A strong yank from above halted my fall and jolted me to attention. Hoisted up, I stared into the face of an old man from one of the tribes in the Oregon Country, the features of his countenance worn by the march of time. “That’s a nasty fall,” he spoke, his deep voice booming. He sat me down on one of the cross-beams on the mast and set about working with the rope, handing some to me. “Work the rope like so,” he declared, slowly playing with the rope and making sure I saw it. He looked up at me. “Got it?”

I nodded, which he apparently took as a sign to commence rapid-fire repetition of the activities he had just finished demonstrating to me. I attempted to copy him, but my work was lousy. He seemed not to mind, however, although the ship’s officers down below took exception to the delay.

“Pine Tree!” the Englishman bellowed. “Have you got that rigging finished yet?”

“I can work fast or I can work well,” Pine Tree retorted, “but I cannot manage both.” I cringed, awaiting the punishment sure to follow.