Before Winter: Chapter 28

Twenty-Eight: In Port

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the second day of the tenth month.

We have stopped at the last port on the Grecian coast, to bring more fresh water on board. We will be lying here for only a few hours before raising the anchor and setting sail once more, but all the sailors went on shore, just the same. The ship is strangely quiet without them. I believe I am the only man on the ship except the mate and the second watch, and they grumble at being left on board, missing the fun! Half the crew are at the wharf, loading barrels of water onto our boats in the hot sun, and I suspect they would be glad to trade places with those here.

The weather is still good, though the wind has been fitful today. The sailing master tells me that it will likely die down altogether tomorrow.

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the third day of the tenth month.

The sunrise this morning was beautiful. I have seldom seen such streaks of colour. Deep orange and red blending together in a cloudless sky. It is mid-day now, and hot for this time of year. As predicted, we lost our wind, and I can hear the sailors muttering over the fact as they pass through the hold. Except for going up on deck to watch the sunrise, I have kept to my cabin today. The crew came on board drunk yesterday, and they have not been very sober since.

We got out of the harbor right enough, but then the wind died down, and we have been becalmed here, still in sight of land, for twelve hours. I gather that it is this circumstance which chiefly makes the men nervous, since they fear that a storm may drive us onto the rocks of the coast. I must admit, I am worried as well. This heavy calm wears on me.

Same day, in the evening.

A sudden change in the light drove me on deck, to see what was going on. Dark clouds are gathered to the south, and we are in for a storm indeed. I feel the fear of the sailors running through the very timbers of the ship. They have let down a sea anchor, in an attempt to keep from running aground. The mate warns me to have no light in my cabin, and it is too gloomy to see without one, so I must write no more this day. I pray that we may survive the night, and see another dawn.