The Whaler's Daughter

by Jerry Mikorenda

  Sneaking to the top of the stairs, I saw them rumbling about, arranging chairs and putting their boards on barrel heads. Those meowing cats nearly got me skinned alive, so I backed up to the hallway as the tourney commenced.

  “Bay’s as smooth as these boards,” said one.

  “The weather’s holding and the glass is set fair,” I recognized Papa saying.

  “Right whale weather,” said another as draughts began tapping on boards.

  “If you believe the Hook & Harpoon, the bay isn’t big enough for whaling and fishing anymore,” added Lon, knowing how to get Papa riled up.

  I heard Papa’s special chair creak and I peeked down as he got up. He kicked his boot heel back against the hearth whenever he got all riled.

  “‘Sharing our bay’s bounty’ is what that newspaper barks,” said Papa, relighting his pipe, “but it stands with the trawlers every time.”

  He went on about how whaling had put Paradise on the map. Whalers, settling the bay, had given people a reason to live there. The old Doddstown harbor was testament to that, I thought. Now it was just a bunch of rotting pilings.

  “Was a time when Doddstown stood toe to toe with Sydney and was a good bet to be the territorial capital,” added Abe.

  I could tell Papa was worried about something by the way he kept adding those hiccup laughs after he spoke.

  “Not the past I’m thinking about,” said Papa. “Sam Hopkins sent word Jacob Bittermen bought out the rest of the Paradise fishing fleet. That means trouble.”

  “You know, whenever that Yank buys something he loses interest in it and starts looking for a new toy,” said Lon, knocking something over to much laughter.

  “Still it’s best to be ready,” said Papa, sipping his grog. “Before we lift a hammer to the boats, I want to take the temperature of our syndicate in Paradise.”

  Suddenly, draughts were on the back burner and Papa was talking business again. They were leaving with the morning tide. I smelled the uncertainty in the room. I grew tired of eavesdropping and floated back to my room on a lingering cloud of pipe and cigar smoke.

  Twitching with anxiety, I fell asleep on Mr. Nubble’s warm, bulbous belly, worrying about the day to come.

  8.

  I awoke to Papa saying he was shanghaiing me. I was to grab my jumper and meet him down at the float dock. I was going to Paradise with him and the others on a barter mission. If that wasn’t enough of a shock, I saw Figgie hoisting the main sail as I boarded. Fancy that, a junior Jack Tar raising sails on Papa’s shad. Figgie gave me a glance and nod as we prepared to shove off. I wasn’t sure how to act, so I followed his lead.

  Papa handled the shad so smoothly all he had to do was think of a command and the boat obeyed. He did this while jawing with Abe and reminding me every five minutes to hold their fancy walking-around-town hats.

  Papa told us that this time of year whale oil was liquid gold and he intended to leverage every drop of it. Each of us had a job to do. I had to get a dress for school, along with some cooking staples; Papa and Abe had to secure collateral from our syndicate and find out more about Bittermen’s intentions. Warrain and Figgie were to stock up on rope, oakum, and tar to repair the boats. Little Aiden Parsons needed to let the doc examine his bum leg. Sensing an opportunity, I wrapped the forest sketches I’d made on Figgie’s shingles in my jumper, hoping to show them to the lithography shop.

  Deep down all of us felt this was a fun day for dressing up and feeling like townspeople. Before long, a school of speckled porpoises tagged along our port side. Their acrobatics had us laughing; even Papa let out a hoot. With the mood light and the wind to our backs, Warrain stood up and began singing “Old Polina.”

  “The noble fleet of whalers went sailing from Dundee,” he bellowed.

  Warrain was the size of an ox, with a neck as wide as a ship’s cannon. Papa often said he was going to save the lances and let Warrain wrestle the whales into submission. His deep voice echoed off the sails and when he stomped his feet the whole deck shook.

  “Sing,” demanded Warrain, raising his arms high. “Everyone join in!”

  We clapped and thumped our feet. Halfway through the song, Papa handed the wheel to Lon and sang a chorus while doing a little jig-step with Warrain to much laughter.

  “It happened on a Tuesday three days out of Dundee. The gale took off her quarter boat and a couple of men you see…”

  Before we knew it, the shad was waiting for the harbormaster to let us dock. I started to follow Warrain and Figgie, but Papa called for me to go with him. He took off his sailing cap and gently placed the bowler on his head with a slant over his right eye. Abe adjusted his kippah tightly to his forehead, and on dry land the two of them looked like city gents.

  We walked a short distance over to Studsberry Street where we’d left Aiden with the doctor. Papa and Abe stopped to say, “G’day” to a few of the shopkeepers in the village square. As they lumbered about, I sat on a barrel between the woodturning shop and Zeb’s leather goods store. I liked the way the smells of the two mixed. The ball peen hammers in each workshop harmonized with the precision of Swiss clocks counting the minutes. A couple of cockies from the fields came onto the footpath, talking loudly.

  “Did you see those dags dancing into town from Doddspoint?” squawked the taller one with a high-pitched voice as he slapped his mate on the shoulder.

  I pulled my knees to my chest and yanked my head inside my jumper.

  “It’s that Dawson bunch,” his friend replied.

  “Whalers,” the other laughed, “using Blackfish to bring in their catch.”

  “Damn shame what happened to those boys. Only the crazy or the criminal would work with that lot,” the shorter one preened.

  “Or worse, darkies.”

  A third man called them across the street and I ducked down an alley. I was in no mood to be earbashed about my brothers. What happened was my retribution to bring. I made my way toward the town center where Papa and Abe were meeting Sam Hopkins. His Hooks, Lines & Sinks Dry Goods was the tallest stone structure in Paradise. All sorts of pulleys and winches hauled goods in and out of there. The three of them were already gamming as I approached the loading dock.

  “Savannah, good to see you,” exclaimed Sam, trying not to stare at my missing locks. Hopkins took the supply order from Papa and squinted at the contents.

  “A few hours at most,” he said, waving the list with confidence. “Come in. You too, Savannah, come. Come quickly.”

  Hopkins swayed and lurched as he hobbled into the warehouse. My head was still swirling from what I had heard in the street. Nervously, Hopkins spied his workers as we made our way to his back office. Papa and Abe rushed through the door with Hopkins pushing me in behind them. He peered out through the narrowing space until the door clicked shut. Standing there in the dark, I felt the suspense raising an itch on the back of my neck. Hopkins lit a match and raised the flame on two oil lamps.

  “There now,” he said, reaching for a book on his desk. “Savannah, this is the latest from our very own Henry Handel Richardson. Why don’t you take it over there?”

  I knew when they wanted me to be scarce. I read the title aloud, “The Getting of Wisdom” to approving “Ahs.”

  “Hmm,” said Papa, showing the book to Abe as if they might read it one day. I took it back from Papa and headed to the far corner of the room like one of my cats. The spine cracked as I opened it. Knowing that if I appeared uninterested enough in what they were saying they would start talking in front of me, I thumbed through the pages.

  “To my unnamed little collaborator,” read the book’s dedication. The words on the page intrigued me as much as the conversations across the room. Sam Hopkins was head of the syndicate that provided our whaling supplies in exchange for shares of the profits on the whale oil. Best as I could hear, he was telling Papa that the syndicate demanded b
igger shares. They wanted to start using the new government money instead of barter.

  “That money is just paper with fancy pictures,” Papa said. “You might as well have the loose kangas in the Pelican House printing it.”

  Sam said he still would honor his handshake on barrels of oil for supplies this season, but it was getting harder to give goods for services. People wanted wealth these days.

  “Those are the types who’d rather toss about money in town on nonsense than take home the grain they need to live,” added Abe.

  “Whatever it is, there’s too much of it for my blood,” said Sam, shaking his head. “Just walk down Cornwallis Street and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “Cornwallis Street?” Papa and Abe asked.

  “Bittermen’s idea. He didn’t like Whaler’s Walk,” said Sam. “Everything is changing and not for the better in my opinion.”

  I saw my presence was distracting Papa and Abe so I told them I was heading over to Dilly’s Dresses as they lit out to see McMahon at the ship works. Out of sight, I slipped down to the ropewalk where I knew Figgie and Warrain were loitering. Well, I figured Figgie would be there, and Warrain was likely visiting one of the women he was sweet on. The hemp dust from the walk made me sneeze. Startled, Figgie whirled about with a serious look on his face before that smile of his lit up the damp room like a second sun.

  “Savannah, so good of you to join me,” he said. “What’s that you have?”

  “A book Sam Hopkins gave me,” I said, “and a darn good one at that.”

  It didn’t take long to see Figgie didn’t care much for books because he couldn’t read. He had no need to. The villagers memorized their song stories and repeated them to one another. I told Figgie reading was something he should learn so he could deal with the government authorities.

  “I’ll teach you to read if you tell me about your village,” I said.

  “That sounds like an ideal exchange of services,” Figgie said, spitting into his palm and offering it to me.

  We shook on it. Figgie’s flowing locks tumbled in the breeze as we tested each other’s grip. With the deal sealed, we headed back toward town with a promise from the master ropemaker that he would deliver dockside in three hours.

  We walked along the brightly painted row houses on Bay Avenue to the archway that led back into the village square. Years ago, someone whitewashed the wrought-iron bars and they’ve been called the Pearly Gates ever since. The sign above them used to say Village of Paradise, but they painted over that too, and now it read City of Paradise.

  Fancy that.

  Figgie was unfamiliar with this part of town so I showed him the opera house that heard more mooing during cattle auctions than bellowing from baritones. Best I could count, there were now five hotels, three boarding houses, and six churches in this city. On weekdays the old Charyn House served as a finishing school, where I would be heading soon. On weekends, it doubled as a place where young men and women with certain relaxed liberalities met. When school began, I planned to restrict all my learning to Monday through Friday.

  Figgie asked about the new bridge going up over Bitter Ditch. Since we were close enough to smell it, I figured we might as well see it, too. I knew a shortcut between two houses. We slipped through the first yard, but on the side lot of the second we stopped dead in our tracks. A white stallion quietly grazed on salt grass, paying us no mind, with no bridle or rope to hold it. As we came closer, the horse trotted away with a sideways gait.

  “Is that the Town Horse I’ve read about?” I asked aloud.

  Figgie cupped his hands around his mouth and made an odd bird-like sound. The horse stopped, waited for Figgie to pet it, then reared up on its hind legs.

  “You certainly have a way with horses,” I said.

  “I learned to ride before I could swim,” he said, as the horse loped onto the street like a boat with a broken rudder.

  We continued to follow the stench down to the thirty-foot-wide river of green sludge, penned in on both sides by yellow brick. It was supposed to be a three-kilometer long canal connecting the Cow Bright meadows at Snuggler’s Cove to Horse Head Bay, but everyone called it the Bitter Ditch. The sound of hammers and saws gave away the construction of new homes on the other side of the ditch. At the end of a crushed-gravel road, a man sat in an open tent behind a large table piled high with rolled maps and drawings. Figgie walked up to a surveyor’s tripod and peeked into the brass scope.

  “Do you know what that is, young fella?” the man asked, without looking up.

  “Some sort of measuring device,” said Figgie, still staring into the scope.

  “That’s right,” said the man, walking toward us. “It’s called a theodolite. We use it to measure elevations and property lines. The crew that operates it is off on their noonday.”

  “I see,” replied Figgie. “Why doesn’t this waterway fill up?”

  The man pushed his hat back on his forehead. He explained that most canals need a series of locks to keep the water flowing from one end to the other. This one misjudged the laws of gravity and the flow of water.

  “When will you begin construction?” asked Figgie.

  “I was hoping next week, but my draftsman is still stuck in Port Phillip, and I need to send preliminary drawings to Sydney on tomorrow’s packet ship.”

  “If you need drawings, Savannah here is a fine artist with a steady hand,” added Figgie, making me blush yet again.

  “How do you do,” I said, offering my hand to the stranger. “Savannah Dawson.”

  “Wallace Brown,” he said, shaking both our hands.

  I showed Mr. Brown my wood landscape renderings. The engineer seemed genuinely interested, but I told him I didn’t have my drawing materials. He put me at a portable drafting table with ink pens, pencils, and fancy onionskin paper. My drawings, he said, were as good as photos. With his measurements, he said, we could get this done right away.

  “Can she have that portable board, case, and the suitable drawing implements in exchange for her services?” suggested Figgie.

  “Mate, if you two do right by me, you can have any supplies you want,” said Mr. Brown, slapping Figgie on his shoulder.

  “What do you say, Miss Dawson?” Mr. Brown asked.

  “I’m game as Ned Kelly,” I said, bouncing on my toes.

  I bartered out my skills with another handshake. Mr. Brown wanted me to render the section of the ditch where the new bridge would connect both sides of the road. He wanted a cutaway showing how far the bricks went down and where the cement pilings would enter the bottom of the canal bed. I jotted down all the numbers Mr. Brown had calculated. He was impressed with my ability to draw a straight line with no ruler.

  “This bridge must be strong enough to withstand heavy automobiles and trucks,” he said, trying to impress me.

  “Can’t say that I’ve ever seen any of those things around here,” I added.

  As I finished inking the pages, Mr. Brown asked if I would swap renderings for art supplies when needed. We shook hands again as his surveyors returned from their meal. One of them used the scope to show Figgie the dandy new mansion on Resurrection Hill where they used to hang recaptured convicts. He called me over to take a gander while Mr. Brown and his men reviewed my handiwork. The mansion had a three-story turret with terra-cotta roofs, white plaster walls, and Moorish arches. It looked like a painting out of a boy’s pirate novel.

  “Who lives there?” I asked.

  “Why that’s the estate of our benefactor, Jacob Bittermen,” Mr. Brown said.

  “Well, if that ain’t a rippa, I don’t know what is,” I said, looking up at it again.

  By the time we reached the shad, Papa was inspecting the just-delivered rope. The harbormaster’s pointy moustache twitched with delight—he hoped to charge us a demurrage for delayed loading. My stomach turned raw when the pulle
y lowered sacks of the cook’s flour onto the shad as Papa patted my back and gave me a wink. I hid my traveling artist’s kit from his prying eyes. I didn’t want him to learn about the renderings I did for Mr. Brown until long after that packet ship left for Sydney.

  I moved as far away from the cooking supplies as I could. Aiden explained that the doctor reckoned that swimming exercises would cure his limp. Papa jokingly threatened to leave Warrain behind for causing a ruckus with his lady friend and drawing the ire of the constables. All the time the harbormaster kept us under a watchful eye. Knowing it was teatime, Papa slowly let out the mainsail. Not wanting to miss his tea, the harbormaster glared, waiting for us to leave.

  We all laughed when he shook his fist over his head. Papa trimmed the sails and we set a course back home. We watched the bridge construction off in the distance. The last thing we saw was that white horse cantering lopsidedly along the shoreline, shaking his mane. Figgie and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. No one else seemed to notice the Town Horse.

  “Imagine that,” said Papa, tossing his fancy derby back to me, “kicked out of Paradise.”

  9.

  Repairing the boats got underway after brekkie the next morning.

  While Papa pawed over the spot prices for whale oil in the Hook & Harpoon in the kitchen, I lugged the toolboxes onto the beach where we would be working on the boats. My eight cats followed me in a line like camels crossing the Sahara. Pip, Scud, Descartes, Humphrey, Mr. Nubbles, Quilp, and Barnaby, all led by wee Emma. I kept a steady eye on the bay for the hunter-green sail from McMahon’s repair hoy tacking east. The wind was stiff and the waves snapped at the air. There was no sign of the killers since Abe had last seen them sneaking up the inlet. It was as if the whole bay was laughing at what we were doing.

  The bell rang, calling everyone to the station.