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Excerpts from Not
One Shred of Decency |
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1841 (EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 25) Near the bow, the sound of the Somers’ carpenter hammering and sawing echoed above the usual sea and ship sounds. He had a boy helping him build Spencer’s coffin. Ganse watched off and on as three boys brought Cromwell and Small’s hammocks up from below and attempted to spread them out on the spar deck. With edges curdled in grime and the centers a waxy gray, the stiff canvas refused to lay flat, having been the molded nests of Cromwell and Small for so long. A few small boys curiously watched without their usual nonsensical chatter. Cromwell would be let down first since he was swinging inboard of Small. Three boys removed several figure eights of the rope from the belaying pen holding Cromwell. With the advantage of friction on the remaining turns around the pen they let his body down slowly. Two boys waited until Cromwell’s body swung close enough to grab his legs and they pulled him inboard to lay face up on his curled hammock. Ganse had conflicting impulses about looking at Cromwell. He did not want to look, yet if he did not, Cromwell might somehow lunge at his back. First he fixed his eyes on Cromwell’s dried, blood-splattered shoes. The devil dared him to look more; at his dirty blood stained pants, his barrel chest with black red paste that glued his blouse to his belly, his beard, on to his chalk and purple splotched cheeks, his bulging eyes ¾ he’s staring at me! He involuntarily jerked his head away. Oh god, what colossal gall ¾ it’s permanent ¾ even in death he bests me ¾ as always. He turned around and prayed to the Lord to save him from vomiting in front of the men. After a few minutes he summoned nerve to look again even though it seemed to take all his strength. The boys had pulled the hammock over Cromwell’s face and with sail needles and course thread were sewing him in tightly. Travis skillfully worked the needle as one boy held the thread straight. Travis said, “This is forever, Cromwell. I know for God certain, the fishes of the deep’ll spit you out.” After a tense moment to ascertain that Cromwell’s booming response would not filter out from within his cocoon, several boys snickered nervously. One boy quietly giggled, “Shiiit, Travis.” Ganse made an effort to swallow. He shook his head, but the lump still refused to go down. He walked to the bulwark and pleaded to the ocean for comfort. It was not forthcoming ¾ splotchy foam churned, engrossed in its own restless agenda. He wanted to cry, but knew he could not. |