path: root/lbh2.txt

They sail south, pass the churning tidal bore entrance to st augustine, then down and round the corner of florida and happen upon the wrecks of the spanish fleet.

They stop, meet with the captain of the spanish fleet. He asks them not to tell anyone, their father says it doesn't matter, someone will spot them and everyone will come.

character of the padre, the secret teachings of the catholic church as told to Henry.

They sail to Cuba to tell the governor of the wreck.

Kids in the rigging, unfurling and reefing sails, what that's like. More about the sea, life on the sea in that age.


scene where ko is lighting incense for the kami and the catholic priest doesn't like it, threatens him, anti-catholic scene there threat of violence from papa or maybe tamba



# Book

## Henry Sailing

Henry woke with his nose wrinkled. He had been dreaming he was exploring a cave, slogging through water up to his knees, ducking under stalagtites, trying to find his way out. He hadn't been panicked, but when he opened his eyes to darkness and the sound of sloshing water, for just an instant his heart leaped in his throat. Then the world of Wanderer's hold came into focus. He was swinging in a hammock tied between two posts. The water sloshing the bilge and and there was a dank rotten smell to the air around him that made his nose involuntarily wrinkle. He hated sleeping below deck, but it had been raining for days and the seas were chopped and swirling like a washing tub. Everyone had been sick, even Henry, who was almost never seasick. He'd spent the better part of the previous afternoon emptying his stomach out the starboard cannon port in the rear of the ship, trying to watch the horizon like his sisters' said. It had worked eventually. Or maybe he had run out food to puke up. He'd eaten some rice before bed and so far it had not come back up and his head did not feel like it was spinning four ways at once. 

He looked around cautiously, trying to assess the likelihood he was going to be heaving over the side of the ship again today. He say up in the hammock and looked around more. He sisters appeared to still be asleep in their hammocks. His father's was empty. There was a gray light tapering in from the hatch, which meant dawn was probably near, his father was probably at the helm. Henry warily sat up in the hammock. He time his leap to the floor with the pitch of Wanderer so that he landed softly and kept his balance. Days that started with a mistimed leap from your hammock never went well. He noted with some satisfaction that he had been right, he felt fine, even with the pitch of the ship. 

He tiptoed to the ladder and looked up. The sky above was still dark clouds. It looked like a painting, swirling clouds spun around and Henry couldn't tell if they were really moving or if it was the ship pitching in sea. He climbed up the ladder and stuck his head into the fresh sea and paused, breathing deeply and slowly with his eyes closed, pulling the sea into his lungs, clearing them of the awful stench of the bilge. When he opened his eyes again Wanderer was plenging down the face of a rolling swell and Henry could see nothing but water rushing toward their bow. He froze and waited as the ship plunged in and half the wave came over the bow, rushing toward midships where Henry stood on the ladder, watching it race toward him. Before it gave him an early morning salt water shower, Wanderer was pushed hard to port by another wave, pitching the seawater over the port side and back into the ocean.

He glanced fore again and this time there was nothing but sail and sky as Wanderer rose up the crest of the next wave. Henry waited on the ladder. He knew everyone though he had some inate sea legs. He wasn't sure because he had no one to compare himself to, but he did know that he spent more time thinking about how he was going to move than anyone else seemed to. Even his father was apparently happy to stumble around like a drunken pirate whenever the sea was pitching, which puzzled Henry because surely his father knew better. His father was a very clever man, and a very thoughtful man. Yet stumble in pitching seas he did. The trick, thought, Henry as he waited for Wanderer to crest the wave, was to move either with the boat or against it, and to compensate accordingly. Right now he was going to come up the ladder the rest of the way as the boat lifted itself to the top of the crest, for that he would need a light touch since the momentum of the boat was with him. Once he was on deck he would turn and walk to the stern, to the helm where prsumably his father was. While he did this Wanderer would be sliding down, bow first toward the low point between two waves, the trough sailors called it. Since the stern would be higher he would be moving against the boat. This would mean more effort, but it also meant more control. There was almost no chance he would overshoot the helm since it would take so much effort to move that direction. Henry didn't always think about all this of course. Most of the time he just felt it in his bones and moved the way he needed to. 

As Wanderer crested the wave Henry vaulted up the rest of the ladder and landed on the deck with a wide stance. He braced himself for the crash of the bow, and when it was past he scampered toward the stern, where his father stood, wide grin on his face, both hands of the wheel, one leg on the deck, the other off to the side, braced against a barrel.

"Henry!"

"Papa". 

"Good morning son! Fine sailing this morning. You want the helm?"

Henry turned around and looked forward. The water was a gray green color, white foam cresting the top of the waves rolling down toward them. The sail was reefed, probably more than it needed to be. "Sure, papa." Henry grabbed the wheel.

"good boy, steady as she goes. I'm going to give her a bit more sail."

Henry felt Wanderer shudder and shimmy as she road up and over the waves, but he kept her pointed downwind, in line with the swells as much as he could, though there was a sideswell as well that tried to push her to port every third or forth wave. 

His father climbed the main mast and untied the sail, letting out more clothe. The storm seemed to be passing. Although it looked to Henry like the worst of it was in front of them. He'd have to ask his father about that when he returned. He noticed that he paused on the mast, looking forward. When Papa came back he pulled the barrel over and sat down, pulling Henry into his lap. "How does she feel?"

Henri considered this for a moment. "Like she's slowing being pushed to port."

"Aye, she is. The current is hitting us sideways. Tamba came offshore last night because we were worried about shallows in the dark. I'm bringing her back in this morning. Judging by that darkness up ahead we may have to run into shore for a day or two. That looks big. So far it seems to be moving west, but I don't know. If it turns we'll put in at the first spot we can find."

His father's beard tickled his neck. Wanderer shuddered as she slip down another wave. At the same time a gust of wind came from the starboard, swinging her back end a bit. The bucket tipped and Henry's heart jumped. His father reached forward and turned the wheel slightly against the wind and she steadied. "Hmm" was all he said.