The New Land

by The New Land (retail) (epub)

  He drew his mouth into a tight line. “I can’t be sure. I might.”

  “You think of her still? Yes?” He nodded. “So you go. Write to her, a letter like before. So she knows.”

  “I’ve tried. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You say you’re coming. That way she knows. That’s enough.” He reached again for the reins. This time, she handed them over. “You should, you know.”

  He shook his head. “Maybe, but I feel like my chances are better if I don’t.” They walked the mule into the yard.

  “Will you go back to the war?” Hanna said.

  “Why would I do that, with the British leaving Boston?”

  “But you and Papa say they keep fighting.”

  “Yes.”

  “So I worry that you’ll go back. I think you want to.” She reached to the side of his head, where the bullet had passed through his scalp. “You did enough. Don’t make us afraid again.”

  He kissed her on the forehead and climbed onto the mule.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  †

  “The wind’s strong,” Ethan said. “Look at those high clouds. I don’t like straining the mast so soon.”

  Franklin shook his head. “Alec wants to leave today. He’s meeting with the governor’s man to get the papers. If we have problems, we’ll fix them on the way or when we get there.” They had loaded planks, tools, and caulking, both to deal with emergencies on the way, and also because more work would go into the ship in Salem, beginning with installing four swivel guns.

  Ethan pointed to two men dawdling on the pier. “We’re sailing with just four of us?”

  “Plus Alec. The crew comes aboard in Salem, where Captain Corcoran recruits. Privateering takes special skills, Ethan, like with a cutlass.” When he pantomimed a sword thrust, Ethan flinched. “That’s no job for peace-loving shipbuilders.” He pointed up the shore. “There’s Alec. Let’s get going. The longer we delay, the more your wind freshens.”

  The sloop had been on the water for less than a week. Every morning Franklin searched for leaks or moisture on the seams, hammering in new caulking wherever he found the slightest flaw. Each defect mortified him. He had taken such pains, generously applying pitch and oakum to each joint and seam, sealing them as tight as possible. But temperature changes, time, and water conspired to create new gaps. On the starboard side, he had already reinforced the planking in two places. Wood degenerates in water, but it shouldn’t happen in only a few days. He worried that the McDonnells had sold him some bad wood.

  Still, Alec had shelled out for new sails and new rigging. Their principal conflict had come from Alec’s relentless pressure to build faster. Even that, Franklin recognized, wasn’t all bad. He knew that demands for perfection could be unrealistic. Every wooden ship leaked somewhere.

  Franklin had been disappointed by the sloop’s naming. The McDonnells called it the Margaret, for Robert’s wife, Alec’s mother. The matter was settled before Franklin could propose Jane, so he never did. In truth, he hadn’t been sure how to explain that he wished to name the boat for a girl he had known for only a few days and hadn’t seen in nearly a year. He aimed to change those facts when they fitted out Margaret in Salem, which was so close to Lynn. He still hadn’t written to Jane, though. He figured either she would be willing to see him or she wouldn’t. If she wouldn’t, he didn’t need to find out ahead of time.

  With Alec on board, Franklin eased Margaret from the pier. She took to the water eagerly, sails filling as the wind sang through her rigging. Franklin had shifted the ballast after each cruise, trying to get the ship to lean into the wind the way she was designed to. In Salem, after they installed the guns, he’d shift it again. Halfway to Bremen, Franklin gave the tiller to Ethan and began to inspect the ship. Alec joined him with a wide smile.

  “You’re like a mother hen,” he said, “always clucking and fretting.”

  “You’ll be glad of it when she’s in rough waters or trying to outrun a British man of war.”

  Alec slapped the rail he was leaning against. “I’ve seen enough ships to know what I think of Margaret. She’s a good one.”

  Franklin nodded, then dropped down the steps into the crew’s narrow quarters. The crew wouldn’t want to spend a lot of nights in this cramped space, but they would be out of the weather. He lit a lantern to examine the planking under his feet and along the ship’s sides. He didn’t like the look of a spot on the starboard side. Why was it always that side? In Salem, he probably should tear out some of the planking so he could reexamine the timbers. He might be able to reinforce them, then reseal the joints. He went back on deck to collect the kettle of pitch he had set to warm over a fire. He wanted to work over a couple of places. It might not make much difference, but Franklin needed to do something useful.

  * * * * * *

  Margaret was barely tied up in Salem before Alec set off through the warm September day. Franklin, still fussing over the ship’s performance, had to hurry to arrive with him at The Sailor & Mermaid, the tavern preferred by Captain Corcoran.

  Their business in Boston had met the customary snarls but was completed. Alec now held valid letters of marque for Margaret, and the ship was showing some of the speed they wanted. But when she was about to leave for Salem, deflating war news had crashed in from New York. British and Hessian troops had routed the Continental Army, draining away the euphoria of the victory in Boston. Alec was worried. If the independence movement crumbled, the British would move swiftly against privateers and the men who financed them. And might the news from New York sap Captain Corcoran’s enthusiasm for the venture? How eager would sailors be to sign up on a patriot privateer if the British were winning? Margaret might be reduced to hauling lumber to Boston and rum back to Maine.

  The tavern sign featured a brawny sailor eyeing a mermaid who looked as lascivious as possible for a creature with a tail of green scales. Asked about Captain Corcoran, the landlord pointed to the tap room. Alec clenched his teeth. His captain shouldn’t be in the tap room before noon.

  Inside, a solitary figure was reading a broadside at a table next to the lone window. “Captain Corcoran? James Corcoran?” Alec called out.

  The man let the sheet drop in front of him. His face was in shadow. “And who is it wants to know?” When Alec introduced himself, the figure rose in his chair, though not very far. The wily mariner who was to skipper the Margaret through war-torn seas was little more than five feet high, slender as a whippet. His hair was shaved nearly down to the scalp to allow for his wig, which lay on the table under the broadside. Franklin couldn’t peg his age. He might be thirty. He might be fifty. “There’s coffee if you care, gentlemen.” Corcoran’s speech was precise despite teeth nearly black with decay.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Alec said. He moved to a side table where a tin pot stood next to several mugs. Franklin declined the offer while enjoying the experience of looming over Corcoran.

  Once reseated, Corcoran expressed disgust at the news from New York.

  “How do you think it might affect our chances, Captain?” Alec asked.

  Corcoran waved his hand dismissively. “It’ll take longer to beat the lobsterbacks, which should be good for business. Gives us more time to snare what we’re after.” He had turned in his chair so his eyes reflected the sunlight, giving him a predatory look that suited his reputation.

  “Do you have enough of a crew?”

  “Upwards of a dozen.”

  “Is that enough?”

  Corcoran looked impatient. He plainly disliked being questioned. “Mr. McDonnell,” Corcoran said, speaking with emphasis for the slow-witted, “the more men, the more shares to parcel out. Neither of us wants unnecessary shares. Numbers alone don’t tell the story in a sea fight. Have you ever stopped to think why there’s so many small dogs in the world?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Why are there so many small dogs in the world when there are so many big dogs too?”

  Al
ec, suppressing his irritation, shrugged and looked away from the black stumps of the captain’s teeth.

  “The little ones figured out that most big dogs don’t like to fight. So the small dogs act like the thing they want most in the world is a fight, that they don’t care how big the other dog is, and most big dogs just back off.” He leaned forward. “Well, we’re the little dogs, and we always act like there’s nothing we’d like better than a good tussle, don’t much care who with. You’d be surprised how many of ‘em’ll come along quiet-like if that’s what they think about you. They start thinking, well, they’ve got insurance, no need to get all banged up over some cotton or timber.”

  “How’d you figure out this particular secret of life?” Disbelief was written all over Alec’s face.

  “Let’s call it the lesson of a lifetime as the smallest man in the room.”

  Alec smiled at that.

  “So,” Corcoran said, turning to Franklin. “I take it you’re the builder. How much longer do I have to wait to see this ship?”

  The men from Waldoborough swallowed their coffee and led the way to the wharf.

  The captain said nothing while he walked alongside Margaret. On board, his inspection began below, by lantern light. When he ran his hand over the repairs on the starboard side, Franklin began to explain. Corcoran raised a hand to shush him. Up on deck, he took the feel of the tiller, yanked on the rigging, and gave the sails a close look.

  “All right,” he said to Franklin, “Mr.…”

  “Overstreet.”

  “Yes, let’s start a list. If you must look more at the starboard planking, be my guest, but it’s no worse than I’ve seen in a dozen ships and none of ‘em sank. I’m going to need stations for eight guns—three on each side and one fore and one aft.”

  “Wait,” Alec broke in. “Your letter specified four swivel guns. That’s what we’ve arranged for.”

  “Yes, that’s right. The other four gun placements will be wooden dummies. Coleman in town can fix us up with those. Look just like the real thing, they do.”

  Franklin nodded. “So you get the intimidation value without slowing the ship down with heavy guns.”

  “Or with ball and powder for them. We’re not looking for an artillery duel, blasting away at fifty yards’ distance. Either the bastards’ll strike their colors when we challenge them, or we board ‘em and take ‘em in close fighting. If neither happens, we’re off to the next one, and for that I need speed, not more guns.”

  “Swivel guns fore and aft,” Franklin said, “and amidships?”

  “You’re catching on, Mr. Over…”

  “Overstreet, sir.”

  “Right. Let’s get to work. Then we can take her out in the bay. I want to see what we’ve got.”

  Over the next four days, Corcoran kept Franklin and Ethan busy, with Alec lending a hand when he could. They stripped out the starboard planks and rebuilt both the outer sheathing and inner supports, then installed fresh planking. They built the eight gun stations, four for the dummies (with dummy cannonballs) and four for the swivels. Corcoran redistributed the sails off the main mast, increasing the canvas that powered the ship. He insisted on a new configuration of the powder magazine, one that would afford greater protection from hostile shells and blunders by crewmen.

  On the evening of the fourth day, the three Waldoborough men collapsed at a table at the Smiling Cod Tavern. After asking for ale and oyster stew, they stared into space. Corcoran had banished them from the Sailor & Mermaid for the night since he was signing up the crew. “They’ll answer to me for everything,” Corcoran had explained. “I don’t want them thinking they can get around me to the owner or shipwright. I’ll answer for their quality.”

  When their ales arrived, Franklin, Alec, and Ethan offered halfhearted salutes, then drank the reviving liquid.

  “He’s a tartar, he is,” Alec said. “These damned changes have cost a pretty penny.”

  Franklin nodded. “He knows his business. If we build another one, I’ll do it better.” After a long draft of ale, he asked, “So you don’t pay the sailors at all? They just gamble on their share of the goods?”

  “It’s a gamble, sure, but a sailor knows it’s the only way he’ll ever get ahead. A sailor’s wages go to drink and women as soon as they’re earned. But a successful privateering cruise with a good captain—one like Corcoran—well, a sailor might just end up with enough to buy a stake in a tavern or a cordwainer shop.”

  Over their dinners, Franklin broached the subject that had been on his mind since they reached Salem.

  “We won’t be leaving for two more days,” he said, “while Corcoran works the crew on the ship.”

  “They’ll be working the guns too,” Alec agreed, shaking his head. “Shooting off perfectly good powder that I have to pay for.”

  “If you were the captain, you’d want your gunners to have some practice.” Alec snorted. Franklin pressed on. “I’d like to go down to Lynn, look up some people there. The captain I served under, Seth Bellamy.”

  “See here, Franklin. I’ll need you around. You know Corcoran’s going to want a dozen changes after he sails with the crew. Why not just ride down and have a meal with your old captain? You don’t need two days for that.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  The two men locked eyes, then Alec shook his head. “I can’t spare you. Go for dinner tomorrow.”

  Franklin looked away, then back. “Ethan can deal with the captain’s needs. I need both days. It’s not just Captain Bellamy. I got to know the family too.”

  Alec sat back and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. A glint came into his eye. “Family as in girl children?”

  “Family.”

  “If you haven’t noticed, my friend, there’s plenty of female companionship around the wharf, if that’s what you’re missing.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Damn me, Franklin, I never saw you as one to conduct some long-distance romance.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Look, we’ve got the ship here, and we’ll be heading back east. Tell you what. We can go to Lynn, grab the girl, then whisk her up to Waldoborough to reign as the Duchess of Broad Bay. You know, like the Romans with those Sabine women.”

  Franklin smiled. “Let me try my way first.”

  “All right. Still and all, you might think about having me come along to help you. Women like me.”

  “I’ll leave in the morning,” Franklin said, “and be back the following night.”

  Alec sighed. “It’s lucky your father saved the old man’s life up at Louisbourg. Otherwise, I would never indulge this lovesick escapade of yours.”

  “You’re a grand fellow.”

  “Just be sure you bring her back. I’m not spending two days at Captain Corcoran’s beck and call and then have you turn up with a broken heart.”

  “Neither of us wants that.”

  “Plus, I’ll expect you to name the first son for me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  †

  F ranklin hired a wagon for the short journey to Lynn. Having arrived at the Bellamy house on foot twice before, he intended the wagon to demonstrate his improved fortunes. A steady morning rain, however, dashed any hope of arriving in style. An oilcloth kept his clothes from a complete drenching, but there was no helping his hat, the wet wagon seat, or the depressing experience of cold and damp.

  When he turned into the Bellamy yard, his heart barely stayed in his chest. Hurrying into the cobbler shop, he peeled off his hat to shake it out and rake his fingers through rain-matted hair.

  “Well,” came Captain Bellamy’s voice, “it grew back.”

  Franklin eagerly clasped the man’s hand. After getting permission to leave the horse in the barn, Franklin hurried through the task, wondering about the changes in his old captain. Though Bellamy’s voice was unchanged, his frame had shrunk. He bent over slightly. He had less vitality.

  Back in the shop, Bellamy shrugged i
n response to Franklin’s inquiries about his health. In the winter before, still with the company in Boston, fevers seized him, several in succession. Too weak to travel on his own, Mrs. Bellamy and Jane had fetched him home.

  “Like you,” he said with a trace of rue, “I missed when the British finally abandoned Boston, that moment of triumph, but we did our part. I’m working now, a bit more each day.”

  Franklin asked after the other Essex County men. They never fought the British again, and never stopped digging. They helped install the big guns that the army dragged on sleds all the way from Fort Ticonderoga, the guns that persuaded the British to give Boston up. The Talbots, Bellamy said while his hands stitched the sole of a black shoe, served to the end, but now were back at their farm.

  “I thought I might catch them at breakfast tomorrow,” Franklin said, “if you could tell me the way.”

  “Of course—”

  The shop’s rear door pushed open roughly and a woman bustled in. “Seth, that door still sticks.” Mrs. Bellamy lay back the damp hood of her cape. “Oh, Mr. Overstreet,” she said, then smiled. “How good to see you looking well, and on such a mean day.” Franklin offered his greeting as she set a pot down on the captain’s workbench. “Here’s coffee,” she said, “but I brought only Mr. Bellamy’s cup.”

  Franklin had no need of coffee, he assured her, but she waved his refusal aside. “Why, you’re soaked to the skin. You need a warm cup. I’ll send Robert out with one for you. Have you asked Mr. Overstreet to dinner?” she asked the captain.

  “I haven’t had a chance yet, but,” he turned to Franklin, “we insist you join us.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Bellamy said, “Jane isn’t here right now, but she’ll be home from the Coopers’ in time.” She turned to her husband. “Have you told him?”

  “I haven’t had the chance of that either. We’ve been catching up on war news.”