—John Keats
Sunday, June 30, 1872
Lat 31˚50΄24˝S, Long 47˚48΄00˝W
“Captain, Captain! Come alive, there. Wake up, Captain, you’ve a noon site to shoot! I have ya’ some coffee. Priest’s waitin’ to help you. Wake up, Captain.”
Isaac tottered for a moment between sleep and consciousness and finally began to hear the words Ezra was shouting at him. He also felt Ezra shake him gently as his eyes opened and he returned once more to the Providence at sea. He jerked his head and straightened himself in his easy chair. He raised his left hand and rubbed his cheeks and lower neck. These features were not covered by his beard, but he had a day’s stubble.
“Let me have the coffee, please. I’ll need a bowl of hot water to shave. Okay, I see the teakettle. Thankee, Ezra. What time is it?”
“They’ve just rung seven bells of the morning watch, Mr. Carver’s watch, sir.”
“Damn, I’m embarrassed! That man will cut me no slack.”
Griffin hurriedly shaved, threw water on his face, and saw that his eyes were clear.
He took his hack watch, set it to the chronometers, strapped his sextant to his right arm, and walked on deck. Both Carver and Lennon were there, similarly armed with their sextants and watches.
Peleg Carver, being the senior mate, was first to speak.
“Good morning, Captain. Mr. Lennon and I did not run her aground or put her masts in the water this morning, ayuh?”
Griffin attempted to smile. He knew what he looked like even without seeing himself in a mirror. While he could never know the thoughts of Carver and Lennon, it took little imagination to hear Carver’s mind—foolish man, foolish man—while Lennon’s mind cautioned him not to tempt his captain.
Lennon added, “Da moon was still up early this morning, ’n’ Mr. Carver ’n’ me fixed da ship’s position. Carver’s teaching me lunars. He says it’s a blind bit antwackie but it never hurts anyone ter know da correct time of day.”
Griffin asked, “Did you or Carver look at the almanac first?”
Lennon replied, “And just who do yews think is first mate on this barky?”
Carver smiled.
Griffin then brought his sextant to his eye and pointed it in the general direction of the sun. He brought the sextant down to waist level and lowered two dark shade lenses to protect his eyes and allow him to observe the orb of the sun distinctly and set it down precisely on the horizon.
Carver looked slyly at Lennon and passed a quick wink. “You know why navigators have patches on their right eyes, ayuh?”
The two mates knew it made no sense to further bait the bear. At least the captain seemed in a decent mood, and Priest stood by, ready to record the time and their observed altitudes.
The sights were taken, all sextant readings and time all near identical to the hundredth. The ship’s clock on the binnacle was adjusted for exact noon; the big ship’s bell was struck eight times, ending Carver’s watch while beginning Lennon’s. A new day at sea had begun.
Griffin gathered the deck log and prepared to draft his daily entry into the ship’s log. He put together his notes and had Priest plot the ship’s position on his chart. The day’s run had been spectacular and was evidence enough of the validity of Maury’s routes.
Twelve straight hours on deck, the bracing sails at every change of the wind. The bonus from the Central Pacific and the recognition due him from the Rallis grain dealers were a step closer. It was still no occasion to relax, because the Horn was ahead of them, and the River Plate and the south fifties were never without a challenge. Still, Griffin was consumed with optimism.
***
June 30, 1872
Dear Kayleigh,
I am happy with the last day’s run. We made good 92 miles despite losing the wind by noon. The sea is large, though, being pushed around the Cape, and it’s from the east by southeast, perhaps pushing us along with the Brazil current. The bonus money and you are—
“Captain, Mr. Carver needs you on deck now. Thomsen’s sick. He’s puking up yellow!”
At Ezra’s words, Griffin put down his pen, picked up his medical guide, and went back on deck. He would have to finish his letter another time.
Griffin, Carver, and Ezra stood by Thomsen’s bunk in the port watch compartment of the forward deckhouse. Griffin spoke to the sick man.
“Does your head hurt, Thomsen?”
The Dane raised a hand and held it to his forehead.
“I need to feel your pulse. Give me your arm there.” Griffin found the man’s pulse on his wrist and asked Carver to time it for him.
“Mr. Carver, come here and feel his pulse and tell me what you feel. Use my hack watch if you want.”
“There, sir, I found it. It’s a hard pulse and I count ninety-two beats.”
“That’s exactly what I felt. The book tells us that seventy-two is about normal for a healthy man. Do you feel how hot he is and how dry his skin has become?’”
“Thankee, Captain. I do.”
“Have you thrown up before, man?” Thomsen nodded yes.
“Do you feel like you have to or are going to vomit now?”
Thomsen answered his captain’s question by clutching a wooden pail and attempting to heave out the contents of his empty stomach into it. The vomiting consisted of violent dry heaving followed by bringing up yellow bile. The man’s pain was intense, and he remained doubled over after the vomiting stopped.
“Lay back, man. Rest. You ache, don’t you? I mean even before this.” Griffin pointed to the bucket.
Griffin picked up the bucket Thomsen had thrown up in. “What do you see in there?”
Carver replied, “He’s thrown up bile and it’s yellow.”
“Take a look at the whites of his eyes, Mr. Carver. Do you see how they are yellowing?”
“Aye, sir. I do.”
“Good. As near as I can make out, he has bilious fever. His symptoms fit what the guide describes.
“Thomsen, I’m going to be looking after you for the next few days, and Mr. Carver and Mr. Lennon will be looking in on you also. We’ll get you well, man. Don’t you worry; this ship has a good medicine chest and I’ve seen this before. All you need to do now is rest and take your medicine.”
“Mr. Carver, come back aft with me and ask Mr. Lennon if he can leave the deck and come with you.”
Fifteen minutes later, both mates joined their captain in his reception area.
“Peleg, Henry, you’re going to have the ship pretty much to yourselves the next few days. I’m going to be spending my time with Thomsen. I’ve seen this before. He’s been to Africa or South America, hasn’t he?”
“He’s one of the New York men, Captain, and he’d been in the Caribbean for some time before shipping in New York. It’s been within six months.” Carver knew each man’s history.
“I thought so. There’s a good chance we’ll not have to set him ashore. Matter of fact, he’ll get as good treatment on this ship as what he would on shore anyway. A hospital can’t do much more than we can.”
Griffin pulled a small brown book from his shelf and opened it to its index, and then to page thirty-seven.
“Peleg, read this to page thirty-nine, where it says Bilious, or Remittent Fever.”
Both men read the pages and turned toward Griffin. Henry Lennon was the first to speak.
“Da book says it might be two weeks before remission takes place.”
Carver added, “Captain, someone’s goin’ to be seein’ him every few hours, ayuh?”
“We’ve got a problem, Peleg. He’s near a full-time job all on his own. I’m going to take care of him. I have to do it, to see to him and what medicine is needed. I want one man from each of your watches, the timekeeper, to check on him and report any change in his condition whenever I can’t be with him. In the meantime, I’m not slowing this ship down, nor am I going into port. I’ve seen this before. The fever will break.”
Both mates exchanged a wry smile and
thought, He’ll not slow down or lose time. Carver even thought that Griffin would rather bury Thomsen than stop at Rio. Lennon knew Griffin took risks and was gambling that Thomsen’s fever would break. He looked at Carver’s facial expression, then muttered, “Not that,” and shook his head to say, Yer’ll never change his mind once it’s set.
After the mates left, Griffin prepared a mixture of thirty grains of calomel and jalap and made another mixture of six grains of fever powder. Bishop and Ezra would take care of Thomsen’s food—gruel, barley water, rice water, and vegetable soup stock. Griffin asked Bishop to come aft. Thomsen would also need ley water to help reduce the fever.
***
Well, Kayleigh, fortunes change quickly at sea. Thomsen has bilious fever. We will be shorthanded until this is in remission and I will be working even harder. His care falls to me.
Providence did speak with a homeward-bound Yankee steamer. Griffin, Carver, and several of the married men entrusted letters to the captain of the steamer for posting in New York.
When Kayleigh read her husband’s letter three weeks later, she spoke two words: “Mal aria.”
Thirty
Off Argentina
Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.
—Mathew Arnold
Thursday, July 4, 1872
Lat 43˚16΄00˝S, Long 49˚416΄00˝W
July 4, 1872
My Dearest Kayleigh,
The weather fights me. All this day it has been a steady rainstorm in which we’ve managed only 100 miles. The wind came on severe and in squalls since 8 this morning. My poor, wet, tired sailors furled the upper topsails, close reefed the lower and by 9 this morning furled the mains. As noon approached the wind came from the northeast in a gale and in long regular seas. All jibs save for the inner jib are in and everything attached below the bowsprit is now mostly underwater.
Peleg Carver is preparing the ship for the south fifties latitudes. There are lifelines in place and everything aloft that protects a sailor’s life in wind and storm has been overhauled, wire standing rigging strengthens the ship and adds to our ability to tack and wear despite the weather. I have great confidence in Carver’s seamanship and loyalty. He stood his ground and sent me below to sleep. Not every first mate would brave the wrath of his captain and do that. It’s so easy to ignore what is right to do and think, let the old man cook his own goose. What do I care?
An hour later, Griffin again sat at his desk and resumed writing.
Trouble visits the Providence. We shipped one man while in New York who I have had to lower from ordinary seaman to landsman. He lied about his qualifications and I demoted him for incompetence and failure to do his duty. He is from Kentucky and I suspect a fugitive. Men have sought escape from their crimes at sea since Jonah. This is not the worst of our troubles, though. The man is a bully and attempted to intimidate one of my apprentices, Nicholas Priest. Craig wants to cruelly humiliate this boy to gain influence with the crew and because he is sadistic. Henry Lennon, Peleg Carver, and Jonathon Bishop, our cook, a courageous man, all engaged in a secret plot to prepare this boy to fight. Priest showed exceptional progress since coming aboard and impresses everyone with his courage. The issue must be settled without our apparent interference so he can further gain respect and standing with the hands.
I have also written a letter to the police in Boston describing the bully in detail and relating to them my suspicions of the man being a fugitive. If my suspicions are true, he will be arrested in San Francisco.
How I miss you! Kicking Billy was so fortunate to have a wife who went to sea with him. My mind was so addled by fatigue the words cinnamon and nutmeg left my mouth in the presence of Peleg Carver. I had no control, apparently. These are your scent and they delight me.
When this letter reaches you—what, in September?—please give my kindest regards to your mother. I hope your father has found it in his heart to forgive me for taking you from him. Tell Jimmy Meehan to stay out of trouble while I am away. He hates crimps as much as I do, but unlike me has no one to love. He was pressed into the Royal Navy and shanghaied in Liverpool. He’s fortunate to be alive.
How I love you and always will.
Isaac
Independence Day in Fall River
July 4, 1872
Dearest Isaac,
I am pregnant! We will be parents in late March or April. How I wish you could be home! I know you will be at sea. Has it always been this way for mariners’ wives?
I marched today with the mill girls from Fall River. It was the most liberating experience of my life, as you shall see.
The girls were wonderful. We all wore our very best summer white dresses and white hats with large brims to protect us from the sun. So many of the girls made their own dresses from cloth that had been made here in Fall River. There is a sense of pride with these women that lifts my spirits. We hugged each other and laughed before the parade because we did not know how people would react to young women marching proudly for the entire world to see and demanding the vote. We knew the mill agents and supervisors would see the parade, and if they were not there, their informers would surely be. There would be no anonymity, nothing to stop reprisals. That’s why we all tried to be cheerful and encouraging so we could keep our courage and proclaim what we all believe to be our right, equality with men and the right to vote.
The parade was very large, with a band from the state militia, Civil War veterans marching in their uniforms, the police marched, and the fire department paraded with a pumper and a ladder wagon. Every one of them in their best parade uniforms. There were also men’s groups from the Catholic churches and a small group of Freemasons—many of the second hands and supervisors are Masons.
Our route was to take us down Anawan Street past the mill yards and to eventually end at the cemetery, where speeches were to be made and people could decorate the graves of fallen veterans and patriots.
We were cheered as we marched along by people who lived in the mill tenements because we were their own. It didn’t matter that we were women. As the parade neared the cemetery, we passed by a group of young toughs, all Irish, men who didn’t work at the mills, and none of the girls seemed to recognize them.
I worry that my belly is becoming large with our child. Several of these toughs saw me and began to ridicule me. I don’t know why this happens, but it seems that once people start acting terribly, one will try to outdo the other. One man, I’m sure he was drunk, he had to be, shouted swear words to me. They were the same words the rapist used, those terrible words; I started to tremble with fear. Mary Ryan, the girl to my right, held my hand tightly and told me to not be afraid. We were all together. The man kept shouting out that I was an Irish whore and then worse—those cruel words reducing me to an animal and making my sex all I am. He threw rotten vegetables at us and laughed when he hit one girl in the face. They laughed and I heard one shout out to me, just to me, “Soon or never.”
Words, threats, and fear are the tools of enslavement for women—they keep us in the place men keep for us. They force us to cower, but only if we allow it. Then I realized, these men must fear us because they know in their hearts that we are their equals, if not betters, in courage and ability. Those words set me free. I have confronted my worst fear and am willing to suffer the worst it could bring.
What we share, our love, our bed, our future, our child, we share because we give to each other freely of our own will. Yes, I yearn for your comfort while I am alone in my bed. I want you. I want you but could never give myself to you unless my body, my soul was truly mine to give. I give you so much more. Freedom is the knowledge sure and strong that everyone, man or woman, has the right to love and to be loved.
Your wife,
Kayleigh
Thirty-One
A Reminder
I seed him rise in the white o’ the wake, I see
d him lift a hand (’N’ him in his oilskins suit ’n’ all), I heard him lift a cry; ’N’ there was his place on the yard ’n’ all, ’n’ the stirrup’s busted strand.
—John Masefield
Saturday, July 6, 1872
Lat 48˚20΄00˝S, Long 58˚54΄00˝W
The Roaring Forties
Priest’s mind was focused only on climbing to his station aloft. He lifted his body to the top of the windward bulwark under the foremast shrouds and swung past the sheer-pole to ascend the shrouds. He could see the storm-darkened sky and hear the wind blow over the water and through the rigging. Smallbridge was ahead of him, near the futtock shrouds of the foremast. Two other top-men were waiting for him to start his climb. As his back stuck overboard, facing the water, he began his climb, one ratline, then another, and then it happened.
Green water slapped Priest into the shrouds with sufficient force to knock the wind from his lungs. In that odd sensibility that life bestows on us when we are in peril, Priest grimaced as the cold water spilled past the collar of his oilskins and trickled down his back between his shoulders. In the same instant, he realized that the ratlines beneath his feet were broken. The cold water teasing his back was forgotten. No boat could be lowered into this sea. A life ring could be thrown, but he might be unconscious, unable to use the ring to float himself, unable to hold on as it was hauled back to the hull and onto the deck. Death froze his mind in terror while it birthed strength he never knew he had.
Death would be an end. It would end an incomplete life just starting to find itself, the coffee in the mornings, obscene jokes meant to embarrass him, kisses, the feel of Sophie’s breasts, her nipples in his fingers, her lips. Sunday sermons provided answers to what would happen beyond death, but Priest had his doubts. His hands gripped the shroud lines tightly; later they would pain him, but for now they held fast, supporting his weight while his feet danced to find a ratline. Justice was of no concern now; regret and anger flashed with the thoughts of what would never again happen, a spring, the emergence of green, the warmth of the sun.
Then he felt something grab hold of his left ankle. “Here, stop that kicking! Stand here.” Peleg Carver placed his foot on a ratline. “Damn it, Mr. Lennon told you to be careful. What were you thinking? Are you all right? Then get up to where you belong: we’re carrying too much sail.”
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 21
