“Not afraid of heights, I hope.” Wyatt grinned.
“All right, gentlemen!” Mr. Temple shouted, addressing the crew from his new position on the quarterdeck. “We’re having a contest.” He explained the details to the crew as Royce and Jacob moved to the base of the mainsail. Royce looked up with a grimace that drew laughter from the rest.
“Seriously, he isn’t afraid of heights, is he?” Wyatt asked, looking concerned. “I mean, it looks scary, and well—okay, it is the first few times you go aloft, but it really isn’t that hard if you’re careful and can handle heights.”
Hadrian grinned at Wyatt, but all he said was, “I think you’re going to like this.”
An officer appeared on the quarterdeck and stood beside the master. “You may set sail, Mr. Temple.”
The master turned to the main deck and roared, “Loose the topsail!”
Royce appeared caught by surprise, not realizing this was the order to begin the competition. As a result, Jacob got the jump on him, racing up the ratlines like a monkey. Royce turned but did not begin climbing. Instead, he watched Jacob’s ascent for several seconds. The majority of the crew rooted for Jacob, but a few, perhaps those who had heard they would win a ship’s cook if the stranger won, urged Royce to get climbing and called to him like a dog: “Go on, boy! Climb, you damn fool!” Some laughed, and a few made disparaging comments about his mother.
Royce finally seemed to work something out in his head and leapt to the task. He sprang, clearing the deck by several feet, and began to run, rather than climb, up the ratlines. It appeared as if Royce was defying gravity as he pumped his legs up the netting, showing no more difficulty than if he were running up a staircase. He had nearly caught up to Jacob by the time he reached the futtock shrouds. Here the webbing extended away from the mast, reaching toward the small wooden platform known as the masthead. Both men were forced to hang upside down using the ratlines, and Royce lost momentum without the ability to go no-handed.
Jacob swung around the masthead and jumped to the topmast shroud, where he ascended rapidly once more in monkey form. By the time Royce cleared the masthead, he was well behind Derning. He made up time when he could once again advance without crawling inverted. They reached the yard together and both ran out along the top of the narrow beam like circus performers. Seeing them balance a hundred feet above the deck drew gasps from some of the crew, who gaped in amazement. Royce stopped, pivoting to watch his opponent. Derning threw himself down across the yard, lying on his belly. He reached below for the gaskets to free the buntlines. Royce quickly imitated him, and together they worked their way across the arm. As they did, the sail came free, revealing its bright white face and dark green crown. It spilled down, whipping in the wind. Royce and Jacob lifted themselves back to their feet and moved to the end of the beam. They each grabbed the brace, the rope connected to the far end of the yardarm, and slid to the deck with the cheers of the crew in their ears. The two touched down together.
Mr. Temple shouted to restore order of the unruly crew. It did not matter who had won. The skillful display by both men had been impressive enough to earn their approval. Even Hadrian found himself clapping, and he noticed Wyatt was staring with his mouth open. Temple nodded at Hadrian and Wyatt.
“Stand by at the capstan!” Lieutenant Bishop shouted, returning order. “Loose the heads’ls, hands aloft, loose the tops’ls fore and aft!”
The crew scattered to their duties. A ring of men surrounded the wooden spoke wheel of the capstan, ready to raise the anchor. Wyatt moved quickly toward the ship’s helm while the rest, Jacob included, climbed the shrouds of the three masts.
“And what are you two waiting for?” Mr. Temple asked after Hadrian had joined Royce. “You heard the lieutenant—get those sails loosed. Hadrian, take station at the capstan.”
As they trotted to their duties, Mr. Temple gestured in Royce’s direction and remarked to Wyatt, “No wonder he doesn’t have rough hands. He doesn’t use them!”
The ship’s captain appeared on the quarterdeck. He stood beside the lieutenant, his hands clasped behind his back, chest thrust out, and chin set against the salty wind that tugged at the edges of his uniform. Of slightly less than average height, he seemed the opposite of the lieutenant. While Bishop was tall and thin, the captain was short and plump, with a double chin and long hanging cheeks, which quickly flushed red with the wind. He watched the progress of the crew and then nodded to his first officer.
“Take her out, Mr. Bishop.”