Читать книгу Tillamook Passage - Brian MD Ratty - Страница 8

IT WAS HARD, RETURNING TO MY CLERKING duties with the knowledge that in a few months I would be at sea. And those months seemed to drag on and on, with the only news of the venture coming from Mr. Crumwell. In late June, he told me that both the Columbia and the Lady Washington were receiving extensive repairs and reconditioning in a shipyard up the coast. He added that the work was proceeding on schedule and should be completed by the end of August. That bit of news lifted my spirits and filled my head with visions of what was to come.

On the third of July, I turned nineteen. I mention this for only one reason: it wasn’t our family’s tradition to celebrate birthdays. On this occasion, however, both my brother and father gave me a gift, and we had a gleeful time. My brother had stitched a leather pouch for me, complete with shoulder strap. The inside was for my drawing paper and charcoals, so that I could bring back sketches of where I went and what I saw. He had even added two small compartments that were for my flute halves, so that I might always have my music by my side. It was a heartfelt gift, one I deeply appreciated.

But my father’s gift was the most surprising. He had forged a steel and bronze sea-knife for me. The steel blade was nine inches long and razor sharp on one edge, while the other edge was deeply serrated, good for what he called “gutting fish or fowl.” The hilt of the steel was riveted between two pieces of bronze and flattened on the butt end for cracking or pounding. The grip was tightly wrapped with leather cord to insure a good grasp. He had even stitched a leather sheath, made from some scraps from the pouch, so that I could hang the knife on my hip. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, and it caused me to ponder my opinion of father. While he didn’t count for much, maybe he cared for me, after all.

In the middle of August, the local newspapers ran stories about the upcoming venture and how the owners had petitioned the Continental Congress for a sea-letter that explained the peaceful nature of the voyage. Such a letter was granted, and days later a similar document was secured from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Then the owners had commemorative coins and medallions struck that would be carried by the Columbia for distribution at places we touched along our route. While only the owners were named in the stories, the undertaking had gained great public support, and I was proud to be a part of it. Even my father and brother seemed impressed.

With my pouch on my shoulder and the sea-knife on my hip, I reported, as instructed, to the deck watch of the sloop two hours after sunrise on September 1, 1787. Actually, in my excitement, I showed up an hour early. With the morning fog lifting, I saw both ships moored across Commercial Street from the offices of Mr. Barrel. The docks beside the ships were stacked with containers, bales, and barrels, which I navigated in my search for a good view. Through the moving mist, the Lady Washington was dwarfed by the Columbia in size and sails, but I found the sloop as sleek as a sea bird, with gentle lines and bright colors. Her single mast towered over her deck, and her timbers looked clean and freshly painted. She was big, as big as any sloop I had ever seen, and she pulled on her moorings and moaned loudly, seeming eager to sail. I stood on the dock a good long time, gazing at her lines and dreaming of adventure. Finally, I walked up the dock to her bow, and then paced slowly to her stern, noting every detail of her construction and rigging.

With my dock inspection complete, I walked to the gangway and shouted across to the deserted deck. “Is anybody here?”

Moments later, a skinny sailor with a bald head appeared from the aft stair hatch and stepped lively to the ship end of the gangway.

“Would you be the deck watch?” I called.

He glared at me before answering in a high pitched voice, “Aye… and you would be Mr. Blackwell. Ya look too old to be a cabin boy… and you’re early, lad. I was having my morning tea. But come aboard.”

Stepping along the plank, I asked, “How do you know my name?”

“Captain asked me to keep an eye out. I’m to give ya a tour and show ya yer duties.”

Extending my hand, I said, “I’m Joe Blackwell.”

Shaking it, he answered, “I’m Hayes, but everybody calls me Sandy.” Pointing to his bald head he continued, “Use to have a full head of sandy hair. Now all I got is a head full of skin.” Smiling, he let out a chuckle. “Oh well. Indians won’t get anything from me. Welcome aboard the Orphan.”

“Why do you call her an orphan?”

“Let’s go to the bow and I’ll show you.”

As we walked forward, I noticed his red knickers, which were cut off at the knees, showing his bowed bird-like legs. He was thin and short, and I doubted that he weighed a hundred pounds dripping wet.

At the bowsprit, we turned to look astern. In his squeaky voice, he said, “Take a good look at her, lad. This deck will be yer home for the next three years. She’s sixty-four feet long and twenty feet wide and can carry ninety tons. That makes the Lady Washington the biggest sloop every built. She’s one of a kind, an orphan of the sea. Hell, boy, she’s so big that she should have been built a brigantine.”

With the morning light on his face, Sandy’s eyes twinkled as he spoke proudly of his ship. And speak he did, for the next few hours, non-stop. The pitch of his voice nearly drove me overboard, but the information it spilled was fascinating. The Orphan was big, so big that she required lots of canvas. She had a large mainsail with a square topsail and three headsails. Sandy guessed, in good conditions, that she would do twelve knots.

After walking the deck, he took me below and showed me the layout. Astern was the captain’s cabin, with one window looking aft. The compartment was compact and well designed, with a small berth, eating table, and desk. Next to it was the mate’s cabin, half the size of the captain’s, also with a single window looking aft. Forward of the companionway, on the port side, was the galley, with its large iron cook stove and mess table. On the starboard side were lockers for foul-weather gear, firearms, and ship supplies.

In this area, Sandy opened a door to a cubbyhole. “And this be the cabin boy’s berth.”

It was a small, dark, dingy nook with a narrow, wooden berth, but I said nothing.

Amidships were two holds – a smaller one for foodstuffs, firewood, water, and other sailing needs, and the main hold, where we would carry our trading supplies and all else. Forward of the holds were the crew’s quarters and sail lockers. On her deck, she was armed with one six pound canon and four swivel guns. The Orphan would have a crew of thirteen: the Captain, the Mate, ten seamen, and me. Sandy didn’t like me being the thirteenth member of the crew, as he felt the number was unlucky. By then, however, he had already told me about half a dozen other superstitions he held. He was a queer little man, but I took to him easily, and he was a fountain of information. By the time we completed the tour, my only thought was that his nickname should have been Gabby, as he talked so much.

Later that morning, the Mate, Davis Coolidge, came aboard, and Sandy introduced me. Mr. Coolidge was tall and looked to be in his late twenties. He had a dark, ruddy face and broad, square shoulders. But his personality was as cold as the rain. He told us that two other crew members would soon come aboard, and that the four of us would begin to load the supplies. Preparing the Orphan to go to sea would be our task over the next few weeks. He stressed that we would load the ship backwards, putting the things we wouldn’t need for a good while into the holds first, and the things we would need frequently on top. He also added that the heaviest cargo items should be loaded first and deepest.

Turning to me, he concluded, “Mr. Blackwell, the Captain wants you to maintain a complete accounting of the supplies we’ve received and where you place them. I have other business in town, so you’re in charge.”

Then, while my mouth was still open in disbelief, he turned and walked off the ship.

As he disappeared into the sunshine, I said to Sandy, “What the thunder do I know about loading a ship? Why would he leave me in charge?”

Shaking his head, he answered, “It’s all about the numbers, boy. Most of the crew knows nothing about ciphering and such things. We know how to load the ship, but we need you to keep the accounts. And, Joe…” He hesitated. “Give Mr. Coolidge a wide berth. I’ve heard he’s mean-spirited.”

That afternoon, seamen Owens and Taylor came aboard, and we began the task of loading the ship. Working on the dock, I used shipping receipts to inspect and count all of the supplies already received. On the sloop, the three sailors set up a block-and-tackle rigging to lift the containers into the holds. As each item was hoisted, I marked it with chalk, giving it a number. Then I wrote the number and where it was placed on each receipt. It was a dirty, sweaty job, as both the dock and the ship baked in the hot September sun. But, ever so slowly, we made progress.

The items we hoisted were all different in size, shape and weight. Our trading goods included cloth, beads, blankets, axes, knives, saws and hundreds of iron chisels. We even loaded raw iron and brass for making more implements. Then there was firewood for the cook stove, and barrels of rum, wine, and brandy. Next came barrels of cheese, oil, flower, sugar, molasses, and animal feed. The endless list of dry goods and sailing provisions had been carefully crafted by Captain Gray, and I marveled at his foresight and attention to detail.

Each morning, the Captain or Mr. Coolidge would come aboard and check the work from the day before. Then they would give us instructions for the day ahead. I found Captain Gray to be friendly and direct, while Mr. Coolidge was cool and aloof. The crew was always pleased when the Mate left the ship for what he called “other business in town.”

Most redheaded people have fair skin that doesn’t take to the sun, but for some reason my skin took to it and I would easily color. I had thought about this before, because my father had olive skin and black hair while my mother had creamy skin with light auburn hair. Why did I have red hair and medium skin? With my mother dead, it was a question with no answer, so I shoved it from my mind.

That first week, I worked on the docks without my shirt, and my body soon browned. Late Friday morning, I looked up from counting blankets to find Miss Becky approaching the sloop. She held a parasol above her head, shading her face, and wore a light blue summer dress. At first, she didn’t notice me watching from my perch atop the bale. Then she did and turned my way. As she approached, I froze in place, my mouth dry and my heart racing.

“Good morning, Mr. Blackwell,” she said, peering up at my bare-skinned torso.

Her strange look sank to my toes. Jumping off the bale, I quickly reached for my shirt and put it on. I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or proud. Mumbling, I answered, “Good morning, Miss Becky. Can I help you?”

“Is Captain Gray aboard? Father wants me to deliver some papers to him.”

“No, Miss. He’s ashore. But you could leave the papers in his stateroom, and I’ll tell him you came by.”

Standing face to face with me, she smiled and her green eyes twinkled. “Could you show me the way?”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

After leaving the papers in the Captain’s compartment, Becky asked if I would give her a tour of the ship, which I was delighted to do. We walked from stern to stem, and I told her all I knew of the Orphan. With the crew watching our every step, she made comments and asked questions as we went along. I even introduced her to Sandy and the other boys, and she was warm and friendly to all. As we were finishing up, strolling towards the gangway, Mr. Coolidge came aboard.

Before I could present Miss Becky to him, he angrily asked, “What the hell goes on here, Mr. Blackwell? You’re not paid to lollygag.”

As I fumbled for a response, Becky quickly turned to Mr. Coolidge and said, “My father, Mr. Barrel, asked me to drop off some papers for Captain Gray, and I asked Mr. Blackwell for a tour. Is that a problem, sir?”

Mr. Coolidge had not previously met the owner’s daughter, and she had now put him in his place in front of the crew. He glared at me for a good long moment, then grunted, “No, ma’am,” and walked away, clasping his hands behind his back.

As we descended the gangway, Becky stopped and whispered, “Oh, Joseph, did I get you in trouble?”

“Not at all. It was my pleasure.”

“May I visit you again before you sail?”

She was smart and spirited, and I liked that. “Please do,” was my humbled response.

“But my visits will have to be our secret,” she continued, “as Father would not approve.”

“I understand. I’m currently a man with no fortune. But this voyage will change all of that.”

Twirling her parasol, she smiled and turned down the dock. With my heart in my mouth, I watched her leave. That’s when I realized that something special had just happened: our two lives were now intertwined.

A few days later, Miss Becky reappeared just before the noon meal. This time, she had used her influence to get the mate of the Columbia to give her a tour, and she wanted me to join them. I jumped at the chance to meet other crew members and see the Commodore’s flagship. We found Mr. Woodruff, the mate, aboard, and he walked us around. He seemed very friendly and full of information. At two hundred and twelve tons, the square rigged Columbia was much bigger than the Orphan. She had a deck eighty-three feet long, with a width of twenty-four feet and a depth of twelve feet. When I commented on her size, the Mate informed us that the Columbia was small for her class, as most similarly rigged ships ranged anywhere from three hundred to four hundred tons.

The ship was armed with four six pound cannons and four swivel guns, which made her firepower much greater than the Orphan’s. The total complement of her crew was forty, consisting of Captain Kendrick, five officers, an astronomer, a surgeon, a furrier, a clerk, and thirty seamen. The Captain had two of his sons sailing with him; one was the fifth mate, while the other was a seaman.

Finishing the tour, we thanked Mr. Woodruff and moved down the gangway. At the bottom, Miss Becky turned to me and asked, “Do you wish you were sailing on the Columbia?”

Looking up at the ship’s brownish color and square shape, I answered, “No… she’s too bleak and boxy. While the Orphan is as graceful and colorful as a mallard duck.”

A smile curled her soft lips as she replied, “Why, Joseph... you’re a romantic.”

I saw Miss Becky twice more. The following week, she came by with a basket of food, and we shared our first meal together in the shadows of the ships. For our final outing, I arranged shore time, and we walked the shops of the waterfront. With full knowledge that I would depart within the week, we enjoyed our time together, filling it with laughter and conversation. In one of the shops, Becky found a necklace with a small gold cross that she admired. Taking out the Continental Dollar I had received from Captain Gray, I bought it for her. She seemed overwhelmed by my gift, and allowed me to help her put it on. Then she turned and gave me a hug, whispering, “I shall cherish your gift, and will be wearing it when you return.”

It was an afternoon that I would relish forever.

The next day, Captain Kendrick called the ships’ crews to a meeting aboard the Columbia — the first and only time that all fifty-three sailors would assemble. The Commodore had been in the Continental Navy as a privateer and had distinguished himself many times. After the war, he had returned to whaling and coastal shipping. At forty-eight years old, he had experience commanding sailors and the sea. On paper, he had all of the right qualifications, and the assembled crew showed him great respect.

On the quarterdeck, the men gathered round him as, with Captain Gray at his side, he addressed the crew: “We shall sail with the tide on Saturday morning for Nantasket Roads. There, we will load fresh meat, produce, water, and livestock.” As he talked, he twitched his nose. “Nantasket will be the last place to say farewell to family and friends. We sail the following morning to begin our expedition, taking leave of American soil.” Removing his hat, he wiped his brow with a handkerchief and continued. “At four bells on Friday, the owners will host a farewell party on these decks. Your families and sweethearts are invited. But hear this – there will be ladies and gentleman aboard this ship, so I expect to see my crew dressed in clean denims and shirts. There will be no over-imbibing or profanities. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” was our loud response.

Tucking his head, he turned and mumbled, “Very well. Dismissed.”

My first impression of the Commodore was one of caution. He seemed like a strange little man with a strange manner. I could only hope his sea skills would prove to be better than his oratory.

On Friday, the whole crew set to work, polishing both the ships and themselves. Although the days had been warm, autumn was in the air. The crew was ready to depart, but only after the gleeful celebration.

That afternoon, our ship’s cook, a seaman named Gayle, was sent to the Columbia to help with the preparations, while most of the other crew went ashore. Earlier, I had brought aboard all of my personal belongings, and I was trying to stow them in my small, dingy cubbyhole when Sandy shouted down the hatch, “Joe, you have visitors.”

Rushing up the ladder, I found my father and Fredric waiting on the quarterdeck.

Pleasantly surprised – and pleased to see that my father appeared sober – I said, “You’re early. But I’m glad you came.”

My father smiled – something he rarely did – and answered, “Closed up the shop at three so we could see your ship. Will you give us a tour?”

My brother added, “Please, Joseph?”

Grinning at their enthusiasm, I agreed. We slowly walked the Orphan, with me spouting information as if I were an old salt. Below deck, I even introduced them to Captain Gray, who was in his compartment. He was cordial and shook their hands.

Once we were back on deck, Father and I strolled to the stern while Fredric wandered off towards the bow.

“I like your captain, Joe. I hope you’ll heed his orders and do a good job.”

Just then, the sound of fiddle music rolled over the transom from the Columbia.

“Well, I guess I had better get properly dressed,” I said to him. “It sounds like the soiree is getting underway.”

With a serious expression, my father answered, “Before you do, I have something for you.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a folded, wax-sealed envelope and handed it to me. On it, I saw the delicate handwriting of my mother. She had written: For my son, Joseph Blackwell: To be opened upon the death of my husband, Samuel Blackwell.

“Your mother gave this to me on her deathbed, and I promised to take care of it.”

The look on his face was so serious that it scared me.

“But, Father, you’re still alive.”

“Aye… but three years is a long time. Maybe I won’t be here when you come home. Or maybe you won’t come back. Keep it in your pouch. You can give it back to me if – or when – I see you next.” With music swirling in our ears, he extended his hand and concluded, “Do we have an agreement, Son?”

Taking his hand, I shook it, and he embraced me, with tears in his eyes.

As we parted, he whispered, “We live by accident or we live by purpose. Dig deep, to find your way.”

We had an agreement; I would cherish his words and Mother’s mysterious letter.

After I had changed into my finest togs, my family and I walked over to the Columbia to join the party. We climbed the gangway and found a crowd of well over one hundred guests on deck.

Slipping through the people, I led my father and brother to the food tables, where the owners had provided meats, fruits, cheese, and breads, along with wine and ale. As my brother loaded up a food plate, my father took a tankard of wine.

Noticing that I was watching, he grinned and softly said, “There will be no problems tonight, Son.”

I nodded my approval as Fredric join us.

Between bites of fruit and cheese, he asked, “Joseph, why don’t you play your flute with the fiddler?”

Turning, I watched the musician as he strolled from group to group, with lively music spilling from his instrument. It was tempting, but I was too shy to play for this many strangers.

“No, I don’t think I’m good enough.”

Just then, Captain Gray approached us and pulled me aside. With a grin on his face, he whispered in my ear, “Miss Becky is aboard the sloop and would like to speak with you.” Then, drawing back, he winked with his good eye.

Clearly, he knew our secret. She must have told him. Turning to my family, I made an excuse and rushed back to the Orphan.

When I reached the deserted deck, I found her waiting at the bowsprit.

As I approached, I asked, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. I wanted to talk to you one last time… but not in front of all those people.”

“The Captain knows our secret.”

“I suppose he does. But who would he tell?”

Undoing her bonnet, she shook her head and let her long, blonde hair fall to her shoulders. She wore a russet dress that accented her figure, and my necklace encircled her soft throat. In the golden afternoon light, she looked as if she had a halo.

“I have something for you, Joseph.”

Reaching into her handbag, she retrieved a gold locket and placed it in my hand.

“My grandmother gave this to my grandfather when he went off to the Indian Wars. Later, he told me that it brought him luck during his time away. When he died, Grandmother gave it to me. Inside, I have replaced her likeness with mine, and on the back there is an engraving.”

The locket was oblong, with a hinged front cover of gold that featured a black porcelain emblem of a woman in silhouette. Clicking it open, I found an inked picture of Becky. It was a beautiful likeness.

Flipping the locket over, I held it to the sunlight to read the small, scrolling letters. It simply asked, Why Is the Eagle Feared?

Looking up at her, I said, “A riddle. Did your grandfather find the answer?”

“Yes.”

“And what was it?”

“That’s for you to find out.”

Snapping the locket closed, I curled my palm around it. “I will keep your likeness close to me for all my days… and I will protect this locket with my life.”

She stood there a moment, staring at me with her deep-green eyes. “I will be here when you return, Joe Blackwell. And when you do… you will have many prospects.” Delicate color stained her cheeks. “I’d give you a kiss now… but there are too many prying eyes. We had best join the party before we are missed.”

Becky returned to the flagship first, while I followed a few minutes later. For the rest of the evening, we kept a respectful distance from each other, although our eyes met several times. At one point, she placed her hand over her necklace and flashed me a look that spoke volumes.

A few hours later, with the sun setting and a chill in the air, the Barrel family departed. I watched from the ship’s rail as they boarded their luxurious carriage and rode off into the night. While Becky’s departure saddened me, I relished the thought of our future together.

Soon, many other guests were leaving. At eight, my father and Fredric started their walk home, but not before one last embrace and an exchange of encouraging words. What remained after nine o’clock were only the hard drinkers, so I walked back to the sloop to spend my first night aboard.

Lying in my cramped berth, listening to the distant merriment and the groans of the Orphan, I held Becky’s locket in one hand and my mother’s letter in the other. It had been an emotional evening and I was ready to sail, if only so that I could begin counting down the days until my return. My last thought of the night was: Why is the eagle feared?

At sunrise the next morning, I served my first morning meal to the Captain. He was quiet and withdrawn as he ate his food, not saying a word about the party or Becky. His attention was fixed on the charts of Boston Harbor, which he had spread out on his desk. After he finished his breakfast, he climbed the steps to the helm and prepared to get the Orphan underway.

A few hours later, I staggered up the listing stairs and poked my head above the deck. The waters of the harbor were calm, and I spotted Deer Island on the port and Boston astern. Looking up into the crisp sunlight, I saw that the sails were filled with a fresh breeze, and that crew members were aloft in the rigging, answering the orders from the helm. It was exciting to be underway, and I could have watched for hours, but Sandy called me below to finish my duties.

Just before noon, we tied up at the piers of Nantasket Roads. This peninsula was the last easterly land connecting the countryside to the sea. Here, farmers and ranchers sold their produce and livestock to ships leaving Boston Harbor. When we arrived, the docks were stacked with provisions, and they kept coming, all afternoon. First the holds were filled, then the lockers, and finally the decks. Straw was place on the planks, then packed with livestock. There were crates of chickens, pigs, sheep, and goats, all producing their own robust noises and smells. By early evening, everything was aboard and secured for sea. Now all we had to do was wait for the tide.

Late in the afternoon, carriages arrived from town with many of the partners. Even Mr. Barrel came out for one last meeting with the captains, but without his family. Soon we could hear more cheerfulness coming from the deck of the flagship, as the partners enjoyed more spirits and food. With the work complete on both ships, many of the crew passed the time by wandering the docks and the few public houses. Waiting can be difficult for sailors on land when they know that the next tide will bear them out to sea.

After finishing up a few last accounts, I strolled to the bowsprit and gazed out to a rising new moon. While the sea lamps were being lit, I took out my flute and began playing softly. My mind and music were soon filled with thoughts of my unknown future.

From behind me, Captain Gray interrupted. “Your notes sound sad. Are you worried about the voyage, lad?”

In the fading light, I turned to him and answered, “No, sir. Just thinking about three years from now and the long sail home.”

He smiled. “I’m pleased you have someone to come home to. She’s a beautiful young lady. I’ll get you home, lad. But it’s getting late, and we sail at dawn.”