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1806-1808
The Two Brothers had been at sea for almost three weeks already, when the cook first noticed food disappearing from the chamber.
It took another 5 days until he found the blind passenger.
Owen Chase had never been on a ship as big as the Two Brothers. He’d been sailing around the port in a dingy nutshell but never out on the ocean, with no land in sight in all directions. He was tall for his 10 years of age, so he had easily passed as a 14 year-old and was taken aboard by Captain Levi Joy as a cabin boy. It had been his biggest dream to become a whaler, ever since Owen could think. And having a blind passenger was just another excitement for the young boy.
"Little rat!" After dragging him on deck by an abused, reddened ear, the cook discarded of the lanky boy in front of the gathered men. Dark hair, cropped short, white skin and eyes as big as an owl’s and bluer than the sea itself blinked rapidly in the too bright sunshine. Owen guessed the boy was about his own, his real age.
"We found the blind passenger, Captain Joy!" the cook called out.
The blue-eyed boy stood still in his white, salt crusted, yet relatively clean tunic and the too large grey trousers, looking up anxiously to the quarterdeck. Owen felt himself hold his breath too, when the Captain appeared up there. The Captain stared at the boy for a long moment, before he slowly made his way down and towards him. He didn’t say a word before slapping the boy hard across the left cheek, same hand swinging back to deal him a backhander to the other. The kid had two rosy cheeks to make up for his fair complexion now, and the crew giggled quietly in the background. All the while the boy held eye-contact with the Captain though, and Owen did think he had some guts for it. The captain might throw him overboard for all he knew.
"God damn it, Matthew," Captain Joy finally sighed and shook his head. The boy said nothing.
"Chase."
"Aye, Captain Joy, sir!"
"Congratulations. You’ll be sharing your cabin boy duties on this voyage."
The crew had started to murmur in the background, and Owen heard the first mate whisper, "S’ the Captain’s son this, aye."
"But do not worry, Chase. You won’t have to share your wages at the end of this journey, because all young Mr. Joy here will collect upon his return is at least two more slaps from his mother’s hand, as soon as his feet walk Nantucket ground again. And he knows her’s sting worse than mine."
"But I’ll be a wiser man for it, father."
"You sleep with the crew in steerage, Matthew. You address me as your Captain, and I will not hear a word of complaining. Not tomorrow, not in a fucking year. Understood?"
"Aye, Captain Joy, sir!" the boy grinned, and Owen wondered if he’d have to share his hammock with him too.
The months passed, Owen grew taller and stronger on the heavy diet of meat, and Matthew’s hair grew lighter in the sun, his skin littered with dark freckles. His father had the second mate cut his son’s hair short once every month; probably to show him he was still not all forgiven, but otherwise the Captain was kind to both boys. The crew liked them well enough, tolerated, if not endorsed their silly games. The boys called each other by their first names usually, but addressed each other very seriously as Mr. Chase and Mr. Joy whenever they had a task to fulfill, and it amused the older men to no end. Owen was surprised to learn Matthew was thirteen, but avoided to tell him he wasn’t really a year his senior, but rather three years younger. No one would’ve suspected it anyways; Matthew was half a head shorter and weighed close to nothing, while Owen’s own shirts were almost too tight for him at this point. Usually, in the evening, when Owen’s stomach still rumbled after his fill of stew, Matthew pushed his own bowl over for him to finish.
"You do eat like a tiny ship mouse."
"You learn to share when you’ve got four younger siblings."
Both boys found their place in the crew’s choreographed work on deck. Owen helped tighten sails, sharpen harpoons and pull ropes tight, while Matthew proved to be as quick and nimble as a monkey climbing the masts and an alert lookout in addition. His most excellent quality was another one though. Matthew had apparently remembered and studied every single knot he’d ever witnessed being tied, and the first mate jokingly nicknamed him „The Master of Knots“ after challenging him with a double fisherman’s. Owen was happy, if he could remembered how to tie a basic bowline on a good day, and Matthew made sure to remind him of that whenever the situation called for it.
"Fuck off, and you get a freckle for every single goddam knot you learn, eh Matty?"
At night, Owen slept on a mattress on the floor, preferring this to the tight hammock Matthew would dangle his hand out of, while telling him all sorts of stories his father had told him and his siblings. Sometimes, just sometimes, when both boys were sure the other crew were asleep, or when one of them had woken up from a bad dream, Owen would reach up and take Matthew’s hand in his, and like that they’d eventually fall asleep too.
When they finally exchanged the planks of the Two Brothers for the dry Nantucket ground again two years later, Matthew still hadn’t entirely grown out of his grey trousers or his white tunic, but he grew faint, red fluff on his cheeks and had a pierced ear, despite his father’s initial objection. When he was off towards town with a grin and an anti-climactic "See you around, Chase," Owen held him back by his arm and finally told him his real age.
1815-1817
Owen hurried on deck, alarmed by the noises coming from there.
He stepped into the night, witnessing the men assigned to the first nightshift standing around what looked like two men wrestling on the floor.
Where the fuck was Matthew?
Owen himself had assigned him to the first watch. It was their first voyage together in a few years, and Owen being the first mate for the first time, while Matthew was named second for the fourth time in a row, had somehow changed something between them. At least Owen felt that way. Matthew had just been very quiet, more so than usually, for those first four months at sea. He’d also been much thirstier than usual.
"What in the name of God is happening here?" Owen bellowed, pushing through the men.
"Thompson tied a wrong knot and O’Leary almost fell from half-mast because of it, Mr. Chase," one of the men replied eagerly.
"Where’s the second mate?" Owen asked him.
The men looked at him sheepishly for a second, before pointing to the brawl on the floor. Upon taking a closer look at the pair, Owen did recognise that the man having the worst of it right now was indeed wearing Matthew’s clothes and boots. The other man, Thompson, was lying half on top of him, apparently busy bashing in his ribcage, until he suddenly cried out and let go for a moment. A moment Owen immediately seized to go between the men.
"Matthew! For god’s sake! Eh, Thompson, let go!"
Turned out Thompson wasn’t really the problem anymore. Matthew had sunk his teeth into the man’s arm in the panic of stopping him from dealing any more blows.
"Fucking hell, look at yourselves!" Owen roared, dragging Thompson away by his collar. "You both better be happy I’m not waking the captain to give you a whipping!"
After shoving Thompson towards the stairs leading below deck, Owen took three swift steps to the railing again, dragging Matthew to his feet as well. Blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth and he reeked of alcohol. Again.
"Everyone else get on with your work! I’ll check on you in a bit."
With that he pushed Matthew over to the stairs as well, leading him to the officers' cabin, swearing quietly all the way, being intentionally inconsiderate of how sluggish and unsure Matthew’s movements were. He discarded of him on his own bunk bed.
"God damn it, Matthew! What the fuck is going on with you lately? He made a fucking mistake, alright, but that’s no reason to beat him up?"
Matthew didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his sleeve to his bleeding nose, trying to stem the flow with it.
"Look at you… You fight like a ferret, Matthew, and you know it… The only thing that gets bigger when you’re drunk is your fucking ego and your temper but not your fists, man."
The man on the bed gave a pathetic sniffle, but at least he now looked up at Owen. A sorry sight, no questions asked. Split lip, bruised cheekbone below a nasty black eye, and a full set of bloodied knuckles. Purple bruises on those ribs underneath his shirt for sure.
"My god, look at you…" Owen sighed and knelt before the bed to take Matthew’s bruised hands in his, gently rubbing circles with his thumbs. He carefully pressed a quick kiss on the back of each battered hand, before letting go and helping the other men out of his shirt.
"Talk to me. What’s going on?" Owen whispered, when he pushed Matthew back onto the bed, gently feeling his chest for any broken ribs. By the time he was done, Matthew had tears streaming down his cheeks. Either from pain or from the quiet depression he’d given in to as of late, or both, Owen didn’t know.
"Hey, it’s okay… it’s okay, man," he soothed him, grabbing the tin of ointment from his sea-chest. Owen scooped some of it onto his hands and reached out to touch the other man’s pale torso.
"I don’t… You don’t need to-"
"Shut up, Matthew will you?" Owen said gently, starting to massage the cream into his shoulders and chest. "You can tell me why you’re so quiet and distant lately, but I don’t want to hear anything else."
The other man was quiet for a long time.
"Don’t fuckin’ know either… Been feeling like a useless cabin boy all over again," he finally admitted with a small voice, eyes screwed shut through the pain.
"So you let the drink get to you, eh?" Owen stated matter-of-factly. „You pissed you are second mate for the fifth time in a row?“
"Fourth time."
"You are still pissed about it," Owen raised his eyebrows and grinned.
"Fuck off, Owen," Matthew replied, but he had trouble keeping himself from smiling. "Fuck you and your fucking officer attitude."
"Telling you, Matthew, you shouldn’t have given me your share of stew back then. Maybe you would’ve grown up to become a more imposing figure too then." They both chuckled at that, only interrupted by Owen touching a deep purple patch of skin on Matthew’s side and making him cry out in pain.
"S’ broken that one," Owen sighed, taking his hand away, instead running it through Matthew’s tangled hair. „Listen, it doesn’t make you a better whaler being first mate. It doesn’t. You still killed your first one before me, remember?“ He reached for the whaling pin dangling from Matthew’s neck. "The thing is, you are a bit of a nitpicker, Matthew, eh? The devil’s in the details, I know, and you always had a habit of checking things twice and trusting yourself most. That makes you a great whaler. Being quick and ready for anything at all times. But you’re a perfectionist, and if anyone else is not quite as good as you yourself at, let’s say, remembering how to tie 500 different fucking knots, you tend to-"
"What, Owen?"
"You tend to be an arse about it!"
Matthew frowned at him with wide, blue eyes, and Owen couldn’t help but laugh.
"Teased me for the better part of those two years for tying a double knot, when they wanted a simple fisherman’s and we lost a bull because of it, you bastard!"
Matthew’s ears turned red, but a laugh bubbled from his chest too, quickly reduced to a painful, shut-eyed wheeze.
"Oh, you deserve it, mate! You brought this on yourself, Mr. Joy!" Owen grinned, despite putting an arm around his shoulders, making him sit up in the bed to ease his breathing. "Besides, you’re amazing at it Matthew… Being second mate, I mean. You’re the officer closest to the crew and that suits you. You like teaching people things, looking over their work, and when you’re not drunk you are usually patient with them too. The boys look up to you much more than me. I’m good at giving orders from a distance, but they wouldn’t know a thing about it, if you hadn’t showed them how before. You’re the man making this ship sail, eh?"
Matthew didn’t answer, but leaned a little more into Owen’s side. They sat like that for a while, feeling the ship rock gently underneath them.
„M’ gonna be sick, Owen," Matthew slurred apologetically after a while, and Owen reached for the bucket conveniently kept in their cabin.
"Drank on an empty stomach again, aye you idiot,“ Owen scolded him, but he held Matthew’s hair back for him and rubbed steady circles on his neck. When his stomach was empty and he’d had some water, Owen let Matthew snuggle up to him on the bunk, deciding he’d carry him over to his own bed once the other man was asleep. He took the hand Matthew had put right over Owen’s heart into his and held it, basking in the familiar feel of it and eventually slipping into a deep sleep himself.
When he woke up the next morning, Matthew was gone, but instead, Owen was carefully covered with a blanket and a note lay beside the bed.
'Taking over morning shift. Get some sleep, Mr. First Mate, sir.‘
1820-1821
Whipped around by the waves, he could only pray to not be smashed against the sharp rocks surrounding the island.
Owen felt sand beneath his hands and feet before another wave took him in once more, turned the glimmer of a blue sky hell-ward, the surface disappearing in an opaque cloud of bright white bubbles and foam for a long moment. Then there was a beach. The gentle surf barely soaking his tattered trousers. His whaling pin still dangled from his neck, teasing him.
Owen Chase stood in the gently lapping waves, on a forlorn beach on an island unknown to him. He legs shook under the pressure but nevertheless, he dragged himself along the coastline in search of a familiar face almost immediately.
Mr. Chappel coughed and spluttered salty water nearby, slightly further up the beach. Not far from him Captain Pollard sat motionless in the sand, head bowed, a steady drip drip drip of water falling from his thin nose.
Nickerson. He nodded at the boy. So, at least one man of his own boat had survived the direct attack of the beast.
Leviathan.
When they had been nothing but cabin boys themselves on their first voyage, Matthew had told him a story about this sea monsters. His Quaker father and captain, had told it to him, before he’d then passed it on to Owen. Leviathan. Owen had joked that his Captain father had made it up.
"Sounds like he just added the -athan to Levi to scare you and your sisters!"
"S’ a story from the Bible, you fucking moron!" He’d rolled his eyes at Owen.
The name had stayed with him though. Leviathan. Fuck religion and the Quaker’s double morals. They had both thrown these long overboard, but that name had a ring to it. For years, it had been a comfort to say it in his head before killing one of them. Melodic, calming in its undulating tone. Now, that the name had a face to it in Owen’s mind, it lost all the solace it had once provided.
He started shouting Matthew’s name somewhere close to the rocks reaching skyward like spindly, sharp arms of drowning men. His eyes felt dry and ached from too much sun and salt, but he couldn’t make out a crushed body between the rocks. A speck of hope. He turned, walked back towards Pollard still sitting there, gazing listlessly at the sand between his naked feet. That cousin of his sat closeby now, long, blonde hair plastered to his nice face. Not much beard growth on the boys yet, betraying the weary looks in their old eyes.
Witnessed too much.
Had Matthew’s boat been leeward of Owen’s own or windward, when the whale hit them?
“Mr. Chase, sir!”
He fell into a slow jog. The ground was unsteady, he felt like he’d had too many a glass of rum. Mr. Lawrence was stood in the shallow waters, trying to tug the sad skeleton of one of their whale boats onto the isle.
“Mr. Chase, please help me!”
They dragged the boat up the beach. Further down some other men did the same with a the second one. His own was destroyed, reduced to wooden planks and metal pieces slowly arriving on the beach. Drift wood at best. But Matthew’s boat and at least three of his men had made it. Owen shouted again. This time towards the open sea. Faint puffs of white on the distant horizon.
Leviathan.
God damn him.
Owen called Matthew's name again.
“Mr. Chase, you’re scaring away the birds,” Nickerson whisper-yelled at him, he and the other men busy with finding anything and everything edible.
Owen had no mind for food yet. Matthew’d been burning up, when Owen had last checked on him. Mr. Chappel had been concerned, the rest of the boat’s men as well. All of them fucking green hands too, not a single Nantucket soul except Matthew on the boat; Owen should have taken him into his boat, or to the captain’s even.
He called his name as loud as he could once more. They’d both been good swimmers all their lives. Went diving for mussels on the beaches they visited on their voyages. He’d have to try and swim out there again. Odds were high he had drowned by now though.
“Fuck you!” he cried out.
“Go fuck yourself, Owen,” came the hoarse reply from behind him.
The smile stretched Owen’s sunburnt skin and tangled beard almost painfully, but Matthew rewarding him with a lopsided grin of his own.
“Always were a fine swimmer, weren’t you, you bastard?”
“S’not hard being but a better swimmer than you.”
His blue eyes seemed more awake and clear than they had been in a while, and Owen dared to hold onto the feeling of hope blossoming in his chest.
“C’mon,” he offered Matthew a hand, realising quickly that he couldn’t let go once the smaller man stood upright. Pulling his right arm across his own shoulders, he slowly walked him up towards where a silent ghost crew of survivors had gathered below a rock spur. Matthew’s weight grew a little heavier at his side with every unsure step, until Owen let him down gently beside Coffin and Nickerson’s attempt of a fire place. The other men found their speech again slowly over the course of the day, and by nightfall Owen and Pollard were discussing their next steps, ways to gather food and hopefully fresh water.
“Second mate’s been quiet,” Pollard acknowledged with a side-glance at Matthew.
“Aye, got nothing much to add or contribute,” he replied quietly, eyes fastened on his own hands fidgeting with his whaling pin. The clear and alert gaze earlier, which had certainly been shock from the wreckage was gone now, and his eyes looked reddened and glazed over with fever again. His whole body shook, even though Owen had insisted he sit closer to the fire, and he hadn’t touched whatever food the crew had been able to harvest. Mr. Chappel had insisted he have the rest of their boat’s water at least.
During the nights, the men lay close beside each other, around the fire but not quite as close as Owen and Matthew. Nickerson sometimes stole an almost jealous glance at the pair, Mr. Chase’s still broad, yet bony body pressed to the much smaller back of the other man, nose buried in the sun-bleached curls and strong arm slung across him as if to protect the second mate from something. If either of the two men stirred at night, roused from their sleep by a nightmare, or just the memory of their very own day-mare, they’d soothe each other with hushed voices and calloused hands on sunburnt skin. There was one bottle of rum on the island, and although Owen didn’t even want to know how Matthew had managed to smuggle it with him through their misery, he was still glad for it. He used some of it on a clean piece of cloth to dab at the deep gash on Matthew’s head every morning and at nightfall, and allowed him a big chug from it, when the pain got too bad. Owen had suggested to cut his hair too, so the wound wouldn’t constantly be touched by his dirty, salt-water spoiled locks, but Matthew wouldn’t let him.
"Had my hair cut short for me for the better part of me life, Owen. Don’t you fucking touch it."
After a few days, the men realised they couldn’t stay on the island, and they got ready to leave in the repaired boats. On December 27th, the day of their leave, three men came forward, telling the Captain and first mate they would remain on the island. All three had belonged to Matthew’s boat, and Nickerson had heard the Englishmen Chappel tell Mr. Weeks, “If Mr. Joy dies, me as boat-steerer, I’ve got to take over from him. Hasn’t gained a single fucking pound since we landed. It’s not a question of if, but when.”
Matthew could barely walk unaided, but he could still command a boat, even without a boat-steerer to assist him, and for a long week, life on the three boats was according to circumstance, or so it seemed to the Captain and Owen Chase. One night, they had lost sight of Matthew’s boat, but when Owen lit a lantern on the mast of his own, another lantern leeward soon answered with a dim glow. A small flicker of hope perhaps, Owen thought that night, but everything changed on January 8th.
Mr. Shorter called out for Captain Pollard’s boat in the first light, asking them to come closer to theirs.
“What is the matter?”
“Mr. Joy’s got a request to make, Captain,” the man said with sad eyes.
Pollard’s heart sank, seeing his second mate laid down on a makeshift bed, too weak to even sit upon seeing his captain. The men in the boat told him their leader had barely eaten since leaving the island, and now couldn’t keep anything down at all anymore. The head-wound had gone from bad to worse, despite disinfecting it frequently, and the fever hadn’t broken in days. Pollard knew the increasingly faraway look in the his second mate’s eyes was unmistakably that of death rapidly approaching.
“Let’s hear it, Matthew,” the Captain addressed him, once he had stepped into his boat, crouched down beside him and taken his hand into his own.
Owen wanted nothing more than to tell his men to take him closer too, just to see Matthew’s face from less a distance than the past week. He straightened, once he saw the captain stand again and tell Mr. Hendriks and Mr. Coffin to help Mr. Joy transfer into his own boat. For two days and nights, Pollard’s crew nursed their second mate as best as they could, while Matthew Joy’s own boat and crew drifted leaderless and forlorn in sight of them. All three boats knew it was just a matter of time now.
Why waste water on a dead man?
Because he was still fucking alive. Barely, but alive. Like all of them would be barely alive, if this ordeal carried on for much longer. Owen kept himself from checking on him, Matthew’s words still ringing in his ears.
"I’m fine, Owen. I’m fucking fine."
He wasn’t, and they had both known it then, just like they knew now, and Owen doubted Matthew would still argue about it. But when on January 10 the second mate asked to be returned to his own boat and his own men, who’d been kind to him all along, fucking Nantucketers or not, Owen knew it had to be now or never. He’d never forgive himself, if he hadn’t at least exchanged but a few words with him before it ended. He told his crew to join up with the captain’s boat, and he stepped onto it once they were close enough.
"Mr. Chase-"
"I’ll do it."
And the captain let him.
He had his eyes closed, when Owen gently shoved one arm under his bony knees, the other encircling his torso, feeling ever single one of his ribs against his arm. His face was pale, where it wasn’t blueish and swollen, specks of dried blood on his forehead, a thin trickle of blood started to flow from his nose again once Owen hefted him up into his arms. His eyes opened at being lifted from his sickbed, but he waited until Owen caught his balance on the wobbling boat to give him a tired smile, despite the pain evident in his eyes.
"Feels like that ol’ hammock on the Two Brothers all over again."
"What I’d give to be there with you now,“ Owen sighed and held him a little closer still. "Let’s get you back to your own boat then."
The men in Mr. Joy’s boat gave sad smiles, having their leader restored to their own vessel, and Nickerson felt worse than he had in days watching it all unfold. Watching Mr. Chase lay Mr. Joy down, obviously hesitant to let go, hovering in this crouched down position, head bent, almost forehead to forehead with the other man. Nickerson was sure they said something to each other that moment; something just for the two of them, meant for their ears only. Then Mr. Chase let go and leaned back on his heels, breathing, something clenched in his fist.
"Now piss off, Owen. Back to your own boat, to your own men. They need you, eh?"
He’d said it with so much affection and kindness and obvious fucking effort to even make his vocal cords still work at all, Nickerson’s own throat started to feel raw and tight. Then Mr. Chase stepped back into his own boat again, and what felt like waiting for death began. The sun beat down on them relentlessly all day, nearly no wind blew, just this agonizing heat, over-bearing blue and seemingly eternal hours. Mr. Chase was quiet. His eyes were stoically fixed on the horizon. He had Mr. Joy’s whaling pin clasped in his hands. If Nickerson hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought he might be praying.
"Captain Pollard, sir! Mr. Chase!"
Four o’clock the call came.
“Mr. Joy is dead..."
As if they’d been holding their breaths, the life came back to the men on the boats. Nickerson broke out in tears, Coffin stood up in the boat and kicked the mast with his boot, jaws locked tightly, Lawson started praying out loud, while Captain Pollard just sat down defeated, mumbling a sad "God help us all." Owen was busy getting his men to work.
"Get me closer to the fucking boat!" he roared into their faces, anger in his eyes.
They obeyed, and soon he was close enough to step onto the other boat again. He looked peaceful, free of pain, as he lay there with his back turned to Owen. Fucking tiny thing. Always had been, but not quite like this. Owen felt himself flinch, sting of pain in his chest, when he saw his eyes were still open. Big blue eyes, bluer than the fucking sea itself, twice as deep and thrice as dead now.
"God damn it, Matthew," Owen whispered, as he crouched down beside his friend for the second time that day and a tear escaped from the corner of his eye, as he put his own, calloused hand over the calm and empty blue of Matthew’s eyes and gently closed them. He leaned down and, throwing all caution to the wind, pressed a kiss to Matthew’s brow.
A day after Matthew’s death and his burial at sea, Owen’s boat lost sight of the other boats. Men started to die like flies in the weeks to come, and while not a single death felt the same, none was as painful as Matthew’s. The necessity of keeping the dead men’s bodies for food soon appeared as the only rational decision to make.
By February 7th the crew were so weak they could barely speak, the rain pelted down on them, and the next man was a hair’s breadth away from death. Owen tried to calm his men as best as he could, but he wasn’t sure for how much longer his own will to live would last him.
Happy Birthday, Matthew. You were right, dying first is easy for the one to go. See you soon perhaps, mate. Keep looking out for me, eh?