The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage

by Paul Thomas Fuhrman

  Nicholas Priest was proud of himself, a unique experience in his life. He had tasted beer and whiskey and liked them. He found a new appetite for plain food that he had never eaten before. Priest had lost his virginity and now had a girl who occupied his reveries. Sophie likes me. Sophie likes me. He had a face and name for his Lilith. Priest now had a friend in Smallbridge and had come to enjoy going aloft—the joy that comes with conquering fear. Smallbridge had said he had balls.

  Maybe I do. I’ve got anchor watch at four this morning. I need to sleep.

  Priest would not go ashore again until San Francisco. Soon, Sophie’s fate wore at his conscience just as the holystone wore at his hands. His blisters, in time, would heal and harden into calluses, but not his conscience.

  Fifteen

  The First Mate

  The King sets in Dumferling Town,

  Drinking the blood-red wine:

  O where will I get a good sailor,

  To sail this ship of mine?

  Child Ballad 58

  Scotland, circa 1290

  Friday, May 3, 1872

  Bath, Maine

  Peleg Carver was escorted to Isaac Griffin’s office by Ezra, Griffin’s steward. He then stood beside the steward waiting for his new captain to recognize his presence. Griffin was deeply absorbed in the receipts for the provisions for which he had just written a bank draft. As Carver waited, he pondered the uncertain future he would experience aboard Providence with a captain he knew only by hearsay. In the face of the unknown, he turned to what he did know—rumors—to reckon his future aboard this ship.

  He thought: He doesn’t look odd—no spectacles, respectable beard. Been before the mast with that body.

  I’ve heard people say Griffin is an Ahab—questions the Almighty. Wouldn’t do so if he was like me. He’d leave all that to the reverend doctors. A man should stick to what he knows and not trouble himself with what he don’t.

  See the books on the shelf? There’s a King James Bible with a concordance. There’s Paradise Lost and Moby-Dick. He has the Book of Common Prayer. At least that one’s good for burying a man. Where’s The American Practical Navigator?

  Guess I’ll soon find out about him. Will he pick fights knowing a sailor can’t stand up to a captain, just to humiliate the poor johnny? No one recalls him striking a man, but everyone accords him a temper. Will he flog a man because he wants to, to enjoy the man’s suffering, and then weep over a pet dog swept overboard? You know men who have, Peleg. Yes, you do.

  Will he belittle me before the foremast johnnies? You’ve seen it before, old man. Now you’ll find out. He’s so deep in those papers, ship’s business.

  Allows himself only anger and confidence. Aye, that’s his reputation. Not one extra word ever spoken. Passes weeks without speaking at meals, they say. Sailors like him, though, if they do their duty, they like him. They like Peleg I. Carver too, if they avoid my fist.

  A good fight is a good diversion. Keeps a man lively. Laugh, you old son of a bitch. You got them beaten before it begins. Pa taught me that.

  Carver smiled and fingered the brass knuckleduster in his pants pocket and continued his thoughts.

  This man gives you a lot to think about. People always find someone to talk—but Sally and I need the money; there’ll be a baby for us in November. Please, God, let this one live. For Sally, Lord, if not for me.

  Griffin could invite me to sit. Enough of this.

  Carver grunted theatrically.

  Griffin looked up from his papers, rose from his chair, and extended his left hand to the new first mate. “Isaac Griffin. I’m glad you are here. Sit, man, sit.”

  “Thankee, Captain, thankee. Peleg Carver, sir. Do you have any instructions for me, ayuh?”

  “Do your job. You’ve been around the Horn?”

  “Yes, sir. I did so in the golden times and seven times since. I shipped on Great Republic. Been a grain ship sailor too.”

  Griffin sat back from his desk. “Ah, set a record—The Great Republic—I remember, less than a hundred days. I understand you were in the navy during the war and that you were on the Kearsarge. Mr. Lennon served as a boatswain’s mate on the Confederate raider Shenandoah. Is that a problem for you?”

  Carver looked directly at his captain and said, “No, sir. As long as he knows I’m first mate.”

  Griffin laughed and replied, “He does. You’ll want to get your dunnage stowed in the chief mate’s stateroom and take a look at Providence. There’s no one aboard now except us, Lennon, my steward, and the apprentices. Cup of coffee? No?

  “I’ll have four prime seamen, married men, able-bodied New Englanders, on board for the tow to New York, and we can start putting her in ship-like fashion. I mean the rigger work. I use first names aft and ‘mister’ on deck. Do you use your first name or is there another you prefer?”

  “Sir, Peleg works fine.”

  “The patriarch—I’ve always thanked the Almighty my father named me Isaac instead of Nehemiah. It’s easier to say and write out.” Griffin laughed. “The name’s fine. My father’s a minister, you know. You’ve met my second mate? Henry Lennon and I have been together since ’sixty-seven so we’ve become a team—he knows his duty. He’s from Liverpool. He’s a Scouser from the docks. Just listen to him. He ought to be a first mate.”

  Ought to be a first mate!

  “It doesn’t matter, Captain. Seen ’em on both sides of that coin. I run things and he’ll learn that if he wants to push it.”

  Griffin noticed Carver’s hand tighten around what he thought was the bowl of a pipe in Carver’s pocket.

  “Peleg, don’t anticipate a fight with Lennon. It’s not what you’ll do; it’s what I do, and I won’t abide my mates squabbling. My voice and my words are the only ones that matter on my ship, and both of you speak for me, not yourselves. Commodore Christison says you’re ready to be a master. You’ve had a master’s ticket some time now. The question’s your judgment, not experience. I’m to see if you’re ready. I know I’m blunt, but that’s the case.”

  I’m glad he told me that raw.

  Griffin’s face settled. “Tonight, let me lay out how I’ve planned this voyage. I would appreciate your thoughts. I see a pipe there in your pocket, so we can have a smoke and talk about old shipmates. I’ll ask Henry to show you the ship first.”

  The steward left the reception area. “Ezra’s a good man, a Yankee. Don’t say anything in front of him you might not want the crew to hear. Lennon knows that too. Ezra’s going to tell the forecastle jacks you’re a bucko mate now.”

  Griffin chuckled. “Make sure the saloon shines, Peleg. You, Lennon, and the apprentices, too. I’m bringing my wife on board this evening.”

  Sixteen

  Father Must Be Told

  ’Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one’s laurels

  By blood or ink, ’tis sweet to put an end

  To strife; ’tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,

  Particularly with a tiresome friend:

  Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;

  Dear is the helpless creature we defend...

  —Lord Byron

  Saturday, May 4, 1872

  Boston

  Kayleigh MacKenna sat quietly on the ferry carrying her from East Boston across the bay to Boston proper. She rose from her wooden seat and left the comfort of the cabin to feel the wind on her face and to watch the water in the bay and listen to it as the bow of the ferry cut its rippling path to Boston. The water was still gray from the overcast and calm because the wind was light. Then her mind returned to the purpose that brought her on deck—to feel wind and water and thus bring his voyage to mind. He was somewhere in the Bay of Maine now on his way to New York. She would meet him there and spend as much time as she could with him, sharing a bed with him.

  As the ferry neared Boston, landmarks became more recognizable and brought her mind to the tasks she had appointed for herself. She needed to catch up with her work at the hospital and wi
th the committee in Fall River. Work would carry her through the loneliness of an empty bed. It would exhaust her and let her sleep when concern for his safety kept her awake. Work would compress time.

  The wind changed and briefly carried smoke from the ferry’s stack in her direction. She thought of his hand. She thought of his courage and determination.

  Her mind turned to the problems she must face. The first of these was her father, his prejudice toward Griffin for being Protestant, and his association of Protestantism with the trouble in Ireland. She feared that in his mind, Griffin had become a symbol for what he had suffered at English hands.

  What would her father say when he learned? He could disown her, banish her from his life and her home. She shuddered.

  Then Kayleigh thought of her mother and the joy the news of her marriage would bring her. Until Kayleigh revealed the rape to her mother, she never knew how strong her mother really was, nor the depth of the bond between them.

  Kayleigh was Mrs. Isaac Griffin now, in a marriage performed and sanctified by her church. Her husband submitted to baptism for her and understood his obligation to her and their children. What caused her the greatest hope was his presence with her at Mass and his words, “I feel a presence, Kayleigh, being here with you, listening to your responses to the priest, hearing you sing.”

  She thought of what she must do. There must be no more deception in her life. She was the wife of Isaac Griffin and the world must know that and respect it, father or not.

  The ferry would land; then, after a horsecar ride, she would walk to the three-story brownstone off Marlborough Avenue, her parents’ home.

  Kayleigh smiled. She had worn her wedding ring on the train ride from Maine and remembered how the conductor treated her with courtesy and seemed to hover near her, a brusque guardian angel with a deep down east accent: “Fall Rivah, Fall Rivah, next stop, Fall Rivah.”

  She sat alone in the coach, free to doze off or watch scenery. The conductor moved near her when men came near. In the conductor’s presence they seemed to pass without comment, forbidden to imagine and wonder those things men do about the women they pass on the street. Only women spoke to her. Kayleigh wondered how they knew. Could it be true an aura surrounded her? Did she glow as they said a woman would? Did these passing women share her joy? Did they remember? “Good afternoon, missus, a good day t’ you.”

  She knocked upon the door. The family butler greeted her and reminded her that dinner would soon be served. He let her know that her mother was concerned about how thin she had become. Kayleigh then rushed to the second floor, to her old bedroom, washed her face in the washbasin, and changed her blouse and chemise. She saw no change in her mirror and wondered how that could be. What had those women seen? The fresh blouse and chemise would have to do. She unpinned, then brushed out her hair and repinned it. A chime sounded. It was time; dinner was being served and her father would sit at the head of the table.

  “Kayleigh, you’ve been gone more than a week. You weren’t at the hospital. Where were you?”

  Mary MacKenna bristled. “Jim, she’s a grown woman.”

  “As long as she’s my daughter, she’ll answer my questions.”

  Kayleigh’s mother was quick to remind her husband, “She is a woman.”

  Mary MacKenna emphasized the word “is.”

  Kayleigh placed her left hand on top of the table. Her mother immediately saw the rings, then gasped, relaxed, and smiled. Jim MacKenna did not see the rings.

  Kayleigh knew a confrontation would occur, but she refused to think about it. She knew this was the time to assert herself.

  She announced in a firm contralto, “I’m married. Isaac Griffin is my husband. A priest married us in Bath, Maine, after Isaac was baptized.” She smiled. There was pride in what she had done, and this smile heralded the invulnerability she felt.

  Jim MacKenna quickly raised his napkin to his mouth and spit what he was chewing into it. His eyes turned to Kayleigh, but she heard no words. She thought he would be angry, that he would threaten and curse her or Griffin, but he said nothing, just stared for a moment, then averted his eyes. His face was as gray as wood ashes from a cookstove. She watched him turn to his wife.

  Mary MacKenna spoke. “Jimmy. Our daughter has married a good man who loves her and will provide for her and our grandchildren.”

  Jim MacKenna remained seemingly dumb. Although Kayleigh could see only his profile, she was sure his eyes were reddening.

  Her mother looked at her and smiled. “Kayleigh, please be patient; please forgive us. I need t’ speak alone with yer father. He’s so upset, the shock, you know. It was so sudden.”

  Jim MacKenna and his wife left the table and went to the parlor, leaving Kayleigh alone with her meal.

  ***

  In the parlor, Mary watched as flashes of emotion lit her husband’s eyes. An internal battle raged. She knew he was silently fighting with himself, afraid to speak lest his words might be remembered. He once told her that he feared words, words that could never be withdrawn or forgotten.

  “Mary, I—I want...”

  “I know, Jimmy. Don’t be angry with yerself. She loves you, and so do I.”

  ***

  Mary MacKenna sat alone before the mirror behind her dressing table. She wore a white cotton sleeping gown embroidered in lace, Irish lace. The last time she’d worn this gown was the last time she and Jim shared a bed. The cotton was so fine, so soft, and draped so beautifully.

  There it was, the quiet rap on her bedroom door. “Come in, Jimmy.” She unbuttoned two buttons in the front and let the garment drape from her shoulders. She was proud of her breasts and her smooth skin, something her daughter had inherited.

  Jim MacKenna opened the door slowly and peered within. She saw the tears in his eyes.

  “Mary, she was listening for me to come up the stairs. She rushed out of her bedroom and kissed me just like she did when—she called me Pa—she said she loved me and always would.”

  “Sit here on the bed next to me, Jimmy.”

  He sat by her and bent his head down on his chest and he cried.

  “She’s my pride. I know I spoiled her. I know I did. She’s always been my delight.”

  Mary moved closer to her husband; their hips and legs touched. She placed her left arm around his shoulders and with her right hand gently brought his head up from his chest, then to her.

  She kissed his cheek.

  “Give her your love, Jimmy. Have a mass said to celebrate her marriage. If people ask, say yer proud; she’s independent and strong like you are.”

  “That’s not why I’m crying. You don’t know what I’ve done. I never thought he would ever threaten her.”

  “Who? Who threatened Kayleigh?”

  “Not yet. Not now. It’ll come, though. He’ll use her as blackmail.”

  “Who, Jimmy?”

  “O’Corkerane. The Clan na Gael wants to use Griffin’s shipping line to smuggle men, arms, and money into Ireland. They wanted Kayleigh to marry him. For me to force her if it came to that.”

  “Well, she’s in no danger now, Jimmy. How could she be? She married him.”

  “You don’t understand, Mary. They’ll use her to blackmail Griffin if they have to. They’re rabid dogs. They’ll never let loose of her. They threatened me, and then Kayleigh, with death if I opposed their marriage. Said I knew the oath. Reminded me of poor Terrence Cleary.”

  She felt his body stiffen and thought he might pull away from her. “Can’t you do something?”

  “No. Nothing. I’ve taken the oath; they’ll never let loose now. Did you know that it was me that arranged for the cargo of railroad equipment? It was me that contacted the Rallis? It’s all part of a scheme to see that Christison ships regularly ship grain to England and Europe from California. Every crew he ships will have Clan na Gael men smuggled aboard. Every cargo will have money hidden in a sack or two of grain. There’ll be rifles too. After they get to know Griffin, God knows what they’l
l expect him to do. They won’t trust the Christisons—bought the son, they did. Said it was too easy. Did you know they’re talking about getting your brothers out of Australia? That’s how they plan to keep me in line, as if Kayleigh ain’t enough.”

  “Jimmy—I—O’Corkerane seems such a good man. He seems so gentle when he speaks in Gaelic.”

  “No, Mary. That’s what he wants people to believe. That the cause is just—is sacred even. That’s not what he is, though. He’s filled with hate and revenge, and he’s come to love it. It’s revenge that drives him. They killed his brother. Ireland’s how he justifies it, how he settles his soul with the killing. Mary, I know revenge.”

  “Don’t tell her, Jimmy. You’ve got to protect her. Can’t you see how happy she is? The rape is behind her. Let her be happy. Don’t spoil it, please.”

  “Mary, I love—She’s me daughter.”

  “I know that. Why do you think I’ve not raised my voice at you? There’s no anger here in my heart. They deceived and used you. It had to be that. I trusted him as much as you. You’ve frightened me, though.”

  “I’m going to my bedroom, Mary. That’s where I belong. I don’t deserve—”

  “This is your bedroom, Jimmy. This is our bed. Will you stay and brush out my hair? Just fifty strokes are all it needs. It’s not the same when I do it myself. Sit closer. Sit behind me on the bed. It feels good when you’re near me.”

  ***

  It was exactly as O’Corkerane promised, the East Boston saloon, the street, the three men who stood hidden in the shadows with Jim MacKenna as they waited for Kayleigh’s violator to leave. Every time the doors opened and a man left, Jim MacKenna tensed, every muscle strained in anticipation, the veins on his neck swelled. The three men, Irish immigrants, Clan na Gael men, were calm. This was nothing new to them; murder was their trade.

  Then it finally happened; he emerged with a friend and a girl on his arm, a housemaid or seamstress, Irish, who had had a little too much of his cheap champagne and compliments—perhaps a poor man’s wife.