THE
DOWNEASTER
DEADLY VOYAGE
PAUL THOMAS FUHRMAN
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage by Paul Thomas Fuhrman
Copyright © 2015 Paul Thomas Fuhrman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of historical fiction. While based upon historical events, any similarity to any person, circumstance or event is purely coincidental and related to the efforts of the author to portray the characters in historically accurate representations.
All ship illustrations were reproduced from Masting and Rigging and Sailing and Sailing Ships Rig and Rigging by Mr. Harold Underhill by kind permission of the publishers Messrs Brown, Son & Ferguson, Ltd.
Cover image: The Downeaster ‘Alexa’ courtesy of Irving Gerrardo Ferral. http://irvinggfm.deviantart.com/
ISBN: 978-1-61179-331-4 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-61179-332-1 (e-book)
BISAC Subject Headings:
FIC002000 FICTION / Action & Adventure
FIC014000 FICTION / Historical
FIC047000 FICTION / Sea Stories
Address all correspondence to:
Fireship Press, LLC
P.O. Box 68412
Tucson, AZ 85755
[email protected]
Visit our website at:
www.fireshippress.com
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Donna Mewha Fuhrman
Mary Miley Theobold
Josh Caine
Libby Armitage Hall
Jennifer Fisher
Thomas W. MacNamarra, RADM, USN, Ret.
Susan M. Reverby
Captain Daniel Moreland
The Mariners’ Museum, Virginia
Mystic Seaport, Connecticut
The San Francisco Maritime Museum
The Maine Maritime Museum, Bath
The Argentine Naval Hydrographic Office
Watermen’s Museum, Virginia
James River Writers
Virginia Commonwealth University School of Nursing
The National Archives
The Friday Docents, The Mariners’ Museum
Bill Picklehaupt
Brown, Sons and Ferguson, Glasgow
University of Connecticut
Tom Richardson & Tom Warrenton
Chris Paige
Marguerite Wainio
Sister Norberta, Sisters of Saint Francis
(My rhetoric teacher and beloved life coach)
Miami University, Oxford, Ohio
(Miami was a university before Florida was a state)
INTRODUCTION
The Downeaster has three main characters and thus three stories linked to the voyage of the wooden New England-built ship Providence from New York to San Francisco and around Cape Horn in 1872.
The details of this voyage were taken from the 1854 log of the clipper ship Hurricane. Captain Stephen Very Junior prepared the log for Lieutenant Mathew F. Maury, USN. Maury is considered the father of oceanography, and it was his route the Hurricane followed.
The process of turning this log into a fictional account of a voyage involved making use of both modern and antique aids to navigation. The daily positions of the ship were plotted on modern paper and electronic charts. Active reference was made to both modern and historical Sailing Directions, the Atlas of Pilot Charts, Admiralty Pilots, and a perpetual nautical almanac. The weather is as it actually occurred. No imagination, however fertile, can equal the reality of being at sea. Detail about the ship is based on the Benjamin F. Packard, the Balclutha, and the Joseph Conrad. The reason the ship is Providence, and not Hurricane, is that this novel is fiction. It departs from strict history for the sake of storytelling.
There are several historical characters involved in the story as well as historical buildings, events, and weather. I’ve tried to portray these people as accurately as I could and with a sympathetic understanding for the time in which they lived.
My sailors drink, swear, use tobacco, and enjoy the company of women. Their real voices are reflected in the shanties you’ll see on The Downeaster’s pages. Cast off and enjoy your passage around Cape Stiff, and beware of Shanghai Brown when you get there, Dauber.
“The captain was a drunkard, the mate a Turk; The Boatswain was a bastard with the middle name Work.”
IRON SHIP ‘CORIOLANUS’
‘Coriolanus’ illustrates the type of sail plan that would be used on a Downeaster such as the fictional ‘Providence.’
Split topgallant sails and yards were not commonly used.
Illustration Courtesy: Messrs Brown, So & Ferguson, Ltd.
SAILS OF A FULL-RIGGED SHIP
Illustration Courtesy: Messrs Brown, So & Ferguson, Ltd.
PERSPECTIVE DRAWING OF A MODERN SQUARE-RIGGED MAST
Illustration Courtesy: Messrs Brown, So & Ferguson, Ltd.
RUNNING RIGGING ON SQUARE SAILS
Illustration Courtesy: Messrs Brown, So & Ferguson, Ltd.
THE
DOWNEASTER
DEADLY VOYAGE
PAUL THOMAS FUHRMAN
Fireship Press
PART ONE
One
Isaac Griffin
Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.
—Herman Melville
Monday, March 25, 1872
Boston
Isaac Griffin stood on the porch of the Christison home on Beacon Hill. Looking toward West Church and a cluster of people in the churchyard, some still singing a hymn, Griffin heard their words, “Come, sinners, to the gospel feast,” and laughed quietly. “Gentle fools,” Griffin muttered, stamping the soles of his shoes on the stoop to free them of the gray slush.
Griffin had been summoned to meet with his friend and business partner, William Christison Sr., whom he had not seen in more than two years. Master and part-owner of the fully rigged ship Providence, Griffin had spent twenty-six months and eleven days at sea; his mind still expected the ground to rise and fall beneath his feet and teased him with nausea. He had been ashore only three days.
He looked up at the azure blue sky. Fair-weather cumulus clouds trailed behind a cold front. He exhaled loudly to watch his breath condense in the cold air. He savored the comfort of his wool overcoat while remembering the frost etchings on San Matias’s port lights that morning. He kept his gloved right hand in the pocket of his coat to prevent pain in his injured fingers—pain caused by the cold.
He set his mind to the task at hand. Removing the scarred hand from its sanctuary, he reached for the brass knocker on the Christison door. It was at this moment that the smell of coal smoke and the odor of sulfur from a nearby chimney entered his consciousness, reigniting the memory, but he ignored it, or so he believed. He did not accept that his hand would always be useless; the doctor said there was hope, but his eyes told him what his fingers touched. His fingers told him nothing. When he grasped the knocker, pain shrieked from the damaged tendons and injured nerve endings. He wanted to flinch, to yelp, to let his eyes tear, but he did not. Forcing his hand had become so practiced, a ritual of exorcism. Laudanum had been a last resort, and once past Cape Horn and into the Atlantic, he vowed never to use the opiate again. He had triumphed over his addiction, as he could not accept defeat. But today he used his left hand to knock.
The door opened. “Captain Griffin, it’s good to see you again, sir. The Commodore and Mr. William
are in the library. They are expecting you. May I take your coat and hat?”
The butler made no comment as Griffin stretched his left arm across his stomach, wedged the gloved left hand under his right elbow, and pulled his hand from the glove. Griffin saw no response, not so much as a blink, on the butler’s face as he placed only the left glove inside his tall derby hat. That Saturday, a woman in the horsecar had turned her head away from him when she saw his naked right hand. The glove must remain on. No one must ever see it.
“Commodore, Captain Griffin is here.”
Little had changed in the two years since his last time there—Billy’s massive desk, the walnut paneling, the half-empty book shelving, the paintings of past and present Christison ships, the old red leather couch and mahogany table where he and Billy had planned voyages and examined sail plans while drinking Kentucky bourbon and smoking Cuban cigars. Billy sat lumped behind his desk now motioning for Isaac to sit in the chair. William Jr. was in the room.
His friends addressed William Christison Sr. as Kicking Billy or just Billy. His business acquaintances and staff addressed him as Commodore. He had inherited a shipping line from his father, Alva, and the title was honorific and not at all naval. The name Kicking Billy was well-earned, bestowed upon him by the men before the mast, at first in anger as victims of Billy’s fits of rage, and then with respect and affection as his youth passed and his wife quenched his anger by tempering his heart with her own.
Kicking Billy spoke laboriously, occasionally slurring his words. “Isaac, I’ve sold the old Cambridge and Portland. They’re salmon packers now. I’ve only two ships left: the Providence and the Natick. There’s not enough shipping in New England to keep even these. If I let them ride empty at anchor, fallow, I’m bankrupt.”
Billy continued, “I’m on the verge of mortgaging the house. I’ve got to send thee to sea when the Providence is ready, when she’s finished her repairs. I can’t give thee time ashore as promised.”
Griffin turned to listen to William Jr., but the son remained silent. He examined William Jr.’s face to determine the extent of his participation in the decision, but he stood away from them by the cold fireplace. Then William Jr. adjusted his spectacles and began to speak: “I’ve analyzed trends since the Civil War.” A smile flicked across his face.
“The information’s in the New York Times, from Lloyd’s—not hard to get at all. I think all that’s left for deep-water sail is the grain, coal, and guano trades. The difference in speed between steam and sail is negligible over those distances, and the cost per ton hauled is to sail’s advantage. Simple analysis, really. Things change. So must we.”
And me?
William’s analysis was irrelevant. Only his reference to change caught Griffin’s attention. Both Griffin and Billy knew that the American merchant marine, thanks to Congress, would never recover from the Civil War. The world was changing. Confederate raiders had driven American shipping from the sea and the products of New England manufacturing into British bottoms. Steam was eradicating sail from the seas. They had discussed the Suez Canal when it opened in 1869. They saw passenger traffic disappear with the transcontinental railroad. Change would come. It had to.
Griffin watched William Jr. leave the room at his father’s insistence. When the son reached the door, he turned and glanced at Griffin. Griffin had seen the face before on mates, hands, and day men. The face burned with resentment.
When the library doors closed, Billy spoke. “I’ve had a stroke, Isaac. It’s frustrating. I talk so slowly. Now I can’t walk without a cane.” Billy then noticed Griffin’s hand.
“What happened? That was not in thy report.”
Griffin flinched. “Burned. Not a true hindrance, though.”
“Who dost thou think I am, Griffin? It is a hindrance. The men treat thee differently now. How do the mates react? Can thou do chart work anymore? Art thou dependent on the mate? Let’s sit over there, on the couch. I’ve never liked sitting here.” He stood, then walked slowly, steadying each stride with his cane.
“Thy report covered the accident, the repairs, the bottomry bond. Thee said nothing about thine hand. Talk to me. I need to know how it has affected thee. I have plans for thee.”
Billy became less agitated. “Sometimes, Griffin, it helps to talk. I know thee as well as mine own image in a mirror.”
Griffin saw something in Billy’s eyes. He recognized it although he had never seen it before. It was something his own father had denied him.
“They made me load coal in the rain in Newcastle,” Griffin began. “Said do it now or wait ten days. I knew I should have refused. Damned if I didn’t know better! Then, two weeks later, as I stood over my chart desk working the noon sight, looking in my almanac for the declination of the sun, I heard shouts: ‘Captain, there’s a fire in the cargo hold by the foremast. She’s smoldering below. Smells like rotten eggs, sir.’ ”
“So the fire burned thy hand.”
“I don’t remember the explosion or the fire that maimed my hand. I first saw my hand in my cabin. The mate and boatswain were holding me upright.”
“Many maimed souls go to sea. How it happened is well past thy wake.”
“My hand was in hell. I ordered a combination of six drops of laudanum mixed with red wine. God, I wish I had never taken the laudanum. I also had a poultice applied to my hand. When the laudanum dulled the pain, I went back on deck and led flooding and jettisoning the coal. I didn’t want my crew to see me weak, ever. Then afterward I said, ‘Pump her dry.’ No emotion, just ‘Pump her.’ I walked slowly to my cabin. I remember each step. I had to concentrate. My knees were shaking, Billy. I collapsed into unconsciousness on the reception area rug. Then more laudanum. I hate sulfur. It’s hell. My impatience caused all of it.”
“Didst thou see a doctor?”
“Yes. He told me my hand puzzled him. That I should be able to use it. Not all of the burn went deep into the hand. I had to exercise it despite the pain. If I didn’t, it would stiffen up. I told him I could not move my fingers. He said I could but that I had to force myself despite the pain. I had to convince myself that I could.”
Billy had heard enough. “And now thee thinks thy hand is a punishment. Well, all of us make mistakes. Hast thou learned from thy mistake?”
“I have. I have questions too. What happened to you, Billy? Why are we talking behind closed doors?”
“It’s William. He can be bril...smart with figures, but he’s never wanted to go to sea, just sit at a desk and buy and sell with men like him, like he is at the Mercantile Exchange. He has no…” The words stopped for a moment, then continued. “Even my father, Alva, had a soul. Thee owns a third share of Providence. Now I need thee to be half partner in the firm. That’s why I sounded your mind. I can’t manage by myself. God knows we are not worth that much now, two ships left. I have to ask that. I’m asking for thy money and thy help.”
Griffin saw that Kicking Billy’s struggle with his words was more than just the stroke. He was ashamed.
“William can’t run the company by figures. He needs help from a mariner. Someone shippers will respect as a man and listen to—hell—understand without words being spoken. Go with him when he sees the lawyers. I can trust thee.”
“When?” Griffin asked.
“Wednesday at two. I won’t be there. Can’t climb the stairs anymore, damn it.”
Griffin’s mind was already thinking about raising the money. “Yes, I understand.” He paused. “The money—I’ve put my life savings into my share of Providence. I’ve not much left, just San Matias.”
“No choice, Isaac; I’m standing here with my hat in my hand.”
Griffin looked directly into Billy’s eyes. “I’ll do what I have to. I’ll mortgage San Matias. Selling takes too long. I may not be here to sell her.”
Griffin hoped to hear the word “thanks” form on Billy’s lips. But this was not forthcoming. Instead, Griffin saw Billy’s eyes water and heard, “I’m ashamed.”
“It’s all right, Billy.”
Billy was a desperate man, pushed to his limits by his finances, his son, and his failing body.
Kicking Billy’s face straightened and then formed a wry little smile. Griffin was pleased; Billy still had confidence in him and the money was less disturbing to him than his friend’s loss of pride.
“One other thing. I can’t send thee to sea an em...emaci...sack of bones. Come have dinner with my family. Thee will, won’t thee?”
“You amaze me, Billy. First you ask me to go to sea while I’ve scarcely recovered my health. You dress me down. Then you pick my pockets and, without taking a breath, invite me to dinner. Miss Hanna will be there, won’t she?”
Billy’s jaw moved again in circular motions to form his words.
“Damn it, why not, Griffin? There’s seaway enough to laugh a little, to lie-to a spell then do... Let’s remember the good times, get a little drunk together, and then get on with this sorry business. Hanna wants the dinner. She’s planned a feast, invited one of her friends to be thy partner.”
“A woman?” Griffin’s expression showed surprise and his discomfort with the idea of a female dinner partner. “Hanna’s idea?”
Billy smiled. “Thee could say that, I guess. I mean a woman. They knew each other at Vass...school. She’s a spinster and a suffer-ra-gette. She’s no more interested in thee than thee art in her by my reckoning. Hanna says this woman is very intell...pleasant.” He laughed. “Thee loves to quarrel with me. Thee will love to argue with this woman! She’s all the Woman Question. Thee will be safe, coward. No entan...getting fouled by a swooning beauty. Thou won’t lose thy damned inde...bachelor.”
Griffin smiled. “You better have some bourbon and a Cuban cigar, a Partagás, for me.”
Griffin watched Kicking Billy slowly rise to his feet, and Griffin stood out of respect. Billy’s full beard was still there, though now completely white. His pride still showed in his clothing: charcoal gray worsted wool jacket, high collar, silk paisley tie, and subdued windowpane-checked medium gray trousers. Griffin saw tears form in the old man’s eyes. It took Billy a long time to speak, but each word was clear. “Isaac, I never wanted this to happen. It’s beyond me. I’m watching the worth of two generations disappear, my father’s and my own.”
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