Hugh frowned, a question nagging at him. Was Endicott simply proposing to sell C&E to his Far Eastern director? Or was he proposing to sell him out?
“What will you tell Van der Heyden is your reason for selling?”
“I will tell him the truth, that I now wish to invest my available resources in textiles.”
“Textiles? You mean, as in manufacturing?”
“Precisely. There is a significant business opportunity brewing in manufacturing, thanks to the embargo and to recent developments in production, and it comes with much less financial risk. We Americans have always depended on Great Britain for our manufactured goods, especially for our shoes and clothing. And who benefits from that? Not us, by God! America claims to be a sovereign nation, but the English continue to make a pretty penny off what is, essentially, a captive market. It’s time for enterprising Americans to claim those profits for themselves. I can produce as functional a shirt, as durable a pair of trousers, or as fashionable a hat as the British can. And I can sell it in America at a considerably lower price than American consumers are now forced to pay. Jefferson will actually help me accomplish this. His embargo and Non-importation Act are keeping many British-made goods out of America, and I pray that will continue long enough for me and others like me to establish our roots. Mind you, I am not the only New England shipping merchant to be thinking along these lines. I know from personal conversations with some of Boston’s most enterprising families that they are aware of the opportunity and are preparing to act on it.
“If my vision is correct—and I am certain that it is—textile manufacturing will flourish not only in Massachusetts but throughout New England. We have the rivers to power the mills, and we can purchase the cotton, flax, and wool we need from our fellow countrymen. Eli Whitney’s cotton gin has already revolutionized the cotton industry. Why ship all that precious cotton to England? Why not ship it to Boston in the hold of a Cutler & Sons vessel? Perhaps in the hold of this very schooner? In my vision everyone wins—our families, New England, and Americans throughout the nation. And a business principle you must never forget is that when everybody wins, you have the basis of a sound business transaction. With manufacturing thriving in America, and with Americans selling profitably to each other, we will no longer be dependent on Great Britain or on any other country in Europe. We will be dependent on ourselves, and good Christ Almighty that’s the way it should be! My goal is to be among the first in, and the sale of C&E Enterprises will provide the funds to ensure ultimate success.”
“Fascinating, Jack, but what if Van der Heyden doesn’t buy it?” Hugh meant that in both a figurative and a literal sense.
“I am sure that in a face-to-face dialogue we can arrive at a mutually agreeable price. Which answers your question of why meet face-to-face. That sort of negotiation cannot be effectively accomplished by passing letters back and forth halfway around the globe. And the selling price, of course, is the key to everything. We need to sit down together, review the books, have some back and forth, and hammer out the terms. I see no viable alternative.”
“What if you cannot agree on a price?” Hugh persisted.
“That will not be a problem. My position is unassailable. I shall inform Herr Van der Heyden that if he does not buy C&E Enterprises, I shall cut my losses and conserve my capital by closing the business, putting every sailor, every ship’s master and mate, and every director out of work. Under that scenario, Herr Van der Heyden would walk away from C&E with nothing in his pocket, and I can assure you that he is much too savvy a businessman to allow that to happen. After all, under the right circumstances C&E Enterprises is a company with a bright future, and its future is bright largely because of what Jan Van der Heyden has already accomplished. No, he’ll come to terms; no doubt about it,” Endicott concluded confidently.
“What of the Cutlers? What of their position in the company? They own half of it, do they not? And yet you have not discussed this plan with Caleb and Richard?”
“The Cutler family owns half of the company’s shares. But by my agreement with them I hold the controlling interest in C&E. Because I do, this decision is mine alone to make. Of course, when Jan and I agree on terms, the Cutler family will receive half of the proceeds. Unless, of course, the Cutlers decide not to sell their interest in C&E. In that case, Van der Heyden would pay only half of the negotiated price, to me, and he and the Cutler family would go forward as partners on terms that they agree upon. I strongly suspect, however, that the Cutlers will be only too happy to sell their interest. Caleb is worried sick about finances, as well he should be. His commitment to his sailors and staff is admirable, but in my estimation it is foolish to the extreme. It is not what I would do, as I have just indicated. Caleb, however, is Caleb, and he always makes good on his promises; I will give him that. The proceeds of the sale should provide the necessary reserves for the Cutler family to weather the storm until the embargo is repealed—which it will be because Congress and the American people will eventually come to realize that it is a suicidal piece of legislation. And that is why time is of the essence and why the time elapsing here at sea weighs so heavily on my mind.”
As he listened, Hugh felt a new admiration for Jack Endicott. He seemed to have considered every angle of the proposed transaction, and the odds were better than even, it seemed to Hugh, that at the end of the day everyone involved would indeed benefit from it. And while Hugh was a mariner and not a businessman, he could not deny the opportunity Endicott saw in textiles. He had but one final question, and as if reading his mind, Endicott answered it before he could ask it.
“I haven’t told any of this to anyone before this evening, Hugh, because I didn’t want anyone second-guessing me. I said nothing even to Anne-Marie, although I did leave a letter with my attorney detailing my intentions. I have instructed him to share that letter with her before the reading of my last will and testament should anything untoward happen to me on this voyage. She is then to share it with Caleb.
“Another business principle I have always adhered to,” Endicott continued, “is that when you are convinced you are right about something, be bold, make the tough decisions, and deal with the consequences later, as they arise. That principle has served me very well over the years.” He stretched out his arms and yawned. “Whether you meant to or not, Hugh—and whether you agree with me or not—you have taken a considerable weight off my shoulders this evening. I believe I will sleep quite well tonight thanks to you.”
POSEIDON CONTINUED to smile, and Falcon, a sleek and sturdy vessel, pottered through the frustratingly light winds of the doldrums, making some headway each day and rarely becoming becalmed for more than an hour. Once free of the horse latitudes she sprang free like a bird released from a cage. Her two large fore-and-aft sails, two topsails, and two fore staysails and jib were drum-taut as she raced through the southern seas, her hull encased in foam as she creamed down one great Atlantic swell after another. By day, Falcon sailed under a torrid yellow sun, powder-blue sky, and high scudding clouds. By night, she sailed under a star-spangled dome highlighted by the Southern Cross and the two Magellanic Clouds, dark galaxies in the Southern Hemisphere first noted by ancient Persian astronomers and first recorded in detail by Italian stargazers accompanying Ferdinand Magellan on his sixteenth-century circumnavigation. The exhilarating blend of waves, wind, and sunshine enticed Jack Endicott on deck more frequently. He smiled more often as well now that they were making encouraging progress toward their destination, albeit on an indirect southwesterly course. The distance between Falcon and the African coast would continue to expand until she hauled her wind for the final sprint eastward.
It was during the third week out from the Canaries, sometime in the wee hours of June 14, that Hugh awoke with a start in his bunk. He pricked his ears and listened, his body tensed in anticipation. Then he heard it: the sudden hard splatter of rain on the weather deck above him just as the schooner pitched and yawed as if Poseidon’s fist had shoved her si
deways. He was up and pulling on his oilskins seconds before the after hatch scraped open and a seaman yelled down, “All hands ahoy!”
Hugh leapt for the companionway as the off-duty watch lumbered aft from their hammocks in the forecastle. Hugh was first up the ladder. When he emerged through the square opening, the wind hit him with such fury that it tore his oilskin hat from his head and sent it tumbling out to sea.
He pulled himself up through the hole, waited until the six sailors behind him were out, and then secured the hatch cover and worked his way slowly aft, bracing himself against the fierce wind. He kept his head down and held his right hand above his eyes to shield them from the stinging rain. “What do we have, Sturgis?” he fairly shouted at his first mate when he reached the helm.
“We’re in for some weather, sir,” Haskins shouted back. He wore no oilskins; there had been no time to don them. His clothes were soaked through and clung to him like a second layer of skin, and his shoulder-length brown hair had blown free of its queue and whipped about his face. “It came up sudden-like, Captain. Our only warning was the glass. I checked it at four bells and again at five bells. It had fallen. Faster than ever I have witnessed. I ordered the watch to prepare for foul weather, and then the squall hit us.”
“Looks to be a bit more than a squall,” Hugh shouted out.
As if to underscore his observation, a cresting wave thumped against Falcon’s larboard hull and shoved her sideways. Water streamed over the larboard railing, washed across the deck, and flooded out the starboard scuppers.
“Is the forward hatch battened down?”
“Aye, sir. With a tarpaulin.”
“What about the guns?” Hugh yelled.
“Paul saw to them first thing, sir. By God’s grace he was on deck at the time. They’re bowsed up tight as can be. The Devil himself couldn’t budge them, he says.”
“Very well.” Hugh peered up through the rain at the rigging. It was hard to see much in the murk; thick glass lanterns set amidships and near the helm swung eerily back and forth in wide arcs, adding a ghostly element to the wailing wind. He noted with satisfaction the two topsails tightly furled to their yards, standard procedure for night sailing. At least, he thought, no one would have to climb up the ratlines in this mess to reef or take in those sails. Some unlucky soul, however, would have to crawl out on the jib-boom to douse and stuff the jib.
At the foremast, sailors bent over the boom like jackknives clawed in sodden canvas as the halyard was slowly released and the loose folds of the giant fore-and-aft sail were gathered in, thundering and snapping in protest. At the mainmast, Second Mate Shipley directed a crew fighting to shorten sail by taking in a reef at the second reef point above the foot of the sail and lashing the loose canvas to the boom with gaskets. It was a hard task in the best of conditions; these were among the worst of conditions. One sailor, Hugh could not identify him in the darkness, lost his footing, either from the crash of a wave or from the flailing canvas, and slid pell-mell across the slippery deck on his stomach, his cry of anguish when his head whacked against the starboard bulwark quickly drowned out by the howling wind. When he struggled to get back up, his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the deck. He lay still, face up, as seawater swirled around his body. None of his mates came to his aid. No one could; they had all they could do waging war against wind and sea.
“I have the helm!” Hugh cried. “Lend a hand up there and get that sailor below to my cabin. Have him strapped into my bunk. And I’ll have the fore stays’l doused. Advise the men to stand by to take in all sail. Got it?”
“Aye, Captain,” Haskins shouted.
“I’m going to bring her off two points, Sturgis,” Hugh added, his mouth close to Haskin’s ear. “She’s taking too much punishment. We’ll take stock at dawn when we can see what’s what.”
The first mate nodded and set off.
Bringing her off two points brought the wind from her beam to her quarter and allowed Falcon to better flee before the raging gale. But it was a course, Hugh realized, that took her toward Cape Horn, not Cape Town. He prayed that daylight would bring with it an easement of wind sufficient to allow her to lie to under a backed storm jib and a trysail secured abaft the mainmast. To set those sails they would need to bring her about into the wind and keep her there until the heavy canvas could be bent on. To attempt such a maneuver now, in the heart of darkness and without a clear view of what was coming at them, might cause the schooner to veer to windward and broach, her vulnerable broadside exposed to the raging sea.
Dawn revealed a gray world of ugly low-lying clouds and menacing twenty- to thirty-foot waves capped with white spume whipped up by what had intensified into near hurricane-force winds. The entire surface of the ocean, as far as the eye could see, was flecked with white foam. Each time Falcon rode up a towering wave and hesitated briefly at the crest, Hugh scanned to windward, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse on the distant horizon of anything that might indicate a change of weather. But he saw no horizon. Each time, before Falcon plunged down into a deep watery canyon, he saw only dark skies and white seas. And the barometer continued to fall. And the wind continued to intensify.
The moments down in the trough between two towering waves, where there was no wind and all was eerily quiet, were among the most dangerous. Without the stabilizing effect of the topsails, which, had they been set, were tall enough to draw a breath of wind even at the lowest depths, the schooner slewed about as if trying to escape before the next dreadful climb into the shrieking wind that drove rain into raw flesh as though it were a torrent of pricking needles. Hugh needed all his skill, instincts, and endurance to keep Falcon’s bowsprit in line with the mammoth westward-rolling waves.
On and on they plowed over the swells, sea mile after sea mile. In the meager light of day Hugh ordered all remaining wisps of canvas taken in. They were now running for their lives under bare poles.
Paul Shipley slogged his way aft along the starboard bulwark, seawater sloshing up almost to his waist. The starboard scuppers were no longer able to keep up with the weight of seawater swirling against them. “I’ve sent the first watch below, sir,” he shouted, “to snatch what rest and food they can. I’m here to relieve you, sir,” he had to almost scream to make himself heard.
“Very well, Paul,” Hugh shouted. He could not deny the bone-weary exhaustion consuming him. His efforts to hold the helm had left him weak and shaking. The wind was pushing his eyeballs back into their sockets and forcing tears from the corners of his eyes. “You, Sturgis, and I will alternate at the helm. From here on, it’s one-hour shifts until this bastard has had its fill of us, one way or the other. Understood?”
Shipley acknowledged and took command of the helm.
Hugh turned his back to the wind and brought his mouth up to his mate’s ear. “I’m going below to check on Pearson,” he shouted through cupped hands, referring to the injured sailor who was strapped into Hugh’s bunk, “and Mr. Endicott.”
Shipley nodded, his gaze steadied forward.
Below, out of the wind, the jerks and yaws of the schooner forced Hugh to walk gingerly, holding onto or leaning against something at all times lest he be thrown onto the deck. He began to peel off his soaked oilskins and then decided not to bother; he’d be returning topside shortly. When he ran a cold hand over his face to brush away the droplets that still covered it, he tasted salt. And he still felt the sting of salt in his eyes.
“Sweet Jesus in heaven,” he muttered to himself. He had ridden out storms in the Caribbean, but in all his days at sea—in service first to the Royal Navy and then to Cutler & Sons—Hugh Hardcastle had never known the raw fear that coursed through him now that he had time to actually think rather than just react. As he inched along the bulkhead, his back against the outer side of Haskins’ cabin and then his own, tossed about by the haphazard motions of the schooner, the thought came to him that many an experienced sailor had died at sea in such conditions.
At the after cabi
n door he knocked once, twice. When there was no reply, he opened the door and stepped inside. In the dim light admitted by the thick wooden shutters secured over the stern windows he saw the two wingback chairs lying upended against the starboard bulwarks amid papers, files, books, and broken glass and china. The sudden shock of a wave smashing against the hull sent him lurching and reeling like a drunken man. He grabbed hold of the back of the sofa just in time to break his fall. On the bed nearby, Jack Endicott lay on his right side with his back to Hugh and his knees drawn up into fetal position. The stench of vomit filled the stale air. Although the after cabin contained its own private head emptying directly into the sea, Endicott had not made it there. Or, Hugh suspected, had not tried to make it.
“Jack?” Hugh called out tentatively. No response.
“Jack!” he said in a louder voice.
Endicott emitted a low guttural groan.
“Anything I can do for you, Jack?” Hugh did not expect an answer. There was nothing he could do for Endicott.
Endicott responded with two weak backhanded motions of his left hand. His message was clear: Get the hell out and leave me alone.
“Right,” Hugh said with forced good cheer, his own innards roiling from the rank odor. “I’ll check back later. Chin up, Jack. We’ll soon be out of this slop.”
Hugh sidestepped from the after cabin to the door of his own cabin, where he braced his legs and waited. During the brief lull at the bottom of a trough he quickly opened the door and lurched in.
He had to pause a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Unlike the after cabin, the first mate’s cabin had no windows or portholes to shutter, and the aft hatchway was closed tight, permitting only drips of water to ooze through. The only other light normally available belowdecks passed through a scuttle, also used for ventilation, secured into the deckhead above. But the scuttle had been covered with a deadlight to prevent water from sloshing below. In the darkness, with the violent pitching and rolling of the schooner and the otherworldly creaks and groans of her timbers as she took one harsh blow after another, Falcon’s main deck seemed like a Stygian realm of the dead and dying rather than the well-designed interior of a graceful schooner.
How Dark the Night Page 25