Bystander in Time

by Richard Stockford

  “What is the harbor rose and when did this happen?”

  “That’s the name of the boat I was on and it just happened a few minutes ago.”

  Captain Campbell frowned. “Clearly what you claim could not have occurred. There are no ships in sight. Why do you tell such a lie?”

  “I’m not lying.” Close to tears of fear and frustration, Dex jumped to his feet. “I’m going upstairs to look for the ‘Harbor Rose’.”

  As Dex turned for the door, Captain Campbell reached across the desk, grabbed his knapsack and hauled him back onto the stool. The captain opened his mouth in evident fury, but the look of anger on his face slowly turned to one of puzzlement as he fingered the nylon backpack. “Tell me of this bag,” he said. “I’ve not felt it’s like before.”

  Something in the Captain’s obvious puzzlement calmed a little of Dex’s fear and he let himself slump back on the stool. “It’s just my backpack,” he said. “It’s made of nylon and I carry my stuff in it.”

  “Nylon,” the Captain repeated, as if tasting the word on his tongue. “Show me what it bears.”

  As Dex set the backpack on the edge of the desk and unzipped the main compartment he was mentally reviewing the contents. In one inconspicuous side pocket he carried the small, razor sharp hunting knife his father had given him, and in another, a pair of small, powerful folding binoculars. When Dex looked up, Captain Campbell was staring at the top of the backpack and it’s zipper as if mesmerized. He remained still as Dex took out his Sony walkman, also a birthday present, and ear-buds and laid them on the desk, but reached out as Captain Kenny’s compass joined them. “I cannot name these other things,” he said, “but this is a fine delicate compass.”

  Dex pulled out the chart Captain Kenny had given him and unfolded it. “I was trying to find our position on this,” he said.

  Captain Campbell pulled the chart to him and studied it. “I believe I know this coast,” he exclaimed, “though I have never seen this nor any other map so wonderfully wrought. What other magic do you possess, Wizard.”

  Dex dumped out a thick wire-bound notebook in which he was supposed to be writing a summer-English journal assignment, a pen, four candy bars, his remaining can of soda, the small folding binoculars he had borrowed from his father and a plastic flashlight left over from his last camping trip. As he reached to set the last items on the desk, Captain Campbell caught his left hand and pulled it closer to peer at his wristwatch. “Surely a chronometer as fine as this is indeed the work of the Devil,” he said. He gestured, and Dex removed the watch. The Captain fingered it, stretching the expandable band several times before placing it on the desk. “I have never seen the like of it nor of the other things you carry.” He picked up the notebook and riffled its pages looking from it to a book that sat open at his elbow. “Even the very paper of your book is as fine as that of the finest log I might purchase.” As he held it by his book for comparison, Dex caught a glimpse of what looked like daily entries in a flowing spidery hand-written script. Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat and his vision narrowed as the start of one entry burned into his brain:

  8 July, 1768

  As Captain Campbell examined and remarked over the other items on his desk Dex sat stunned, hardly hearing above the sudden hollow ringing in his ears. As incredible as the idea of time-travel seemed, Dex accepted it totally the instant it popped into his mind. His senses whirled as he realized he had somehow fallen almost two-hundred and thirty years from 1995 to 1768!

  Chapter 3

  As Dex sat in bewildered silence, he realized that Captain Campbell had asked a question. Without trying to understand or answer, he blurted, “Please sir, what year is this?”

  “What year? Why, this is the month of July in the year one thousand, seven-hundred and sixty-eight.”

  Dex moaned. “No, it’s 1995. I... I... s, somehow I must have come back in time,” he stuttered. “I’m from 1995.” In the deafening silence he continued, “I was born in 1980, and it was 1995 when I fell overboard this morning.” Dex recognized the rising sound of desperation in his voice. “Honest. I’m telling the truth.”

  Captain Campbell pushed back from the desk and stood abruptly. “You could more easily convince me that you flew to my ship like a bird,” he said. “Or perhaps you did just that, and Mister Miller is right in thinking you’re a demon straight from the deepest pits of hell.” His hand hovered over the knife at his belt.

  Hot tears stinging his eyes, Dex thought quickly. “No! Wait, look,” he said, reaching into his pocket and tossed several coins on the desk. “Look at the dates on these. “And… and this,” he said pointing to the small printed date in the corner of the chart, still open on the desk. “I’m telling the truth. I am!”

  Captain Campbell bent forward and looked closely at the chart and then picked up a quarter and studied it for a long moment. “United States of America?” he asked his voice taut with wonder.

  “That’s my country,” said Dex, “America. R, right now you call it the British colonies, but it will become its own country in, uh, 1776, after the Revolutionary War.” In the back of his mind, Dex thanked Mr. Connery, his eighth grade history teacher, for drumming American history dates into his head. Embolden by Captain Campbell’s pensive look, Dex grabbed his walkman and punched the play button. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” he asked holding the ear-buds up by Campbell's head

  Captain Campbell winced and looked around. “To what purpose do you make that noise,” he cried, “and where does it come from?”

  Dex offered a shaky smile. “I guess it’s a little loud,” he said, thumbing the volume control, “but its music and it comes from the speakers in here.” Looking around for another example, Dex spotted a feather quill lying next to an ink bottle on the desk. “Look,” he said opening his journal and grabbing his ball point pen. He quickly scrawled his name on a blank page and drew a large happy face beside it, then slid the journal across the desk.

  Captain Campbell rubbed his thumb across the ink and nodded slowly when he saw that it didn’t smear. He picked up the pen and studied it closely, feeling the texture of the plastic, before bending to write his own name beside Dex’s. Captain Campbell was an intelligent man and, like Dex, when he finally recognized the evidence that the improbable was indeed fact, his acceptance was total. “This is not a thing we can share with others,” he said looking into Dex’s eyes. “My crew would not understand and would never believe it.” He began to pace behind his desk. “You will maintain that you are a colonial and were traveling from Massachusetts colony on an English merchantman en-route to England. You fell overboard in a squall and came to this ship last night upon a small raft and climbed aboard unseen in the darkness. You hid until hunger drove you out onto the deck this morning to be apprehended by Mister Miller.” He looked closely at Dex. “The story is thin though and your dress gives lie to it as well,” he mused. He strode to the door and opening it called loudly, “Mister Davis to the Captain’s cabin.” He turned back to Dex. “Mister Davis is my mate, and perhaps the only other man I would trust with your secret.” A moment later there was a knock and a very tall, muscular man clad in clean canvass breeches and a linen shirt entered the cabin. His clear hazel eyes and wide smiling mouth gave him a look of friendly intelligence. Dex swallowed a yelp of surprise as he saw him, for the man was the spitting image of Zach Taylor, the first mate of the ‘Harbor Rose’.

  “Yes, Capt’n?” Davis said with a curious glance at Dex. Unlike the captain, Davis had an English accent.

  “We’ve picked up a stranger,” said Campbell. “Get him seaman’s garb from the slops chest and I’ll tell you the story when you return.” When Davis left, Captain Campbell said to Dex, “We’ll stow your dunnage and, seeing as you can write, you’ll ship as captain’s clerk.” He eyed Dex’s wide shoulders and sturdy frame. “No doubt you’ll make a fine powder monkey and cook’s mate as well.”

  “But, I can’t stay here; I need to find the ‘Ha
rbor Rose’. I have to get home,” cried Dex.

  “Nay, boy.” The Captain’s face was stern. “I know not how you got here, but I fear you’ll find no easy way back. You must make the best of your lot and be thankful that you landed on this ship. You’ve joined a proud crew and the 'White Shark’ is the finest brigantine in the Colonies.”

  Dex did not know anything about sailing ships, but the word struck a chord in his memory. “What! Brigantine? This is a navy ship? I can’t join the navy. I told you, I have to get home. My uncle and my parents don’t know where I am.”

  Captain Campbell laughed deep in his chest. “Navy ship?” he repeated. “Nay, lad, ‘tis not a navy ship, though she once flew the King's colors. The ‘White Shark’ is naught but a poor trading vessel.” He flashed a wolf-like smile and his voice hardened. “You’d best forget all that’s gone before. Such home as you have will be with us aboard the White Shark, at least until we can set you ashore.”

  Chapter 4

  The first mate, Alan Davis, returned with worn, but clean canvas pants, a long-sleeved linen shirt and a pair of battered, short-top leather boots. There was also a shapeless, muddy brown woolen hat and a piece of rope for a belt. As Dex got dressed, Captain Campbell related Dex's story to Davis and showed him some of the items on the desk. Like Dex and the Captain, when Davis finally accepted the fact that Dex had somehow traveled from the future, he accepted it without reservation and turned a friendly face to Dex. “Can you tell us then, where we're bound and what the morrow brings?” he asked.

  “I only know what I learned in history,” Dex said. “I never heard of the White Shark and I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow.”

  Captain Campbell swept the items on his desk into Dex's backpack and put it along with Dex's clothes into a large chest at the side of the cabin. “Remember,” he said looking pointedly from Dex to Davis. “This secret must remain ours alone.” He looked at Dex. “You will learn the ship and the duties you're given and also learn to fit in so that no one questions your origins.” “He turned to Davis. “He will quarter with Quill and Masters.” And again to Dex, “There are two others of your age aboard. Watch them, learn from them, but reveal nothing of your past or how you came to be here save the story we have agreed upon.”

  Ten minutes later, Dex stood beside Alan Davis at the stern of the White Shark. He was a little uncomfortable in the worn clothes and rough shoes he now wore and still overwhelmed and stunned by what had happened. Although the ship heaving beneath his feet and the wind blowing through his hair were undeniably real, he kept expecting, or maybe wishing that he would wake up. Deep in his own thoughts, he had to force himself to concentrate on Davis' voice as he described the ship that stretched out before them. Also on the upper stern deck, which Davis called the quarterdeck, Dex saw two other men, one standing at a large wooden ship’s wheel with spokes around its perimeter and the other standing behind and studying the sails above them. Dressed in rough seaman’s clothes and obviously concentrating on steering the ship, after quick curious glances, they ignored Davis and Dex. From the vantage point of the elevated deck, Dex looked forward over the lower main deck with its canons, masts and square hatch covers to another raised deck at the bow. Beyond that, a wooden bowsprit stretched another thirty feet toward the horizon. The deck was canted slightly to the side as the ship ran before the wind, and the rigging and waves combined to make a soft humming melody in the warm air.

  The ‘White Shark’, as described by Davis, was a two-masted brig-of-war; one hundred and eighteen feet in total length, eighty-eight feet at the waterline, twenty-three feet in width and two hundred fifty tons in displacement. The foremast, crossed with heavy spars, was square-rigged, and behind it, the taller main mast was gaff-rigged at the bottom with a long boom running parallel to the deck almost back to the stern, and square-rigged above. There were additional sails running from the foremast down to the bowsprit which Davis called jibs and diagonally between the two masts that he called staysails. The two masts rose to dizzying heights and carried a bewildering array of off-white canvass sails among an impossibly confused tangle of tarred ropes and wooden blocks. The White Shark carried a crew of sixty-five, with Dex now sixty-six, men and boasted sixteen, eighteen pound cannons, eight along each side of the main deck, and four massive, twenty-four pounders on the quarter deck, two to a side. Later Dex was to learn that the two cannons he had seen in the captain’s cabin were called ‘long nines’ and were positioned to fire to the rear through gun ports in the ship’s hull. Davis also described the ship’s small caliber swivel guns that could be set in holes in the gunwales and fired like shotguns over the decks of enemy ships. Dex could see men busy at a variety of tasks, both on deck and in the rigging high above, as well as a few seemingly at ease around the deck. Davis explained that most of the crew was divided into three watches or crews, each led by a bosun, that alternated their work, sleep and off-duty time, but that Dex and the other two boys would work at the behest of the Captain, the duty bosun, the cook and himself. “If this was a naval vessel, you'd be ranked as a midshipman, and your job would be to learn and grow to be a ship's officer. But, for now, just do as you're told and you'll get by,” he said.

  Hearing the finality in Davis’s voice, Dex again shook his head. “I... I can't stay here,” he said fighting back tears. “I've got to get home.”

  Davis placed his hands on Dex's shoulders. “But, you are here boy, and you've got to make the best of it.” He looked around appraisingly. “For now, you'll find it's not a bad life we have here and mayhap your lot will improve when we make port.” Releasing Dex, Davis stepped to the railing at the front of the quarterdeck. “Mister Quill,” he yelled, “Mister Quill to the quarterdeck.”

  Within moments a boy perhaps two or three years older than Dex scrambled up the ladder and stood before the First Mate. “Yessir,” he said shooting an openly curious look at Dex. Weldon Quill was small; thin and wiry-looking with a pinched face under an unruly mop of black hair. His eyes were dark and unblinking and he reminded Dex of a hungry rodent.

  “This is Mister Stockford,” said Davis, “late of a merchantman bound for England, overboard and adrift these last two days.” The lie sounded smooth and believable in the Mate’s cultured English accent. “He came aboard in the night and will serve and quarter with you for the nonce. You will acquaint him with the ship and such duties as he will need to learn. He will also serve as the Captain's clerk.”

  Quill looked at Dex again, this time his expression coldly probing, his lips turned down in a disparaging scowl. “Come on then,” he said abruptly, “We'll start with a tour of the fore-top lookout and...”

  “Nay Mister Quill,” interrupted Davis. “There will be time enough for those games. Mister Stockford is not a seaman and will have little reason to go aloft. Show him the ship and take him to Mister Harnish and Mister Carmichael to learn his duties with them.”

  Quill made a derisive face. “Yes sir, as you wish. Come along, lubber,” he said turning on his heel without waiting for a response.

  For the next hour, Dex followed Quill through a confusing maze of passageways and ladders as they explored the two decks below the main deck. Under the raised deck at the bow, Quill showed Dex a dim area he called the forecastle where the crew lived and slept. The only light came from metal lanterns and thick candles guttering in the fetid air foul with the smell of unwashed bodies, damp clothes and rancid food. About two dozen seamen sat about or lay in canvas hammocks hung from the underside of the deck. Quill offered no explanations for Dex’s appearance, but Dex could see that the crew already knew he was aboard. The men were quiet, most busy mending clothes or playing cards, but Dex could tell from their veiled looks that they probably had also heard Bint Miller’s theory that he was a witch or a demon.

  Below the forecastle, was a long deck that Quill called the orlop. It was open about halfway to the stern. After that, there was the galley to one side and a storeroom to the other and then it narrowed to
a passageway with compartments on either side, ending at the door to the captain's cabin. “This is where we bunk,” Quill said nodding at one of the compartment doors. The Mate is there, and the cook and ship's carpenter there and there,” he said pointing at three others.

  There was another ladder leading down to the next deck, two thirds of which was a cargo hold filled with large barrels and crates. At the front there were compartments crammed with sails, ropes, chains and lumber. Toward the stern was a door with a large brass lock which Quill said led down to the powder magazine and at the very stern was another locked door which Quill said was the ship’s armory. “Below and forward are naught but bilges,” Quill said, “but mark this spot well. When the cannons fire, it'll be your job to come here and bring powder and shot up to the weather deck and you'll learn to be quick about it.”

  Dex ignored Quill's arrogant tone. “Captain Campbell said this was a trading ship,” he protested. “Why does it have all these cannons?”

  “Aye, she's a trading vessel alright,” Quill answered scornfully, “except when she's a raider and a pirate.”

  “A pirate!”

  The older boy snorted. “The Captain will not fly the black flag, but the White Shark is known and feared by those who would enslave free men.”

  Chapter 5

  Ignoring Dex's stunned look, Quill dragged him back up the ladder and into the galley. “Mister Harnish,” he said to the large man that emerged from behind the large black iron stove, “I brought you a castaway lubber to help with the mess.” He turned to Dex. “Find me when the cook's done with you and we'll continue your education.” With that, Quill left the galley and Dex found himself alone with the cook. Albert Harnish proved to be an old man with a shock of white hair and a wooden leg which appeared to slow him down not in the least. He stomped over to Dex and fixed him with a fierce glare. “Lubber is it?” he said in a gravelly voice. “Huh. My rules are simple, boy. You'll present yourself one hour before each mealtime and do what you're told. And you will not step into my galley without scrubbing the filth from your hands.”