Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter VII: Quest’s End
part 4 of 4

The boat was still heading by the wind, and he spent the morning writing his thoughts in his log. Perhaps someone would find it, and reading it they would learn how he had felt during what he now clearly foresaw as the last days of his life. And now the despair, the absolute depths of a most abysmal despondency — that he had been warding off since perhaps as far back as the capsize — came welling up in his heart. His strength having ebbed almost to the point of immobility, he finally began to surrender himself to the pure absence of hope. Every movement took stupendous effort, and the question of how long he would last, of how long it would be before unconsciousness bathed him in its mercy, became a pervasive thought.

It was late morning now and he lay on the deck, his head hanging over the weather side. He lay there for about an hour, meditating, lethargy having overcome him. Just what it was that prompted him to raise his head and look to leeward he would never know. But when he did he was stricken with disbelief. For there, well out to the horizon and off of his starboard bow, about eight miles distant, was a sail — quite plainly, a sail. And suddenly the fatigue, the depression, and the wracking pangs of hunger were all gone; they were forgotten. And he was on his feet with all of the agility of a boy half his age.

The ship was standing southwest by west, apparently heading in for Australia, and moving with a certain degree of sluggishness since the wind was light. With the hope of crossing the bows of the ship, he loosed the rudder and put his boat more before the wind, one that he hoped would favor him — that would give him a sufficient margin of advantage — as he knew that Pacific could move more easily in such light air than could the heavy schooner. But he appeared to be losing in the contest, for now the ship was starting to cross his bow and it would soon begin to draw away.

Now he snatched the umbrella from off the deck. Opening it, he began to wave it frantically. He had to get their attention; it was imperative that he get their attention. Mustering energy then, from beyond his nearly non-existent capacity, he brandished the umbrella overhead with such force that he literally threw it out of his hand, and it went overboard. Back to the cockpit he went, back to where he scrabbled about until he found his flag. Attaching it to a stick, he stood waving it with all of his might. There was no response.

The gun! There were still six cartridges, and maybe they would hear the gun. Back again to the cockpit, this time for the revolver. Then, standing by the foremast, he fired into the air. He fired all six rounds, and was disappointed to hear the feeble cracks scatter in the wind, with no more resonance than a dying man’s final exhalation. There was no response, and the ship continued to move away. Did the flag need to be higher? Could he get it any higher? Yes! Yes he could. Quickly he hauled down the jib. Then attaching the flag in the inverted position, he hoisted the sail again, and now the stranger was dead ahead... and passing him.

* * *

Aboard the schooner Alfred Vittery, Captain Boor was enjoying coffee in his cabin when there was a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said, and First Mate Killinger entered.

“Beg pardon, Captain, but we’ve got a small boat back off our port quarter, and she’s flying an American flag from her forestay. But in the glass you can see that the flag’s upside down, Sir.”

“Sounds serious, Killinger. What’s her course? How far back?”

“She’s headin’ our way, Sir. Back about a dozen miles.”

“I’ll be up. Have Sellers get a boat ready for lowering.”

“Aye, Sir. A boat it is, Sir,” and Killinger turned as he hurried back to the deck.

Boor was immediately behind him, already hearing the orders being shouted and the sound of running feet. Stepping out into the sunshine, he looked down from the quarterdeck, down to where a crew were readying one of the lifeboats and clearing away the falls for lowering. Turning, on his heel, he strode to the after rail of the quarterdeck where he leveled his glass at the following stranger. He studied the little boat briefly, before turning to the helmsman.

“Good lord, but that’s a small boat, Immelman! And I’ll be damned if he hasn’t got that flag upside down. Whoever it is, it looks like he’s in a barrel full of trouble... or he’s dead.” Then walking forward to the mizzenmast he shouted. “Getchel, there!! Hands to wear ship! We’ll beat back to intercept that small boat.”

“Aye, Sir,” Getchel said, and then turned and bellowed the order in his gravelly voice. “Hands to wear ship! Look alive there! Mind your sheets! We’re goin’ about.”

In the flurry of activity generated by Getchel’s order — an order that sent groups of spectator deckhands scrambling to their maneuvering stations — Killinger joined the Captain as they walked to the port rail. Now they stood together, watching the tiny craft off their stern. Over the rattle and clatter of blocks, the squeal of lines and the sound of flogging canvas as the ship wore, and as great booms swung across the deck to be sheeted home on a starboard tack, Boor asked, “Where did he come from?”

“Don’t know, Sir. One of the crew said they saw him off our port side a little earlier, and then saw him change course to follow us. He said that was before the flag was hauled up.”

“I see. Well then, whoever it is they’re not dead.” He took his watch from his pocket. “Two o’clock now.” He looked up as the sails began to fill and draw. “We should close with him in a couple of hours. Let me know when we have him near alongside. We’ll heave-to and bring him aboard. Meantime, I’ll be in my cabin.”

“Aye, Sir. I’ll do that.”

Boor returned to his cabin where he began an entry in the ship’s log. His coffee had grown cold.

* * *

Gilboy’s heart was in his throat, as he watched the ship sail farther and farther from him. And it seemed to him the longest time before he saw the sails on the big ship begin to change color, as they swung in the sun. They had seen him! They were coming back!!

Watching now, he saw the distant hull appear to narrow and then grow broad again, as it made a ponderously slow turn to head up into the feeble wind. Then, as he stood holding on to the foremast, the sight became blurred; tears of relief welled uncontrollably, a literal flood of thankfulness.

With the two vessels now closing on each other, the final minutes seemed eternal. It was a slow process, with Pacific’s hull being so encrusted with barnacles that she was barely making two knots. And the Alfred Vittery, of course, was beating tack-on-tack into a weak breeze. The result being that it was five o’clock before Gilboy was able to steer his crippled little schooner under the lee quarter of her larger counterpart.

“Let’s have a line down there,” Killinger barked from the deck above him, “and belay lowering that boat. Let’s have a ladder over the side.”

While the words were still in his mouth, the hemp line was in the air, uncoiling as it flew, before landing with a soft thud across Pacific’s bow. But Gilboy’s adrenaline surge, having been brought on by the sighting of the ship, had subsided by now; exhaustion from the very excitement itself had taken its place. And he felt so very weak as he struggled to work his way forward to make the line secure, but he managed. And no sooner had it been done, than the little boat was hauled forward alongside and several hands quickly climbed down to care for his battered craft, and to assist in getting him aboard.

Captain Boor had been on deck for the last half-hour, and had watched from the quarterdeck rail while Killinger had directed the recovery. Now he walked forward to where a tight knot of men had formed at the rail above Gilboy, the crewmen standing aside at his approach.

Boor leaned over the rail and looked down into Gilboy’s upturned face. Calling down he said, “I’ll be pleased to see you in my cabin as soon as you can manage it.”

Gilboy was standing now, supported by strong, coarse hands on either side, and he managed a tired, crooked smile.

“Yes, Sir,” he said. “As soon as I can make it.”

“Take your time, my friend, take your time,” said Boor. Then turning to Killinger: “When we’ve got the fellow aboard, we’ll have a couple of falls rigged. I want his boat aboard as well.”

“Aye, Sir. It’ll be done.” Then turning, “Getchel! Falls to bring up the little boat.”

“Aye, Sir. Falls it is, straightaway.”

Although there was no great sea running, the ship did roll some, and Pacific’s deck bobbed about quite erratically. With the mercurial patterns combined, it was no easy thing to get a foot planted surely on the rope-and-wood ladder hanging down the side of big ship. However, after a couple of missteps, and after nearly pitching headlong between boat and ship, Gilboy was finally on the ladder, where his feeble hands clutched at the rope, and where one foot after the other sought the next step. Then, with two hands pushing from behind and with a pair of muscled, brown arms reaching down to grasp his wrists with work-callused palms, he crawled and was hauled laboriously up the side and over the rail.

It was a decidedly unceremonious boarding to be sure, as he staggered against a deck house cabin and nearly fell, Killinger and the captain preventing it as they caught him by both shoulders.

“If I could please sit down, I’d be much obliged,” Gilboy said.

“Certainly, certainly. Let’s take him over there, Killinger.”

Between the two men he walked aft, as they made their way through the considerable group of Islanders crowding the deck. Arriving at the skylight over the captain’s cabin, they eased him down.

“There now. Rest easy,” said the captain, kneeling beside him. “I must say that you’re the last thing we expected today.”

After straightening his hat that had been knocked crooked by Gilboy’s arm over his shoulder, he went on. “My first guess would be that you’re out of the Hebrides, or maybe New Caledonia. But you’re so sea-worn that I’ll have to say you’ve come farther than that; you’ve come a long way. Who are you, and where are you from?”

“From San Francisco, Captain,” he said with some difficulty. “My name’s Gilboy, Bernard Gilboy.”

As when he had spoken to the people aboard Tropic Bird, here too a murmur went through the group that had gathered.

The captain looked up at Killinger, his weathered face wearing an expression of surprise mixed with disbelief. Looking back at Gilboy he said, “Good lord! Then how long have you been at sea, Mate?”

Gilboy was sitting up now. “Let’s see.” A pause. “I left San Francisco in aah... in August. That was on the 18th, I think. So up to now... I don’t know. How many days is that?”

Borden, the navigator who had been standing in the group, pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and did a quick tabulation.

“That’d be a hundred and sixty-five days, countin’ the eighteenth and countin’ today, Sir.”

“Wheew! That’s a damned long time, Mate,” said the captain. “And when did you eat last?”

“I aah... I had a fish yesterday, Captain. One landed on deck.”

“You had a fish? You had a fish?” he exclaimed. “Just one? And before that?”

“About three days back I had three or four little fish; there hasn’t been much.”

The captain turned to the steward. “Brinkley, how fast can you get this man some soup?”

“Right away, Sir. Gimme just a few minutes to get some makin’s together.”

“Then jump to it, man!”

“If you please, Captain,” Gilboy said, speaking softly and in a labored voice, “I would very much like a piece of hardtack, and maybe some molasses. I don’t remember just when was the last time I had any bread, and I think it would taste good.”

The captain shook his head in wonder and smiled. “You heard the man, Mister Killinger. Let’s have somebody get him some hardtack and molasses.” Then as he stood he added, “Then help him down to my cabin, and have the steward bring the soup down there as soon as it’s ready.”

In the spartan comfort of his cabin, the captain sat informally on the edge of his bunk. Gilboy sat at a small desk against the forward bulkhead. While they were speaking, the hardtack was brought in along with some tea. And it was then that Gilboy remembered the last bit of alcohol aboard his boat.

“If I might trouble you for one more thing, Captain. There’s aah... I’ve just a drop or two of alcohol on board my boat. It’s in one of the cockpit lockers. Not sure of which one. Could you have one of the hands get it for me, please? I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to it in the past few days. I’d like to mix it with my tea.”

The captain smiled and called for Killinger. When he arrived, he asked him to have one of the men get the container from Pacific, the little boat having already been swayed aboard. In the few minutes that passed while they waited, there was silence as the captain studied his new passenger.

Gilboy sat bent over, forearms resting on his knees and his head bowed. Everything about him bespoke exhaustion: the tired-looking, coarse-bearded face with its deep-set eyes; the soiled, tattered and salt-saturated clothing — the whole gaunt frame that appeared to sag with emptiness. It all spoke silent volumes. And as Boor took it all in, he pondered on why a man would undertake such a journey. Going to sea as a business he understood, but going to sea simply for the sake of doing so — just to go somewhere for no practical purpose — this was outside the scope of his comprehension.

The alcohol arrived shortly, and the tea was drunk while the hardtack lay untouched.

Finally Gilboy asked, “What ship is this?”

“The Alfred Vittery,” said Boor. “We’re bound for Maryborough in Queensland, Australia. Comin’ down out of the Solomons, where...” There was a knock at the door and Boor said, “Come in.”

It was the steward. “I’ve brought the soup, Captain, and a piece of toast along with it. I recalled him askin’ about some bread, and I thought he’d like it.”

“That’s fine. Thank you, Brinkley. Just set it there on the desk.”

The steward left and Boor resumed as Gilboy sipped the hot soup from a cup.

“As I was startin’ to say,” Boor went on, “we’re on our way back from the Solomons where we’ve been recruiting Polynesians for work on the plantations.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, and Gilboy sat up straight.

“You’re a blackbirder — A slaver?” Contempt mixed with curiosity.

“Oh, no! Don’t get me wrong, Mister Gilboy. We’re just the transportation. You saw all of those Polynesians on deck a while ago? No chains on ’em, was there.”

“No sir, and I apologize if I sounded offensive. It’s just that slavery is one of the things I can’t abide. By the way, where are we? How close to Australia are we?”

“Well, figuring from our noon position, I’d say we are at about twenty-two south and around a hundred-fifty-four east. That puts us about a hundred and sixty miles from Cape Sandy.”

Gilboy shook his head resignedly. “Well, I almost made it.”

The captain sighed. “That you did, Mister Gilboy, that you did. And it occurs me just now that I should be calling you Captain. Please excuse me for that discourtesy. But let me ask you this: You married?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Children?” The captain probed.

“Yes, Sir, one. A little girl named Mary. She’s about two.”

There was a hard, subdued, cynical chuckle from the captain as he said, “And you left them to sail out here all by yourself.” Again he shook his head and squinted quizzically at his passenger. “Can you explain to me, Captain Gilboy, why you did that? Why any man would do that?”

Gilboy sat the empty soup cup down. He shrugged his shoulders and wrung his hands together as he looked up at the captain. “No, Sir, I can’t, Captain Boor. I can’t explain it at all. Of course, I don’t know about other men, but like I said to a friend of mine back in San Francisco, before I left: It’s just something I had to do.”

To be continued...