Hear The Drums

“Have you seen the Captain?” Phillips asks his fellow crew around the low table.

“I saw him up on the helm a while back,” answers Freeman while keeping his eyes fixed on the cards in his hands.

Pike tosses a gold coin from his coarse fingers, adding to the small collection on the table to everyone’s dismay. “Poor lad would be freezing his ass off,” he grumbles between puffs of his pipe.

The candle lamp sways above the five sailors in the packed cabin, moving to the gentle rock of the North Pacific waves.

Richard Phillips, first mate of The Dorothy, is one of the most experienced sailors the United States has to offer. Over the course of their journey, he has taken some liberty to get to know the new crew through games of cards.

Across from Phillips sits two Navy riflemen, Lieutenant John Pike and a young lad named Christopher Freeman. Lieutenant Pike is a hard man with a mouth, and Phillips still feels like he has to fight for his respect. Freeman, on the other hand, has been far less a pain. He’s a young African man with little sea knowledge, but his low rank makes him easy to work with.

To the left of Phillips sits Thomas William, a small statured man who is as smart as he looks under his gold trimmed spectacles. Due to the length of the voyage and the unfamiliar waters, the Captain had hand picked him to act as the new Ship Navigator.

Leaning over his right shoulder is the round face of Freddy Hanson, who the crew refer to as Handy. He is an odd lad and knows just about nothing about everything. Guns, on the other hand, Handy is an expert.

Phillips struggles to relax since the breeze went cold a few days ago; they’re so close now he can hardly stand the anticipation. He had spent most of the afternoon watching small mounds of ice pass the hull, dreaming of when he could finally return home. “How close are we now?” he questions William.

“We entered the Gulf of Alaska early this morning, Mr. Phillips. If the winds keep up, we will be seeing shore in no more than a couple of days.” The cheery tone of William can be sourced from two places, either his satisfaction from his own profession, or the confidence he has in his cards.

Each man tosses in a coin to match with Pike’s raise. The choice quickly comes around to Phillips.

“Oh I don’t know about this, Mr. Phillips,” Handy jitters, playing only as a sort of ‘team-mate’ to Phillips.

“It’s alright, Handy,” he says, placing his hand of cards face down on the table in front of him to signal himself out of the game. “I was going to play it safe anyways.”

“Ha! Coward,” exclaims Pike with a glorious grin between his cheeks.

“Watch that tongue of yours, Pike, or I’ll have ye thrown overboard.”

The men laugh in good spirits, all except Handy who fails to see the humor in such a threat.

“Well, as I am out for this game,” starts Phillips as he stands from his seat. “I am going to go check on our old Captain… make sure he hasn’t turned to ice.”

The men continue their game while Phillips steps out of the cabin and into the hall below deck. Passing the kitchen on his way to the stairs, a man calls out over the sound of a sizzling pan.

“I hope you’re going up to get the Captain,” the voice belongs to Andrew Broods, The Dorothy’s cook and longtime friend of Phillips. “He won’t want to miss out on a hot supper.”

Phillips doubles back to poke his head into the kitchen, the fumes of the cooking stew makes his gut feel empty.

“No need to worry, Broods. I’ll bring him down,” he says before leaping up the shallow stairs.

Up on the deck, Phillips raises his arm to shield his face from the powerful winds.

With long strides, he ascends to the helm, where he sees the placid Captain resting against the rails.

The northern winds pull at the Captain’s prideful navy reefer as he puffs on his pipe. The plume of white smoke is torn into oblivion the moment it leaves his lips.

“Captain Ronan Rodwell,” Phillips announces at the top of the helm stairs. “Captain of The Dorothy, famously proclaimed explorer, and fervent ignorer of deathly temperatures!”

Phillips sways his arms as though presenting the man before a king.

“Yeah,” chuckles Captain Rodwell, “that would be me alright.” He pivots his shoulders halfway so that he is able to look at Phillips while keeping one elbow on the trusted rail. “Supper just about ready?”

“Sure is, Broods wants you down,” Phillips calls back, both raising their voices over the wind. He steps away from the stairs to stand by the Captain to make conversation just a little less strenuous. “What are you doing up here?”

The Captain places his blue eyes back on the night sky. “Just looking at the majesty that is the northern stars.”

Phillips stands quietly for a moment. His mind is far from sound and unable to reciprocate the calm demeanor of Captain Rodwell.

“Don’t let it bother you.”

Phillips, for a foolish moment, thought the captain had read his mind.

“I am conscious that you have been giving it your all, but your beard will never catch up to mine, nor shall it ever be as splendid.”.

Phillips smirks at the remark before gazing out to the void of the abysmal waters. “At least I can still count the grays in mine,” he chimes back at his old friend.

The Captain grins and strokes the curls of his seamans beard. It was once a deep chestnut color before it went mostly gray. It is well matted and coarse like carpet from the many years of sea spray giving it a fine salting. He bites back down on the stem of his pipe and Phillips asks the question on his mind.

“How long will this take us, Rodwell?”

“As long as it takes to find them, or at least what happened to them,” the Captain says in a low tone. “I know you didn’t want to join me on this voyage, but you are my first mate. You have been for a great number of years.”

“I am soon to be married,” Phillips reminds the Captain with gravity.

“I understand, but I couldn’t do this without you, especially not with a new crew.”

Phillips expels a retired sigh. “What is with those Navy lads, anyway?”

“Pike and Freeman? We’ve talked about this, Phillips. I’ve been warned that Alaska can be a dangerous place,” the Captain takes a break between words to puff on his pipe. “The Royal Navy was kind enough to bless us with two of those new bolt rifles, or whatever it is they are called. Do you know?” he raises his friend a thick brow.

“You will have to ask Handy for that one, I’m afraid,” Phillips answers plainly.

“Will do.”

On that final exchange, Phillips starts to miss the warmth of the cabin. The Captain takes one last puff of his pipe before walking to the stairs while beckoning Phillips to follow him down.