the mail. The study of marine creatures - fish, large mammals such as porpoises or whales, or sea birds such as the legendary albatross - also helped us pass the time.
Soon after leaving port we ran into a ten-day tempest. The Sussex was tossed by fierce head winds, and our ship’s surgeon, Doctor Walsh, now in constant demand, was looking very tired. On one occasion he approached me. “Frenchy,” he said. It was a nickname bestowed on me by the crew. “Strange fellow in number 14! The passengers in his vicinity are complaining as to the terrible racket he is making. I spoke to him but, refusing to look me in the eye, he continued to prattle in some foreign gibberish. Perhaps you will understand him? Perhaps you can get through to him? Please come and see.” Naturally I obliged and went with Walsh. The strange fellow turned out to be Morris Abrahams who was travelling first class in a saloon cabin. He was praying in Hebrew. You couldn’t imagine a louder rendition of his penance, the Jewish death bed prayers and a detailed confession of his sins. Doctor Walsh tried to get through to him but with no success. “What is your name?” Walsh asked. No reply! “Are you ill? What is wrong?” Again no reply! The doctor then left him in my care and went off to attend another patient. “Friend,” I informed him, “the God of Israel is not deaf. You are disturbing the sick with your loud lamentations. Please try to say your prayers in a lower tone of voice.” I then tried some questions. “Why are you saying the death bed prayers?” Once more no reply! “But I promised Miriam that I would look after you,” I countered next, and at the very mention of her name he pricked up his ears, stopped praying and stared at me. “Are you ill,” I continued, “allow the good doctor to examine you!” He shook his head. “But you are saying death bed prayers,” I urged. “Are you expecting to die soon?” He made a downward motion with his right hand. I finally understood. He was afraid the ship was about to sink. “You certainly are a bad sailor,” I joked. “What would Miriam say if she heard of your behaviour? Fair ladies like her are reserved for brave men. If you are cowardly no pretty lady such as she will ever look at you.” He smiled faintly, continued his prayers almost in silence, and then became perfectly still.
Later in the journey there was a period when Abrahams refused to eat or drink. “Morris Abrahams is starving himself to death,” said Dr. Walsh. “He drank a cup of tea as a personal favour to me but only swallowed a tonic I prescribed when I poured it down his throat. See what you can do with him.” Again I calmed him by talking of Miriam and soon, like a puppy, he started to trust me and developed a dependence on me. Our ship had sailed swiftly, well past the Bay of Biscay into warmer latitudes. Now, believe me, there is no better place than the clean deck of a sailing ship in balmy weather should you wish to restore your health, so I walked Abrahams over it, back and forth, and he convalesced.
Our course took us south-west well across the Atlantic towards Rio de Janiero. Next we tacked south-east, just north of Tristan Da Cunha, our last sighting of land, before heading south of the Cape of Good Hope to the fortieth parallel. There those heavy westerly winds, “the Roaring Forties,” would propel us at two to three hundred miles a day, due east across the Indian Ocean towards Melbourne.
One afternoon, as near as our voyage took us to Capetown, one of our party shot a Cape pigeon flying overhead. The poor bird fell, bleeding, into Morris Abrahams’ lap. He jumped up in fright and gave a yell. When he realised it was only a dead bird he began to weep. I would have expected the initial shock and the tears that followed to be detrimental, but somehow they were beneficial and appeared to cleanse his soul. For a period he became less troublesome but now more than ever he liked to keep his eye on me and to know where I was.
This got me into a fight over Abrahams. I was in the saloon reading a book. Nearby three young men were playing poker. It was hot and they were thirsty. Drinking stout rather than lime juice or water, one of them imbibed rather more than he could handle. It affected his game and he started to lose. He became cautious and when the others raised the stakes he preferred to sit it out. At such times he amused himself by breaking off fragments of a biscuit and throwing them at Abrahams, who was watching me from in front of his cabin door, a grotesque blank stare all over his face. Half a dozen bottles of stout later and the young intoxicant became more aggressive. Thinking himself very clever he now hurled a recently emptied bottle at Abrahams’ head. Abrahams gave a yell and fell to the ground, blood gushing forth from a laceration on his forehead. I dropped my book and immediately confronted the drunken card player. Doctor Walsh had arrived and was attending to Abrahams’ wounds and I was doing my best to supply him with another patient. But before I could do much damage Captain Collard likewise appeared on the scene and ordered the first mate to separate us. “This won’t do Frenchy,” he said, “you two can fight it out in the morning before the decks are washed.”
Later that afternoon Captain Collard approached me about the disturbance. He had organised a stand up fight invoking the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules. “We never on these long voyages allow any bad blood to persist between passengers or crew. All differences must be settled as soon as possible. The ship’s safety demands that there be no long standing animosities.” “This proposition is absurd,” I countered. “I know how to use a pistol or a sword, but nothing about the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules.” “It’s no use Frenchy,” the first mate interposed, “on an English ship you fight like an Englishman. I’ll teach you.” He produced some boxing gloves and gave me my first lesson. Meanwhile the second mate, a former middleweight champion, had arranged to give me a second lesson after completing his round of duty and that second lesson was really something. This man knew his trade and seemed anxious that I should do him proud. When it was over he rubbed me down and sent me to bed. Then at four in the morning he woke me, showered me, rubbed down my biceps with resin, and gave me some final cardinal hints on how to face an opponent. I was ready.
The fight drew a full house. Spectators crowded the poop and fo’c’sle to view the entertainment. For five rounds they watched, almost in silence, while we sized each other up. We sparred but no significant punishment was meted out till, in the sixth round, I finally landed a tremendous punch, hitting my opponent smack bang on the nose and jerking his head back. Much applause followed, making him even more ferocious. He clenched his teeth and went for me. Fortunately I kept my cool, and as we came to close quarters slipped my left arm round his neck and wedged his midriff between the spare mast and the side of the ship. He could no longer move and was helpless. The applause was now deafening. I did not know if it was fair to punch an opponent pinned in such a position but held him there until I got a ruling. “Is it fair?” I asked the referee. “Perfectly fair,” he replied. I started pounding my opponent’s head much to the satisfaction of the spectators. They were urging me to really give it to him. He started to bleed but try as hard as he did he couldn’t break free. His strength waned so when at last he pleaded, “Let go Frenchy. I’ve had enough. I give in,” I don’t know who was more relieved, him or me. I was starting to worry that I might kill him. I let go and we shook hands. The mistreatment handed out to my sick fellow Jew had been suitably avenged. The second mate embraced me. “That was admirable how you got him into chancery,” he said, bursting with pride. “That was not one of the points you gave me,” I responded breathlessly. “It was chance,” I explained, “it was chance!” His slang usage of the word chancery had completely passed me by. The second mate laughed. “Where ignorance is bliss,” he retorted, “tis folly to be wise.”
Abrahams continued to cause trouble. When we hit the doldrums and our ship was becalmed, a splash was heard followed by the call “man overboard.” A boat was lowered and it was Morris Abrahams who was pulled from the water. He who feared the rough seas had now tried to drown himself in a calm one. Strange how a person attempting suicide may choose the vehicle he seems to fear most as his means of destruction.
Abrahams was now put into chains for his own safety. He appeared even more helpless than before, refusing to eat or drink except for me. I fed him, nursed him, and helped with his ablutions, all voluntarily and with a good heart, no longer feeling a need to keep my promise to Miriam. I had developed a need of my own to care for him.
Then on December 31st we finally sighted ‘Australia.’ Thirteen thousand miles and eighty-three days had passed since Plymouth. We had sailed due east, missing the Crozet Islands to the