hatch cover. Straining from one hand-hold to another, he made his way towards the forecastle. The lookout could probably see him but he didn’t care. He arrived at the entrance and went down the companionway. It was crowded inside and although several men looked at him strangely, he paid them no heed. He crawled behind a bunk and lay down on the floor where his exhausted body finally found rest.
    Jackie’s bleary eyes opened to the sight of a pair of sealskin boots inches from his nose. Looking up, he saw a giant of a man whose frown told him that the moment of truth had arrived. The dread he was feeling was tempered by the immense relief of no motion whatsoever: no heaving, no rolling, no mountainous seas crashing against the side of the ship, no sickening shudders; just heavenly calm. The relief had barely sunk in when he was snatched by the collar and marched up the companionway to face the captain. No wonder it was so calm. They were anchored, and near enough to shore to see buildings and even people moving around. His mind went to the ropes and chains that had been his companions in the chain locker. He had gotten out of there just in time.
    The situation was obvious; they had come into some small port so he could be put ashore. He stood before the captain reconciled to his fate, eyes down, cap in hand. The sight of the great potentate sitting at the table in his cabin filled him with awe, although he had expected a uniform of some sort.
    â€œYou want to have your arse kicked; that’s what you want. I got a mind to give you a good trimmin’ right here and now. I never seen the like.” Being threatened with a boot in the behind was not new and in Jackie’s experience the threat was more common than the follow-through, but at this point he didn’t care one way or the other.
    His eyes fixed on a lump of butter coming to rest in a little yellow pool after tearing its way across a thick slice of hot bread. “How old are you, then?” asked the captain, as he cut great hunks of cheese from a large, orange block. He piled them on the bread, which he folded over the butter and cheese, and shoved the works into his mouth—chomp—swung it to a new angle—chomp—and, turning his head and rolling his eyes back, he inserted it a third time—chomp!
    â€œWhat are you, deaf or something?” demanded the captain as he took a long, noisy slurp from a mug of tea. “I said how old are you?”
    Jackie was having trouble prying his eyes off the steaming mug. “Fifteen, sir,” he croaked, as the captain finished off the sandwich with two more violent yops.
    â€œDo your parents know where you’re to?” he said in a muffled voice, struggling to get his overfilled mouth under control. He took another prolonged, satisfying swig.
    â€œNo sir.”
    â€œNo sir! I don’t know why I even bothered to ask. Simeon, get his name and have the Marconi man send a message to Bowring’s. When we get the new galley rigged up, we’ll give him to the cook.”
    Jackie’s spirits rallied with this bit of news. It sounded like he was not going to be set ashore after all. His first impulse was to thank the captain, but before he could speak, he was swung around and marched outside to the deck.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” the master watch asked.
    â€œJohn Gould, sir, but my friends call me Jackie. Sir, I wonder if I could get—”
    â€œWell, John Gould, my name is Simeon Gillard and I know you’re not fifteen years old. Thirteen—or fourteen maybe, at most. You’re lucky that storm came up or you would have found yourself ashore, in jig time.”
    â€œSo the captain is letting me stay aboard?” he ventured.
    â€œWe’re come too far to send you back now.