Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  “Trouble?” Driscoll asked. “You’re two days late.”

  Tillotson wiped at the ice in his beard. “Lost two days tacking into that north wind. Bad.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and there was deep concern in his voice. “I didn’t see the Liverpool at the docks. Any news of her?”

  Driscoll shook his head. “No. She’s two days overdue, just like you. She’ll likely be in tomorrow morning.”

  Tillotson paused to consider. “She’s coming from Passamaquoddy. Running with the wind, not against it. She should have been here waiting.” He took a deep breath, then went on. “There’s no dockhands out there. When can we unload?”

  “Couldn’t get the dockhands to stay any longer in this weather. Tomorrow morning, unless it gets worse.” Driscoll paused for a moment. “Any damage to your load?”

  Tillotson saw the concern in Driscoll’s eyes and shook his head. “No damage. I’ll have my crew ready at daylight.” He turned on his heel and walked back out into the deep twilight where he wrapped his cape tight and raised one hand to clamp his tricorn onto his bowed head. He marched back to his ship and up the gangplank where his first officer, Eustus Keel, stood hunched against the wind. Tillotson gestured to Keel and led the way to his small, cramped quarters and tossed his tricorn onto his desk, working with the clasp on his cape as he spoke.

  “We can’t unload until morning. Raise the gangplank now and keep the regular rotation of deck watch through the night.”

  Keel remained silent and Tillotson continued, words measured, voice raised against the sound of the wind at the tiny windows. “If anyone comes in the night asking permission to come on board, make them wait. Awaken me at once. I’ll handle them.”

  The first officer neither spoke nor moved. Tillotson tossed his cape onto his bunk and dropped into the plain, worn chair behind his desk. He gestured, and Keel pulled the only other chair to the desk front and sat down, waiting. Tillotson leaned forward on his forearms and began rubbing his hands together to warm them. Seconds passed before he spoke.

  “I need to know more about one of our crew. Dulcey. Didn’t he sign on at Philadelphia?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve noticed him. Not the average seaman. Too polished. Too accomplished. How does he get on with the others?”

  Keel shrugged. “Well enough. Seldom speaks. Keeps to himself. Watches everything. Does his duty. A natural leader. No trouble.”

  “What age?”

  “I’ve never asked. I’d guess in his early twenties.”

  “Full name?”

  “Robert. He signed on as Robert Dulcey.”

  Tillotson lowered his face and for a time concentrated on his hands, still rubbing them together. “Do I remember that name from something that happened in Philadelphia? Or was it Norfolk?”

  “I’ve not heard of it.”

  A look of irritation flitted across Tillotson’s face. “There’s something . . . it bothers me. It’ll come back.”

  Keel said, “Maybe someone in the crew knows. I’ll ask.”

  Tillotson straightened. “Do that.” He took a deep breath and went on. “We’re here for the night. Arm the men on watch. Muskets and pistols. If anyone attempts to get on board by grappling hook or climbing the dock hawsers, shoot them. Do you understand?”

  Keel’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, sir.”

  “And bring me some hot soup. That’s all.”

  Keel nodded and ducked to exit through the small door while Tillotson fed split white-pine kindling into a small stove. Keel brought the mug of hot chicken broth, and Tillotson wrapped it in his hands for the warmth, sipped at it until it was gone, then turned to his bed.

  * * * * *

  It was shortly past three o’clock in the black of night when Tillotson opened his eyes. It took him ten seconds to understand what had awakened him. It was the silence, and the lack of the rocking of the ship. The wind had died. He closed his eyes and within seconds was breathing slowly and deeply.

  It was just past six o’clock when the crew of the Mona climbed the steep, narrow stairs from the galley to the main deck and stepped out into a world nine degrees below freezing beneath clear skies and no wind, with the first arc of the morning sun rising on the eastern horizon. Thin, ragged ice reached thirty feet from the rocky shores of Eastport harbor, and sea birds, heavy with their thick winter plumage, argued and fought over the dead fish and carrion left from the night. Bundled in worn and ragged coats, with tattered scarves wrapped tight and with their breath billowing in vapors, part of the crew released the locks on the hatches and lifted off the covers. Others swung the yardarms about and settled the loops of the heavy freight nets onto the hooks of the four-inch hawsers dangling from the yardarms to lift the cargo from the blackness of the hold and set it on the frozen dock. Down on the dock, bearded men with numb fingers were waiting to open the nets and move the heavy crates thirty yards further down the dock to the waiting freight nets of the Liverpool, and return with the crates from the Liverpool to the waiting nets of the Mona. The noise and bustle of a seaport grew as Eastport came alive.

  Captain Tillotson, wrapped in his cape, vapor rising from his face, marched from his quarters onto the deck, and with Keel at his side stopped at the largest of the three hatches. Beneath his arm were three separate manifests attached to hardbacks. He glanced at the four men working with the hatch cover, then at Keel.

  “Where’s Dulcey?”

  Keel pointed. “Over on hatch number one.” Keel turned and called and motioned, and Dulcey came trotting, placing his feet carefully on the slick deck. He stopped and spoke to Keel. “You wanted me, sir?”

  He was a little above average in height, well built, strong in the shoulders, brown hair, clean-shaven, prominent nose, regular features.

  Keel said, “Cap’n Tillotson asked for you.”

  Dulcey’s face was a mask, his eyes flat, noncommittal as he turned to Tillotson. For a few moments Tilllotson studied him before he spoke, vaguely sensing much was going on behind those calm, dead eyes.

  “Mister Dulcey, can you write?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you ever recorded the inventory manifest of cargo coming from the hold of a ship?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know the standard form? It must be accurate. You must sign off on it and if there are errors, you’ll have to either explain them or perhaps pay for them.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “We’re exchanging our load of gypsum for the cargo in the hold of the Liverpool. That requires you to be responsible for what comes out of this hatch, and what goes into it. Am I clear?”

  Dulcey raised one eyebrow. “Unloading and loading at the same time? Isn’t that a bit unusual, sir? What if we find damage in our hold? Do we ignore it? No time for repairs?”

  Tillotson’s brows turned down. “There will be no damage. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tillotson handed him one of the cargo manifest boards. “Make the record. Everything coming out, everything going in. Any questions?”

  “Only one, sir. Why me?”

  For an instant, surprise flashed in Tillotson’s face at the impertinence of a common deckhand questioning his direct order. His answer came blunt, harsh.

  “That’s not for you to ask!”

  There was no change in Dulcey’s face as he nodded.

  Tillotson continued, voice still raised, hard. “Where have you learned your seamanship?”

  “At sea. And from my father.”

  “When did you go to sea?”

  “I was fourteen, sir.”

  For a moment the three men stood in silence, vapor rising from their faces to disappear in the morning sunlight, and then Tillotson said, “I will need that cargo record tonight. I’ll send someone. Understood?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Tillotson turned on his heel and strode to hatch number one to make the cargo manifest assignment to the waiting crew, then on to hatch number th
ree. When he finished, he spoke briefly to Keel, then ordered the gangplank lowered, and descended to the dock. Five minutes later he was inside the small offices of Bristol Lines, facing Philip Driscoll across his desk.

  “I haven’t seen the Liverpool. Any news?”

  Driscoll shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Tillotson thumped his fist on the desktop and exclaimed, “Three days overdue. We’ve got to have her cargo!”

  Driscoll remained silent, and Tillotson continued, voice hot, angry. “Well, I have no choice. We’re going to put our load on the dock. We’ll wait one more day, and then we leave. We have loads scheduled from—”

  The door swung open and the foreman of a dock crew, face white from the cold called, “The pilot boat’s bringing the Liverpool into the bay right now. Be at the docks in less than an hour. Thought you’d want to know.”

  Driscoll raised a hand in thanks and the man walked back out into the bright, cold sunlight.

  Tillotson rounded his mouth and blew air, then gave orders to Driscoll. “Have her tie up next to the Mona. We get her cargo and she gets ours. You handle it.”

  Driscoll nodded, and Tillotson walked back out into the freezing sunlight, where the yardarms were making their first lifts of the freight nets from the bowels of the Mona. At the large hatch, Dulcey stood back as the load cleared, and the crew began the slow swing of the net out over the dock, tight with twenty strong wooden crates, each with four-inch letters stenciled on the sides, TWO HUNDRED WEIGHT. GYPSUM. TERRANCE, LTD. VERMONT. USA. The net was lowered, and the waiting dockhands cast the heavy loops aside, worked to stack the twenty crates to one side, then waited for the first load of freight from the Liverpool, thirty yards up the dock. Dulcey stepped to the rail to study what they were bringing. He counted fifteen medium-sized wooden barrels, sealed at both ends, girdled by three broad iron bands each. On the side of each barrel were large stenciled letters: ONE HUNDRED FIFTY WEIGHT. PRODUCE. BARTOLO, S. A. BARCELONA. SPAIN. There was a bung in the sealed top of each barrel. The crew loaded the barrels into the waiting net, dropped the loops onto the hook, signaled, and watched as the crew on the Mona raised the yardarm and lifted the cargo off the dock, over the rail, and to the open hatch, then slowly lowered it into the dim light inside the hold. Dulcey peered over the hatch railing to count the barrels again as the crew unloaded the net. He entered the figure, then counted the next twenty crates of gypsum that were loaded onto the net, and recorded the gypsum load as they raised it from out of the hold. All the while his thoughts were running.

  Spanish produce in barrels? Spanish produce isn’t shipped in barrels! Bungs in the barrel lids? Bungs for what? Produce doesn’t require bungs!

  The crews of the two ships settled into a routine of load, wait, and unload. By midmorning the sun had slightly warmed the still air, and the men had removed their scarves and unbuttoned their heavy woolen coats. At noon they sat in the ships’ galleys to eat their thick beef stew and hard brown bread and drink from their steaming mugs. They shrugged out of their heavy coats before they climbed the stairs back onto the deck and set a pace for the afternoon work. At six o’clock, in deep dusk, with lanterns on the docks and on the decks of the ships, they emptied the last of the nets for the day and went to the galleys for their supper of halibut and boiled potatoes.

  With the toil of the day behind them, the small room was filled with rough humor and tall tales and estimates of how many tons of cargo they had unloaded and loaded. Dulcey said little, and kept the manifest with his tally of what had come out of the hold of the Mona, and what had gone back in. He finished his supper, delivered his plate and utensils to the evening mess crew, and climbed the stairs back to the main deck.

  He was halfway to the small door that led down to the sleeping quarters of the crew when he sensed movement to his right, near the quarterdeck. He slowed, and in the darkness saw two huddled figures and recognized the voice of Keel speaking softly. The words were muffled, and Dulcey understood but two of them. “ . . . anything . . . Dulcey.” Dulcey stopped in his tracks and strained to hear the response and recognized the voice of the ship’s bos’n, a burly, thick man who went by the single name Peck, with a nose that had been badly broken long ago and a puckered scar prominent in the heavy, dark brow above his right eye. Only a few of Peck’s words were discernible.

  “ . . . New Haven . . . eight, ten weeks . . . killing . . .”

  The two indistinct figures had little else to say and separated, each to his quarters. Dulcey stood still for a time, frantically working with his thoughts while the remainder of the crew went to their small quarters below decks, with the hammocks strung between the pillars that divided the bunks, and settled in for the night. He was the last to descend the stairs and went to his hammock unnoticed. He stretched out full length, fully dressed, hands clasped behind his head, and waited. Twenty minutes passed before Keel descended the steps. All eyes turned to him as he gave a head signal to Dulcey, and Dulcey followed him back out onto the deck under the black velvet of the night sky.

  “Cap’n wants to see you,” was all Keel said.

  Carrying the completed manifests, Dulcey followed him, aware that Peck had fallen in behind them. Keel ducked to enter the captain’s quarters and held the door while Dulcey and then Peck followed. Tillotson was seated at his desk facing the door. Two lanterns were hung on hooks set in the ceiling, casting a dull yellow light and misshapen shadows. Keel stepped to one side of the desk, Peck to the other. For several seconds Dulcey stood facing Tillotson, still seated, and staring back at Dulcey with narrowed eyes. Tillotson’s voice penetrated like a knife.

  “A man named Robert Dulcey is wanted in New Haven for killing a man about eight or ten weeks ago. I will ask you once. Are you that man?”

  Instantly Dulcey tensed, and he glanced first at Keel, then Peck, and moved one foot slightly backwards. Keel quickly moved toward the door and Peck moved toward Dulcey, and Dulcey stopped. Then he answered Tillotson.

  “Yes.”

  Dulcey masked his worst fears. He’s bound by law to arrest me—will he?—will he?—I had to gamble—if he arrests me I’ve lost—lost it all.

  Tillotson sat up straight, staring down at his hands, and for a time the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the tiny chest of drawers against one wall. The tension was becoming unbearable when Tillotson broke the thick silence.

  “You said you are a navigator. Trained where?”

  Dulcey’s breathing started again. “Harvard College. Cambridge. Massachusetts.”

  Tillotson’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Harvard!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tillotson settled back in his chair, staring, saying nothing, and Dulcey spoke.

  “Was there anything else, sir?”

  Tillotson’s eyes bored in. “Yes. What happened? Why the killing?”

  Dulcey took a deep breath. “The man made unwanted advances to my fiancée. I warned him. He had a knife. He’s dead.”

  Tillotson started, then settled and asked, “Self defense? You chose not to explain that to the New Haven constable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I was with the crew of a ship from Philadelphia. The man was a member of the New Haven City Council. I thought it prudent to not find out how sympathetic a New Haven constable and jury would be toward a stranger who had killed one of their own.”

  Tillotson clamped his jaw closed for a moment, leaned forward on his forearms, and moved on. His voice resumed its blunt, domineering tone.

  “So much for that. I will need those manifest forms you’re carrying. Lay them on the desk when you leave. You will remain in your quarters for the night. I want you back here in the morning directly following mess. Do you understand?”

  The thought flashed in Dulcey’s mind—Now I find out. He cleared his throat.

  “Am I under arrest, sir?”

  For a time Tillotson looked into his face. “No.”

 
“I’m certain you know, sir, that with my confession before you, maritime law requires you to place me under arrest and turn me over to the nearest law enforcement officers you can find.”

  There was anger and a cutting edge in Tillotson’s voice. “I know that. I don’t need instruction from the likes of you.” He thumped a finger on the desktop. “I will expect you here in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir. Will I be under guard during the night?”

  “No. Go to your quarters and remain there. Now. Mister Peck, accompany him, then return to your quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dulcey laid the manifest forms on the desk, turned on his heel, and ducked to walk through the small door into the night, with Peck following. Behind them, in his quarters, Tillotson spoke to Keel.

  “Warn the men who stand watch tonight. Watch for Dulcey. If he tries to leave the ship, they are not to challenge him. They are to shoot him on sight. Any questions?”

  Keel shook his head. “None.”

  “You are dismissed.”

  Down in the second deck, in the cramped quarters of the crew, Dulcey sought his hammock and for a long time lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, locked in deep thought. It was past nine o’clock when the seaman nearest the stairs blew out the last lantern, and their quarters were cast in total blackness. For a long while, Dulcey continued to lie on his back beneath his blanket, staring into the darkness, until he finally drifted into a restless sleep.

  The morning mess was steaming oatmeal, and Dulcey was the first to finish. He rose from the crowded table with his empty bowl, delivered it to the morning mess crew, and made his way up the stairs to the deck. A breeze was stirring the flags on the ships in the harbor, and the tall masts were dancing with the rocking of the ships while gulls and terns and grebes hovered, bickering. Dulcey rapped on the door into Tillotson’s quarters and waited until he heard the familiar voice.

  “Enter.”

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside the small room to face Tillotson, seated across the desk. There was a tray with a pewter plate and mug and the remains of Tillotson’s breakfast. Dulcey waited.