Jim MacKenna stopped the Clan na Gael men with his arm. “I’ll do it.”
He then addressed the girl. “Go home, girl! You don’t know what this man has in store for yer. Go on, now.”
The rapist grabbed her arm and restrained her. “Just who in hell are you? Her father?”
The big man replied, his brogue thickening with anger, “Let her go and I’ll make it quick for yer. That’s all I’ll promise yer. Girl, get along, now. You’ll not want t’ see what I’m about t’ do.”
Jim MacKenna watched the girl leave. When he felt she was out of eyesight and hearing, Jim MacKenna brought his face to within inches of the rapist’s. “I’m calling you out. I’m here to beat you, you bastard.” The rapist’s companion heard the words and stared into MacKenna’s face. The companion muttered, “I’ve got to leave.”
“Who are you?” the rapist pleaded.
Jim MacKenna replied, “D’ yer remember me daughter, Kayleigh, or has there been so many you’ve forgotten? How could yer forget her? I see the scar she left on yer face.”
Urine ran down the rapist’s leg and pooled by his left shoe.
“Please, Mr. MacKenna, I didn’t know. You know how it is with women. That was years ago. Jesus—so long. Don’t, I’m married now.”
Two Irishmen stepped into the saloon while one remained as a lookout. The two then stood before the saloon door, blocking entry to the street. One of O’Corkerane’s men shouted, “Piano man, make some music, some O’Carolan, the ‘Ode to Whiskey,’ if you would, an’ since we’re buyin’ it fer th’ house.”
At the first note from the piano, Jim MacKenna launched a boxer’s jab that broke the rapist’s nose. Another jab struck the man’s right eye. As it landed, Jim MacKenna gave his left fist a quick twist to open the skin and produce bleeding. Then his right hand crossed viciously through the space separating him from his victim. When it landed, MacKenna knew he had dislodged teeth. The man staggered, leaned up against the brick wall of the saloon, and pleaded for his life. Jim MacKenna coldly, methodically beat the man until he fell to the pavement and convulsed. Blood ran from his mouth and ears, and then the convulsing stopped.
Jim MacKenna knew he had beaten the man to death.
MacKenna then rapped on the saloon door. “It’s over. Get rid of the bastard. If you lads see Jack O’Corkerane before I do, tell him what I’ve done this evening. Tell him this is what waits anyone that ever harms me daughter.”
Seventeen
Farewell, New England
Good Gossip, let us draw near.
And let us drink ere we depart,
For oftentimes we have done so;
For at a draught thou drink’st a quart,
And so will I do, ere I go.
—Anonymous
Monday, May 6, 1872
Kennebec River
The dove gray and silver loom of the sun heralded daybreak by painting the cirrus clouds the morning of May 6, 1872. Sam Duder’s heavy wool vest provided a degree of comfort from the chill, as did standing in the heat of the lee of the deck cabin door as the oceangoing tug E.M. Smith made steam in her boilers. A column of thick black smoke swirled upward from her stack, then bent horizontally with the wind before settling on the surface of the Kennebec River. The tug smelled of sulfur and fresh roasted peanuts from the expended effort of the burning coal. Hot cinders fell occasionally from the dense smoke. The pungent odor of lubricating oil also passed upward and through the engine room hatch, while the scrape of the coal heavers’ shovels could be heard from below. The tug’s idle deckhands stood nearby, warming themselves with the escaping heat, waiting for the order to bring in the lines holding the tug to the shore. In a few minutes the engineman would crack the tug’s throttle to set the engine to turning over slowly, giving motion to the propeller shaft to heat the brass bearings and lead babbitting in the stuffing box, thereby sealing off the seep of river water trickling into her iron bilge.
The pilot arrived wearing a suit, a poplin overcoat, and a derby, and carrying his papers in a brown leather satchel with a shoulder strap. He smiled at the sailors and joined the tug’s captain on the bridge. Each man addressed the other as Captain. The pilot was offered a cup of coffee.
The pilot would guide the tug and tow downriver into the Bay of Maine. He imagined the anxiety of the Providence’s captain to get under way with the tide. The river pilot, however, preferred to take Fiddler’s Reach, the most worrisome leg of the journey, at as near slack water as possible when going downstream.
Seven men were on board with their dunnage for the short trip out to where the Providence lay anchored. They stood on the fantail shuffling foot to foot and side to side to stay warm. Llewellyn James offered a small bottle of rye whiskey to the other men. “You might want to try a swig, boys; there won’t be another chance till New York. I know you, Sam Duder. We sailed together once. Said you’d buy a farm, and here you are, shipped and bound to go.”
“We shipped together for San Francisco, Lew, in the golden days when the pay was good. I did buy a farm and married too. You went to the gold fields, I remember. Well, I ain’t a farmer, and that’s why I shipped. Made no lasting money off the cod bank either. Don’t look like you struck a gold vein.”
Albert Crother took a generous sip of the whiskey and passed it on to John Stedwin, who asked where the raw liquor came from as Maine was a dry state—a fact regularly overlooked on the riverfront. Two men smoked pipes, but most chewed tobacco for convenience. The small talk continued when the engine began to turn, churning up white water at the tug’s stern. Several of the deep-water sailors huddled beneath the collars of their jackets while suffering the remnants of the night before. Most took a taste of the whiskey and said, “Thank you,” in quiet, defeated voices.
Eoghan Gabriel, the boatswain, stood away from the men. If they were to obey his orders, he need not be drinking and chewing tobacco with them. He feigned interest in the Sampson post and hemp fenders with one of the deckhands, who pretended similar interest in explaining them. Gabriel agreed the work was good marlinspike seamanship and a rarity these days. The deckhand replied, “Thankee, Mr. Gabriel.”
The crew of the E.M. Smith brought the tug’s bow and stern lines aboard and stood by the remaining spring line to warp the tug out. The engine telegraph rang and signaled she would be backing slowly, walking her stern to port. The gangplank was pulled ashore with a thud and the final spring line was brought aboard. The tug pulled away from the pier, and soon the order came to put the engine ahead and take the tug the short distance to the Providence. For a moment the smoke from the stack swept the deck, then rose and pointed away as the tug gained speed. Sam Duder asked the name of the tug’s captain. Maybe he would be hiring in a year or so.
The tug was made fast on Providence’s starboard side by its deckhands and the ship’s apprentices. The deckhands and the newly shipped men took heavers into hand and inched the ship’s anchor cable aboard pawl click by click. E.M. Smith assisted the ship by nudging her gently upwind toward her anchor. Peleg Carver missed hearing “Blood Red Roses” sung out. The shantey would have helped the men leave the beach behind them and accept being at sea again.
Sam Duder shouted, “Up and down, Mr. Carver.” The next shout was, “Anchor’s aweigh.” With the anchor at the cat-head, the apprentices strained at the task of cleaning and faking the anchor chain. Carver watched to make sure their work was flawless, as it was a reflection of the first mate’s authority. The ship would use the anchor soon off the Battery.
Once the anchor had been raised, the pilot looked to Captain Griffin for the go-ahead to move the ship down the river. At Griffin’s nod, the pilot gave the commands to start the voyage. He pointed in the direction he wanted the tug to go and said, “Slow.”
As the tug put her shoulder to her work, the tug’s smoke thickened and left the tall black stack above the red band at its top. The pistons thudded side to side and the Kennebec churned white and brown at the tug’s stern. The Providen
ce moved downriver.
Tug and tow floated past Hospital Point, keeping to the center of the river to avoid the shallows above the entrance to Winnegance Creek. They turned nearly ninety degrees into the narrow waters of Fiddler’s Reach, laboring against its strong currents and eddies. The tug forced its way to the right of the channel. She dodged a submerged log lost from one of the lumber camps upriver from Bath. The twelve-foot log had been caught in an eddy and moved more rapidly than the tug.
The next turn was almost due east at Doubling Point. Tug and tow followed the river’s channel to Bluff Head. Past the Sasanoa River, the Kennebec opened up. After a few miles, the pilot directed the tug to take a course toward Seguin Island with its lighthouse. The pilot would be picked up by a pilot boat near Seguin Island to wait for the opportunity to take a vessel up the Kennebec to Bath, his job finished with E.M. Smith and her tow, Providence. This was not a leisurely cruise; the Providence’s deck was holystoned down and swept dry before breakfast was served. Carver watched the men work while muttering, “Filthy coal smoke.”
Peleg Carver and Henry Lennon divided the shipped men into watches using the traditional method: The first mate picked his man first and directed him to the port side. Then the second mate made his choice, directing him to the starboard side. Soon there were no men left to choose. As the men walked to where the mates stood, the port and starboard watches were established. Carver chose his three picks and the Ernst brothers. Henry Lennon got his wish to have Smallbridge and Priest on the starboard watch. He chose Sam Duder also. Both mates were pleased, but for different reasons. The Ernst boys were good strong Maine lads. Priest and Smallbridge were friends and would work and learn well together. Duder was a shantey man.
After much thought, Carver decided to let Lennon bury Priest at sea if need be. Besides, the Ernst brothers knew how to work.
***
Blunt’s American Coast Pilot states that the Bay of Maine is a demanding place to navigate a ship. The tug’s master and Captain Griffin had agreed to a general plan to use Cape Elizabeth as the departure, then to steer SW by S for fifty-five miles to Cape Ann, and from there to steer south by east by one-half east for seventy-two miles to Cape Cod. This would permit verification of their dead reckoning by use of navigational aids and soundings in the likely event of fog.
Because of the Nantucket shoals, their planned course would be to steer eastward of Martha’s Vineyard, then through the Vineyard Sound. From there they would steer to the westward side of Long Island, past Sandy Hook and into the lower bay to anchor off the Battery, as had been arranged.
Cape Cod came up and was rounded. The tug and tow turned into Pollock Rip Channel and stood for Vineyard Sound. On leaving the sound, they passed Block Island and left Montauk light to starboard, taking the Atlantic side of Long Island to avoid the chance of being fogbound in Long Island Sound, to avoid a piloting fee, and to avoid Hell Gate.
The weather broke for the short trip past Sandy Hook with its anchored ships, and continued clear for the trip up the Narrows to the Battery. Peleg Carver made absolutely sure Providence appeared in Bristol fashion for this trip because every sailorman, every master, mate, and lowly ship’s boy would pass a comment about the Providence as she entered New York Harbor.
The Providence was special because she flew a long-pointed emerald green burgee directly below her house flag and above her signal. There was a large Irish harp at the head of the burgee. The harp stood alone with no English crown above it. This was the silent partner’s special request, to fly the harp burgee, a Fenian symbol, when entering and leaving U.S. harbors. The partner’s name was known to William Christison Jr., who had assured Griffin the partner merely wanted anonymity and profit.
Eighteen
Bound to Go
Our advance note’s in our pocket, boys, it sure will take us far,
Heave away, me johnnies, heave away-away
An’ now a cruise down Lime Street, boys, an’ to the American bar
Heave away, me bully boys
We’re all bound to go!
Brake Windlass Shantey
Sunday, May 26, 1872
New York
“The Several Persons whose names are hereto subscribed, and whose descriptions are contained on the other side or sides and of whom 20 are engaged as sailors hereby agree to serve on board said ship, in the several capacities expressed against their respective Names, on a voyage from the harbor of the City of New York, in the state of New York in these United States of America, to San Francisco, California in these United States of America, and to any other port so deemed necessary by the Master of said vessel for reasons of safety, repairs or those required by maritime law and which are not foreseen or a matter of due plan for this voyage as set forth herein.
“And the crew agree to conduct themselves in an orderly, faithful, honest, and sober manner, and to be at all times diligent in their respective duties, and to be obedient to the lawful commands of the said Master...and it is also agreed That if Any member of the Crew considers himself aggrieved by any breach of this Agreement or otherwise, he shall represent the same to the Master or Officer in charge in a quiet and orderly manner, who shall thereupon take such steps as the case may require.”
And thus sixteen men at the Port of New York, drunk and sober, did so agree by signing their names or making their mark before witness to the shipping agreement. The maritime commissioner witnessed the agreement and had each attest in the presence of the shipping master that no debts were owed for room and board. Most were foreign, coming from the Scandinavian countries, Ireland, or Germany. Each attested to his competency as seaman, ordinary seaman, or landsman. They were all bound to go. Of the sixteen men shipped in New York, only one raised concerns beyond those normally expected.
Men who have long experience working with other men often sense trouble well before any sign or real reason for suspicion arises. Samuel Craig, shipped by way of boarding master in New York, raised suspicions. He shipped as an ordinary seaman, meaning that he could hand, reef, and steer, but lacked the skills and experience, particularly experience, needed to do advanced repairs to the rigging and sails. Samuel was from Kentucky, an unusual birthplace for a man making a living at sea. He was young, barely into his thirties, and had several missing teeth and the white and pink complexion of an alcoholic. He was lean, sinewy, with dark black hair and high cheekbones; perhaps Cherokee blood was somewhere in his ancestry.
Samuel was a thin five feet six inches tall and seemed to defer to the other men. He spoke quietly, with a soft Appalachian brogue, but you could sense in his eyes a mind busy at work, taking in everything around him, every word spoken, and mulling deeply on everything seen and heard. This mind, this dark and angry organ, was indeed busy, as it felt the world and men owed him more than he had, far more than he earned by work or initiative. This mind was confident in its ability to manipulate other men. This mind convinced its owner of his superiority as a predator. Here also was a mind with little esteem, a mind ashamed of its owner but deeply committed to avenging this shame by obeying his walking boss. Henry Lennon was correct to think that when refusals to do duty, complaints, and fights would occur, this man would always be somewhere hidden in the root causes and prospering from the occurrence of trouble, but seamen were always in short supply, and persuading men to work was the core of a mate’s trade.
Samuel Craig, last hand chosen by the mates, was assigned to the starboard watch, the second mate’s watch. Henry Lennon, by tradition and by default, had drawn a losing card.
***
That evening after supper in the saloon, Isaac Griffin took his officers to the chart room to lay out his plans for Friday. “Peleg, the tug will tow us out at four p.m. tomorrow. Have the ship ready. Once past Sandy Point, make sail and set the watch.”
“Aye. Anything special?”
“No. You’ll have the ship taking her out. We’ll receive our fresh provisions, pigs, chickens, and potable water before four. I’ll be busy
with the bill of lading and with the consignee’s agent. We’ve checked blocking and bracing of the cargo. I think you know what to do.”
Carver smiled. “I’ll make sure the hands know the stationing bill and the fire bill. She’ll be set to go.”
***
In the forecastle that evening, Samuel Craig complained about the food, his first meal aboard the ship, a beef stew of fresh beef and vegetables, and soft bread and tea. He started taking the steps needed to raise his standing with the crew.
Craig fostered discontent to get men to listen to him, to fear what he might say about them. He had chosen his victim, Nicholas Priest, his object of ridicule, and began the process of instilling fear among the forecastle hands. “That brass bounder, Priest, is a nancy-boy, an abomination. I’ll bet he’ll suck me off within a week.”
PART TWO
Nineteen
Departure from New York
Oh, gallant was our galley from her carven
Steering-wheel
To her figurehead of silver and her beak of
Hammered steel
The leg-bar chafed the ankle, and we gasped for cooler air
But no galley on the water with our galley
Could compare
—Rudyard Kipling
Monday, May 27, 1872
Lat 40°30´29" N, Long 73°58´15"W
Nicholas Priest needed little encouragement to be on deck this morning; his adventure was to begin today. Smallbridge remained in his bunk, his blanket drawn tightly over his head. Priest was dressed and waiting at the galley door well before the boatswain called all hands on deck. Old Bishop gave him a cup of coffee from the officer’s pot and a ship’s biscuit fifteen minutes before the others were even on deck. The loom of the yet-to-rise sun had already begun to light up the city. Priest took his cup and hardtack to the starboard bulwark to watch Manhattan go to work. He saw tugs, ferries, and small coastal passenger steamers ply the waters of the Hudson and East Rivers. He watched as they extinguished their navigational lights. Weeks ago, he thought the voyage would be his death, but today the prospect of a sixteen-thousand-mile voyage spanning two hemispheres excited him.
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 12
