By the Great Horn Spoon!: Chapters 3–5

In addition to Mountain Jim and Dr. Buckbee there was an ex-soldier named Nath Tweedy. He still wore his forage cap and hickory shirt, and kept his rifle and bayonet propped in a corner of the cabin.

It amused Praiseworthy that the Yankee trader had unwittingly provided Jack and himself with their accommodations in the hold.

Soon there was hardly a breath of air left on shipboard. The canvas hung limp and dispirited from the yardarms.

I am browned to a crisp, except for my nose. It sunburns something awful and keeps peeling. Captain Swain says my nose looks like a molting chicken!

“Blast!” he scowled. “She’s not the Sea Raven, mates. She’s a square-rigger. Becalmed, no doubt. There's not enough breeze in these latitudes to snuff out a candle!”

Towing the square-rigger would slow the Lady Wilma to a dogged crawl.

There were times when Jack felt a great emptiness, a loneliness, that not even Aunt Arabella could dispel.

Jack began to dread Sunday dinners. It was bound to be Good Luck’s turn on the menu soon.

They looked above decks and below decks. They glanced up masts and down ventilators.

The cook himself went searching through the cargo hold where Monsieur Gaunt, a Frenchman in the rough homespuns of a farmer, was watering his precious grape cuttings.

Leaning his bristled back against Jack’s leg, the pig grunted a loud word of endearment and almost woke the captain.

Leaning his bristled back against Jack’s leg, the pig grunted a loud word of endearment and almost woke the captain.

If many gold-seekers had joined in the hunt, others considered it sport to outwit the cook.

“What’s this?” he said, sizing up the situation quickly. “A pig in a porthole?”

Soon he was singing to the windy accompaniment of the mouth organ, drowning out any snorts or grunts of protest from the pig.

He waited until the afterdeck was clear of passengers. Then he lifted the barrel, gave the porker a hug and shoved him up over the gunwale of the boat.

“Cape Horn lies ahead of us. It’s a bad stretch of water. Very bad, indeed, the captain tells me. The wind comes howling in like banshees and the waves can batter a ship to splinters. No one will think the less of you, Master Jack, if you leave the Lady Wilma here at Rio. We’ll manage to get you a passage back to Boston.”

The ship’s master greeted this news with his familiar roar. “Blast! Well, we won’t tarry! By grabs, we’ll sail tomorrow with the outgoing tide!”

While the Lady Wilma took on coal and fresh provisions, the gold-seekers invaded the city.

That night, when Praiseworthy and Jack returned to their ship, their arms were loaded with exotic fruits never seen at home in Boston—bananas and pineapples and guavas.

But almost at once it was discovered that Cut-Eye Higgins too was gone. He had been forgotten in the haste of coaling and watering the ship.

Off the coast of Patagonia Jack awoke to find six inches of snow on deck and a school of sperm whales off the starboard bow.

For days Praiseworthy and Jack watched the crew tighten the riggings and check the canvas against the coming winds and crashing seas of Cape Horn. An air of impending adventure ran through the ship.

Jack listened to tales of whaling ships disappearing forever from the roaring Cape; of square-riggers with their masts uprooted like trees; of brigs driven back by horrendous headwinds and of barks wandering in endless fogs.

But even more forbidding, it seemed to Jack, were stories told of sea captains tempted by a shorter route to the Pacific—through the narrow and vile-tempered Strait of Magellan.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Praiseworthy would say, even though he believed every word of it. “We may hit a bit of inclement weather, gentlemen, but our good captain will give the back of his hand to the Cape. He told me so himself. Why, the wild bull of the seas could navigate these waters with his eyes shut.”

Praiseworthy, who was not born to adventure, was surprised to find it decidedly to his liking. His face was weathering. On good days and bad he took his brisk laps around deck, and enjoyed the sting of the sea on his cheeks.

Praiseworthy, who was not born to adventure, was surprised to find it decidedly to his liking. His face was weathering. On good days and bad he took his brisk laps around deck, and enjoyed the sting of the sea on his cheeks.

“I must admit,” he said to Jack, “that I’m rather keen on having a look at the notorious Cape. You might watch for the fires.”

“A mere squall,” said Praiseworthy, holding onto a post with the hook of his black umbrella.

But hardly had the seas calmed when another gale burst from the sky. Captain Swain no longer left the pilothouse.

If Mr. Azariah Jones wasn’t pitched out of his bunk it was Dr. Buckbee. More than once Mountain Jim awoke to find them both sprawled across him.

“I’ve known grizzly bears that were a mite friendlier than this billy-be-hanged Cape Horn!”

Headwinds battled the paddlewheeler to a complete standstill and Jack began to wonder if they would ever reach the Pacific.

A yell went up around the ship and Captain Swain leaned out of the pilothouse. His beard had grown an inch. He gave a hearty wave and then came out on the paddlebox with his long glass.