The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage

by Paul Thomas Fuhrman

  Compare logs. Chitchat about this tack or topsails and topgallants. Hell, he wanted to race. He wanted to see that ship up close enough to speak to her. He wanted to challenge her master to a wager. He wanted his crew to feel the rush of a race as he drove them to squeeze all the speed he could from wind, sail, and his knowledge of the seas he sailed upon. He wanted to see that ship steadily fall behind him and disappear beneath the horizon. “Beat her, boys, and we’ll splice the main brace with fine Kentucky bourbon, my bourbon. ‘Whiskey for My Johnnies.’ ” That’s what he imagined saying.

  The image of Kayleigh’s face and the money to pay off San Matias’s mortgage crossed his mind. He slammed his left hand palm-down on the chart table and relished his imaginary triumph and its delicious reward. He then went on deck, checked sail trim, and used the patent log to calculate the ship’s speed. Finished and satisfied, he joined the mates and apprentices for dinner in the saloon.

  ***

  Sam Duder spoke with both his hands and his mouth. “Anybody that can play or sing a tune’s welcome to. Don’t be shy. Bring out your instruments, now. C’mon, Priest, Smallbridge says you got a fiddle; wouldn’t pawn it for ten dollars is what he says. Craig, I saw that mandolin. Go on, bring ‘em out. Let’s have some fun before Mr. Carver finds us another lesson from the Philadelphia Catechism.”

  Those were Sam Duder’s words introducing Nicholas Priest and the Ernst brothers to a Sunday at sea during the dogwatches. “Boys, a johnny’s got Sunday to clean, mend, and play, and we ain’t done none of the playing yet. There’s men here want to stamp their feet and sing.”

  “I reckon I’ll play and sing if you do too. I got a good ear for music and I’ll tetch you a tune or two if you’ll tetch me.” Priest was pleased to hear Craig’s offer.

  “I’ll go get my violin, Craig. Do you think there’s something we both could play?”

  Craig turned his head away from Priest to look at the men sitting aft of the forecastle. He winked to remind them of his boast. Turning back to Priest, he smiled and stated, “Reckon so.”

  As Priest returned from the apprentice cabin with his violin and joined Craig on the forecastle deck, heads turned to see what would happen. The ship’s carpenter paused while giving a haircut. Needles stopped mid-stitch while mending worn oilskins, and pipes were extracted from the lips of idle men. Only the landsmen, exhausted from watch on watch and sleeping on faked coils of line, failed to notice the musicians step out on their stage. Silence and expectation took the deck. Duder laughed. “Violin. We’ll show you how to turn that thing into a fiddle.”

  Samuel Craig said, “You go first Priest. Seein’ as you’re the young ’un.”

  Priest opened his mouth and started to say, “I’ve only played for myself and in school,” when a sailor shouted out, “Give us a show!”

  Surprised, Priest continued, “My mother insisted I learn. I think you’ll like this one, though. It’s by my favorite composer—”

  “Don’t need a blathering sermon; just get on with it,” one of the Irish boys bellowed.

  Priest realized what he had been doing and laughed, “Okay. Okay. It has no words but goes da-da-de-da-da...

  Priest saw a man point to Mr. Carver and immediately started the third movement of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto. He was a little nervous at first, but when he heard a strong “Ja, gute” and saw men break into a sailor’s reel, he became very comfortable. In truth, he was really pleased with himself. He had never, never in his life experienced the thrill of being the focus of attention, of providing so much joy. He finished and was surprised to be asked to play it again. When it was complete for the second time, he was greeted with, “Hoch soll er leben!”

  He could not have felt better. He bowed formally while making a dramatic sweep with his bow hand and said, “Thank you. Danke.”

  The laughter roared and two Germans shouted, “Hals und beinbruch!” and, “Tausend dank!” The sleeping landsmen were now sitting on the cargo hatch wide-awake and clapping. One Irishman rubbed his eyes and shouted, “Play us a jig.”

  Samuel Craig was next. He sat on top of the capstan, tapped the dead tobacco from his pipe on the cast iron, then took up his mandolin and addressed his audience.

  “Boys, I reckon that was good, but you better loosen up them knees, ’cause here comes one you can jig to. D’ya know it?”

  Love somebody, yes I do.

  Love somebody, yes I do.

  Love somebody, yes I do.

  Love somebody, but it ain’t you.

  One man shouted, “That’s a sesh song; heard it at Petersburg.” He stood and pumped his fist in the air to call for more.

  I am my mama’s darling boy

  I am my mama’s darling boy

  I am my mama’s darling boy

  Sing a little song called “Soldier’s Joy”

  “That’s it, that’s it. That’s what I thought it was.” The veterans, Yank and Rebel, reveled together, no longer separated by fortifications, muskets, officers, or causes.

  Fifteen cents for the morphine, twenty-five cents for the beer

  Fifteen cents for the morphine, gonna carry me ’way from here

  Oh, my Soldier’s Joy.

  As Craig sang and played his mandolin, he gradually increased the tempo with each verse. The forecastle gang quickly picked up on the chorus, and two of the men did jigs. Their legs blazed beneath them but their backs were straight and their arms hung by their sides—no smiles, but legs moving and crossing and kicking out the rhythm in unison. One man shouted enthusiastically, “Soon or never.”

  The lyrics were grim, yet these men wrung every ounce of enjoyment they could from each note. Even old Bishop stepped out of the galley door and smiled.

  “Hey, Priest, do you have an ear for it?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Priest’s violin scratched a few notes while Craig plucked a single note on his mandolin. When the scratching stopped and both instruments resonated together, Priest nodded to Craig. “Got the chord.”

  “Now slowly, Craig, the dadle-dadle-dadle-dadle-daw-daw-dee...” The music emerged from Priest’s violin and soon the boy felt comfortable enough to let Craig carry the song while he played harmony.

  “Let’s go, Maestro Craig. From the beginning.”

  Both played. Craig’s eyes closed and it was obvious he was smiling while he sang. No beer. No morphine. But for a moment Craig and eighteen men were in a hollow somewhere in the Southern Appalachian Mountains dancing and singing.

  “Priest, short bow strokes, strong strokes!”

  “Like this?”

  “That’s it!”

  I am my mama’s darling child

  I am my mama’s darling child

  I am my mama’s darling child

  And I don’t care for you.

  Eoghan Gabriel approached and quietly reminded them the watch was soon to change. The starboard watch was to be on deck. Both nodded, and the music continued as sweetly as before. When it was finished and after bows were taken, applause rendered, and several appreciative slaps placed on Priest’s back, Craig put his arm over Priest’s shoulder. “Pretty good fiddlin’, boy. Let me tell you what that song’s all about. I’m a Johnny Reb. I’ve been wounded. We’ll need to make you a new bridge for your fiddle, and next Sunday rosin that bow more. I’ll tetch you another ’un after our watch.”

  “I’ve this pocket knife. We can use it to carve the bridge.”

  Craig laughed. “That old thing won’t cut butter. I reckon I’ll show you the cure.”

  The port watch timekeeper walked forward and pulled the lanyard on the ship’s bell four times. He looked to both Craig and Priest and said, “Sorry, you’re on deck now.”

  Priest went aloft to his watch station on the foremast. He was there for the entire dogwatch, two hours, to be the lookout and to overhaul the running rigging and make it ready to brace to the wind if needed. Craig remained in the waist. Under the eye of the boatswain, he went from pin to pin to make sure
that tacks and sheets were ready when needed, when the wind hauled. After his trick aloft, Priest joined Craig, who was sitting on the capstan again, smoking his pipe.

  “Heard that Ernst boy make fun of you. Pay him no mind. You and me’s friends. Don’t doubt one bit you fucked that girl. Felt real good too, didn’t it?”

  Priest blushed and lowered his eyes.

  “Ah, I’m making you red-faced. Meant no harm. You can tell me about it if you want to. Just saying that once you done it, you’ll always want more.” Craig chuckled at Priest’s reaction and relit his pipe. “I understand. After supper, I’ll tech you a new song we can play, ‘The Sourwood Mountain Song.’ ”

  ***

  Griffin opened the weather door of Providence’s wheelhouse and motioned for Peleg Carver to join him by the taffrail. “What did you think about that show—Craig and Priest?”

  Carver replied, “It was entertaining, I suppose.”

  “What do you know about Craig?”

  Carver replied, “This ain’t about passing the time of day, is it?”

  “It ain’t. I promised that boy’s father I’d keep him safe.”

  Twenty-One

  Nursing—Doctor Marie Zakrzewska

  Some three, or five, or seven, and thirty years;

  A Roman nose; a dimpling double-chin;

  Dark eyes and shy that, ignorant of sin,

  Are yet acquainted, it would seem, with tears;

  A comely shape; a slim, high-coloured hand,

  Graced, rather oddly, with a signet ring;

  A bashful air, becoming everything;

  A well-bred silence always at command.

  Her plain print gown, prim cap, and bright steel chain

  Look out of place on her, and I remain

  Absorbed in her, as in a pleasant mystery.

  Quick, skillful, quiet, soft in speech and touch...

  “Do you like nursing?” “Yes, Sir, very much.”

  Somehow, I rather think she has a history.

  —William Ernest Henley

  Monday, June 3, 1872

  Boston

  Kayleigh lowered her head and shook it slightly from left to right once, then smiled, relieved, as she rose from the gynecological examination table adjacent to Dr. Marie Zakrzewska’s office in the New England Hospital for Women and Children. Kayleigh could still feel the coldness of the speculum although it had been removed for more than a few minutes. She stepped behind a screen, undid her examination gown, and started to dress herself. As she picked up her undergarments, she remembered the spotting, why she had hurriedly arranged the examination with Dr. Zakrzewska, who was both a friend and now her physician. She expected Dr. Zakrzewska to either confirm her suspicions or set her mind at ease.

  Once dressed, she paced nervously in front of a window opening on Warrenton Street. Kayleigh could see the dome of the Bullfinch Building in the distance. She thought of all that was accomplished there, including her own efforts. As she did so, the corners of her lips unconsciously curved upward in a small bow.

  As she paced, the door to Dr. Zakrzewska’s office opened and the doctor entered. “So we both think you are pregnant. You and your husband wasted no time, did you? Did you as much as discuss the possibility before he rushed off to sea?”

  Dr. Marie Zakrzewska’s smile set Kayleigh at ease as she invited Kayleigh to take a seat across the desk from her.

  “It is early in your pregnancy. I do believe you are pregnant. Women often know when conception occurs and they are correct. My examination told me your breasts are unusually sensitive and your areolae are darker than I expected for your fair complexion. Then, too, you say you have been spotting, virtually a sure sign. I wish you had come to see me when this first occurred so I could examine the blood under a microscope. But it is too early for you to have missed a cycle.”

  “I’m so glad you agreed to see me, Doctor. I did not want to be seen by a male physician.”

  “Kayleigh, I will have no talk about gender and the ability to practice medicine.”

  “I just wanted to avoid someone telling me I suffer from nervous exhaustion or telling me I’m just being female.”

  Kayleigh and Dr. Zakrzewska both laughed, but it took Kayleigh a moment to realize the humor in what she had just said.

  “In my medical practice, I’ve noticed that being pregnant is peculiar to the female, yes?”

  Dr. Zakrzewska smiled warmly and assumed a relaxed position, settling back in her chair while tucking the curled index finger of her right hand under her chin. Her right elbow rested on the arm of her chair.

  “I will assume you are happy? I say that because you lose so much when you marry, your wealth, and what you may wish to do with your life. Having a child is such a responsibility. I’m sorry, Kayleigh; those are my thoughts. I should not have been so direct.”

  Kayleigh smiled. “I’ve never been as happy. Griffin is an unusual man, Doctor. What brought us together was physical attraction at first. I did nothing to discourage it. I surprised him as well as myself the first time we were alone.

  “That’s not enough, of course, but it is important.” Kayleigh laughed. “And so enjoyable. We found we could reveal ourselves to each other, our strengths, weaknesses, and even our wounds.”

  The doctor relaxed further into her seat. “I understand. What future do you see for yourself? What future does he see?”

  Kayleigh smoothed the folds of her skirt and moved slightly toward the edge of her seat. “We’ve discussed children—we both want them. He wants to be financially secure, but that’s not what drives him. He’s religious although he’s reluctant to admit it. He says there is no need for God to interfere in our lives, yet he feels God’s presence in the terrible storms of Cape Horn.”

  “Unusual. Has he read Emerson, perhaps Locke?”

  “I think he has. He has read Huxley and Darwin. I don’t think he’s unusual as much as honest with himself; a willingness to admit that he has questions. I don’t think he will ever be complete until he has his answers.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of where this may lead?”

  “He loves me. It’s so obvious that he cares more for me than he does for himself. I have nothing to fear. We will face the future together, his, mine, whatever happens.”

  “Let’s talk about your future. I know how you feel about women. You’ve sacrificed so much of your time and refused to hide your opinions. Why do you work so hard, this nursing? I need to know as your physician, you understand?”

  “As my physician and not a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “I volunteered as a nurse at first because I had been raped. I hid this from everyone. I tried to hide it from myself. I was afraid of men. I was ashamed. The hours and the work isolated me from my fears and from myself. Now nursing speeds time until I’m reunited with my husband.”

  Dr. Zakrzewska leaned forward in her seat, bringing her face closer to Kayleigh’s. “I never knew about the rape. I should have been more perceptive. Are you still ashamed?”

  Kayleigh took a deep breath. “It’s not an issue now. When I finally told what had happened to my mother and to Isaac, telling about it freed me from fear and shame also.” Kayleigh laughed. “I do enjoy sex.”

  “Good. You should, and so should he. But is it necessary to continue to work so hard?”

  “One reason is financial independence for women. Unless they—”

  Dr. Zakrzewska became impatient, sitting bolt straight in her seat. “I know. I know. But you?”

  Kayleigh’s posture stiffened. “Nursing suffers because it is women’s work, an extension of nurture. Because it is women’s work it is drudgery. It’s work too menial for men. It will never pay a living wage as it is. That’s why Florence Nightingale is so important. She proves nursing is important to healing.”

  “Her ideas are too limited, Kayleigh.” Dr. Zakrzewska drummed the fingers of her right hand on her desk and then took hold of the fingers with her left hand and pressed them
into the wood to stop the drumming. “And,” she continued, “Nightingale mentioned gender, competition with men. Here’s what you must know. You will not like this, so I might as well be blunt.”

  Now Kayleigh sat bolt upright.

  “You waste your time and ability nursing as you do. I also believe the stress of hard labor will place your health and your baby’s at risk. Think of yourself as an egg and a hen in one. It’s so easy to injure your uterus, and pregnancy can be painful. You must stop. It’s devastating to lose a baby. I’ve seen it too often, the guilt.”

  Although Kayleigh knew such a warning would come, her mind still refused to accept the limitations of her pregnancy. “Do I need to stop now?”

  “Yes, no more twelve-hour days and whole weeks spent in your ward.”

  “But I’m setting a positive example.”

  “No, that’s not so. Florence Nightingale came from a titled English family. Your Dorothea Dix had money as you do. Don’t you think ordinary women know they will never be given the respect or opportunity these women were given? Have the women you work with ever revealed what they think of you?”

  Kayleigh was not prepared for that question. “No. I never thought it mattered.”

  Dr. Zakrzewska pointed a finger as if to scold Kayleigh. “What matters is what women see as an opportunity. Not just to make money, but to be respected, to feel pride in themselves.”

  “But don’t you teach the students in your nursing school what Florence Nightingale teaches?”

  “Klein Wissenschaft. Do you know that phrase?”

  Dr. Zakrzewska did not wait for a reply.

  “It means ‘little science,’ and it was used by Dr. Schmidt, my mentor in Berlin, to describe what a professional, a licensed midwife, should be taught. This is my model for nursing. When I first became familiar with that term, it meant all science other than the science needed for discovery. It meant clinical and not laboratory science, but I’m not sure klein Wissenschaft is all a nurse should know. I’m very concerned about limitations. I’m already seeing shortcomings with the experience my hospital provides women physicians, but I don’t know the answer yet.”