The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage

by Paul Thomas Fuhrman

  Seeing exhaustion from speaking overtake his friend, Griffin said, “Back your main-yard.” His voice was as soft and comforting as years at sea permitted. His hand, his left hand, gently patted Billy’s shoulder.

  Kicking Billy took a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his eyes. He then gripped Griffin’s left biceps. In Griffin’s memory, it was the first time Billy had ever touched him save for shaking hands.

  “I’m not going out with a whimper, Griffin. I fear ruin more than death.”

  Griffin did not even ask Billy where he was to take the Providence.

  Two

  Nicholas Priest

  But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet: And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.

  —Luke 15:22–24

  Wednesday, March 27, 1872

  Boston

  “Nick, I wanted to get you out of the house. I can’t see how you’ll ever get well sitting on the edge of your bed sawing away on Uncle Johan’s old Cremona or with your head buried in some book all night. We’re near the India Wharf building, do you see it?” George Priest offered his son a piece of horehound candy from the paper bag he held in his hand.

  “Thanks, Father. The candy helps my cough. I like my violin.” The boy’s voice emphasized the word “like” with a rising inflection as well as extending the word itself. “It’s like a friend to me, my only friend. Oh, I can make it out. I see the sail loft sign right in the middle.”

  “You’ve got to start being with people again, Nick. Not everyone is like those boys at school. Besides, you need fresh air. Your mother and I would love to see you smile again.”

  The father placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “You’ll find this meeting interesting. I don’t think you’ve ever met people like these men before. Remember what I said about making good decisions? You’ll see why lawyers like you’ll be one day are indispensable.”

  The boy asked, “Who is this William Christison Jr.?”

  “His father owns Christison and Son Shipping. I’m doing this as a favor to the father. My friends Richard Henry Dana and Captain Isaac Griffin will be there also. I’m not impressed with the son. I’m sorry to say that. Remember what I told you to say. Be polite. We need to get off the horsecar.”

  The India Wharf building was a long multistory brick building occupying an entire wharf on Atlantic Avenue. It did capture Nicholas Priest’s imagination. He had never seen, heard, or smelled anything like it in his life. The boy counted nearly thirty small stores on its first floor facing the street. They sold everything imaginable from China, India, and the rim of the Indian Ocean. Silks and thousand-year-old eggs from China, and brass trays from India that reflected the morning sun and warmed an otherwise chilly day. The street was perfumed with spices and tea and pealed with the voices of both men and women filled with the hope of finding treasures—at a price. Nicholas felt his father’s hand tousle his hair.

  “See, Nick? What did I tell you?”

  Nicholas Priest saw that the street was full of merchants, ordinary people, sailors, and even extraordinary people in flowing costumes, men with turbans, and Chinese men with long braided pigtails hanging to their waists.

  His father asked, “Enjoying yourself? We’ll have lunch here when the meeting is over. We’ll get a tandoor meal. The bread is wonderful and the tea is strong and aromatic. The spices wake your mouth up.

  “In the summer months, Nick, you would think you were at a bazaar. Musicians play for the money you toss them; there are street acts, comedians and magicians, dogs and cats trained to jump through hoops and to dance. See, it’s better than a stuffy bedroom and scratching away on that violin. We’ll go here again. Promise. Next time we’ll try Chinese food, beggar’s chicken.”

  The walk up to the third-floor Christison and Son office seemed all too short when his father introduced him to William Christison Jr.

  “This is my son, Nicholas. I thought he might enjoy seeing how his father makes a living. There’s a lesson in torts in the lawsuits you’re considering, Mr. Christison. A very important lesson the boy should know.”

  William Jr. smiled at the word “important.”

  Nicholas nodded to the thin businessman sitting in a swivel chair positioned between his desk and the head of the table where he, his father, and the others sat.

  The thin man had arranged his desk, swivel chair, and meeting table so that all he had to do was remain seated and turn around to face the table or the desk. It was obvious that he would allow himself no loss of time whatsoever. He even remained seated to greet Mr. Dana, a man approaching sixty and his senior.

  Does Mr. Christison even bother to eat? I hoped he might offer us tea.

  Isaac Griffin smiled at the boy. “Let him ask an occasional question, William. He just might spare me the embarrassment of having to betray my ignorance of the law. I don’t even know if your suit is federal or a matter for the courts in San Francisco.”

  The boy saw Griffin wink at Mr. Dana.

  The elder Priest turned to his son. “Well, what do you say to Mr. Christison, Mr. Dana, and Captain Griffin for allowing you to be here?”

  “Thank you, sirs.” Nicholas turned to see if his father approved of his answer.

  Throughout the exchange, Nicholas Priest had watched Richard Henry Dana. His father had told him Dana was one of the preeminent attorneys in the country and a good friend. He had a long and highly successful career practicing admiralty law. He was also known for championing the rights of sailors. Dana’s eyes sparked with immense energy and inquisitiveness. It did not surprise Nicholas Priest that Dana would question him. The directness of those questions, however, upset him.

  “What happened to you? Your complexion has no color. Your face shows bruising, and you are thin and emaciated. Are you sick? Why aren’t you in school? Did someone assault you?”

  William Jr. interrupted. “The Providence?”

  “Let the boy answer my questions. It angers me to see anyone mistreated. Something terrible happened.”

  “My appearance, sir? That’s why you are asking me these questions?”

  Dana smiled. “Yes, of course. I know your father, and he would never allow you to be so badly mistreated. Never.”

  George Priest interceded. “Enough’s happened to the boy, Dana. I brought him here to get him out of the house. I wanted him to see me at work.”

  Dana was visibly upset. “George, the last thing I want to do is embarrass the boy. I want to help him and you if I can. Besides, if you want him to practice law, to be a litigator, let him answer my questions. Let’s see how he handles himself. After what happened, words and questions must be a nuisance to your son by now, surely?”

  Nicholas looked toward his father. Dana was correct; a thick callus had started to form. The headmaster, the doctor, the school nurse, all had questioned him. When he returned home the questioning continued: his father, his father’s doctors, the nurse hired to care for him, and, most intensely, his mother. He vowed he would never again be abused, if only he knew how to prevent it. The telling was routine by now, but the betrayal and physical pain still lingered.

  “I’m not a street musician entertaining people for the money they throw, Mr. Dana. I don’t want your pity either. This”—he pointed to a bruise—“happened because people have no respect for me.”

  “You’ve got sand, Nicholas. I can see that.” Dana’s smile left Nicholas wondering if he might, in fact, admire him for not succumbing to the desire for pity.

  Isaac Griffin turned, looked Priest straight in the eye, and said, “I admire sand.”

  If these men admire me—

  William Jr. was becoming irritated. “I brought you here to discuss recouping some of the money I spent for the Providence’s repairs in San Francisco, shoddy repairs. Had I known, George, I wo
uld have asked you to leave your son at home.”

  George Priest took a breath and composed the rhetoric of what he was about to say. He responded, “Mr. Christison, here are your options: You can sue your underwriters for breach of contract; you can sue the ship surveyor for inaccurate or biased work; you can sue the shipyard for shoddy work. One, all, or some combination of them. It’s up to you. The real question is your chance of succeeding in any of this. Do you agree, Mr. Dana?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Isaac Griffin listened and added, “William, let me remind you that my life savings went into the bottomry bond for those repairs. That’s why I own a third share in Providence. You could not repay me! Despite that, despite the Commodore asking me to be half partner, I’d like to hear what Nicholas has to say. Besides, this suit isn’t going anywhere.”

  Nicholas seemed to inflate within his clothes. He then straightened his back and looked at each man sitting at the table. “If all you want is to know what happened, I’ll tell you. It’s not a pleasant story. I don’t enjoy recalling it.”

  The younger Priest composed himself. “They came for me after midnight. My roommate, Charles, had to be part of it, had to have known about it. I trusted him. I hoped he was my friend. Then, suddenly, they hurled me out of my bed, threw a sheet over me, and started to beat me with their fists. They forced me out of Mosby Hall, out beyond the quad, beyond the parade ground, to the edge of the woods. They threatened me; they said they would club me if I screamed out.”

  Emotions pooled at the lower lids of Nicholas Priest’s eyes, reddening them to the brink of spilling over. His sinuses started to drain. He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. His father handed the boy a handkerchief.

  Why does this crying always happen? I hate it… It’s why… I don’t want them to see me cry.

  The boy lowered his eyes and concentrated on the floor. It was worn pine; no two boards were the same width or length. The floorboards were held to their joists with cut nails. His nose stopped dripping and he sniffed briefly.

  Nicholas then remembered his mother painting the portrait the thin man was so proud of, the old Quaker—the man with painted eyes that followed you throughout the room, staring at you, never blinking.

  He rubbed his eyes and said, “I read too much.”

  He remembered his father calling the man old Alva, the Quaker; he was the thin man’s grandfather. When the boy had regained control of his emotions, he jammed the handkerchief in a trouser pocket and continued.

  Dana asked, “You knew these boys, then. You trusted them?”

  “I did trust them. I’m not sure I can trust anyone now. They stripped me naked, tied me to a tree, and pissed all over me.” Nicholas Priest saw that his father did not approve of the word “piss.”

  “Yes, they urinated on me. They were laughing, calling me Priestie. Charles seemed to enjoy it as much as the rest. He called me Priestie too. It was the first time he did that. Then someone yelled, ‘Someone’s coming, let’s get out of here.’ No one was coming. They were afraid someone might catch them. It was well after midnight. They left me there until sunrise, maybe an hour, not much more. I was wet from their urine, and naked, and my lip was bleeding. It was freezing. I was tied to a tree. My body shivered. It was bad. That was my sixteenth birthday, the seventeenth of February.”

  Nicholas Priest saw a flash of disgust on Dana’s face.

  “The groundskeeper found me and wrapped me in his old gray army coat—my nightclothes were torn—and took me to the headmaster’s house. The headmaster sent his butler to get my clothes and gave me hot tea to drink. He then sent for Dr. Metzger, the school’s doctor, who came and examined me. He had this funny instrument that looked like a wooden recorder, only smaller. He listened to my chest. He took my pulse and my temperature. He said I was too cold. He said my lips were blue.

  “Dr. Metzger then took me to the infirmary. I was wrapped in blankets. He put me into a warm bath and then put me in bed under heavy blankets. He took my temperature after the bath. The next day, I started to cough.”

  “Are we here to discuss my ship or shall we all just go home?” William Jr. interjected.

  Dana ignored William Jr. and asked, “Where did this take place?”

  George Priest remained silent and let his son answer the question. “Saint Alcuin Military Academy in Virginia.”

  Dana continued his questioning. “What happened in the infirmary?”

  “I became weaker. I developed a cough, my chest hurt; I had a fever and coughed up mucus. I still do. It’s yellow. The cuts are healing, but the bruising isn’t. I’ve bruises on my body too.”

  “And Dr. Metzger?” Dana asked.

  “He saw me every day for a week, often twice a day. He listened to my chest, felt my pulse, and took my temperature. He said my chest was gurgling. I wheezed too. He had the nurse, old Mrs. O’Conner, take care of me. Mrs. O’Conner encouraged me to drink flaxseed tea. She’s a widow. All the boys in my form called her Mom. The doctor made cough drops for me but insisted I not be fed too much, just broth. He said too much food was bad for me. Mrs. O’Conner snuck me bread rolls and butter, and even a piece of her mince pie.”

  “Why did they send you home?”

  “The school didn’t. One day, Father came and took me home. He was angry.”

  George Priest added, “They thought it was consumption or pneumonia. The doctor wanted to drain his lungs. That’s quackery, in my opinion.”

  Nicholas Priest was puzzled. His father shook his head as if to say no when he spoke the words “consumption” and “pneumonia.” The men nodded, even Mr. Christison.

  Dana asked, “What did you do, George?”

  “I had words with the headmaster. He offered me an apology of sorts, but he refused any responsibility, personal or for the school. I asked if hazing was common. He said no but that it was traditional. I then asked if that meant he turned a blind eye to it. He took offense at my question. His evasiveness was enough to disgust me. I threatened to sue. I wanted to hit him with my fists. I said I’d see the place closed.”

  “What did you say to your son?”

  “What can you say, Dana? I said be brave. I held him in my arms. I’d not held him since he was little. He’s been away at school. Do you see how much weight he’s lost?

  “The trustees settled out of court. The headmaster was sacked, the boys expelled. I’ve set up a trust for Nicholas with the proceeds. He’ll have at least a modest income for the rest of his life.”

  Dana replied, “Do you know my story, Nicholas?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I was a student like you. I started to go blind from measles. I thought going to sea was my only chance to regain my vision. I spent two years before the mast as a common seaman. It was rough work and dangerous, too, but it cured me.”

  William Jr. asked again, “My ship?”

  Dana then looked at William Jr. and spoke. “Yes, yes, and the business at hand. You used a Salem underwriter. George and I will need to examine the policy carefully, but I don’t want to raise your hopes. Do you agree, George?”

  George Priest replied, “I do. In my experience, the Salem people know what they are doing. I don’t think we’ll catch them in an error. Besides, they employ lawyers too.”

  Dana resumed speaking. “That only leaves the insurer’s agent who surveyed the ship for damages, and the shipyard. We must prove deliberate falsification or incompetence. Did you dicker over the shipyard’s price or challenge the insurer’s survey of damages? Did you hire an independent surveyor to do an inspection? Are the insurer’s agent and shipyard even worth the cost of a lawsuit? Did you look at criminal proceedings? You seem to think you were defrauded. How much money do you think they are worth? Probably not much.”

  Griffin added, “Everything seemed on the level until the work began.”

  William Jr. laughed. “It takes a lawyer to tell you that there’s no hope, no chance of recouping any money, and then charge you for th
e dismal news.”

  Griffin’s face showed anger. “Your money?”

  Dana looked at William Jr. and replied, “My retainer covers reading the underwriting documents. I’m sure that’s true for Professor Priest also.”

  The elder Priest nodded his head in agreement. “Let’s see what it says; then you can litigate or just lick your wounds. I won’t accept this pro bono, ha! Neither will Dana.”

  William Jr. replied, “My decision?”

  “Yes, your money.” He chuckled while looking at Griffin.

  Then Dana asked William Jr. a totally unexpected question.

  “Do you employ apprentices on your ships?”

  “I do. My ships have berths for four boys.”

  Dana turned to the elder Priest. “Send this boy to sea. I think he needs to get out in the world and learn about men, and maybe even become one himself.”

  Isaac Griffin nodded his head. “Send him with me. I like him already. The sea is a teacher, a hard one, but I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

  Griffin then addressed Nicholas Priest. “You’ll need to work hard and never, ever complain. Do you understand me? Can you do that?”

  Nicholas Priest realized the ship captain was not joking. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

  George Priest was quick to reply. “His mother will not be happy about this.”

  “Neither was mine.” Dana laughed.

  Dana turned to the boy. “Are you agreeable?”

  Priest answered, “I’ll do what Father tells me.”

  “But are you agreeable?”

  Dana then addressed both the father and the son. “This boy needs fresh soil to grow. Going to sea will either make him strong or kill him. If he lives, no one will ever treat him like that again. They’ll respect him.”