Making a Point
The Harp and Plough, Boston
Eamon Kavanagh knew them. They were back, drinking whiskey and talking so low the noise of their voices could be heard, but not the words spoken. Suddenly the big man, the man built like a boxcar, jumped to his feet and grabbed the other man by his lapels, the man with the Colt pistol, the Clan na Gael man, and shoved him to the floor.
“Don’t you ever again send your men t’ threaten me daughter!”
Eamon watched the big man sprint around the table to the man on the floor and step on the man’s right hand before it could reach his pocket.
“This is between you and me. Leave my family alone. Damn you, sending men to Fall River to threaten a pregnant woman. If I think just a tiny thought about you harmin’ Kayleigh, just a tiny one, I’ll kill yer.”
Eamon Kavanagh watched the big man pick the other up from the floor as easily as a sack of potatoes and shove him out the door. Eamon went to the bar and took a bottle of Jameson’s from the top shelf. He poured himself a generous drink and then another in an additional glass. He carried the drinks to the big man.
Eamon raised his glass and said, “To our children.”
Thirty-Two
Two Miles Southwest of Stanley
Six days shalt thou labor and do all thou art able, And on the seventh—holystone the decks and scrape the cable.
—Philadelphia Catechism
Sunday, July 7, 1872
Lat 48˚52΄00˝S, Long 59˚57΄00˝W
“Duder, Stedwin, put two men on cat-head lookout and one up the rigging. Relieve them every hour. Yews helm; use Priest as your lee helm. Open the scuttle; we’re steering full and by. I’m taking no chance with the helm. Keep the starboard watch on deck, but let them rest.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. Lennon.”
“Duder,” Priest asked, “I thought the south fifties were the hardest, worse than the roaring forties.”
“We ain’t there yet. Besides, this won’t last, Priest. You’ll see what the fifties are like soon enough.”
Duder suddenly changed the subject. “You going back to Bath, to see that girl? I could ask about her for you when I get home and let you know what happened to her.”
Priest replied, “Sophie’s all you and Smallbridge want to talk about, rub it in about me leaving.”
Duder shrugged. “Hell, boy! She’s all you think about! Held your hand too, right in front of them johnnies. When I was your age, I could get sweet on someone if they just smiled at me.” Duder turned toward Priest and flashed a toothy smile. “That’s okay.” He laughed. “Everybody goes through it. She’s a whore and that don’t bother you? It’s a rare gift to see things all faired and true, women in particular.” He laughed. “She had you standing proud, now, didn’t she?”
Duder’s smile told Priest there was no sense of ridicule in what was said.
“That don’t stand for true love, but”—Duder was chuckling—“it does make the girls interesting, don’t it?” He broke into a full laugh. “Caught you by surprise, too.”
Priest replied, “Smallbridge told me about her being sold. I’m not letting my cock do the thinking. Being a whore wasn’t her choice. She didn’t laugh at me and she didn’t act hard either. She slipped the money the Swede paid her into my pocket. She didn’t whore me. When we walked back into the tavern, she did hold my hand. I shouldn’t have let it go or got drunk.”
Duder smiled.
“She stood by me, held my hand, right there for everyone to see. They did stop laughing, but I was too angry to know what was going on. Then I was drunk. Smallbridge said I would probably never see her again. She spoke to me in French. She wanted me to help her, Duder. That’s what’s on my mind. She was alone with no one to help her and she needed me.”
“Smallbridge told you the truth; you’ll likely never see that girl again. There’ll be others. But nothing’s ever for sure, I mean, not seeing her.”
Duder made certain Priest looked him in the eye. “That girl’s got a will; she don’t want to be there, to be a whore, she’ll escape and set her life right. She’d make a good wife if she gets free before she’s all used up.”
Priest replied, “Smallbridge said she had a knife and some money.”
“The tavern keeper beats her, Priest. Didn’t get naked for you, did she? The girl didn’t want you to see her bruises. That’s why she’s got the knife. She saw something in you. Maybe she just wanted someone to care for or to care for her. She’s human all the same. She hoped you’d want to help. She’ll get free. Did you tell her anything?”
“Before she did it, I said she was pretty and asked her to tell me her name.”
Duder thought out loud. “Maybe that was enough—asking for a name says you like her, maybe that you’d not walk away from her.
“Your folks live in Back Bay, don’t they? You ain’t ready for a wife now. It takes time, more girls, happiness and sorrow. It ain’t easy as it seems to love a woman.”
“Why isn’t it easy?”
“Because no one’s perfect. She’ll let you down one day. You’ll do the same to her.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Son, you’ll know you’re ready when you know how much you can forgive her.”
Priest was puzzled.
“It’ll come to you.”
Priest thought on what Duder had told him, and the word “forgive” kept turning and turning over in his mind and not settling anywhere he recognized.
Duder continued, “If you’re lucky, you’ll remember all the girls you’ve known for the rest of your life because they taught you about being a man, just like you’ll help teach them to be women. It’s cruel to leave them, but that’s the way life is. Our trick will be at two bells, so start thinking on being at the helm. Why do you think Mr. Lennon wants you to be lee helm, Priest?”
“I don’t know. There’s hardly a wind.”
“I’ll tell you. Pay attention. Have you noticed the sea’s been picking up? Wind pushes the sea around to make waves. Officers call it fetch. Just wait until we get into Drake’s Passage. The wind’s got the whole bottom of the world to blow the water around, and it pushes it between the Antarctic and Cape Horn. What we’re feeling now is its ripples. The wind could come on us hard without any warning. It could set the main course aback or spring our rudder. I’ve seen it hit the rudder so hard it flung a man into the air. Mr. Lennon doesn’t want the ship to broach. That’s why you’re lee helm.”
Priest nodded his understanding.
“We’ll be steering full and bye. If we handle these cat’s-paws real wicked-like, there’ll be no need to brace the yards. He wants me and Old John to teach you and Smallbridge how that’s done, which sails to watch and what to look for, and it ain’t on the mizzen! The captain and the mates on this ship don’t do things for the hell of it.
“We’d better relieve the helm now. It’s our trick.”
The day passed slowly. The wind, when it came, was from all quarters and in whispers. There was no pattern to it. Henry Lennon avoided calling both watches on deck. There was not enough wind to warrant it. Priest saw the men go to the weather side and watch to see if a bow wake formed when it blew at least fair. Providence was inching forward.
Griffin appeared on deck with the changing of the watches. He was less concerned with the calm than overjoyed to be able to use his sextant. The wind picked up for a second. Griffin went forward and joined the hands to see if a bow wake formed.
“See there, johnnies, she’s a good girl, Providence. She won’t waste a thing.”
The trick over, Priest asked Duder another question. “What’s a clean upper limb, Sam?”
“I think you need to ask Mr. Lennon or Mr. Carver. Don’t bother them on watch, and wait until they have time to give you an answer. Navigation is the sailor’s science. It takes calculations and an almanac. Those sextants and chronometer clocks are the pride of a ship’s master. He owns them, not the ship. If I had more education, I might
be a mate. Speaking of education, what’s the most important sail on a ship?”
“I don’t know, Duder.”
“Here’s your schoolwork. Recollect the first sail we bend. Watch when we get in heavy weather and see which ones the captain leaves up. When you know that answer, tell me and I’ll tell you why.
“You also need to think about how the sails work together, like the jibs and spanker. You see, Captain Griffin and his mates were all before the mast when they started. They learned the sailor’s trade, then day men’s, particularly the boatswain’s. Then they became mates and finally ship’s masters. They take tests and have to certify they’ve spent time at sea and have a good record. They belong to associations now that issue them papers that tell ship owners that they are masters and mates. You’ll do that too. Hell, boy! The lime-juicers will certify a mate at seventeen if he’s got the time at sea.”
Shortly after four in the afternoon, just as the watch was relieved, the weather shut in again with cold, drizzling rain. The wind was loud, and you could hear the rigging sing and the spars moan. The landsmen were assigned to operate the ship’s foghorn, and it blew continually throughout the day and night. There were no forecastle songs sung that Sunday. They had all they could do to stay warm and dry when they came off deck. Lines were kept strung in the galley so men could try to dry their wet clothes when not on watch. This helped, but the clothes would never again completely dry until the ship turned north and entered the Pacific trade winds. Salt sores started to form on the men’s hands. The evening came, and finally Priest was able to rest.
Priest was exhausted when the starboard watch was relieved. Every muscle in his body begged for rest. He looked forward to climbing into his bunk and wrapping himself in his blankets. He wondered why his feet were the last to feel warm and why just when they were warm and he could completely give in to sleep, his watch would be called on deck. Heaving out was not easy. He knew of no greater comfort, no greater relief now than to sleep and be warm, but he forced himself up and out on the cold, dangerous deck.
When he first went aloft, he felt triumphant. Now he felt cold and exhausted. But still he felt both satisfaction with himself and an obligation not to let his fellow seamen down. He would be there with them and working. He would drink his coffee at five in the morning with the other men, huddled in the lee of the forward cabin, and respond that he was okay when asked and then smile. These men, Priest’s watch, huddled in their worn oilskins, holding their tin cups in both hands to warm their fingers and thumbs, chewing plugs of rough-cut tobacco and swearing through stained teeth, were his shipmates, and he a shipmate to them. He occasionally looked at their faces; he did not want time to rob them from his memory.
While Priest and the rest had their coffee and tobacco, Griffin turned to Carver and said, “Eighteen days from Saint Rogue to this latitude. Wonder how many days it will take for Cape Horn?”
Thirty-Three
Bare Knuckles
The government is not best which secures mere life and property—there is a more valuable thing—manhood.
—Mark Twain
Monday, July 8, 1872
Lat 50˚28′13″S, Long 63˚32′45″W
South of the Falkland Islands
The ship was becalmed, the water as still as a Connecticut millpond, and the sea shimmered like silk in the predawn light. The Falkland Islands now lay astern on the port side. The sails hung from their yards like curtains in a theater, limp and lifeless. The moon shone bright and the sea was full of lengths of kelp. Cape pigeons flew overhead. The barometer showed 30.9 inches of mercury and had been falling progressively as Providence neared Cape Horn. They had as near perfect conditions for boxing as Tierra del Fuego would allow in winter. When the sparring began, there would be no need for heavy pilot coats. Priest and Bishop were on the cargo deck by the barrels of salt beef and pork and numerous ten-gallon airtights of meat and vegetables. The cargo lamps were burning while the starboard watch slept.
“What did I tell you, Priest, about a right-handed man? You move away from his right hand when he hits! That’s so there’s never any power behind the punch. Take your stance, now, and move left when you see me start to cock my right arm. That’s it, boy! Now, jab, jab, keep moving left.”
Bishop threw a right cross at Priest. The boy’s left arm blocked the blow and Priest quickly threw his right into Bishop as his coach dropped his left hand with the punch.
“No, Priest! You’re off balance! You got to throw that right using your whole body! The arm ain’t enough. Use the waist. Use the legs! What are you doing? Trying to knock a piece of oakum off my chin? Let’s do it again. Jab, jab, and here it comes! Damn, that’s a good one, Priest! Anybody ever tell you that you’re quick? What do you do when you hit him good?”
“I hit him again!”
“Okay, let’s try that again. Jab, jab, jab!” The punch was thrown. Priest counterpunched. Bishop stepped away, dropped his right arm slightly, and with lightning speed, Priest threw a left hook, then a right uppercut.
“Oh, you’re a sweet young man! Damn but that stung! Didn’t pull any of those punches. We’re friends here, ain’t we? Keep your feet moving; don’t you dare stop. I’m coming in now. Show me what I taught you. That’s right! Keep your arms above mine! Punch the kidneys! If you got to head butt, head butt the damn eyes! Boy, the forecastle hands will know you are one sweet son of a bitch now. All right, that’s enough for now. I got to start the fire and make coffee.”
“How am I coming along? Am I ready?”
“I’d like to see five more pounds, but that speed you’ve got is so sweet. Damned if I don’t have me a natural lightweight! Tell me what you do with that jab? Why do I keep telling you jab, jab, jab?”
“You want me to keep him off balance. You want me to cut his eyes and break his nose.”
“Why, Priest?”
“If he can’t see, he can’t punch. If he can’t breathe, he can’t fight. Why so bloody? Why do I have to be an animal?”
“Because he is! His mind is made up to harm you. He doesn’t give a damn. You got to have your mind made up to fight, to take the fight to him. There’s no time to make up your mind in a fight. It’s all reaction. No thinking, just punch, counterpunch. Things happen too quickly. You got to be an animal. No thinking, just cunning. It’s nature! It’s in you, I know it is, and it’s there for a reason.
“When I was a prizefighter, every time they said, ‘Hit the nigger; hit the nigger!’ it made me madder than hell, but I kept my wits. I waited. I was patient. When the time came to throw my punch, I remembered them yelling out, ‘Hit that damn nigger.’ They did me a favor. Oh, that’s when I stoked up the hate and let it loose. I hit a man so hard you could hear the crowd gasp. Don’t know if it was the money they lost or seeing that man’s head snap and spin so suddenly and then watching him stagger and fall.
“ ‘Nigger’ hurts because I am a man. You’re a man, Priest. You can’t let anyone or anything rob you of your manhood. I guess they didn’t teach you that at all those schools. As long as you believe you’re a man, nobody can beat you. They might whip you, but you’ll still be a man.
“I’ll ask Mr. Lennon to send you to me to help after breakfast, so you can get some sleep. Oh, Priest, you are one sweet lightweight. Got to get the fire started. That bastard Craig’s going to think he tried to screw a wildcat!”
***
The morning routine called for Henry Lennon and Jonathon Bishop to meet after coffee had been provided to the crew at five in the morning, time to draw the day’s rations. Five in the morning was also the time the two men had come to talk. Usually the talk was just to pass the time and for each the sort of mutual respect that passes between friends.
“How’s da lad coming, Bishop?”
“He’s a natural lightweight, Mr. Lennon. Look how his eyes are set back and protected by his forehead? Do you see the size of his hands? He knows how to deliver a punch now—well, mostly; he’ll be all right. I’d like
to see five more pounds, but if he gets cornered, Craig will be the one who regrets being there.
“He’s toughened up his stomach and has been soaking his hands and face in brine. When he makes a fist, it’s like a stone.”
“What did you say to da lad, though? He stands up to Craig and says, ‘I’m na fool; you’ll know when I’m ready.’ What did yews tell that lad?”
“That’s between him and me.”
“Black magic, I take it.”
“Ha! Maybe. I like that boy, Mr. Lennon. I’m training him hard. He’s a good boy. I’m having some fun with him.”
“Fun?”
“Sure. We can joke all the time, even when he’s hurting. He don’t take himself too serious. He’s getting his body toughened up. I’ve seen him lie there on the deck, holding his legs up, and pound on his stomach until his gut is beet red. He’ll wince with pain, but he never complains. You’ve seen how he’s filled out. He’ll not be the same boy once he gets home.”
“Do yews think he’ll go ter sea for a livin’?”
Bishop laughed. “How in hell do you expect me to know that? Priest and Smallbridge are planning to get Cape Horn tattoos in San Francisco.”
“Jon, why are yew helpin’ da lad?”
“Why not? He comes to me for coffee and hardtack before the others are on deck. We’ve been talking. You know he asked me about the war, how anyone could just stand there in a line of battle and see the faces of people trying to kill you, see them aim their rifles right at you. He asked how I could stand there and fight while the man next to me got shot. He’s not wanting war stories neither.”
“What’d yews tell him—why?”
“Told him we stood there, got wounded, and died because of our friends, our brothers, our company and platoon, no one would let a brother down, no one wanted to be known as a coward. I told him about the hate. You know, Mr. Lennon. You been there. Then he asks me if living is worth it if you think you’re a coward.”
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 22
