Except for Quill, Bint Miller and a couple of his cronies and Oliver, ship's cat, Dex thought he was reasonably well accepted by the ship's company. Quill would never warm up to Dex, Miller and his buddies avoided him like the plague and, for some reason, Oliver hissed and ran whenever Dex came near.
When Dex had been aboard White Shark for about a week, Captain Campbell called him to his cabin after the noon meal. “We'll be making port in Boston town tomorrow,” the Captain said, “and you must choose whether to go ashore or stay with the Shark. I'll not keep you aboard against your will, but I do not think you would fare well ashore and I can offer you little help if that be your choice. If you stay aboard, you must know that as soon as we can empty our holds and re-provision, we sail to harass the British customs men and help bring in untaxed goods to the good people of Boston. Today we bring a legal cargo, but henceforth we will trade in untaxed goods or fight if that be necessary.”
Having been displaced once, Dex was not about to abandon his new-found home and he was determined to remain at sea, as close as possible to where he had been snatched off the deck of the Harbor Rose. “I'll stay on board, Sir,” he answered quickly. “I mean, I'd like to see Boston, but I want to stay on the ship when you leave.”
When Dex came onto deck the following morning, colonial Boston was in full view over the White Shark's bow as she threaded her way slowly into a harbor crammed with all manner of boats and ships. Small, shabby fishing boats were making their way out of the harbor mouth propelled by patched sails and, in some cases, oars. The fisherman yelled good-matured jibes at one another and sharp curses at the pleasure boats and cutters that sailed to close to their fleet. Overhead, gulls wheeled and screeched in the clear air. At the docks that lined the waterfront ahead, a forest of bare masts and spars rose into the morning sky thick enough to obscure many of the buildings behind.
With Captain Campbell on the quarterdeck, the White Shark rode a gentle on-shore breeze under minimum sail as she passed between a pair of low islands. Standing on the forecastle with Tobias Masters, Dex stared open-mouthed at the crowded harbor and the city beyond. Somehow, he had expected Colonial Boston to be small and crude; static, like a museum display, but it was alive with activity. Menacing men-o-war and gigantic merchantmen lay at anchor as if waiting their turns at the crowded docks and scores of small boats were plying between them and the shore.
“That's Castle Williams,” said Masters pointing to a huge stone building that covered the island to the left. “They say there are more than two hundred guns there, some of them forty-two pounders that can reach any point in the harbor.”
“Aye and the English Customs nabobs huddle in there, afraid to step onto the street.” Quill had appeared silently at Dex's elbow. “One day we'll take their damned cannon and blow their Jack Tar fleet to hell,” he sneered.
Dex eyed the warships in the harbor and the huge British flag flying over the fort and reminded himself that 1868 Boston was still a part of the British Empire, but the coming revolution was already producing civil unrest and even violence toward the city's English masters. “How does the Captain dare to get so close to those British ships?” he asked. “Won't they catch us and take the crew?”
“Not in the harbor,” Masters answered. “At sea, and sometimes ashore, under the cover of darkness, they'll press American sailors, but in the harbor, they must let commerce prevail, else the people would rise against them.”
Once past Castle William, the White Shark bore to the right, gliding past Governor's Island as Captain Campbell made for the cluttered warren of smaller piers and docks at the northern end of the harbor. After an hour of cautious piloting, he laid her expertly alongside a decrepit dock and stepped down from the quarterdeck leaving Alan Davis to complete the docking procedures. He strode to the dockside bulwark and climbed to the gunwale. “All hands to remain aboard, Mister Davis,” he called as he leaped nimbly to the dock. “Prepare to offload cargo.”
Within a half hour, and under the watchful eyes of a squad of uniformed British soldiers and several customs officials, blocks and tackle had been rigged on booms above the deck hatches. Just as the first crates and bales were being hoisted onto the deck, a gang of coarse-looking men appeared from shore and soon a steady stream of cargo was disappearing into the run-down buildings behind the dock.
Without any immediate duties, Dex agreed to try the terrifying climb to the mainmast crow's nest with Tobias. From that dizzying height, more than thirty feet above their usual perch at the main-top lookout, they looked out over a maze of narrow streets and alleys, some unpaved and others made-up of grimy cobblestones. Dark, unpainted wooden buildings crouched over the narrow paths, their crooked chimneys pouring out streams of wood and coal smoke that sat like a pall over the city. Dex's nose wrinkled as a shift in the breeze lifted the noxious odor of ancient mud flats and the garbage that littered the ground beyond.
Later, after the cargo had been unloaded and Captain Campbell announced that leave would be granted, Dex asked Masters if he would be going ashore.
“Not me,” said Tobias. “Aboard the ship or in another port, I'm safe enough perhaps,” he said, “but ashore here I could be taken up as a runaway; taken back to master Winthrop, beaten, sold... whatever he wanted. I dare not chance that.”
As he watched the men from the watch selected to be first ashore, Dex felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to see Captain Campbell and Alan Davis. “If you would go ashore,” said Campbell, “I think you should remain in the company of Mister Davis. Between the pressmen and the ruffians, this is no part of Boston to wander alone.”
When Dex nodded his thanks, Campbell dropped a small stack of coins and a few bills into his hand. Your coin will not do here,” he said. “This is pay for your labors of the past weeks as well as a small share of the cargo bounty due the crew. 'Tis not much, but it will pay for a good meal or two and perhaps some decent clothes.”
Chapter 9
It was late afternoon when Dex stepped ashore in Boston's old harbor with Alan Davis. At first, Dex struggled not to choke on the combined stench of rotting garbage, open sewers and ancient mud flats but, as they moved toward the center of town, he soon forgot the odors in his amazement at actually being in 1768 Boston. The buildings in the dock area were drab one and two story warehouses, workshops and storage sheds for the most part, but a gleaming white spire looming up on the right caught Dex's eye and he wondered if it could be the Old North Church where Paul Revere would one day begin his famous ride. He shivered to think that the famed silversmith might, even now, be working behind one of the doors he was walking past. Away from the docks, the warehouses gave way to one-story homes, most with small fenced gardens and chickens in the yard, and Dex saw a few cows and goats as the fetid smell of the waterfront gave way to the redolent tang of wood smoke and farm animals.
Closer to the center of the city, the buildings became taller and finer and the streets became wider with cobblestones surfaces between narrow sidewalks. Men and women, some dressed in homespun clothing and others in fancy coats and dresses, filled the sidewalks and dodged carriages and wagons in the busy streets. As they walked, Dex became increasingly uneasy with his surroundings. Suddenly he realized he was homesick for the sights, sounds and smells of home. He was missing traffic noise and street lights; the smell of diesel fumes was replaced with the earthy aroma of horse droppings and granite hitching posts stood in place of parking meters. Absorbed by a strong sense of unreality, he stumbled into Davis when the mate stopped in front of a building with a sign above the door proclaiming it to be the Emerald Inn.
“We'll find supper and a welcome flagon or two here,” Davis said reaching for the door.
They stepped down into a large room with a ceiling of heavy, blackened beams low enough to force Davis to duck his head a little. There was a wooden bar top on the right side of the room and long benches and tables covered the floor. Men sat at tables or lounged on benches against the walls between lamps and
candle sconces and women in aprons and cloth caps slid between them carrying tankards and platters of food. There was a pleasant rumble of conversation and the air was perfumed with the rich aromas of food and tobacco.
Davis found a small table in a corner and raised a hand to a red-headed woman carrying a tray of empty tankards towards the bar. “A flagon of the best and a small beer, Betty,” he called. When she returned with the drinks, he nodded at Dex and said, “My young friend here is starved, and I myself am so weakened with hunger that I've barely managed to crawl from the dock and only then in the hope of seeing your fair face. Bring strong coffee and your finest victuals and nothing, mind you, that would ever be seen in a ship's galley.”
The woman grinned. “Alan Davis, you're so full of blarney you'll have scant room for victuals, but I know a hungry lad when I see one so he'll have his supper,” she said with an Irish lilt.
“Would Sam be around tonight,” Davis asked as she turned to leave.
The woman glanced at a closed door at the back of the room. “There's a meeting,” she said.
Davis settled back with his drink. “I must speak with some friends after supper,” he said, “but perhaps you might use the time to explore the shops close by.” He eyed Dex critically. “A new shirt might not be amiss, but remember your way; we sail with the morning tide.”
Supper turned out to be a huge platter of sausages with plump sweet potato biscuits and a bowl of cooked apples and squash. There were also big slabs of crusty bread and cheese and crocks of butter and honey. A pot of black coffee and a pitcher of cold milk rounded out the meal.
Twenty minutes later, Dex was trying to decide between a fifth sausage or a fourth biscuit when the door at the end of the room opened and men began filing out. Davis raised a finger in greeting as they walked past and one stopped at the table. He was about forty-five, of medium height and stocky in his frock coat, with long brown hair framing an intelligent face.
“Well met, Mister Davis” he said. Davis stood to shake the newcomer's hand. “Dex, this is Mister Adams,” he said. And to Adams, “May I present my good friend and fellow crew member Mister Stockford, new to Boston-town and off to sample its commerce.”
Dex scrambled to his feet as Adams extended his hand. “Y, you... you're S, Sam Adams,” he stammered. “I've read about you; y... you're famous...” he stopped, overwhelmed and embarrassed, afraid he'd said something wrong.
Adams laughed. “Whether famous or infamous is probably yet to be determined, but I'm pleased to meet a friend of Mister Davis and I think I would not be surprised to read about you one day as well.”
Dex left the two men at the table after agreeing to meet Davis back there in an hour. He stepped out into the early evening coolness and strolled down the sidewalk to his right, still benumbed by the fact that he had actually shaken hands with Samuel Adams. He passed a print shop, a bakery and a watchmaker's shop before coming to a small shop with articles of clothing displayed behind the small window panes. He went in and bought a linen shirt and a pair of button-up cotton pants that looked to be the right size. With his purchases wrapped in a brown paper parcel, Dex went outside and wandered into the shop next door which had a sign proclaiming ‘Sundries’. At home, he would have called it an antique shop, but here everything was brand new. As he walked around, peering into display cases and cabinets, he came upon a display of knives. Most of them were large hunting or butcher type blades, but he spied several folding knives as well. After some thought, he bought a four inch clasp knife with a bone handle and a narrow blade that looked like it might be something that Tobias could use for his carving.
As he left the shop, package under his arm and the knife in his pocket, Dex saw Bint Miller talking to two unsavory looking men in the street. Miller said something and the two men turned to look at Dex. Miller said something else, and they all broke out in course laughter that followed Dex as he turned and continued down the sidewalk.
Dex was glad to round the corner and he put Miller out of his mind as he walked past coffee houses, taverns, spice shops and apothecaries. He passed windows full of dresses and hats as well as fancy candles, shoes, firearms, tools and food of all kinds. He was examining a gleaming flintlock rifle in the window of an arms shop when he became aware of a close presence on his right. He looked up to see one of the men who had been talking to Bint Miller looming over him. The large man was unshaven and dressed in grimy pants and a greasy coat over a threadbare shirt. He was rank with the odors of stale sweat and alcohol and his small bloodshot eyes peered out over a mocking grin which displayed a gray tongue slithering over diseased looking gums and stubs of brown teeth.
Dex instinctively recoiled, only to feel his arms grabbed from behind. With panic lending him strength, he twisted free and jumped out into the street. Hearing angry shouts and pelting footsteps behind him, Dex ran for his life, squirming past people and around carriages and wishing he had his sneakers instead of the rough leather shoes. He vaulted a granite watering trough and darted into a narrow alley on his left and then took another left at its end. Dex thought about finding a hiding place, but he knew he could outrun the oafs behind him and, indeed, the sounds of pursuit were already diminishing. He was pacing himself, trying to figure out how to get back to Alan Davis at the inn, when Bint Miller stepped out of a doorway in front of him and clubbed him to the ground.
Dex awoke in darkness so complete he had to blink to make sure his eyes were open. He had a horrible headache and a sick, shivery feeling in his stomach. After a time, he realized that he was lying on his face; he could feel dirt under his cheek, and when he tried to roll over he also discovered that he was tied hand and foot with his arms twisted painfully up behind his back. Fighting down panic, Dex listened intently for any sound that would give him a clue to his whereabouts, but all he could hear was his pulse throbbing in his ears. After a time, he became aware of a faint line of light at floor level and realized that it must be a door. Afraid to call out in case his captors were nearby, he rolled over towards the light and squirmed around until he was sitting up against a rough wooden panel. Dex had left his hunting knife aboard the White Shark, but he could feel the clasp knife he'd bought in the pocket under his right leg. After what seemed like an hour of desperate contortions he got the knife into his hand and fumbled it open with his thumb and forefinger. Working carefully behind his back in the dark, he finally managed to saw through the rough hemp rope around his wrists and few moments later his legs were also free.
Dex lay quietly for a few minutes, willing the pain and nausea to go away before lurching to his feet and leaning dizzily against the wall, wincing as he found a large tender lump on the back of his head. Folding the knife and putting it back in his pocket, he noticed bemusedly that his small stash of money was still there. Apparently his abductors had not thought to search him thoroughly. Finally, Dex turned to the door. After all of his difficulty in getting loose, he expected to have to batter it down to make his escape but, after he'd found the simple latch, the door opened easily and bright daylight flooded in.
Dex leaned unsteadily on the doorway of the one room shed that had been his prison squinting in the mid-day sun. As he looked out over the Boston's old North waterfront, his mind still befuddled from Bint Miller's savage blow, it took Dex a minute to realize that the dock where the White Shark had been tied now stood empty. Captain Campbell had sailed without him!
Chapter 10
Still unsteady on his feet and sick to his stomach, Dex made his way down to the docks and studied every ship he could see in the harbor until he could no longer deny the truth; The White Shark was gone and he was alone; alone in a strange city and, worse, a strange time. Overcome with despair he sank down against a piling and soon fell into a fitful sleep to the gentle murmur of the waves against the shore.
When Dex awoke, the sun had dropped halfway down the western sky, dim behind threatening rain clouds, and hunger was beginning to replace the queasiness in his stomach. He got to his fee
t and looked around to get his bearings. He thought he recognized the alley that would lead him into the city center and with a last look at the harbor behind him started out to see if he could find his way to the Emerald Inn. Before he left the dock area, he stopped by the shed where he'd awoken to look for the pants and shirt he had bought the night before, but the shed held only the discarded rope and a few old pieces of lumber.
-----
Jacob Campbell absently fingered the compact binoculars in his coat pocket as he stared back along the White Shark's wake. He had waited as long as possible before catching the last of the ebb tide and sailing out of Boston Harbor into the early morning sun. The mainland had shrunken to a fine brown line on the horizon, but still he peered astern thinking of the wonders the future might bring and of the messenger who had given him a foretelling of the outcome of the struggle for freedom. In his reverie, he did not notice the approach of Alan Davis.
“Do you think he found his way home?”
Campbell started and gathered himself. “Mayhap, but I fear it more likely he found trouble ashore. I don't think he would quit our company without strong cause. 'Tis still a strange world to him.”
“I should never have allowed him to roam unattended.” Davis paced the deck. “I saw no sign of the press gang, but there are thieves and cutthroats aplenty, and he had little knowledge of the danger.”
Campbell reached out to put a hand on the younger man's arm. “Nay,” he said, “the blame is not yours. It is his fate to be alone in Boston Town and ours to leave him in the cause of duty. I have no doubt we will return to find him well and prosperous, if not in full command of the town.”
Davis smiled grimly. “Aye, he's a likely enough lad, but when we return, I'll be taking a watch ashore find the truth of it.”
Bystander in Time Page 5
