by Ron Carter
The thick, gray wall rolled over the ship, and the crew silently settled into their four-hour rotation, every instinct, every nerve alive as they stood to their posts for running in the twilight of fog. Men standing amidship could see neither bow nor stern. Those who walked the wet, slick footropes in the rigging tied safety ropes around their chests, then to the heavy, wooden arms, and talked to each other as they moved. The man in the crow’s nest became invisible—a voice from above. At six o’clock the first shift took their fifteen-minute turn in the tiny mess hall belowdecks, then hurried back to their duty posts while the next shift disappeared to bolt their food and return. By seven-thirty the dusk had turned to full blackness, and all lamps on the ship were burning. At seven-forty Adam gave orders to Faulkner at the wheel, and the crew felt the ship lean to port as Faulkner corrected, and she made her turn to starboard, due west. The crew on deck quieted and listened while the two men at the bow threw the lead balls on the thin lines into the sea and called out the count of the knots in the ropes as they drew them up, one knot for each fathom. Seven fathoms—six fathoms—five fathoms—four—five. For one hour the crew listened to the calls, which were never less than four fathoms—twenty-four feet—before their breathing eased. They were inside the Bay. It appeared that Adam had split the entrance near center.
Standing beside Faulkner at the wheel, Adam nodded, and Faulkner called orders. Men disappeared into the rigging to furl all sails except the mainmast, and minutes later the heavy ship eased and slowed, and the creaking lessened. With a lamp in one hand and his chart in the other, Adam once again gave Faulkner a new heading, and the Adonis swung to a course northwest, up the Bay, to where the Bay steadily narrowed to meet the Delaware River.
The winds held, and at midnight, with Matthew at the wheel, the crew on deck went below to their gently swinging hammocks while the next shift who had rested and tried to sleep went above to take control. At one o’clock they felt the ship gradually slow, and Faulkner, Sturman, and Adam walked to the bow to listen. The sound of the curl had not diminished. Adam spoke quietly to Sturman, with Faulkner listening.
“We’re entering the river.”
Both men nodded but said nothing, and the silence held as they listened to the men making the calls of the depths as they drew the lines and lead balls from the water and counted the knots. With a lantern casting yellow light on his chart, Adam listened to every call, referencing it against the depth lines printed on the parchment, and his own notes, tracking both shorelines of the river every yard of the way. Four times in the next four hours he called minute corrections to Matthew, at the wheel, following the bends of the river, first to the left, then to the right, then back to the left. “Six degrees left rudder.” “Five degrees left rudder.” “Eight degrees right rudder.” “Nine degrees left rudder.”
It was fifteen minutes past five o’clock when he called, “Twenty-two degrees right rudder.” By his calculations they were into the last turn of the river before Chester, with Philadelphia beyond. At this turn the river narrowed rapidly; if there was to be trouble, it would be in the next thirty minutes. Faulkner had taken the wheel from Matthew at four o’clock, and under the dull light of the wheel lantern turned the wheel and watched the compass needle swing twenty-two degrees, to a heading just east of true north. Matthew was at the port bow, listening, watching, with Sturman at the starboard bow, pacing, with every man listening to the depth soundings being called from the bow. Adam tracked the calls against his charts, steady, intense, missing nothing as he calculated the position of the ship between the two banks of the river. Ten minutes became fifteen, twenty, thirty, and the black fog slowly became deep purple as a hidden sun rose in the east, to their right.
Suddenly from the crow’s nest came the shout, “Fog clearing! Sun in the east!”
Fifteen minutes later the skies were gray, and then sunlight and blue showed through in tiny patches. Soon, through lingering wisps of gray, the shorelines of the river could be seen, and from overhead came the call, “Clear skies. Steady as she goes.”
In full morning sunlight Sturman rounded his lips and blew air. Matthew took a deep breath and released it and reached to rub his jawline. At the wheel, a tight grin showed in Faulkner’s beard. Crewmen glanced at Adam, and shook their heads in wonder, and turned back to their duties.
Twenty minutes later the man in the crow’s nest pointed and called, “Lighthouse ahead on the port side.”
Adam tapped his map. “Chester. We’ll make Philadelphia about twenty minutes past eight o’clock.”
During the last hour, while the crew made ready to dock and tie up the ship, the small settlement of Gloucester City passed on the starboard side, one mile east of the river bank, and then the town of Camden came into view on the starboard side. Across the river, on the port side of the Adonis, the city of Philadelphia sprawled more than two miles along the shore, extending inland more than one mile west. The crew stood to their stations as the ship slowed and worked her way past two sloops anchored just out of the deep channel. Then, on Faulkner’s order, they spilled the sails on the aftermast, and the big vessel slowed and settled as they brought her in to the dock, next to a large, weather-stained sign, “TERRELL” bolted to a piling. The ship thumped against the heavy black timbers, and the coiled, three-inch hawsers came arcing down from the deck, where expert hands jerked them tightly around the great cast-iron cleats and looped them back once, twice, three times, and the Adonis was secure. Seamen on board raised the hinged section of the ship’s railing, shoved the gangplank forward through the opening and set the lower edge slamming onto the dock, while below, busy men slowed for a moment in their work to stare up in wonderment at the ship and the crew, unable to believe the Adonis had crossed the Bay and navigated the river at night, in a fog bank that had stopped all other watercraft.
It was Sunday morning, the Sabbath, but it made little difference on the docks of one of the busiest ports in America. The sounds and the smells and the bustle of men on the wharves and piers working with cargoes coming and going on ships of many, many flags, were as on every other day. The crew of the Adonis lined the rail to lean forward on their forearms, peering down at the jumbled business, then beyond, at what they could see of the shops and taverns and pubs of the town. They would help the Terrell crew unload three thousand barrels of dried Maine cod, but they would also have some free time. Captain Sturman would give them a few dollars against their pay, and they would wash and change into their best, and visit the Red Rooster or the Black Horse or some other nearby tavern, where a plump lady with a stained apron and hair loosely balled on top of her head and a laugh that was too loud would bring them a pewter mug of hot rum with cinnamon and floating chunks of butter melting. They would sit at plain, scarred tables and tell anyone who would listen that they were the ones who had made passage from the Atlantic into Delaware Bay, crossed the Bay, worked their way up the twisting, crooked river, and docked in Philadelphia. Done it all on the night when the fog was so thick the cook had gathered a kettleful of it, added potatoes, and made soup. Right tasty, too, since the fog was so thick the shad and salmon were all swimming thirteen feet above the water and the cook got six of ’em in the pot when he gathered the fog. Nary a bump nor a snag, nor another ship the whole night, because no other ship dared try to do what they done. Best captain, best first mate, best navigator, best crew, best ship on the coast. Yes, sir, it was the Adonis done it, and they were the men of the Adonis. And then they would sit and work on their hot rum and grin while seamen from another ship would spin a tale taller, and more artfully filled with lies, and swear it was so.
On board, Matthew shook Faulkner’s hand, then turned to Adam. Neither of the brothers spoke as they shook hands, eyes locked for a moment. Matthew bobbed his head, and Adam understood, and Matthew stooped to shoulder his seaman’s bag, and spoke to Sturman, who stood waiting with a packet of papers clutched in one hand.
“Ready when you are, sir.”
Without a word
Sturman led Matthew marching down the gangplank to the bustle on the dock with the May sunshine on their shoulders. The two worked their way through the shipping crates and the great nets hanging from yardarms, and the shouts and clamor, and the bearded men, to the office with the word “TERRELL” on the sign above the door. The rotund, balding man behind the counter glanced up, then laid his quill on the ledger in which he had been making entries, rose, and approached. For one second his eyes narrowed and then recognition struck, and his eyes opened wide.
“Cap’n Sturman! When did you . . . you docked this morning?”
Sturman laid his packet of paperwork on the counter. “‘Morning, Gibbs. Yes. Fifteen minutes ago.”
“You came . . . the Bay? Up the river? Last night?”
“God willing we made it. We’re ready to unload. Which warehouse? We’ll need your crew to take first shift unloading. Mine needs about six hours rest. We have to be in Yorktown and loaded in five days and on our way. Tobacco for New York.”
Gibbs was incredulous. “Through that fog? You came in the fog?”
“Yes.” He waited a moment while Gibbs stared, then pushed the papers toward him. “The manifest, insurance, and our contract. We’ll need to get an insurance representative to certify the count.”
Gibbs shook his head, still unable to accept the arrival of the Adonis. “It’ll take maybe two hours. We weren’t . . . we didn’t think you’d try the Bay and the river last night. We expected you late today, or tomorrow morning. No one else tried it last night, either direction.”
“We noticed. If you’ll get your crew and the insurance man down to the ship in two hours, they can start.”
Gibbs started through the paperwork. “Give me a minute.” He scanned the manifest, then the insurance papers, and finally the contract between Terrell and the Dunson & Weems Shipping Company.
“Seem to be in order. Harbor master arrived at your ship yet?”
“No. Mr. Faulkner will handle that. First Mate.”
Gibbs looked up at Matthew. “Mr. Dunson, isn’t it? I think we met before once or twice. You’re a navigator. Part owner of the shipping line.”
Matthew shook his offered hand. “Matthew Dunson. Yes. Part owner.”
“You navigated last night?”
“No. My youngest brother. Adam Dunson.”
Gibbs grinned and his jowls moved. “Family tradition? Big brother watched over little brother last night?”
Matthew smiled as he shook his head. “No. Adam didn’t need help.”
Gibbs straightened the papers and returned them to Sturman. “I’ll get our crew together. See you at the ship in about two hours.”
Sturman nodded, turned on his heel, and Matthew followed him out the door back onto the wharf, where Sturman stopped and faced him.
“I’ll go back to the ship. You go on with your business here.”
“You’ll give the men some time to rest? Last night was tense. A drain.”
“On all of us. They’ll have eight hours rest before they take their shift unloading. You see to it you get some rest too.”
Matthew saw the concern in the hazel eyes. “I will, sir. If anything happens—if you need me—I’ll be at Asher’s Boardinghouse on Thirteenth Street, just off Market.”
Sturman repeated it. “Asher’s. All right. Be on your way.”
Matthew reached to shake the thick, strong hand, then shouldered his seaman’s bag and was gone.
Notes
A multitude of quotations from letters and other documents written by political leaders of the time are set forth in this chapter, defining the fact that the Articles of Confederation had been adequate to bind the states together in their common need to throw off British rule, but lacked the power or provisions to hold the union together in the peace that followed the British surrender. The quotations are verbatim selections from Warren, The Making of the Constitution, as follows, with support from some other sources:
Washington’s reference to the changes that even a short period of time can produce, changing minds to accept notions of restoring a king, p. 18. Rufus King to Jonathan Jackson, September 3, 1786—conditions existing in the United States had caused the overthrow of prior governments, p. 19. John Jay to George Washington, June 27, 1786—conditions might drive men into anti-republican views of government, p. 17. Congress was alarmed at the mounting dissention among the states, February, March, 1786, p. 20. Congressman Charles Pinckney of South Carolina moved Congress to appoint a committee to investigate and report, May 13, 1786, p. 20. Congress appointed a sub-committee headed by Pinckney, and the committee reported with vital recommendations on August 7, 1786; Congress did nothing, and the report died, p. 21. The failure of Congress to take action on the Pinckney committee report triggered the effort to convene a convention at Annapolis, Maryland, between several states, and that convention was set for September 11, 1786. That convention convened on time, but only five states sent delegates who appeared. The convention concluded September 14, and produced but one document—a bleak warning written by James Madison and Alexander Hamilton that the union of states would disintegrate if actions were not taken to prevent it, pp. 22–23. Talk of splitting the Union into three separate confederacies—north, middle, and south—became common among leaders, as defined in the letter from James Monroe to James Madison, August 14, 1786, pp. 24–25. James Monroe wrote to Governor Patrick Henry in August, 1786, that there were leaders openly advocating splitting the Union into three confederacies, p. 25. August 6, 1786, Theodore Sedgwick of Massachusetts wrote to Caleb Strong, warning that talk of breaking the United States into three confederacies had evolved into detailed discussions, p. 27. Shays’ Rebellion erupted in September, 1786, causing great alarm that the dissolution of the Union had begun, p. 30. In the last months of 1786, and in January and February of 1787, in great fear of losing the Union, several states began preparations for a great convention to address the approaching disaster of the destruction of the United States, without Congressional consent or approval, pp. 40–41. February 21, 1787, yielding to horrendous pressure, Congress approved the convening of the Convention, to be held at Independence Hall, Philadelphia, the second Monday in May, 1787, with delegates from all thirteen states, p. 42. In support, see also Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? p. 106; Berkin, A Brilliant Solution, p. 29.
James Madison was among the key figures arranging the Philadelphia Convention, and wrote the pivotal letter to persuade George Washington to lend the indispensable weight and prestige of his presence by attending, thus giving the Convention legitimacy, p. 61. In support, see also Bernstein, Are We to Be a Nation? pp. 109, 149–50.
The route followed by the ship Adonis, from Boston to Philadelphia, including the names of all islands, lighthouses, etc., can be found in Donley, Marton, Palmedo, National Geographic Picture Atlas of Our Fifty States, see foldout map.
Matthew Dunson and all characters in this chapter connected with the fictional shipping company of Dunson & Weems are fictional.
Philadelphia
May 13, 1787
CHAPTER III
* * *
Past the docks, Matthew hailed a hack, shouldered his heavy bag into the floor of the open coach, and climbed in. He sat on the weathered, cracked leather seat as the driver looked back over his shoulder inquiringly.
“Asher’s Boardinghouse. Thirteenth Street, just off Market,” Matthew directed.
The old, hunch-shouldered driver nodded, clucked to the horse, popped the buggy whip, and slapped the reins on the brown rump. The hack lurched forward, then settled into a steady, swaying motion with the iron shoes of the trotting horse and the iron rims of the large wheels clattering on the smooth, rutted cobblestones of Market Street, the grand thoroughfare that ran due west from the Delaware River past the Schuylkill River and divided Philadelphia in half, north and south. The coach rolled past great hotels and elegant shops and tall buildings that housed banks and the offices of lawyers and merchants and business accounting offices on bo
th sides of the street. The financial heart of the city gave way to smaller shops with locked doors and drawn blinds, and windows staring back like dead eyes, with small signs in one corner, “CLOSED.” This was Sunday, the Sabbath, and Philadelphia was giving the day its due.
Traffic dwindled, and the business district yielded to streets lined with trees heavy with the green of summer. White picket fences enclosed square homes built of bricks painted white, surrounded by yards alive with reds and yellows of flowers and the white blossoms of fruit trees. Men in powdered wigs and black, low-crowned, broad-brimmed felt hats, dressed in black suits with white lace and black ties at their throats, and white, knee-length stockings, walked ramrod straight, chins high, with women dressed in ankle-length, soft colored Sunday gowns and bonnets that covered most of their faces, clinging to one arm. Behind marched their children, silent, the boys dressed like their fathers, the girls like their mothers, winding their way to the nearest red brick church with a white steeple and a clanging bell calling all God-fearing Philadelphians to their Sunday duty.
The coach rattled on west, and Matthew settled into the seat, casually aware of the trimmed trees casting shade on the narrow sidewalks and streets, and the neatly kept yards and houses and the people passing in their Sunday finery, calling greetings. Weariness settled over him, and he removed his tricorn to lean back against the brittle leather to let thirty sleepless hours filled with the unrelenting tension of moving a huge ship blind in fog and the black of night, through a bay, and up a narrow, crooked river, make its claim on him. The driver drew on the right rein and the coach turned from Market Street north onto Thirteenth Street, where the coach came to a stop before a large, white, two-storied home with a small sign above the door, “Asher’s Boarding.” Matthew stepped to the street, handed coins to the driver, and offered his “Thank you.” The driver tipped his high-topped hat while Matthew lifted his seaman’s bag from the floor of the coach, waved once more to the driver, and strode up the flower-lined, brick-paved walk to the large, maple wood front door of the home. He raised the great brass knocker and dropped it three times and waited while rapid footsteps approached from the inside.
