The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage

by Paul Thomas Fuhrman

We saw but the meadows

  Torn with their shot and shell.

  —Henry Sidgwick

  Thursday, June 20, 1872

  Lat 05º38′45˝S, Long 31º22′15˝W

  The South Atlantic

  Port watch had eaten first, and then relieved the starboard watch, who were now seated on their sea chests in the forecastle, ready to eat their supper following a day of heavy squalls, gales, and rain. The air inside the forward deck cabin smelled of sweat and wet oilskins. Sam Duder grinned from ear to ear. John Stedwin closed his eyes briefly, shook his head, and announced, “Sam feels like telling us one.”

  Amidst the groans and “not agains,” Sam began his tale.

  “Did I ever tell you boys about the time I spent in Hawaii? Well, you remember that they did things like the English, King Kamehameha and all. Now, I’m talking about the Old Bailey in London; that’s how the king wanted his courts to be. Seems they got themselves a wicked good nor’easter of a trial going, a murder trial.”

  Sam paused enough to see that three men were listening to him and the rest were somewhere between annoyance and complete boredom. Some men contented themselves with simply doing nothing, legs sprawled, heads lowered, and eyes nearly shut. Others could not sit still, talking with one another, comparing knives, a piece of scrimshaw, or simply enjoying the plug tobacco from the slop chest, and completely ignoring Sam. But Sam did not care.

  “Now, the judge sets up on high throne-like affair, decked out in a scarlet robe and wearing a long, curly wig. His bare legs and feet were poking from beneath that robe. The mace of justice hung on the wall in back of him. The lawyers—barristers, they call them—had black robes and short wigs; they were all regal too. The accused was brought in and set in a box below the judge. He was a big man, almost wider than tall, and tattooed from head to toe. Copied one of his tattoos, see?”

  Mention of tattoos always worked. Sam saw two heads turn his way.

  “The jury, twelve Hawaii men, set on one side of the court, and on the other side sat the bailiff, the lawyers, and a bare-breasted maiden with perky rosebuds as pretty as any man could dream of.”

  Sam could not show his joy; he must remain calm, emotionless, but he knew he had them with the word “rosebud.” Yes, getting a man’s imagination was the secret of a good story.

  “Now, lads,” John Stedwin spoke. “Old Sam ain’t one to stretch things a little, is he?” They all laughed, including Samuel Craig, who sat alone on his sea chest away from the others.

  Sam winked at his friend John Stedwin. “Soon the trial started with the bailiff reading the charges, all proper legal words too. At this point, the bare-breasted maiden rose up, grabbed a short-handled broom-like thing covered in scarlet baize and all made up with bird feathers secured at one end by a Turk’s head knot. The maiden walks around in the crowd tickling those people on the nose, under the armpits, and on the women’s rosebuds too, ’cause that crowd doesn’t believe much in clothes. The maiden gets the crowd all going and then as if on a cue goes back and sits down again. The judge raps his gavel a couple times, gives us a fine harrumph, and there’s order in the court.”

  One younger sailor asked, “What do you call those?” His hands mimicked holding a woman’s breasts in his palms.

  Sam ignored his question but was pleased with the curiosity. Now was the time for the story to get better.

  “The prosecutor gets up, addresses the judge as, ‘My lord, gentlemen of the jury, and my learned adversary,’ and starts his case. He just gets into the most interesting parts, all the rage and ranting, this big dagger and a dead body on the beach, and then the maiden gets up again—feather broom and all—and the crowd is all roaring as they gets their rosebuds tickled.

  “My barrister is sitting by my side and says to me, ‘See, my man, you’ll get a fair trial here ’cause we do everything English fashion, all right and proper.’ I look at him a bit strange, and he says, ‘Oh, yes, most proper.’ ”

  The Irishmen laughed.

  “The trial goes on, the defense makes its case, the maiden is running all over, and she is dusting every Johnny and Judy in the crowd. I begin to notice something. This maiden seems to wait until it gets juicy, and I notice the bailiff giving her cues from a book he’s got in his hand.

  “The trial ends with the crowd all shouting, the maiden running from one end of the pews to another just shaking that feather duster like a palm tree in a typhoon. It was a grand sight! They find the bastard guilty and the judge puts a black rag over his head and orders him to be hung on Thursday at high noon.

  “Being next, I go up for my turn. I was drunk and disorderly. The barristers start all over.”

  Sam stops for a dramatic pause and continues.

  “Now, boys, I ain’t a learned man or have I spent much time in courts for being drunk—”

  The sailors laugh and wink at one another.

  “But I felt like they had rehearsed the whole thing. Had it all down to memory. The maiden gets up, does some dusting, sits down, but to tell you the truth, lads, I had fun in that saloon, but not that much fun.

  “I gets a week in jail, five days set aside for time served and two days waived because of my young and tender age. It helps having a sweet, innocent face like mine.”

  The watch all laughed again.

  “Since I paid my barrister three dollars, I figure I can ask him a question. ‘Sir, I say, my trial; I didn’t break up the furniture, I didn’t bust a man’s nose open, and you said nothing about that. In fact, you said nothing at all! And what was that bare-breasted maiden about?’

  “Then the barrister says to me, ‘See here, my man, everything was done proper.’ He takes a sheaf of papers from his satchel and shows them to me. My trial is there, all word for word and taken from a London law book. I begin to see some things real clear.

  “Where is she? I says to myself.

  “Then I says to my lawyer, ‘I just can’t get up and go unless I know. I still don’t understand the bare-breasted maiden.’ I can’t see her in the papers he has either. My barrister tells me it’s all proper, done every day in the Old Bailey, and turns the page and reads to me, ‘Upon a remark from the accused, a titter ran through the crowd.’ ”

  There were one or two chortles, several pairs of eyes rolled back, and one Finn looked confused; despite the best efforts of a countryman, it wasn’t a pun in Finnish. Billy Kauwe, an able-bodied, rose, pointed to his trousers and shirt, and muttered, “Asshole.”

  John Stedwin, however, made sense out of the situation. “Craig, Jacobson, it’s up to you two to bring back the mess kids.” With that, the watch got out their tin pans, tin cups, and what flatware they owned—for some only a spoon.

  The two landsmen returned with the meal, black-eyed pea soup with large chunks of smoked ham and onions, boiled rice, hot biscuits, hardtack, hot tea, molasses, and lemon juice. The mess kids were set in the center of their cabin and the men used their spoons and sheaf knives to fill their tin pans. The molasses and lemon were used to sweeten the steaming tea, steeped in a rather inelegant metal pot with a bail handle and spout.

  Almost immediately Craig began to complain. This had gotten to be a routine, and it had already begun to irritate the experienced seamen, who normally tolerated a fair amount of complaint as a sailor’s right to bitch.

  “Look at this here shit; I wouldn’t use it as pig slop back home!”

  John Stedwin spit out a plug into the oak bucket that served as a spittoon and growled, “Speaking of shit, Craig, you don’t know the difference between a turd and a pint of apple butter! You just like to stir up trouble and watch what happens. This ship feeds good and we’re lucky to have that black man, Bishop, for our cook. We got no right by law to have hot biscuits here or doughnuts some days with coffee, but he does it and the Captain knows it too. The steward even said we get the same rations as what the captain and mates get.”

  Craig began to start something between a snarl and whine, to have it greeted by a heavily acc
ented German voice telling him to shut up while there was food to eat. The German had shipped on lime-juicers and knew what poor rations could be in hard times.

  John Stedwin usually didn’t say much, as was his right, given the time he’d spent at sea and the tattoos he had. But today, Craig inspired him to lecture, “Now, what did you read when you signed the articles, or didn’t you care to even ask? I bet you don’t even know your letters! Well, today is Thursday. That means you get a pound and a half of salt meat, a third pint of chickpeas, tea or coffee, sugar and water for your whack. That’s the law!

  “What do we have here? Smoked ham, black-eyed pea soup, biscuits, tea, boiled rice, and hardtack, and nothing’s been short-weighed. You ain’t got a right to bitch like that. You did it this morning too, and the man fed us buckwheat pancakes and bacon! Did you notice that every time when both watches are called, we get a duff? The Providence feeds as good as it gets, and that Yankee captain wants it that way! For all I care, Craig, you can go ask that black cook for a lemon to suck on!”

  Craig went to his sea chest, sat, and ate by himself. No one spoke to him.

  The sailors also ate in silence, and quickly, because they were hungry men. One of the Finns split a biscuit, poured a little molasses on a half, and ate it while smiling in Craig’s direction.

  These men could eat. Some scooped the soup over the rice; some did not. All took lemon with their tea because they were cautious and concerned about scurvy. When they had finished their meal, Craig and Jacobson returned the mess kids to the galley and cleaned them with coarse salt and boiling water. Craig kept his distance from the cook. Most people, and that included Craig, who never favored a frontal assault, were cautious about attempting to intimidate a man who stood six inches taller, weighed fifty pounds more, and had a meat cleaver near his left hand.

  Craig also noticed that Bishop had a tattoo on his right biceps. It was crossed Enfield rifles with fixed bayonets. He could not make out the number tattooed between the rifle muzzles and bayonets. The number was fifty-four. It represented the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts Colored Infantry.

  ***

  By the time the two landsmen returned, the starboard watch sailors were in their bunks and the air was cut with snores and seasoned farts. Jacobson turned in and Craig returned to his sea chest. He took his knife from the sheaf and reached for a hard black Arkansas stone from his pocket. He spit on the stone to wet it and began honing his knife, a sharply pointed double-edged dagger, his Arkansas toothpick. The weapon made little snick-like noises as he carefully moved an edge over the stone’s surface, maintaining a precise angle.

  It took time to treat both sides of the knife, four edges in all. When he was finished honing, he lightly touched one edge of the knife to the top of his left thumbnail. It effortlessly shaved a sliver from the nail, and Samuel Craig was pleased with his work. Had someone been awake, he would have spit on his forearm to shave a few hairs to show all who watched that the knife was razor sharp.

  Craig thought, I reckon you bastards had best treat this Kentucky boy with a little respect. Walkin’ boss is speakin’ to me.

  He then laughed to himself, a quiet laugh that sounded almost like a small girl lost amid her toys. His thoughts then turned to Nicholas Priest. The laughter stopped.

  You’ll learn ’em I’m not to be trifled with, rich boy. You’ll show ’em what I am.

  He turned in.

  Twenty-Six

  The Mechanics Mill Girls

  Work—work—work!

  From weary chime to chime,

  Work—work—work,

  As prisoners work for crime!

  Band, and gusset, and seam,

  Seam, and gusset, and band,

  Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,

  As well as the weary hand.

  —Thomas Hood

  Sunday, June 23, 1872

  Fall River, Massachusetts

  As Kayleigh waited to board the Fall River Line train to take her and Jennie Collins, Dr. Zakrzewska’s friend, and founder of Boffin’s Bower, to Fall River, the fireman in the cab of the train’s locomotive threw a shovelful of coal into the firebox to build steam. A few seconds later, a fresh black column of smoke rose from the engine’s smokestack and drew her attention. Now, or so it seemed to her, she was haunted by a spirit, a sidhe, that announced itself in the scent of burning coal. This spirit came to her mind with her husband and foretold events to come. These events were fearsome and caused Kayleigh to shudder. She knew something would occur but not what shape or form it would take.

  During her trip, Kayleigh looked out the window of the train and saw the images of a muscular Massachusetts. Great factories and mills grew in the small towns as well as the Boston suburbs. These sights drew her mind to Fall River itself, massive four- and five-story mills built of granite and brick with tall bell towers rising stories above the mills. Towers summoning workers to their looms and sending them home after twelve-hour workdays. Some mills were still water-driven, but more and more used the abundant water of Fall River to generate steam for huge stationary steam engines driving the looms and spinning jennies. Tall smokestacks provided the draft for huge, coal-fired steam boilers. Mill, tower, and stack were all the property of investors, men isolated by their wealth from want or toil, invincible men of industry. As these images passed beyond her window, she thought of herself and Jennie Collins, her companion—two seemingly insignificant women, one pregnant, who would soon discuss challenging the authority of the mill owners while being overshadowed by the granite and brick manifestation of the owners’ authority over the lives of those working within.

  Jennie Collins was surprised to see that the tenement house of Bridget Guiney, the mill girl seeking Kayleigh’s help, was a new three-story frame structure, and though it was made without much embellishment, it appeared comfortable. It stood in a neighborhood of tenements similar to itself and was within walking distance of the Mechanics Mill on Davol Street.

  Jennie was concerned as they approached the doorway to the central hallway and stairs that led to the home of Bridget Guiney, her brother Terrence, and his wife, Mary.

  “Kayleigh, it’s on the third floor. Will that be too much for you? Dr. Zakrzewska worries about you overexerting yourself.”

  “I’m not to that point, Jennie. Not quite yet.”

  The hallway was wainscoted in pine painted in dark brown enamel; the walls above and the ceiling were plaster and white; a gaslight lit each hallway. The stairs were plain also but with oak treads, rails, and banisters. The doors to the apartments were varnished oak, six-paneled, and fitted with brass and cast-iron hardware. Everything was well made, sturdy, and plain, but the work reflected the pride of the carpenters, jointers, plasterers, and other craftsmen who had built the tenement for the Mechanics Mill.

  Kayleigh took a deep breath, looked upward at the landing, and started to climb. It was her intention to climb briskly if not bound up the stairs, but at the fourth step, her intentions changed. She was pregnant barely a month, if that, but still, she was pregnant. The bounding display of energy slowed.

  Jennie noticed. “Kayleigh, let’s stop a minute when we reach the second-floor landing.”

  Kayleigh happily placed both feet on the varnished hardwood floor of the landing and leaned against a wall. “Dr. Zakrzewska scolded me for gaining too much weight and predicted this would happen. I don’t know how she resisted wagging a finger at me and telling me it’s forbidden. ‘You mustn’t work too hard.’ ”

  Jennie replied, “She can be very direct, can’t she?”

  They laughed. Jennie then continued, “We’ll stop a moment or two; there’s plenty of time and we won’t be late.”

  Kayleigh smiled. “I need to walk more, to work harder.”

  Both women took in what their senses told them of life in the tenement on Sundays, the smells of Sunday supper, the cry of new life, and the smell of soda bread from ovens.

  “One more flight.” Kayleigh smiled and pla
ced her left foot on the stairs as she gripped the oak handrail. This time, her pace was more deliberate.

  “The stairs don’t squeak like they do in Boston. These tenements are new.” Jennie Collins had seen much of the hard life Boston afforded workingwomen and had talked with many of the first mill girls from Lowell. Sometimes, these women married well and led comfortable lives; some educated themselves and remained comfortably independent; but all too often others found themselves in domestic service or sewing for a meager living, only to be pushed aside in favor of wave after wave of younger immigrant women willing to work harder for even less. These, the destitute, were Jennie’s charges. This was why Jennie accompanied Kayleigh.

  Jennie was the first to reach the third-floor landing. Kayleigh was two steps behind and labored with the last step.

  Jennie smiled. “Catch your breath. There’s time enough. It’s not yet three.”

  When Kayleigh told Jennie she was rested, Jennie walked to one of the two doors facing into the hallway. “The one closest to the front is the parlor door, Kayleigh.”

  Jennie and Kayleigh stood before the parlor door and by habit smiled as Jennie knocked. The Guiney family—Bridget, the sister who had invited them, and Terrence and his wife, Mary—greeted them. Bridget invited them in. “Mrs. Griffin, Miss Collins, we are so happy you came to talk with us. All the girls are here and Mary has made tea for us.”

  Kayleigh observed that the parlor was bright with light from the three bay windows at its front. A couch, two upholstered chairs, and various small marble-topped tables covered with crochet table covers dressed the room, and a wool rug covered the hardwood floor. The large bay front windows were also framed in handmade crochet curtains. The walls were covered in figured pale green wallpaper and decorated with a mixture of prints reflecting the culture and pride of the apartment’s occupants. There was a framed print of the Sacred Heart of Jesus occupying the focal point of interest of the room behind the couch, a print of President Abraham Lincoln, a photograph of an elderly couple posed rigidly in a studio setting, and a crucifix that housed the articles needed for administering last rites. In additions to the Guineys, five other women were seated around the parlor on chairs brought from the kitchen. Everyone there smiled and seemed genuinely pleased to see the two Boston visitors.