The Salty Rogue

The name’s Phineas Krunk—Ol’ Fin to the lads on the watch. Aye, the joints is stiff as salt-horse and the throat’s full of bilge, but many’s the yarn I can tell. Nine voyages in deep-water hulls. Nine! Five times doubling the Horn in a howling gale. Who else can say so, I ask ye? I know the working tunes, every stick of them. But being the cross-grained sort, I’ll slip a new verse or two into the halyard shanties and steer the tunes on a different tack—French ditties I picked up in a Marseille crimp-house. Lordy, them Marseille girlies on the docks, their topsails all a-flutterin’! I tell you! Now knock off the chatter, ye green hands! These tunes was never graven in stone. How else to give a jab to the skipper without him ever the wiser? All hands to the lines! Hearken to the shanties we bellowed aboard the Jenny Lind on her three-year cruise—a crack clipper voyage, and no mistake!

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