Sworn for Mackinaw

by James Spurr

  “Certainly, her familiarity with languages, indeed, her very background, both French and native may well prove valuable. Mary will be lonesome, but also relieved, I think, to know Bemose will be assisting us.”

  “Are you packed?” William asked.

  “Yes. I will bring my bag when Mary and the children see us off at the dock. I will miss them mightily, for certain, but beside the excitement of the adventure, I really believe opening more regular trade between myself and Mr. Kinzie could be good for both communities and important for the growth of the company.”

  William nodded and only half teased, “Who knows, dear friend, maybe someday a small fleet of schooners?”

  As they passed through the gate, Oliver stopped, grabbed William’s arm and reminded, with some urgency, “William, the charts! Have you located any?”

  William nodded and calmed Oliver, recognizing, as was common among landsmen, rising anxiety as departure approached, “I copied charts of Lake St. Clair, St. Clair River, and Lake Huron from Contractor when I departed. I added a few details that I even recall from my voyage on Hope.”

  “And Lake Michigan?”

  William nodded, “Samuel has been keeping an eye out for a former shipmate of mine who served as Sailing Master aboard the Schooner Tracy, which called upon Ft. Dearborn some years ago. Fortunately, he stopped in for a dram at the Pontiac House just last week and Samuel had him stay some while and draw for us a rather large chart from his memory.”

  Oliver naively commented, “How kind of both of them!”

  William smiled. “Kind, perhaps, but his ale was added to your account. I assure you, he took his time!”

  Oliver, somewhat embarrassed, but understanding, observed, “Wonderful. We are entirely dependent upon and guided by a chart drawn from memory by a drinking man provided every incentive to become still more drunk!”

  William smiled but reminded, “I also inquired of Lieutenant Hanks last April and expect to have additional charts available to us at Mackinaw and—”

  Oliver touched his arm and interrupted, “It appears as Samuel is still assisting with our preparations!” As they strode upon the planks of the commercial dock, Samuel was standing next to the gangway, balancing something standing on end and wrapped in canvas.

  William also observed, half concerned and half amused, “And it appears his granddaughter is favoring James with some farewells!”

  James was seated with Anne on the windless, she admiring a carved comb and he wearing a scarf ne’er seen by William before. Bemose told William in the spring they had apparently kept company through the winter.

  Samuel greeted with all good cheer, “Mr. Williams, Sir, may I present you just a token of our best wishes for your long voyage?” William smiled in a knowing manner. Bemose came up from the companionway hatch. James and Anne joined at the shrouds. Samuel let the canvas concealing the object fall to the dock.

  Oliver was instantly touched. “Samuel, it is beautiful! Truly, most impressive. I did not know… why, whenever did you begin?”

  Samuel beamed as he pointed to the fine details of a sternboard carving for the transom. Friends Good Will was carved into what had been a flawless plank of black walnut, the words flying across a grand banner, seemingly streaming in a breeze. Just underneath the center of the banner and located in the middle of the name was a raised half sphere, or orb, as large as a grapefruit standing out from which were the initials, O.W. & Co. atop that part of earth, albeit not to scale, portraying the Michigan Territory. The intricacy was admirable and the paint flawless. The colors were carefully selected to compliment the topsides and transom: an oiled banner with gold edging and lettering. The half sphere was cherry boasting a bright oiled finish with the corporate initials remarkably contrasting with the natural darker tones of walnut.

  “Fine work, indeed, Samuel!”

  “Well, sir, I never thought it proper that Eckert let her launch last spring, well… not truly christened. I know time was short and tasks were long, but I only hope my carving is worthy of the best looking sloop I have seen on this river, for certain!” Samuel’s admiration for Friends Good Will was sincere and none had a better eye for a fine sheer.

  “Never again will Friends Good Will sail in anonymity, Samuel,” Oliver said. With a small sense of ceremony, even among close friends, he added, “She will sail in all style with which she is deserving!”

  William interjected, “Oliver, let us mount the nameboard. I implore you now return to your family, sleep in your bed tonight and if this wind backs at its leisure, be assured at the first opportunity and no matter the hour, I will wake you and we will set off.”

  Oliver thought of still one more night at home with the children, one more night with Mary. He nodded and offered, “Thank you, William, Samuel, and to those who will help mount the nameboard,” glancing over at James and Trove. “I appreciate this last night ashore, should the winds permit.”

  As Oliver spoke, Samuel looked directly into William’s eyes, gave a knowing glance of assurance, far more subtle than a wink, followed by a nod in response to the question in William’s eyes. That was all William needed to know.

  Oliver departed. William looked at the carving and thought that, indeed, the carving had turned out more beautifully than he had expected, or had ever described to Samuel upon his arrival from Mackinaw by canoe this spring, after many hours to ponder not only its design, but its true purpose. The nameboard, William mused, was as beautiful as any he had seen since he approached from under the counter, many years ago in still another canoe and looked up to admire that which declared General Hope.

  Four days later, just as with Hope seven years before, all onboard breathed easier as the river passed behind and the shoreline grew more distant to the south, from whence they sailed, as well as the east and west.

  Friends Good Will barely made way against the St. Clair River current and log sufficient gains. When gradually she was headed and running out of water on the starboard tack as she approached the western shore, she was forced twice to come about smartly and sail directly across the river, or east, while the current cruelly pushed her, beam to, downriver to the south yet again. William, at the helm, made the most of what could be coaxed from her hull form and James took charge of trimming all fore and aft sail with great care. All on board had engaged in the effort to claw, if necessary, for open water.

  But luck was theirs. The clouds moved off to the southeast as the wind veered and began to freshen from that quadrant. Trove let out a whoop and waved his hat mockingly at the receding shore. William called the larboard watch to breakfast as Trove relieved him at the helm. All on board seemed to expend a collective exhale. While the passage began days before, those few were filled with frustration and far more hope than confidence. William more than twice cursed “the damnable river!”

  Trove was at the helm, William had just completed the plot and James, taking his turn, finished the dishes of what had proved a somewhat later than normal breakfast. To the north, the vast empty horizon revealed only the imposing expanse of Lake Huron. With the sun yet rising on a long summer morning, Friends Good Will broke free from the last grips of the St. Clair River. The current diminished, it seemed, with each passing length and their speed increased with a steady east wind. Morale was high.

  In late morning, however, standing in the shade cast by the mainsail, to larboard, Bemose motioned with a smile for both William and Oliver to join her at the pinrail. They smiled at her joy, curious as to what was on her mind. She laughed as a girl and William melted at the memories. She took his arm, challenged him in front of Oliver, “It was just about here. Am I correct?”

  William sought to tease, feigning confusion, “Whatever do you mean, woman?”

  He played well and he could see the doubt and disappointment begin to form in her eyes, so quickly relented. He spun her around by her waist and pointed off the starboard quarter, “I would wager no more than a quarter of a mile, sou’east by east!”

 
; Bemose cared less for William having accurately recalled the position than his having fondly recalled the moment. She smiled and looked to where he pointed, as though something, somehow, would mark the spot and stared imagining, it seemed, the scene played out years before. Oliver was entirely bewildered, so together, they told the tale.

  “I am sure you have heard the story from Mary, Oliver, as to how Bemose found passage with me up Lake Huron, last I sailed these waters.”

  “Yes, Mary described how you plucked Bemose from a canoe, but I had always thought it was much further north.”

  Bemose added, “No, we tried to stay close to the shore, over loaded as we were, but after we overturned, the wind took me far from the shore.” William made to offer his recollection, but Trove called to ease the headsails and William made his way forward to respond.

  Bemose and Oliver continued to talk while William gazed aloft, noted the angle of the pennant from the masthead and turned to ask James, “If you please, go aloft and loose the topsail gaskets.” As expected of a man-o’-war’s topman, from a frigate no less, James responded with enthusiasm.

  Oliver confessed to Bemose, “What I never heard, though, is with William having broken his leg in the wreck of Hope, you having then rescued him in return, however did you both survive and William heal?”

  Bemose grew more serious, nearly grim. “William had the presence of mind to urge us off of the shore very soon after crawling up from the surf. How he remained conscious, I will never know. Within a loon’s call, in a thick pine forest, his leg enlarged and the pain caused him to grow faint. His condition required he lay down to keep his consciousness, despite the agony.”

  William took the helm. Trove joined Oliver and Bemose in the waist and began dropping coiled lines from various pins to the deck; clewlines, buntlines, reef tackle, and topsail sheets. James called down from high aloft, “All loose!” He layed off from the larboard topsail yard footrope and lowered himself from the cross trees, settling his feet upon the inch or more of hardwood ratboards extending outboard from the shrouds where they converged to the point where one could not slip one’s foot between so to benefit from the relative security of ratlines. James hesitated, taking in the view, just once more, of the varying shades of green and blue water as Friends Good Will sailed from the shoal to the deep just beyond the lush green, forested shoreline. Having adhered to his custom, he strengthened his grip, flexed his legs inward, creating more tension on the shrouds, and slid his feet down to the next rat-board. He adjusted his hands lower and slid his feet down once again until he deftly slid his right foot inboard of the shroud and lowered himself still more until his foot caught up atop a rat-line.

  “So you were really quite close to the survivors?” Oliver asked Bemose.

  “Much too close,” she confirmed. “The forest was thick, but William could limp but a few steps at a time. We were wet, tired and cold with night coming on. Of course, so were the others and most did not seem to really look for William with much will—except the Captain.”

  “Why was that, do you think?”

  “While I cannot be certain, I suspect the crew hoped he would not be found. William, I am sure, has told you why the Captain was of another mind… if any at all!”

  Oliver nodded, “Yes, he told me all about Lieutenant Fleet.”

  Captain Lee, at the helm, waited for James to step from the cap rail to the deck and called, “Hands to the clewlines and buntlines!”

  Trove took one of each to larboard, James the same to starboard, both at the forward corner of the pinrail at the mast. When in position, Captain Lee called, “Cast off clewlines, reef tackle and buntlines. Hands to the topsail sheets!” With the coils at the pins already dropped to the deck, both Trove and James, like a well practiced team, took the topsail sheets down to just one turn on the cleats above their respective sheaves.

  Bemose continued, “After less than an hour in hiding with the survivors still arguing, it seemed, among themselves so near I could hear as they raised their voices, several Ojibwa young men approached them cautiously, offering to help. They must have been hunting, noticed Hope approaching and I later heard they had witnessed the wreck.”

  “How many?” asked Oliver. “And how old?”

  “A handful at most; just two, maybe three years past childhood.” Bemose looked bitterly into the quartering waves and recalled, “The Captain lured them close with cries of help, tricked them to show mercy, then grabbed all and with little struggle held them against their will.”

  “For what purpose? You say they were willing to help?”

  Bemose nodded, “With that Captain, there was only one purpose—his own.”

  Captain Lee, however, another man at another time intent on another purpose, called from the helm with some enthusiasm, “Haul away, topsail sheets!” Trove and James knew well the drill and responded instantly. Oliver motioned for Bemose to step back aft and look aloft. They smiled as the strapping young men, fit and prime, hauled the sheets and the large near new sail cascaded down from the yard, gasketed to its underside for too long. Shoulders swayed to the rythym of hemp through blocks, first slipping with fits and starts through the sheaves at the yardarms, soon, more smoothly, inboard, just below the main yard through oiled, rope stropped blocks, then down at last through sheaves at the rail round the mast, near their firmly braced and bare feet. Arms strained, thighs tightened and their full weight shifted as their faces revealed smiles and glances to each other in appreciation for their avocation, for their ship and for the inland seas.

  The topsail fell with the drama of a grand announcement, causing, as always, excitement and wonder as the clews drew tight, pulled apart by the sheer length of the main yard slung and secure well above. The wind filled the canvas, puffing and punching it forward until its stubbornness, stiffness and weight caused its intermittent rolling collapse. And yet the topsail still, seemingly, rebelled waking from its slumber, objecting to the light, to the breeze and to the task at hand. Captain Lee, undeterred and with a will less corporeal than the canvas, hemp, and even the wind, though no less strong, directed this symphony of motion and mechanics amid a backdrop of wondrous beauty. He called yet again, his call well timed, considerate of what commands required while yet demanding a synchronization and precision from crew and close comrades, “Hands to the topsail halyard!”

  Bemose brought Oliver back to the former Captain of Hope, explaining how she and William made it through the fist night undetected and able to ward off exposure. Finding a hollow in the ground and over a bed of thick pine needles, she tore boughs from the younger evergreens, supple and soft and light, piling them atop William, slipping in alongside as the voices approached. She heard the threats, the abuse; the survivors forcing the young native men to lead onward to Fort St. Joseph. “I recall the look in the eye of one of our young warriors as he recognized our lair and saw me, no doubt. If William had groaned, I am sure the Captain would have killed the both of us. If the native boy had called out for help or even so much as hesitated… I am haunted this day of my choice to save William. I marvel at that boy’s courage and poise; imagine to have been in his place and to make such a decision, instantly, under such circumstances, allowing us to go undetected not knowing his fate!”

  Oliver was near sick at the thought of what answer his next question would bring. He sat on the hatch cover for some time with Bemose, but eventually saw little point in avoiding the inevitable. “Were those boys killed?”

  She answered quickly, “No. The boys cleverly led them on a full day’s trek through the night and next day for what should have been no more than a half day’s walk. In the meantime, at dawn, I built a sled for William and dragged him behind me with him helping with his good leg such as he could. We made the Ojibwa village, alarmed them as to the plight of the children. Warriors, far more numerous than the survivors, surrounded the entire party just a mile from the British fort, bows drawn. A tense standoff unfolded, with survivors threatening to kill the children a
nd the warriors threatening to kill the survivors as all nervously made their way to the river’s edge, just across from the walls and gate of the British post.”

  Bemose and Oliver stood as Trove removed a hatch cover to allow ventilation below as the deck warmed. Quietly, Bemose continued. “Fortunately, the Commander of the garrison recognized what was happening, called out from the ramparts for restraint and demanded no violence or harm to the children. Canoes were sent over for all and soon the boys were released; not out of Captain Fleet’s compassion but because he was so ordered as he approached the walls.”

  “Thank God. But you and William?”

  We stayed at the Ojibwa village through the winter as guests for having brought word of the danger to their youths. I think William was shown much respect when I related how he rescued me. They cared for William. To this day, when we winter in the north, we visit the village. Two of those now grown children yet make it their home.”

  “He has yet to speak of it to me.”

  “It was a hard time for William. It took time to grow accustomed to having deserted his shipmates and the Provincial Marine. He had to learn to accept help, to somehow contribute while near useless, to accept from strangers the most simple of necessities. It was… humbling, while at the same time, those months fostered within him feelings of compassion for others struggling with what so many must bear.” Bemose looked into Oliver’s eyes, offering what she regarded as essential and profound, “William very much, it seems, assumes a sacred responsibility for those entrusted to his care. I have seen such devotion to duty in few men, most notably my father for his congregation, those he regarded as ‘God’s children’.

  Oliver thought the analogy intriguing and considered it, abandoning conversation for some minutes. To his knowledge, William was not a deeply religious man. Yet Bemose correctly perceived in William, as one of the best Captains on these Lakes, the same devotion to his owner, crew and passengers as a priest to his people; a shepherd to his flock. He considered William, noting the broad smile forming on his face as he looked aft and Friends Good Will surged ahead, now pushed by a powerful topsail, well set and drawing free.