A sallow-faced, clerky looking man approached and studied Jonas' rough cloth hunting shirt and tall squirrel gun with purse-lipped reserve. Jonas was not surprised that the man's voice was reedy and thin but his message made Jonas' heart thump and his hopes surge.
"Mr. Jonas Hawk?" The messenger's nostrils pinched as he looked down his long nose.
"I'm called that." Jonas matched the clerk's distance.
"Mr. James Cummens asks that you present yourself at his offices as soon as your convenience allows."
Jonas strove to maintain aplomb. The clerk obviously thought he should be snatched from his seat and marched to wherever Mr. Cummens wanted him. Jonas figured the man was right. Cummens was a name to be reckoned with on this waterfront and a summons from a Cummens came mighty close to a command.
A sudden fear that his deed had caught up with him twisted Jonas' innards. Yet, it was unlikely that a sheriff would be working through James Cummens. He had been addressed as Hawk. Did that mean his real name was unknown?
But, if it was, what interest could a Cummens have with him?
Only one way to find out, he supposed, but his running legs would be ready and, once started, he wouldn't slow down till he hit Baltimore.
Jonas allowed that now was as good a time as could be and strode easily, not too closely, beside the messenger along the cobbled street to the imposing three-story brick with the name Cummens deeply carved into a limestone lintel.
Within, a senior clerk imperiously gestured both forward then halted them like soldiers before a tomb-heavy oaken door. His knock was answered and he pointed Jonas in while holding the junior clerk at bay with a forearm.
From behind his desk James Cummens studied the slender youth standing easily, almost leaning on his long rifle. Cummens smiled to himself. Easy he might appear, but a deer had the same alert, almost curious look about it an instant before it melted from sight. This was a woodsy boy; the kind Sherman's Valley had always raised. They grew lean and whippy like hickory shoots. Good men tended to breed good youngsters. Blue Moccasin liked the look of this one.
With light boiling through the windows behind the desk, Jonas couldn't clearly see the man studying him. But, they were alone, he had his rifle, and he hadn't heard the door lock behind him.
He couldn't really remember Blue Moccasin, though his pap claimed Blue had been by in his young days. Being nearly spent out and short of ideas, Jonas had been considering a visit to James Cummens anyway. Asking help was a last resort but ne guessed he was just about down to that.
When Cummens came around the desk Jonas could see him better, wasn't much bigger than he was actually, but what struck Jonas strongest was that Cummens moved shadow silent. Moved just like his Pap, and danged if he wasn't wearing blue moccasins at that. Jonas felt his ends tingle in excitement.
They sat in the light where they could both see. Blue relaxed in a padded and used looking rocker, Jonas perched on a straight backed thing that must have been built to be uncomfortable.
Jonas figured sitting straight wasn't natural. Only city people and ministers sat all squared up. Given a chance a man took the weight off by lounging back or propping himself on an arm. Of course, counciling was different. Then, Jonas knew, everybody sat like Delaware with their backs arrow straight. Maybe his chair was for that, but Blue's rocker sure looked more restful.
Blue Moccasin had to be old. Rob Shatto spoke of him during the earliest times. But his son, James, Jr., wasn't much older than Jonas. James, Jr. had appeared to shake hands in a bemused manner before returning to ledgers he obviously found more interesting. The senior Cummens had unhesitatingly introduced Jonas Hawk, but Jonas knew he knew better. When they were alone again, James Cummens announced it.
"It took me a while to locate you, Jonas. The name Hawk threw my men off."
When he spoke, James Cummens used his hands a lot. His voice had expression and showed feelings and interest. Made a listener feel part of things. As Jonas said nothing, Cummens went on.
"Your father asked that I keep an eye out for you and lend a hand if needed." Cummens smiled, his bronzed features friendly and his blue eyes disarming.
"Have you need of a friend, Jonas? Sometimes a man chooses to go it alone but, on other occasions it's better to have a friend that knows the territory."
For all of his years, Jonas had been told that James Cummens was one of the true men of the north valleys. He had never doubted the tales and he found he felt no hesitation in talking straight to the older man—just as he would have to Rob Shatto or George Robinson, who'd both been in the thick of the Sherman's Valley Indian fighting.
"Well, Blue . . . er, Mr. Cummens . . . " Jonas was appalled by his use of the nickname, but as long as he could remember it had been used and it fell naturally from his lips.
Cummens smiled, leaning forward and holding his hands palm forward in a peace sign. "Do not be embarrassed, Jonas. The old name is joy to my ears. It is a proud name given and used by men like your father. If you prefer it, do not hesitate. If I can call you Jonas, can you not address me also as a friend?"
Flushed and embarrassed, Jonas did his best. "Thank you, Mr. Cummens, you're more than kind. It was just that our family has always told about Blue Moccasin, just as the Shattos and the Robinsons do. Even Tad Shuler calls you that when he comes in. But, that's storytelling and I wasn't brought up to call elders by other than "Mister." I'll just watch myself here on out."
Collected again, Jonas was able to go on.
"Don't know what my Pap wrote in his letter, but I've a mind to go to sea. Not some bay lunker, Mr. Cummens, but a real ship that goes to the Spice Islands or even to Cathay.
The boy's eyes gleamed with imaginings and Blue Moccasin could remember those kinds of dreams and how they grew so strong you could smell and taste them.
"I've been up and down this waterfront like a dog picking out a rabbit track, but no one's got use for a mountain boy without one lick of experience." Jonas shrugged, his face long.
"Fact is, Mr. Cummens, for the last few days I've been weighin' the need to stop by and see if you might know of a ship willing to take on one like me." He hesitated and added ruefully, "To tell it true. I've lowered my sights more'n a little. If I can't get on a real ship I'd be grateful for about anything that floats and has a sail or two aboard."
There were easy answers, of course. A word from James Cummens would have Jonas Hawk before the mast on any ship in the harbor. Or, he could place the boy as a midshipman, to tackle the lengthy road to a command of his own. Probably the youth would leap at the latter—most would.
But, Jack Elan went back almost to the beginning. Vividly, Blue could remember Elan, the prisoner of Toquison, the Heart Eater, beaten, starved, half-crazed, but ungiving as granite. Elan with his black rifle, vengeance flogging his soul, finding and settling with his enemy. The Elans of the world were too few. James Cummens resolved that he would do more than the ordinary for his friend's only son.
He sent Jonas away while he considered the matter. There were no guarantees because the sea dealt harshly with the best of plans. He needed a ship sound of plank with a Yankee rig, a proud ship, one that journeyed to points of interest—more important, a ship with a master sensitive to a youth's hungers. Too many captains were dour sorts that drove for the greatest profit. Cummens could appreciate such men, but not for this purpose.
There were many ships but few that might meet all requirements. Blue's eyes ran his clerk's listings of ships in port or soon expected.
Like a beacon the name leaped from the page and Cummens nodded to himself, satisfied that fortune had turned the very card he sought.
The Ruth Covert was Scituate-built and named after her master's daughter. She was beamy and a bit blunt nosed but her schooner rig allowed a fair turn of speed and her deep keel gave her a point closer to the wind than many. The Ruthie C. had proven a lucky ship and repaid her investors each voyage.
Past her fifteenth year, experience showed and wear une
vened the ship's once perfect lines. At her waist a pair of bronze carronades provided the only bright work. Ruth C. was a working ship and her captain and crew were little concerned with the polish beloved by many masters. The squeaks and groans of working plank and timbers had worn to a comfortable harmony of rough spots smoothed and weaknesses found and made strong. Mathew Covert remained her captain and had sailed his vessel through all that the oceans threw in his way. He knew his Ruth C. to be better than when launched.
The Ruth Covert was not for bulky lumber and grain cargoes. Her holds were not the vast caverns of the great square-riggers that plowed between major ports. Captain Covert sought smaller loadings of more valuable products, goods needed quickly and perhaps at ports seldom served by the sea giants. Special teas, expensive wines, and pipes of Turkish tobaccos to mix with the popular Virginia leaf, were appealing cargoes. But, if nothing better were offered, salt cod or Jamaican rum could be dashed to England with a return of fine milled cloth, tools, or perhaps inks, papers, and the latest in books.
Because of Cummens' broad interest in such commodities, the Ruth C. had unloaded along their long quay and would soon sail with a burden of Pennsylvania corn whiskey destined, in its entirety, for a Frenchman who had developed a taste and later a small market for it among his neighbors. It could be a profitable voyage, as James Cummens, Jr. had been able to buy cheaply the greenest of whiskeys, which should age nicely as the sea rocked it within charred barrels, bringing satisfaction to sellers, shippers, and consumers alike.
At the Sign of the Eagle, James Cummens and Captain Mathew Covert dined amid the quiet elegance of liveried servants and fine china. That Cummens could have contentedly crouched before a twig fire or that the captain was more at home with ship's biscuit was not a concern. Cargo, profits, and Jonas Hawk were their subjects.
Covert chewed steadily, savoring the strong juices of his venison roast. A landsman might prefer clams and oysters but, when he could, a seaman chose red meat. Pork was satisfying but sometimes the wild flavors of deer or bear sat especially well.
When he spoke, the captain did not forget his place in things. He sat as an equal, and a Massachusetts Yankee believed he was at least equal to any being living, dead or still to come, but James Cummens could make or ruin a ship owner with little more than a few schedule adjustments. As aboard ship, there was a necessary order and Mathew Covert respected authority on land as well as at sea.
"If Hawk is his father's son, there is grit in him, Mathew. Only time can prove that true but I like his look and wish to place him on a worthy road." Cummens rested his hands in his lap and waited for the captain's comments.
"Gather you'd like to sign this boy on the Ruth C., Mr. Cummens?"
"Better put, I would like to place young Hawk under your tutelage, Captain Covert. Oh, I know the usual ways but, whether before the mast or behind, they are filled with wasted years. For each lesson learned, a youth misses a hundred opportunities repeating simple drudgeries."
Cummens' eyes grew distant as he remembered, "Once there was an Iroquois warrior mightier than all others. He became the finest through terrible effort, but also by the help of wise teachers. The teachers spurred when necessary or allowed time if it was needed.
"The Warrior, for so he was called, was grown when I first saw him and he has been long, so long, on the final trail that few remember. But, I have not forgotten. As The Warrior was shown, so I would have Jonas Hawk led by a great teacher.
"If you will undertake the task, I would have you, Mathew, as that teacher. Make Hawk a sailor, a hand, a bosun, a mate. Teach him the sea and the business of ships and ports. Change this boy of hills and woods into a great captain, one for whom I could build a vessel that would allow us both profit and honor.
"Does the task challenge you, Captain? If it does, let us strike hands on it and work details to our mutual satisfaction."
Chapter 3 - 1800
Jonas Hawk balanced easily allowing his knees to give with the powerful swells as the Ruth Covert breasted the infamous Yucatan current.
A river within an ocean, the irresistible stream surged north between Central America and the island of Cuba. The wind was strong from the north, battling the current for dominance but only reforming its surface into steeper waves, some of which broke and sent broad sweeps of spray over the ship's forecastle to die and leak away through scuppers before reaching the mainmast.
Hawk stood at the helmsman's shoulder judging the seaman's touch as he held the ship close to the wind. Their course lay northeast, but the helmsman sailed the jibs, pointing as high as the sails would draw. Beating to weather was the most difficult point of sail, for the wheel man could not merely watch his compass as he did on other courses. To point too high would slow the ship or flop her onto the other tack, which would be an error too grievous to ignore. Beating was hard on hull, rigging, and cargo. Everything strained and pounded. This cargo was unlikely to be injured, however. It was long out of France and had settled and become almost one with the ship.
Their main burden was cloth. Great bolts of cotton, wool, and some silk. Assembled from many ports, it was destined for one merchant who would profit handsomely as he parceled it to those starved for such fineries. Up the Mississippi it would go; some as far as the forks of the Ohio. Most sold en route, a little here and a half-bolt there, to villages and plantations along the great river.
Beneath the cloth lay Jonas Hawk's interest, although his part was now finished. A pair of cannon of curious design were aboard—curious because they were rifled—rifled just as his own Pennsylvania long gun had been.
The cannon were bronze and shot a small ball of only four inch diameter. They were long, slender-barreled, and their breeches were bound with iron bands shrunk into place to prevent bursting.
The guns had been made for a German whose place lay well up the Mississippi. His requirements had challenged the Brescian cannon maker, who had waxed enthusiastic to Jonas Hawk, chosen to oversee their shipment.
Translated, the words of the smith rang in Jonas' imagination: "Accurate and very powerful with brass or iron balls, when patched as American rifles were."
Jonas liked the feel of the polished bronze and he could imagine the exact aiming a real gunner like Finday could do with a rifled bore.
The cannon maker's worry was the sea voyage damaging his marvelous guns. They plugged the bores and immersed each gun in hot tar until its shape was lost in the thick protection. Then the guns were sewn in canvas and placed deep in the bowels of Mathew Covert's ship.
Jonas wished he could see the cannon shoot. The Ruth Covert should have them, he thought. Then freebooters could be held far beyond the range afforded by their puny carronades.
The ship's helmsman glanced behind Jonas and raised an eyebrow in question. Jonas grinned and nodded understanding. He took the oaken wheel as the crewman hurried aft and downwind to relieve himself over the rail.
The schooner seemed alive beneath Jonas' fingers as he played the wheel, holding the distant bowsprit just right against the wind. Ruthie C. balanced nicely, with her immense mainsail providing the real driving power. No square-rigged ship could move upwind the way fore-and-afters did. The greater vessels with their clouds of rectangular canvas held aloft on massive yards sailed superbly with the wind but they demanded navies of crew to handle the dozen or so sails they might hang out. Into the wind, they sailed poorly at best, and sloops, ketches, and schooners left them far behind.
After three years aboard, Jonas Hawk knew these things. He knew them and the other encyclopedic lore of the sea without record of how or when he had learned. Knowledge came in the talk and actions of the hands as an off-watch puttered in the shade of a sail or even more when they fought stiff canvas in wind and high seas.
In Captain Covert's talk there was wisdom and, with Jonas Hawk, the ship's master could ease the loneliness of command.
When the ship touched at Philadelphia, Captain Covert spoke of it to James Cummens because, if Jonas
profited from his service aboard, so too did the captain, crew, and the ship. Those ramifications were unexpected and deserved serious discussion.
"Now, Mr. Cummens, I'm quick to recognize that this thing works because of the kind of man Jonas Hawk is. But, beyond that, I figure we've stumbled onto something valuable that ought to be handed on, at least in special cases," he amended.
"Without particular rank, Jonas can be where he's needed or where he can learn best. Hands enjoy showing him and are grateful if he appears to grab hold at a hard time. If he was just signed on they'd take him for granted. They stay appreciative because he's not one of them.
"The mates learn from teaching Hawk and he stands watches with them easing their time. Because he's not crew, they can speak freely but they can still send him forward if needed.
"Or take my old bosun, Finday. Doted on Jonas. Inherited, Finday did, and left the sea. Lives in England, but now and again a letter comes to Jonas hoping he's well and soon to have his own ship."
"A little soon for that, Mathew."
"Of course it's too soon, but let me continue.
"Captaining a ship can be lonely work. A captain keeps his own counsel. His people must never suspect doubts or weakness. Long years of it turn some masters cold and others vicious.
"Having Hawk aboard as a sort of student, with no place in the ship's command, gives me someone to mumble to. Gives an excuse to talk about and weigh options and believe me, Mr. Cummens, that can seem a rare privilege.
"I too can use Jonas where needed, be it at a masthead or dealing with a bumboat selling bananas. Handy, Mr. Cummens, and pleasing because, above it all, I know I'm preparing a sea captain—someone to do a better job, if he has the starch in him that's needed.
Hawk's Feather (Perry County Frontier Series) Page 2
