Henry Leverage

“ A day passed with the Borneo making slight headway toward the south. A second day allowed Micky to run down some of his latitude. Storm sails were set on the main and mizzen. The ship, close-hauled, ran across the gale, dipped her lee rails and righted sullenly.
A week of head-wind sailing brought the clipper within the zone of Cape Horn storms. The easterly gale died and was succeeded by a southern hurricane that carried teeth of ice. Micky stared southeasterly, where he wanted to go, and shook his broken fist.
“She's perverse!” admitted Red Landyard. ”

“ Red Landyard and two of the crew climbed over the wreckage on the forecastle deck and managed to sheet partly home the flapping staysail. Micky ducked a lipping comber and turned to the wheelman.
“Another man aft!” he shouted above the roar of the hurricane. “We've got to keep 'er in th' wind!”
This course of sailing, when the Borneo righted, became difficult enough. Red Landyard and the crew managed to set two headsails and spread a jury rig from the wreck of the foresail. They cleared the forecastle deck and threw some of the spars overside. ”

“ The little skipper's pea-jacket was sheathed with sleet. His chin bristled through a glazed coating. The ship took the long slushy rollers, ran off the wind, and came back to her course sluggishly. There was no life in her. ”

“ Micky took a short turn around the icy quarter-deck. He drew his head into the collar of his ancient pea-jacket and snapped for all the world like a turtle:
“It'll be queerer if you don't get forrard an' roust out all th' watch on deck. Some of them are slackin', sir!”
Red Landyard waited, dodged a fierce stab from the little skipper's eyes, avoided a cold blue comber, and went off the poop. He got all of the watch out of the warm forecastle. Old Dipford grasped the mate by the arm and led him to the fore-peak. ”

“ Red Landyard had a Yankee's buoyancy. “She'll weather it!” he declared. “All that's really gone is th' maintopmast an' a few spars. We can put in Sandy Point for refitting.”
“Hif we ever get to Sandy Point! We ain't makin' any 'eadway.”
An observation taken the next day at noon, when the sun appeared for a few seconds, attested to Micky's statement. The Borneo was being driven back toward Longtown.
Red Landyard, taking advantage of a lessening gale, had the deck cleared and the broken rigging spliced. He got out old canvas and set the crew to work. ”

“ There's nothing much to do here in Longtown. Why not try a jaunt in th' jungle? I'm going inland to-morrow. Bring your mate along.”
Micky and Red Landyard accepted the consul's invitation. They straddled island ponies and made a rough passage to a plantation owned by a French settler. Coming back, through no fault of the consul, the two after guards of the Borneo got lost, without a compass to show their bearings. ”

“ Red Landyard sat swinging in a boatswain's chair which was lashed to a pin-rail on the fore-peak.
“She's a mighty scrawny mermaid for a first-class windjammer,” commented the Yankee when he pointed a brush at the figurehead. “Any way we can fix her up, skipper?”
“We'll 'ave Chips make a new one!”
Red Landyard chewed reflectively. “Chips,” he said, “is a deep-sea fraud! He couldn't make a work of art. This gadget comes under the head of art, skipper.”
“Blym hif it don't!” admitted Micky, leaning over the rail. “She's our mascot!” ”

“ I'll tell th' cook to double th' ration of plum-duff. We got raisins enough. Feed a crew an' they forget their superstitions. An empty stomach brings up a lot of queer thoughts.”
Micky nodded. He went below and made some entries in his log. He got out his sextant-box and climbed back to the deck. Bracing his feet, he started taking an observation. A slight haze lay over the northern horizon. He lowered the sextant and squinted his gray-thatched eyes.
“Take a look at the barometer,” he told the mate. ”

“ Get th' watch at work an' lighten 'er a little more aft. See, she yaws a bit. She's too far hout in the bow. An', Red,” added Micky when the mate turned to leave the quarter-deck, “Red, you might set th' royals on fore an' main.”
Micky was never a bucko skipper. He allowed his crew to come aft whenever they wanted to. He visited the forecastle, and would, at times, sit on a bunk and chin with a seaman. He held that the way of the sea was changing and that many a good man might be before the mast.
Red Landyard, the Yankee, was Micky's mouthpiece. The mate nursed few illusions. ”

“ It's been nineteen days now an' we haven't made a knot to th' east.”
Micky acted like a Mother Cary chicken wheeling to attack a herring. “I'll 'ammer you—you red bloater, you!” The little skipper slipped on the deck and would have fallen if the mate had not reached out a steady arm.
“Easy,” suggested the tall Yankee. “I don't blame you, skipper. You're anxious to get home to your wife and kids.”
“I'll do it on this course!”
Red Landyard suggested something concerning the Flying Dutchman. The big mate looked the sea over with a shrewd eye. ”

“ A billiken!”
“Where's been th' luck?”
Red was forced to admit that he had not seen any. “What do the rest of the crew think?” he queried.
“They think a plenty!”
Angry growls assented to this statement. The mate quieted the crew by promising that he would speak to the old man concerning the figurehead. He took his time and waited until Micky had dined heavily on salt beef and plum-duff.
“I was speakin' to Dipford, skipper. He says that the crew are going to do something desperate. They are afraid of short rations and scurvy.” ”