by James Spurr
The blood illuminated in the moonlight looked gray against the white snow. LaRoux lay silent and still. Fleet caught his breath, as though he had been running some distance, and watched the blood soak into the snow. He was convinced LaRoux was dead.
He wiped the blade against an evergreen bough then through clean snow, gave some thought to whether his cloak had been soiled by blood, but it was difficult to see. He slid the dirk back into the scabbard and fought to regain his composure and orientation. He was confused as to what was happening to him and was surprised he felt faint. This was not the first time he had killed, but the others were at least the result of a contest or struggle with those trying to kill him as well. While perhaps not the glory of conflict, one crimp and one whore, in particular, in Plymouth, raised more of a struggle, certainly, than did the unsuspecting LaRoux. Suddenly, his stomach turned and as he fell to his knees in the direction of the river he vomited while thinking this was but cold murder; perhaps accounting for his upset.
He took some moments to let his breathing regulate and his blood pressure rise and he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. While still weak, he managed to drag the corpse to the river bank and half heaved, half rolled LaRoux into the river. The current swung LaRoux’s torso around and pulled his feet from the brush and mud of the bank, releasing him entirely to the water. Fleet then retrieved the ink, quill and board, sat again on the tree trunk, brought up the still lit lamp and placed it at his side. He dipped the quill and began writing in that critical empty part of the parchment between his last recorded recollection of LaRoux and the unusually low signature block. He proceeded not as mere scrivener, but author:
The Naval Officer with whom I corresponded and met, while we were never introduced, was about 5 feet 9 inches, fair hair and about 25 years of age. At one point he referenced his experience and past service with the Northwest Company.
Fleet, or rather LaRoux, had just described Lieutenant Owen Dunlap.
At that moment, far more near than Fleet imagined, Dunlap was also thinking of Fleet and like him was looking forward to the morrow when, unbeknown to either, both would post documents at Fort Malden, intended for Montreal.
Dunlap was brought back from deep thought to answer one more question at the end of a long, tiring evening, “The Sailing Master? Yes, I recall his name. William Lee.”
Chapter 12
Captain Lee bounded up the steps of the United States Customs House, District of Detroit. His thighs ached and his back was stiff but his burden was light and his spirits soared. He had just completed lifting and loading a full cargo. With the heavy work now complete and Trove and James resting on deck, he attended to an important legal errand always required of the Master. He carried but a single page of parchment, rolled and tied with a length of tarred marlin.
The doors and windows of the Customs House, newly laid since the devastating fire of 1805, were entirely open. It seemed the enormous expanse of the Michigan Territory was enjoying the fine sunshine, fair breeze and warm temperatures direly needed after days of near constant rain. Deep mud yet choked the streets and saturated the grounds just outside the walls of the bustling village of Detroit. Nearly 1000 residents occupied nearly 200 homes and Detroit seemed to have grown quickly since just the spring thaw some weeks before. William, like most mariners by nature, disliked the bustle and confusion of life on the hard and simply yearned for the earliest possible departure.
William removed his straw hat, tucked the document under his arm, adjusted to the shade of the interior and proceeded into the entry foyer. There was no need to inspect the signs protruding over doorways flanking the hall. He knew the building well and sought out a specific, familiar official. Purposefully electing to avoid the District Administrator, Mr. Goler, he proceeded to his Deputy, Mr. Joseph Watson, in the small office at the back of the building.
As he strode down the center hall, he was hailed. “William!” He turned and recognized Captain Daniel Dobbins, of the Schooner Salina, a well regarded and long known merchant master, having just exited the Administrator’s office. Captain Dobbins smiled broadly and offered his greeting, “My compliments. Friends Good Will looks trimmed, rigged and ready! Pray tell, how was your winter?”
“Captain Dobbins, what a pleasure. Long as usual at the Sault. How are you, Sir?”
“Very well. Salina made port just this morning from Erie, where I wintered.”
“I saw her, yes, just this morning, dockside, but your mate confirmed you were not aboard. Did you have a fair run?”
“Aye, although the thunderstorms last evening caused us to drag anchor in the lee of Grosse Isle.”
“It certainly blew mightily! Friends Good Will stretched her docklines, but the worst of the gusts were through in just minutes.” Then, changing the subject, William glanced over to the Administrator’s office, “Have you cleared?”
“Aye, our good Administrator was in a fine mood. It must be the sunshine. Salina will offload, take on a fresh cargo tomorrow and, if this Nor’wester holds, depart for Buffalo by tomorrow afternoon.”
William nodded, “We shall see which of us has more influence on high; my prayers are for a Sou’westerly, bound as we are for Mackinaw.”
Captain Dobbins hesitated, looked away for a moment, then cautioned, in a low voice, “Be careful, William.” His voice revealed serious concern.
William understood instantly. “Have you any news from Erie, or further east?”
Captain Dobbins offered, “President Madison addressed Congress just a little more than two weeks ago.”
William raised his eyebrows, but at that moment Oliver entered from the street, caught sight of the two instantly and was alongside in a moment. Captain Dobbins made his greeting, “Mr. Williams, good afternoon to you, Sir.”
“And to you, Captain Dobbins. I trust your runs this season have been profitable?” Oliver returned.
“Aye. It seems we will not see you on Lake Erie, though, for some weeks.”
“Very true. William, I expect, has us sworn for Mackinaw. I have just concluded the arrangements with our consignees and our charter is assured, I am pleased to report.” Looking at William, “I thought we could walk back together, if I am not interrupting?”
“Of course, Oliver; I will just be a few minutes. Daniel, inform Oliver of all you have heard of our situation, if you please, while I attend to the paperwork.”
Captain Dobbins nodded and as William entered the Deputy’s office, he began his report for Oliver. “Newspapers in Erie and Buffalo are reporting that President Madison addressed Congress on June 1.”
“Please, Captain, all the details,” Oliver implored.
“Accounts of which I am aware focus upon a long litany of grievances registered against England; disrespecting our sovereignty, the embargo, nearly 10,000 merchant seamen impressed, fomenting discord among the natives. Nary a hopeful word, from what I read.”
“Still, though, no declaration, I trust?”
“Not that I am aware, although Congress retired in closed session.”
Oliver nodded and added, hopefully, “If only these violent incidents would subside. It is the natives that concern me the most.”
Captain Dobbins emphasized, “Most unpredictable, for certain. Mark me, Mr. Williams; be on your utmost guard.”
Inside Mr. Watson’s small office, the slight breeze from the tiny high window opening to the back alley caused the aroma of musty parchment, some too aged, to circulate through William’s nostrils and he instantly sneezed. Mr. Watson looked at William curiously, as though wondering why that was such a common reaction among those who visited his office. William closed the door so to halt the possibility of further ventilation. Black ink, spattered and stained on near all horizontal surfaces, spent quills, most untrimmed, together with open wells, several dry, reminded William of past voyages over his years as a Merchant Master. It had never seemed at all appropriate that a mere document, preserved for time and all history, often remained as the only
reminder of what had in fact occurred; voyages, uncertain adventures of men and ships contending with, as even relying upon, unbridled wind, unchecked seas, and manifestations of nature and humanity as far removed from offices such as these as was possible. Still, here he was, where by law, all voyages began.
William made his greeting, discussed briefly his winter at the Sault and complimented the generally healthy look of the Deputy Administrator, despite no evidence of his pale complexion having seen the sun. As Mr. Watson’s eyes settled upon the parchment roll, William took the hint and flattened the parchment directly in line with the only small shaft of sunlight descending from the window upon a very large table crowding the room. Surrounding stacks and piles of documents caused William to wonder, with reason, whether duties, if not records, were finding their way to the appropriate coffers and receptacles. Although he could not recall, despite the mess, a single documented error and very few complaints, save for the duties themselves. Mr. Watson looked down through his half spectacles and, as William offered general small talk as regards the upcoming voyage, he perused the legal document:
“Report and Manifest of the whole Cargo on board the Sloop Friends Good Will, whereof William Lee is Master, burthen, Forty Seven Tons bound from this port to Michilmackinaw having on board the following Articles—Detroit, 19th June, 1812,” Mr. Watson read half aloud, skimming across columns in the standard format, specifying the identifying marks found thereon, the quantity and contents of all cargo containers, whether crate or bale, by whom such was shipped and its consignees.
William observed the only object of art in the office; an etching of Mr. Washington, First President of the United States, hanging somewhat askew but in the only place of prominence possible. William’s voice wandered off while musing about the native threat, hoping to encourage Mr. Watson to offer some news or at a minimum, read somewhat faster. The effort was futile. Mr. Watson proceeded to check William’s arithmetic, confirming those items listed as having been loaded totaled precisely 304 objects.
As always, Mr. Watson moved on methodically to approve the description of the contents. For the most part, the contents were typical; wine, spirits, tobacco and flour. William purposefully withheld his comments pertaining to the etching until Mr. Watson appeared to be reading from roughly half way down the page. “Mr. Washington! My, Joseph, are you an admirer? I would have guessed Mr. Jefferson was more to your liking…”
Mr. Watson looked up, began to make a point with his quill, but stopped short, resisting the distraction and restraining his retort and returned to the Manifest. Within seconds, as William tensed, Mr. Watson looked up, lowered his glasses, looked down his nose and with grave concern, offered, “Captain Lee, you know full well you are not to describe the container, rather the goods—the contents of the containers.” Mr. Watson had focused upon one particular item, a ‘Chest’, listed as shipped by Oliver Williams.
Captain Lee nodded, attempted nonchalance and explained, “But of course, Mr. Watson, sometimes a container is in fact the item itself, in this instance finished with fine carving, a beautiful clasp and made for a variety of household purposes, once it reaches its destination and sold to some pretty lass. Perhaps a trousseau?”
“How large is the chest?”
William shrugged and assured, “A very small chest, I assure you. Indeed, Mr. Williams is in the hall, if you wish to inquire further.”
A half smile formed, William’s eyes met Mr. Watson’s and time spent together at the Pontiac House over pints and politics paid its dividend; just as William had for some weeks hoped and planned.
Mr. Watson looked down and mumbled, “Well, I suppose a chest could be empty…” He dipped his quill, spilled still more ink and after assuring the signature of William Lee was clearly affixed, began to pen upon a clean sheet of parchment:
District of Detroit
To All whom it may concern:
Port of Detroit
William Lee, master of the sloop Friend’s-good-will having
Sworn as the law directs to the within manifest consisting
Of Three hundred and four articles of entry, have delivered
A duplicate thereof, permission is hereby granted to the said
Sloop to proceed with the cargo on board to the port of Michi
Mackinaw in the Territory of Michigan.
Given under my hand and the Seal of the
District aforesaid, this 19th June, 1812
Jos. Watson
Mr. Watson excused himself, stood and nearly crawled over William while squeezing his rotund figure around the oversized table so to reach the door. Mr. Watson returned within moments, having witnessed, though not engaged, Oliver in the hall as he made his errand. The Manifest was returned to William, countersigned by the Administrator, D.L. Goler, who without reading the legal document, affixed the pale ochre seal of finely trimmed paper and stamped with an eagle.
William elected to make no issue of the fact Mr. Watson had misspelled and mangled the name of his command. Rather, his good sense dictated he quickly roll both pieces of parchment, retie the tarred marlin and thank Mr. Watson for his customary efficiency. William exited the office on the instant, so to as quickly as possible depart an environment as dry, musty and confining for that which always seemed as wet, fresh and free; the boundless expanse of blue water that were his inland seas.
Chapter 13
William nodded to Oliver as he approached in the hall, indicated the roll of parchment under his arm, and they strode together out into the sunshine and turned left for the southeast gate and commercial dock.
Amid the bustle of the street, the typical noise muffled by the mud, Oliver inquired, “I presume we are cleared and all but underway?”
William smiled at Oliver’s excitement and efforts to sound the experienced mariner. He had some right. Oliver had taken to the sailor’s life quite well last season, respecting at all times, even while aboard his own sloop, the fact that he was either passenger or crew. He had learned much and both William and James were quite pleased that Oliver could now be trusted to contribute significantly, whether in the waist or on the quarterdeck. “Aye, all signed and sealed. The wind, at present, is not half so cooperative as was Mr. Watson, but the high clouds thickening in the southwest portend a wind shift, perhaps by nightfall. We shall slip our lines when the wind backs to the west.”
“Have I some time, then, to visit the family?”
William nodded and encouraged, “I think some hours, at least. I will do the same after filing the manifest with the log. James and Trove need take on a bit more wood, water and some of our favorite stores.” He smiled, “Rumor has it Mary is baking!”
Oliver smiled and nodded, “Yes, intended as a surprise, however.”
William confessed, “James can be most persuasive with his cousins.”
The discourse was casual and intimate; their trust in each other had returned and was apparent. William’s disclosure and apology and Oliver’s forgiveness, thanks entirely to Bemose’s wise intervention, occurred now more than six months before. William’s absence for the winter gave both time to think, appreciate the other and resolve to guard their friendship even as they would care for their families and their sloop.
The winter separation also presented opportunity. As William and Bemose made their way south in April as a part of a native party of five large canoes, they stopped at Mackinaw Island and William made the acquaintance of Lieutenant Porter Hanks, United States Army. While discussing William’s position as Master, now with Friends Good Will, Lieutenant Hanks revealed that he had just received correspondence directing he reinforce Fort Dearborn with arms, ammunition and several soldiers. He was empowered to charter a merchant vessel and inquired if Friends Good Will was available, with delivery by early summer. William encouraged Lieutenant Hanks, asked for time to discuss the charter with Oliver and by May, once the ice retreated, Oliver confirmed all arrangements by correspondence posted to other merchant ships bound for Mackinaw,
including William’s former command, Contractor. Friends Good Will had already logged three voyages to Buffalo by way of Presque Isle and appeared, in conjunction with a government charter, as having begun an excellent season.
Oliver and William discussed their support for the charter. William had never sailed Lake Michigan and looked forward to the adventure. Further, the voyage to Mackinaw would be a welcome change in routine from those courses and distances so well known to him on Lake Erie. Oliver was intrigued with the prospect of trading with Fort Dearborn. He heard others speak of the possibilities of a growing village deep in the Northwest with high quality furs and of a merchant, Mr. Kinzie, who, much like himself in Detroit, seemed to be filling the needs of a growing village. New trading partners were always valued.
William was also honest about his desire to assist and further the military needs of the American garrison at Mackinaw. Oliver was not opposed, but concerned for his interests upon the outbreak of war. William won the day when he observed if war came there were worse positions in which to find oneself than upon a near empty inland sea, on the deck of a fast sloop, in the company of soldiers and arms.
“Mary is not looking forward to my absence,” confessed Oliver. Indeed, this voyage would be Friends Good Will’s most ambitious to date.
William acknowledged as they walked, “I understand. This will be a longer voyage than is usual. As we have discussed, I expect four weeks. I also know that Mary will miss Bemose, but truly, Oliver, I think your decision of last evening most prudent.”