Boston
July 8, 1872
Dearest Isaac,
I am so excited to write to you because I feel a celebration is needed after last week’s events. It seems the Boston Training School for Nurses will soon be in existence and join the New England Hospital for Women and Children in training women for this profession. Father helped with the money and even the poorest of people gave us their pennies. Jimmy Meehan organized what he has named the New England Brotherhood of Merchant Seamen and Steamship Clerks. They too helped raise money by passing the hat at the Seamen’s Bethel and at all the taverns on the waterfront. He raised 173 dollars from the sailors!
Jimmy is now living in the small apartment above my parents’ carriage house. San Matias is in a shipyard in South Boston and out of the water. He checks her every day. Mother says he is sweet on her Irish cook. You should hear them talk, two cooks who love to complain about each other’s dishes. Jimmy no longer is confined to boiling and frying and is now baking pastries! I think Jimmy is sweet on several women. I will always be sweet on you, Isaac.
I recruited two young women doctors from the Women’s Medical School to help with the curricula for the new school. We agree on instruction based on Florence Nightingale’s example. We will teach our students to dress blisters, sores, burns, and make poultices as well as minor dressings. They will learn to give enemas to men, women, and children. We also believe in teaching them how to physically handle the helpless and bedridden. The rest is sanitation, which is simply housekeeping.
Nurses need to know how to dose patients and enough about diseases and bodily functions to keep a valuable record for the physicians’ use. Since medicine can now measure things such as body temperature, blood pressure, and actually listen to organs like the heart, nurses need to acquire these skills too. So I stress the need for a foundation in the eclectic school of medicine and modern thinking. Science must be part of nursing and we must break the concept of the household as the model of our care. Until we do, nurses will never be justly compensated for the care they give.
Florence Nightingale wrote a letter encouraging me to see my ideas through. I also wrote to the Institution of Protestant Deaconesses at Kaiserswerth for their advice, particularly for curriculum matters and how single women who enter nursing are treated in Germany. Some of the younger doctors at Massachusetts General are also helping me form a curriculum together with my young women doctors.
Each day, my mother has drawn closer to me since we have become married. In so many things, she is much stronger than my father. This surprises me. I believe mother convinced my father to persuade you and the Christisons to fly the Irish harp beneath the American flag.
I do not look as forward to going home after a day’s work now. I cannot share my parlor with you and my bed is a lonely place for me. Do you feel as I do?
Sadly, I must tell you Hanna and William Jr. are having problems. He is much more involved in business than before and ignores her most simple and intimate needs. He explains this neglect as chronic nervous exhaustion. She wants a child and he is so inattentive.
His disease seems to be a fashion these days. I know women who are constantly complaining and visiting their physicians, claiming they too suffer from nervous exhaustion. These women are proud because their ailment is a sign of their place in society.
Hanna is so beautiful. Her face would please Botticelli. Her body must be all that any man could desire. Yet William barely seems to notice Hanna’s existence. I am so happy to have you as my husband and lover. It seems silly; Hanna could excite the beast in any man. I found an old “The Ancient Wisdom of Aristotle.” It provides the most delicious examples of how to have a happy, fruitful marriage. I will teach Hanna to be as patient with William as you were with me. You and I will read Aristotle together when we are reunited. There’s so much wisdom to try.
Captain Christison tells me you and your ship should rapidly approach Cape Horn now. You’ve never expressed fear of this awful place to me or even Jimmy Meehan, but I pray you navigate Cape Horn with skill and courage. The Commodore says you are a fighter at heart and Cape Horn and the Southern Ocean strengthen you. How can such a thing be? I do not understand, but I know in my heart that is true and you, your ship, and crew will triumph over the cold and raging seas and soon be in San Francisco. I’ve asked Saint Christopher and the apostle Peter to be at your side.
How I love you and how I know you love me. These letters lead my mind to imagining us speaking together, of walking hand in hand and when our lips touch. I shall write and write so you are in my every thought.
Your most loving friend and Life’s partner forever,
Kayleigh
Thirty-Four
The Fight
And to myself I boasting said,
Now I a conqu’ror sure shall be.
—Anne Kingsmill Finch
Wednesday, July 10, 1872
Lat 53°24΄00″S, Long 63°55΄00″W
Off Punta Arenas
July 10, 1872
My Dearest Kayleigh,
We are becalmed. We are forced to estimate our position at sea and, in this calm, moving only where the current takes us. So we are blind and lost save for soundings. While we are not in danger, I believe we are drifting to the northwest along the coast of Isla Grande de la Tierra del Fuego. We will be delayed entering the Le Maire Strait as I had planned. Overcast, squalls, calms!
The Le Maire Strait will save us 5 or more days as compared to sailing eastward around Staten Island to enter the Drake Passage. However, the strait is difficult if the weather is against you, as it has been these past days. Its sides are lined with rocks and it has treacherous tides capable of setting a ship aground on its shores. Although there is deep water in the strait, safe offings must be kept off Cabo San Diego at the strait’s entrance and off Cabo Setabense at its exit.
I’ve not slept and am growing increasingly impatient. It means so much to me to gain the bonus the Central Pacific Railroad has promised and to secure regular cargoes from the Rallis. If all of this comes to pass, I can pay off the mortgage on San Matias, sell her, and look to purchasing a home for us.
Are you pregnant? I don’t know if I should dread the answer or look forward to a child of our own. So much depends on how you are being treated, if your family still welcomes you as their daughter. Yet another reason to reach San Francisco quickly.
Life aboard Providence is not without interest. Peleg Carver decided that the calm weather was as good an occasion as we might find to do a thorough inspection of our rigging. We changed our sails to heavy Cape Horn canvas after reaching the River Plate. Since men will soon, within days, be aloft in freezing weather with high winds, snow, and ice, Peleg is determined to risk no life unnecessarily. Caution is cheap insurance.
Peleg took Samuel Craig, the fugitive from Kentucky, aloft with him because Thomsen is still not well. Peleg Carver can be a stern man when he needs to be and the crew respects him for it. I suspect this sternness is why he chose Craig to accompany him.
Once aloft, Craig was asked to attach a jigger tackle to part of the running rigging so a block could be removed and overhauled. This meant he attached a small purchase or, what most people say, a block and tackle, on the running rigging to maintain tension while he removed the block and the hemp rope running through it. Peleg Carver had to show him how this was to be accomplished, as Craig is a poor sailor. When we overhaul a block, we make sure the wood and strapping are sound and the sheave is working freely. Then we recoat it with varnish to protect it from the weather or if we need it immediately, coat it with linseed oil. This is all routine work.
Nicholas Priest was on deck under the mizzen where Craig was working. Just as soon as Craig was able to distract Peleg, he attempted to drop the block on Nicholas Priest. Smallbridge, Priest’s friend, shouted, and Henry Lennon dove in to tackle Priest and kept the block from hitting him. As it was, the block hit the deck hard enough to put a large dent in the yellow pine. If it hit Pries
t in the head, it may have killed him. It certainly would have fractured his skull.
Peleg Carver nearly kicked Craig out of the rigging and literally forced him back down on deck. I had Peleg bring Craig and Priest into my reception area. You should have heard the excuses Craig offered, all lies. “It was oily, Captain, and slipped from my hand!” I told Craig that I knew he had told the starboard watch that he would vilely assault Priest and that it was common knowledge he had been bullying Priest. I gave Craig a choice: He could box Priest according to the London Prize Ring Rules, if Priest was willing, or he would spend the rest of the voyage in irons until we reached San Francisco. Once there, I would make the charge of attempted murder. Well, Priest was only too happy to fight, which surprised a sigh out of Craig.
I should have simply put Craig in irons, but I let the fight occur for Priest’s benefit. I think you may disagree with me, but Priest needed to fight. He needed to discover he had the sand within him to face another man who might harm him.
Priest will surprise everyone who ever knew him once this voyage is over. Peleg Carver seems to be the person Priest is patterning himself after. Perhaps you could say you watch a woman bloom as in a flower. For Priest it is more like a sturdy oak growing.
The London rules are not the same as the boxing matches fought in leather gloves. It is fought bare-knuckled and there is a fair amount of grappling allowed. It is fought until either one of the fighters concedes the match or one can no longer toe the scratch mark. I appointed Henry Lennon to be Priest’s second and Eoghan Gabriel, the boatswain, to be Craig’s second. Peleg Carver was to be the referee.
The crew was mustered to watch the fight, which took place on the main cargo hatch. Both fighters were warned that it must be a good clean fight. Craig was given the warning that this must end his hostility toward Priest or I would end it on my own terms.
The crew had long suspected a fight would occur, and there were substantial wagers on its outcome.
***
Jonathon Bishop had finished greasing Priest’s face and gave him his last-minute instructions and encouragement before the first round began. “What have I taught you? You have to go in there and finish him. You can’t leave him standing. The longer you let him stand, the greater the chance he will do something dirty. Are you ready? Are you going to knock him out?”
“I’m ready.”
“But will you knock the bastard out, Priest?”
“C’mon, Smallbridge, you don’t have to say that.”
Bishop exclaimed, “Damn it, Priest! This ain’t a joke. This is what I’ve trained you for. You can get hurt in there, even killed. Make up your mind! Forget your ma and pa; you got to get angry. You got to see red; you got to want to hurt him.”
The bell sounded, the combatants stripped off their heavy coats, and the fight began.
Craig began the fight with a wild flurry of blows delivered during a charge into Priest. The apprentice easily deflected the blows with his arms and circled to his left. Craig repeated his attack again and again, only to see it fail.
After ten minutes into the first round, Smallbridge turned to Bishop. “What in hell is he doing?”
“He’s playing with him, Smallbridge. He doesn’t want to hit him.”
Craig charged in again, and Priest repeated his defense but this time threw a jab to Craig’s face, which ripped open his upper lip, drawing first blood. Craig in turn went into a blind rage and attempted to lock Priest up in his arms, but to no avail. Priest kept his arms above Craig’s and delivered a head butt, a loud thud, which brought a puffy purple bruise to Craig’s left eye.
“That’s sweet, boy, that’s sweet. Stop playing with him!”
Priest heard Bishop and launched an offensive. He still was not trying to finish Craig by knocking him out. He struck two quick jabs into Craig’s face, and when Craig attempted to punch back with a wild right, Priest instinctively counterpunched with a well-delivered left uppercut, catching Craig in the upper rib cage. He would later find that he had broken Craig’s rib.
“Damn it, Sweets, finish him, finish him, he can’t fight you!”
This time Craig was seized with pain and fear. He could not hurt Priest. In fact, he could not even land a blow to Priest’s body or head. He attempted to back away from Priest but was shoved back into the center of the ring by the big German in the starboard watch, the crew all chanting now, “Fight him, fight him, coward!”
Priest once again began to jab until Craig was backing away and off balance. The bully wanted to run. Then Priest threw a right-left combination to Craig’s face, smashing his nose and sending him to the canvas.
Panic set in for Craig. He looked around with his one good eye, crawled rapidly into his corner, and reached out and grabbed a knife from one of the sailor’s belts. He stood and began to charge at Priest with the knife held at waist level with the intent of delivering a fatal thrust to Priest’s body.
Nicholas Priest screamed in rage. Griffin fired his pistol in the air.
In the flash of a single second, Nicholas Priest had considered the worth of his life and determined he would not die this day at Craig’s hand. Unlike before in Virginia, he was not helpless; he did not have to accept death.
The boy’s rage was so startling and violent that several sailors stepped back and the younger of the Ernst brothers instinctively turned toward his brother. Bishop yelled out, “Sweets! Sweets! The knife!” Priest heard nothing, not even the pistol shot.
Priest grabbed Craig by the biceps of his knife arm and by his crotch, lifted his would-be killer overhead, and threw him from the cargo hatch into the main fife-rail. Craig dropped the knife on impact and yelped, then screamed in pain. By this time Priest was on the fallen man in berserk fury, kicking him and screaming until Bishop and Lennon could restrain him.
“It’s over, Priest, its over!”
Priest had released years of pent-up rage, and with its sudden departure he went nearly limp. It was as if every ounce of emotion had been drained and replaced with lead, causing his body to slump in Bishop’s arms.
Jonathon Bishop placed his huge black arm around Priest’s back and under his armpit, steadying his fighter. “Damn it, Sweets, I told you to knock him out, not try to kill him.” He laughed. Smallbridge wiped the grease and sweat from his shipmate’s face and upper body.
By this time Priest began to hear the cheering of the forecastle hands and heard them calling him “Sweets.” He felt pats on his back and heard one man say, “He deserved it, Sweets. No shame on your part. I would have killed him had he drawn a knife on me.” “You made me a rich johnny, Sweets. I’ll buy you a whiskey in the Cobweb Palace, shipmate.”
The blood returned to Priest’s face and he began to realize triumph. He began to realize that the crew admired him for what he had accomplished, holding his ground until ready and then fighting with great skill and berserk fury. The story would be told and retold in taprooms and ginhouses ashore for years. Priest had earned a reputation now and gained standing among his fellow mariners.
Priest said he just wanted a cold beer and a large beefsteak. Smallbridge just smiled.
***
And so it ended in only one round. I’ve applied lint and plaster to Craig’s ribs. Broken as he is, he should not be a threat to anyone. I did remove him from the forecastle and placed him in a small cabin in the forward deckhouse. He’s a pariah. I will make charges for attempted murder against him when we reach San Francisco. Until then and when he is able, he will rejoin his watch and work. We are shorthanded. I have no other choice.
I will post this letter to you in San Francisco if we do not speak to an eastbound American ship in Drake’s Passage. With luck, I’ll be in San Francisco before any Atlantic-bound ship reaches New York or Boston from here.
I live to see you again. You occupy my dreams.
Isaac
***
That evening, Peleg Carver and Henry Lennon asked to meet with the captain alone in his reception area. Eoghan
Gabriel had the deck.
Henry Lennon spoke. “Captain, I broke da point off that bastard’s sticker. Did you know it’s a double-edged and has an eight-inch blade? Put him in chains before he kills someone. I tinnie do without him on da starboard watch. The bastard’s too dangerous.”
“No, he’ll work. No free passage!”
“Damn it, Captain, listen to him. Lennon’s right. If this were the navy, he would have been flogged, and by God, I’d use the cat. He’s going to kill somebody if he’s not locked up and in chains. I wish you had shot him.”
“I’ve made up my mind. I’ll have no deadweight on my ship! I expect you two to make sure there’s no trouble. Let the law take him in San Francisco, but until then he works and earns his whack!”
“If that’s your decision, put him on port watch. I can keep him under my heel. Henry, I’ll give you my landsman for him to make it fair.”
“There’s na need, Peleg. Nothing’s fair about that feller. He’ll cost you more than he’s worth.”
Griffin had heard enough. “That’s it; I’ve heard all I’m willing to listen to. Peleg, you’ve got Craig now. Gentlemen, one of you is on watch.”
Thirty-Five
Cabo San Diego
Black it blows and bad, and it howls like slaughter,
And the ship she shudders as she takes the water,
Hissing flies the spindrift like a wind-blown smoke.
—John Masefield
Monday, July 10, 1872
Lat 53˚24΄00˝S, Long 63˚55΄00˝W
The ship’s bell sounded eight bells for midnight; the starboard watch was in the process of being relieved. Peleg Carver greeted his relief.
“Good morning, Mr. Lennon. No change since your last watch, hard gale, wind S by SE and snow and thick weather. We’re steering south-southwest by one-quarter west under the forestaysail, reefed upper topsails, and the spanker. We’re in 170 fathoms of water and I am certain with this sea we’re not making much southing. I don’t think we’re making much more than two knots headway. The captain’s concerned about leeway in this gale, and so am I.”
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 23
