“Good morning, Mr. Gabriel.”
“The mate’ll cure ya of risen’ before the others, lad. Ya’ll learn the value of sleep soon enough.” Eoghan Gabriel smiled at Priest, who wondered how the boatswain felt on the day of his first voyage.
Priest watched as the boatswain walked forward to the deck cabin and shouted, “Heave out there, johnnies, on deck with yers. The sun’s above the horizon. On deck now.”
Priest watched as the men slowly emerged on deck. Most had bloodshot eyes and the mild confusion of too little sleep and too much whiskey the night before. The apprentices made their way on deck for their coffee and ship’s biscuit. Only Smallbridge smoked, and his implement was a small, short-stemmed pipe that stubbornly refused to stay lit. When Mr. Carver and Mr. Lennon emerged from the cabin, Priest laughed. “Time to work.”
The scrape of the holystone had become a familiar sound to Priest, as had the feel of wet sand, seawater, and the drag of the swabs used to flail the deck dry. He knelt now, his knees cushioned by his rolled-up trousers, and he pushed and pulled the holystone rhythmically in front of him. His body no longer complained. A smudge from someone’s sea-boots disappeared beneath his stone with a moment’s extra labor. Priest glimpsed upward at the gray, overcast sky filling with the gradual pale light of daybreak. He wondered if he would hear the morning gun on Governor’s Island. His mind wandered; he had been watching the building of the Brooklyn Bridge and thought of the men in the cofferdams.
I’m lucky.
Scrape, scrape. “More water.” The seawater pumped up from the harbor was cold and a little greasy. The salt stung an open abrasion on his right hand. He felt a sense of peace and comfort in routine work, work that required little thought. This thoughtless peace was soon replaced with reverie, the feel of Sophie’s naked hips on his fingers, the orbs of her breasts in his palms.
Priest saw Jeremy Ernst glance quickly over his shoulder to see where the mates and the boatswain were, if they were out of earshot. Ernst’s expression was familiar to Priest—all too familiar.
“Priest. What was all that moaning about last night? Haven’t you learned to be quiet when you’re pulling the pudding? Oh, oh, ooooh, Sophie.”
“Who in hell is Sophie? She’s not that young whore up in Maine. Everyone’s had a poke or two with her. That’s what my dad’s foreman says. Sooophie, Sooophie, I’m gonna, I’m goonna...”
Smallbridge had had enough. “Shut the hell up, Jeremy. Ain’t no business of yours what Priest did.”
“Don’t spoil the fun, Smallbridge. I bet he’s a virgin. The only screwing he’s ever done is choking his chicken.” Ernst laughed. “Soophie.”
Priest shouted, “Go to hell, Ernst.”
Sam Duder, who, by virtue of being an able-bodied, observed but did not holystone, knowing that if the elder Ernst kept up his verbal assault, a fight would break out and Peleg Carver would be happy to end it on the spot with his fists or his massive boots. “Pipe down, damn it. Ernst, shut your mouth. Priest, get that hand back on your holystone and your knees back on deck.”
Smallbridge fired the last volley. “Priest’s no virgin, I’ll swear to it.”
***
Sam Duder’s voice was the sort of rough tenor that cut through fogs and relieved swollen sinuses of their contents. Peleg Carver heard the “damn it” and saw Nicholas Priest standing, enraged. Carver turned to Henry Lennon and said in a voice that showed humor as well as irritation. “Hear that, Mr. Lennon?”
“Aye, I did. Priest and da elder Ernst. Wondered when that was ter start.”
Carver smiled. “Both watches involved, Lennon. Starboard watch and it would be your problem. Both watches makes it my business, don’t it?”
Lennon chuckled. “Not that I care a jot.”
Carver smiled and then bellowed, “Elder Ernst! Priest! Lay here.”
Sam Duder looked at the two boys. “You’re in for it now.”
***
Isaac Griffin had spent the night aboard ship, as Kayleigh had departed for Boston the previous morning. Today was the day; the charter party’s agent would arrive shortly before noon to sign the bill of lading.
Griffin knew from experience that the bill of lading was the foremost protection given to the shipper, the ship’s master, and the consignee also. He very carefully read the bill of lading word by word and sentence by sentence—
It is mutually agreed and so forth.
Although Griffin was not a lawyer, ship’s masters must understand certain legal fundamentals such as in rem, general averages and particular averages, barratry, and bottomry bond, subjects he knew well. Griffin read the negligence clause and others pertaining to the specifics of this voyage, a passage from New York to San Francisco. He also read where the consignee specified that the cargo be delivered in no more than 160 days from the day of departure, with exceptions being made for exigencies such as rescue at sea and the towing of distressed vessels.
The bill of lading appeared to have been taken from a standard Brown Brothers, Ferguson form.
General Averages payable according the proportion of interest, and as to matters not therein provided for, according to the usages of the Port of New York, or at port of destination in owner’s option, adjusters to be named by Owners or their agents, and average bond to be signed with values declared therein...the owner of the ship shall have exercised due diligence to make said ship in all respects seaworthy and properly manned...
Of particular interest to Griffin was an agreement for the consignee to pay the shipper a five percent bonus for delivery in 110 days or less.
***
Peleg Carver stood with his left shoulder angled toward the boys, his hands by his hips folded in fists. “Well, well, well. Mr. Ernst and you there, Mr. Priest—what’s the shouting about?”
Sam Duder had warned both boys that Peleg Carver had a reputation for the administration of immediate justice even though that justice was not always appropriate to the offense. Tempting a Yankee mate was a fool’s business.
Priest was first to respond to the mate’s question. “Nothing, sir. We’re not angry at each other. It was no more than a joke, a prank, sir.” Priest saw the surprise on Jeremy’s face. Jeremy had not expected Priest to say what he had said and take the risk of offending the mate.
“And you agree with Mr. Priest there?”
“Yes, sir. We were just joking with each other. We’re not angry at all.”
Peleg Carver looked first to Priest and then to Jeremy Ernst. A smile formed on his face. “Since the two of you are having so much fun with each other, you can’t be working hard enough. I have something in mind that you’ll enjoy. You’ll be laughing and smiling like young monkeys in heat.”
A few moments later, Priest found himself climbing the fore-mast with a brush in his rear pants pocket and a slush bucket in his left hand. He was on his way to the topsail yards to grease the parral for the upper topsail. Jeremy Ernst, similarly equipped, made a voyage up the main-mast.
Carver’s voice carried upward. “Clean it off first! Where’s your rags?”
Priest and Ernst descended to the main deck, buckets in hand, and walked with Peleg Carver to the boatswain’s locker. Suitably equipped to rub the old grease off the iron parrals, the boys climbed their masts again, but not quickly enough to stem Carver’s comments about their energy. “What are you, old women?”
A drop of grease fell on the deck with a gentle splat. The boys were called to the deck, shown the spot. “What’s this? What the hell is this? Did one of you spit tobacco on my deck? What kind of fool do ye take me for? Stick your nose in it and tell me what that is. Both of you!”
Priest answered the mate. “Sir, that’s grease from our buckets. Nobody spit.”
“Well, why are you looking at me? Do you need an invitation or something? Get a stone and a bucket of water and get it up. Move! This barky’s getting under way today.”
***
Isaac Griffin stood amidships, starboard side, watchi
ng two squat lighters approach under tow with potable water for his forward and main steel water tanks. By now the sun had been up for nearly two hours and the sound of New York had reached a vigorous note. Smoke and steam curled upward from the roofs of buildings to disappear in swirling confusion from the wind twisting and spilling around the buildings. The sound of horses’ shoes clattered, and teamsters’ voices rose sharply above the low hum of those going to and from work.
Griffin was having a busy day. He had reviewed the bill of lading and the principle clauses of the charter party, the voyage, freight, lay days, negligence clause, ice clause, penalties for nonperformance, canceling date, liberty to tow and assist vessels, as near the port as she could safely get, and other clauses reflecting a voyage doubling Cape Horn.
He would see the water put aboard and sign a draft for Christison and Son to pay for it. He would hear the ship’s bell ring out the hours of the watch, and supper would be served by watch. Unconsciously, he examined the hatch gratings and the canvas applied to make them waterproof using both hands, although only his left palm and fingers felt the taut, rough canvas. If the cargo was damaged or rusted beyond repair from his negligence, he and Billy would be liable, not the underwriters.
A small steam launch approached with a telegram for Captain Griffin. He opened it to find it was from Kayleigh:
“I love you. Don’t worry. My prayers are for you and the Providence.”
He had hoped for a letter, a letter having the faint trace of her scent, nutmeg and flowers, as well as the flow of her script across the page.
An hour later, another steam launch approached, carrying the agent for the consignee, Westinghouse. His cargo was the new Westinghouse railway air brakes and knuckle couplers and the tools for their installation and repair. This cargo promised to revolutionize railroading by making it far safer for passenger, train crews, and freight. The Central Pacific Railroad was willing to pay a premium to get it.
The agent was led to Griffin’s reception area and office. There was a rap on his door and his steward announced, “Mr. Sean McWhorter, sir.”
The agent was in his mid-forties and had probably read hundreds of bills of lading. He sat across from Griffin and nodded his head and said, “Uh-haw,” as he finished each paragraph. He reached for his pen and signed for the consignees and remarked, “Guess you’ll carry a bit of sail to get the bonus. Be careful with the cargo.”
***
At three in the afternoon, the New York Harbor tug John H. Dialogue hailed the Providence and asked if she was ready for the tow. Peleg Carver answered aye and requested the tug to heave over a messenger so the towing hawser could be hauled aboard and made fast. Once the hawser was made fast, Carver shouted, “All hands, up anchor!”
Lennon then ordered, “Man the capstan.” Heavers were inserted and made fast with steel pins. The boatswain assembled the cat and fish gear and made it ready.
“Heave round!”
Sam Duder had wanted to sing out, “Away Santy Ano,” but several of the Irish hands asked him to sing, “Holy Ground Once More.”
Fourteen barebacked and barefooted men began the labor of raising anchor. Duder sang the verse and the capstan gang sang the chorus. Feet and voices thumped out a rhythm on the forecastle deck. The hardest work was gathering the first coil around the capstan. Several of the landsmen broke sweat. The ship moved upwind toward the anchor and the work became gradually easier as the ship gained momentum. Feet pounded, the pawls clicked, and the anchor cable rose through the hawse-pipe to the controllers and round the capstan. Priest and Jeremy Ernst, still under instruction from the mate, tailed off each length of anchor chain, unshackled it with a maul and spike, and faked it out on deck for stowage.
Despite their hangovers, the capstan gang sang out:
Fare thee well, my lovely Dinah, A thousand times adieu. We are bound away from the Holy Ground And the girls we love so true.We’ll sail the salt seas over And we’ll return once more, And still I live in hope to see The Holy Ground once more.
Chorus:
You’re the girl that I adore, And still I live in hope to see The Holy Ground once more. Now when we’re out a-sailing And you are far behind Fine letters will I write to you With the secrets of my mind, The secrets of my mind, my girl,
Oh now the storm is raging And we are far from shore; The poor old ship she’s sinking fast And the riggings they are tore. The night is dark and dreary, We can scarcely see the moon, But still I live in hope to see The Holy Ground once more. It’s now the storm is over And we are safe on shore We’ll drink a toast to the Holy Ground And the girls that we adore.We’ll drink strong ale and porter And we’ll make the taproom roar, And when our money is all spent We’ll go to sea once more.
Lennon shouted, “Long stay.” The chain moved round and was tailed off. “Short stay, Mr. Carver.”
Eoghan Gabriel shouted out, “Bust her, boys, bust her. You’re the boys to bust her.” By this time, Duder sang out “Away Santy Ano,” a shantey that foretold the voyage ahead and described the ship and its captain.
From New York Town we’re bound away,Heave aweigh (Heave aweigh!) Santy Ano.Around Cape Horn to Frisco Bay,We’re bound for Californi-o.
So Heave her up and away we’ll go,Heave aweigh (Heave aweigh!) Santy Ano.Heave her up and away we’ll go,We’re bound for Californi-o.
She’s a fast clipper ship and a bully crew,Heave aweigh (Heave aweigh!) Santy Ano.A down-east Yankee for her captain, too.We’re bound for Californi-o.
Henry Lennon soon shouted, “Up and down,” as the anchor was about to break from the mud.
The boatswain added his encouragement, “Heave now. Heave. Two more turns.”
At last, Henry Lennon shouted, “Anchor’s aweigh.”
The tug strained on her towing line and the Providence turned downriver. She was soon past Bedloe Island and moving toward the Narrows. The anchor was raised to the cat-head and fished and stowed for sea. Jackasses were placed in the hawse-pipes. It was six in the afternoon.
A quiet Isaac Griffin chuckled under his breath. He peered through his watch glasses and saw a young lieutenant of artillery in his red kepi watching the Providence from on top of a rampart on Governor’s Island. She had put on a show.
By seven-thirty in the evening, the pilot had departed on the tug and Carver gave the order to make sail: “Let fall the upper and lower topsails.” Then the spanker and forward staysails were unfurled and soon drawing wind. Carver thought he felt the bow of the ship rise and cut the water better. Then her two courses and all topgallants were let fall; Sandy Hook light bore WSW at three miles. All sails were trimmed and Providence continued eastward. By eight that evening, the light ship bore due north. The port watch was fed supper, then sent on deck; the starboard watch was then fed. Watch on watch had begun and would not end until the ship was safely moored in San Francisco.
At twenty minutes before midnight, Priest and the elder Ernst finished chipping and stowing the anchor cable. Priest, a member of the starboard watch, stood his watch when called on deck despite having worked nearly continuously since seven that morning. Jeremy Ernst gladly fell asleep in his bunk, too exhausted to care about what he had started with Priest.
While departing from New York, the ship experienced hard gales and cloudy weather. Several men were seasick. No observations of the navigational stars, the moon, or the planets were made. One careful observation had been made having nothing to do with navigation; Samuel Craig had overheard the exchange between Priest and the elder Ernst.
At four-thirty that morning, Priest had not yet gone to sleep after being relieved by the port watch. He tossed noisily beneath his blanket. Smallbridge reached up and shook him in his bunk. “Christ sakes, Priest. Get some sleep or at least allow me to.”
Priest then asked Smallbridge the question that burned in his mind: “Sophie—she didn’t just want to use me, did she?”
Smallbridge thought for a moment and replied, “Why does that matter now? Get some sleep
, Priest.”
Twenty
First Sunday at Sea
Grasshopper sitting on a sweet potato vine
Along comes a chicken and says you’re mine
The Soldier’s Joy
Sunday, June 2, 1872
Lat 35˚57΄00˝N, Long 54˚22΄00˝W
Griffin stood at the chart table and prepared to write his daily entry into the ship’s log. He had Peleg Carver’s sailings calculations before him and the deck log recording, watch by watch, the ship’s tack, sails carried, wind direction and strength, and the courses steered and speeds attained since noon Saturday. The ship’s position had been calculated by dead reckoning. Griffin always accepted the necessity of using an estimated position but never liked it. He muttered something to himself about Columbus’s reliance on dead reckoning and laughed. Having had his spell of humor, he opened the page of the logbook and entered the latitude and longitude—leaving the seconds at zero—distance sailed, and wind direction. Then the following:
“It remained very nearly calm all the first part till nearly 2 am and then the wind increased some and we set the royals. Toward noon it increased again and hauled more easterly and the sea day ends with a brisk breeze from about SSE and very pleasant Sunday weather. We came in sight of a ship-rigged vessel at daylight and noon...”
He stopped writing in frustration. No matter how much effort or attention he gave it, his script was barely legible and the letters had a pronounced list to port, the sure mark of left-handed penmanship. He set the pencil down. By now, he refused to think of the ease and facility he’d had with his right hand prior to the accident. He spoke to himself. “Damn it. Pick the pencil up. Concentrate.”
“She was about 2 miles off on our lee quarters and steering rather more southerly than we are. I think she’s bound from Boston to Australia. (If she were bound for San Francisco, I could compare logs with her on my arrival there.) We are steering E by S to make our sails full off the wind. Sometimes we cannot lie up better than east.”
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 13
