The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage

by Paul Thomas Fuhrman

  Bridget invited her guests to take their seats. “Please take a seat on the sofa. The tea’s ready and you can still smell the scones hot from the oven. You’ll not be needing supper with Mary’s scones.”

  Kayleigh turned her head in the direction Bridget pointed and saw that the family had brought the kitchen table into the parlor and set it against the rear wall. The table was covered with a machine-made tablecloth upon which sat sultana scones, Irish shortbread, herb scones, a potato cake, jams, curds, butter, cream, and a pot of strong Irish tea. Kayleigh was delighted because her mother had set such a table for tea on Sundays. The train ride had been long, and she no longer ate for just herself.

  Bridget invited her guests to serve themselves, Kayleigh and Jennie first, and to take a seat in the parlor. Everyone knew the couch had been reserved for Kayleigh and Jennie.

  Kayleigh asked, “Where did you find this butter? It’s so fresh,” as she took another bite of her scone and helped herself to the potato cake.

  A beaming Mary Guiney replied, “We get it from Rhode Island. There’s a farmers’ market we go to Sundays after Mass. It’s in Tiverton.”

  After everyone was seated, Bridget addressed Kayleigh, as they had been in correspondence with each other. “Mrs. Griffin, we want to do something on the Fourth of July that draws some attention to us. We want it to be respectable, but you have to know all the agents and supervisors from the mills will be there to see if we’re behaving ourselves. People have been snooping around and asking questions in the weaving room where my looms are.

  Jennie Collins was quick to reply, “I’m with the New England Labor Reform League—”

  Bridget cut her off. “Miss, we don’t care much if t’ money comes from banks or the government as long as stores take it for bread and potatoes and give it full value. Most of us here have husbands too or hope to get one.”

  Jennie laughed and shot back, “I’m the practical one in the league. Those things, free money, and free love are interesting. I’ve started Boffin’s Bower, and I see women unable to find work and living on the street. Marriage didn’t help these women; neither has age, dear.”

  Kayleigh realized that without intervention, Bridget and Jennie would become adversaries and the meeting would end in heated arguments and not much else.

  “I’m just married and my husband is a sea captain.” Kayleigh patted her belly to emphasize her pregnancy. “I understand, but what do you hope to accomplish? What do you think is the most important thing that needs to be done?”

  Jennie asked, “Is it wages? Is it working conditions? Is it hours? I’m told that looms like the ones you operate make eight hundred dollars a day for the investors.”

  “Ah now, you got to be fair,” Terrence Guiney interjected. “I’m a millwright. It took ten years here and in Manchester, England, for me to rise to that. One day, I may be a hand. Some of these girls came from Canada, off farms. Some of us are Irish. Some Polish. All live better here than at home. Don’t you think it fair that the investors, particularly the Mechanics Mill investors, earn a fair return?”

  Terrence stood up and looked at each of the mill girls to see if anyone disagreed with him. “Those Boston papers ignore the fact that cotton’s got to be purchased from the Mississippi delta, shipped here, sorted, carded, spun, and woven into fabric. All that ignored. All that costs money and wages too before a single cent is made on a bolt of cloth coming off a loom.”

  Kayleigh replied, “The issue is fairness. Is what they pay you fair?”

  Bridget replied, “Fair? Terry, tell her how they threatened you when you had the speed-up.”

  Terrence looked first to his wife and then to the Boston visitors before speaking. “Once—not at this mill—they added another loom to the four I was operating. I asked, all politely too, if that meant I’d be takin’ home more money. Well, the supervisor’s face got all red and he says to me, ‘We can take your job to South Carolina and find someone there who’ll work for a third less than what you’re getting now. They would be happy to have the work.’ You see, I don’t know what’s fair. If they’re not making money, I have no job. Even if they’re not making enough money, I could be on the street. That’s the power they have. You can be comfortable, a good home, food on the table, and a sense that there’s a job for you tomorrow, and they can take it all away just to make more money. You’re no more to them than a claw hammer. Use it until it breaks and buy a new one.”

  Bridget added, “There’s other issues; a woman can go from the carding room to spinning, and then from spinning to the looms, but there it stops. A woman’s wages are kept low because it’s so hard for us if you’re not married. There’s good reason to be afraid.”

  As the Guineys spoke, Kayleigh’s mind paused at the word “afraid.” She knew she’d told her mother about the rape in frustration. She knew she’d had to tell Isaac, but she’d feared what his reaction could be. What if her mother had screamed and pointed a finger and said, “You’ve shamed us”? What if Isaac had rejected her and called her a deceitful slut? As these thoughts passed through her mind, freezing her heart, she looked at Bridget and said in a clear, firm contralto, “Fear is a powerful thing. It’s even more powerful than chains and shackles because your mind clasps them on your wrists and ankles. You’re afraid to say something or do something that might provoke the agents to fire you, aren’t you?”

  Jennie Collins shook her head. “It’s a terrible thing for a woman to grow old and have no family, no job. I see it every day. I try to help these women, but once a woman can no longer have children or work, she’s of no use to anyone, not even her family.”

  Kayleigh looked at Jennie and whispered, “Easy.” Then she addressed Bridget and the other mill girls. “You have to confront fear. You have to expect the worst and be willing to risk it. You can’t overcome fear by hiding from it. You can’t be free, have dignity and respect for yourself, unless you are willing to accept the consequences.”

  Bridget responded first to Kayleigh, then turned toward Jennie, “But what if they sack us?”

  Kayleigh spoke before Jennie could speak. “At least they would respect you, maybe even fear you. They would realize others would follow your example. If enough women were involved, they would hesitate to provoke trouble, women’s anger with them.”

  Bridget laughed. “I’d disguise myself as a man and go to sea, maybe become a lobsterman.” The girls voiced their approval.

  Bridget continued, “We all want the vote. We all want decent wages too. But I understand what Kayleigh is telling us. What we want and need will only come from respect, and we must be willing to lose everything we have to gain it. Those men have to see that. They have to see there will be consequences to treating us without respect.”

  Terrence spoke next. “Think about it. Think. They’re building new mills here. You read about it every day. They have to recruit in Canada and in Europe too. If we all stopped working, the investors would lose money and the agents would lose face, maybe get fired. Fear ain’t on us alone.”

  Bridget stood by her brother and spoke. “But we’d lose nothing that’s ours. We’d only lose what those men give us. And, Terrence, they could take it all away, march or not, if it suits them. So let’s march.”

  Jennie interjected, “We don’t believe in strikes—”

  Terrence interrupted her. “We’re not talking about striking. We’re talking about fear, their fear of us.”

  ***

  Kayleigh and Jennie Collins sat facing each other in a coach on the Boston train. Jennie spoke first. “Kayleigh, I’m tired. As soon as they squeeze all the money out of those mills, out of Fall River, out of those girls, they’ll shut the mills down and abandon them. Those big granite buildings will stand like tombstones in a poor parish graveyard. They’ll say, ‘Tsk, tsk, we had to do it, kept the mills going as long as we could. Just had to do it; the stockholders expect it of us.”

  Kayleigh replied, “And one day we’ll die too. I’d rather die a respected
old woman than a poor little thing.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Duty

  A prince can make a belted knight,

  A marquise, duke, an’ a’ that;

  But an honest man’s aboon his might,

  Guid faith, he mauna fa that!

  For a’ that, an’ a that,

  The pith o’ sense, an pride o’ worth,

  Are higher rank than a’ that.

  —Robert Burns

  Friday, June 28, 1872

  Lat 26º18′55″N, Long 45º05′30″W

  Henry Lennon’s warning about Griffin remaining on deck too long had proven to be true. On Wednesday, Griffin spent the entire afternoon and evening on deck battling calms. He stayed on deck through the mid-watch and forenoon watch. A hard squall flooded the decks Thursday evening and brought him again on deck. The wind blew from the southeast, a port tack close-hauled. Griffin was on deck to brace sails and furl the royals through all of this and remained there, refusing himself sleep. At two bells of the morning watch Thursday, the wind died to a light breeze and the royals were set again. Thereafter, the barometer started to drop and movement of the clouds slowed. Griffin stood on deck watching the clouds against the moon and frequently asking for the barometric pressure. Providence’s sails dropped motionless from eleven in the morning until one in the afternoon on the twenty-seventh. Then the weather turned fine—a moderate breeze, a steady breeze again from the south-southeast. Griffin smiled to see the sails shake, snap loudly with wind, and then fill. Once again he fussed with the weather bowlines, getting the last ounce of power from his sails. His joy with the wind sustained his vigil. This wind lasted until nearly eight in the evening. She gave him six and seven knots speed southward while it blew. Then it rained again, killing off the wind, becalming the ship. Griffin was still on deck. He had ignored the chance to sleep.

  Dogwatches or not, the captain was still on deck. The men sat to the lee of the deckhouse, out of sight of the captain as he paced on the weather side of the quarterdeck. They knew how long their captain had been awake; a sailor’s an odd creature, has more ears than two, and more eyes than those in his head.

  Griffin was absorbed only with speed and direction. Carver let the crew hide near the deckhouse. The captain was his business, not theirs. He would absorb Griffin’s anger and fatigue.

  To most masters, recording a 177-mile day despite hours of calms would have meant satisfaction. By now, however, nothing pleased Griffin because there had been no wind since eight that evening despite the return of rain squalls. His mind was focused only on the ship’s speed and direction at the moment. He had even lost recognition of why this was important.

  The first watch Thursday, Lennon’s watch, was spent in a windless drizzle with Griffin pacing the quarterdeck and insisting the wheelhouse scuttle be kept open. Both mates wondered why he had bothered to have an enclosed wheelhouse constructed in Bath at all. However, Griffin did go below—finally—at one in the morning. Carver, now on watch, saw the gimbaled oil lamps glowing through the window of the chart room and knew exactly what Griffin was doing. He wasn’t resting, but struggling with plotting an extended dead reckoning track and reading his pilot charts. The first mate would see Griffin again, and soon; it was the easiest of prophesies. Carver prepared himself for an angry captain who had not slept in nearly forty hours.

  The ship’s bell was struck four times to indicate half the midwatch had passed. It was two in the morning. Time passed slowly in the chart room when charts reveal what you do not want to admit and your dividers and parallel rulers do not cooperate with your one good hand.

  Carver, as did most experienced mariners, found the midwatch to be a relaxing experience when left alone. Then, too, most captains were content to check their telltale and listen, consciously or unconsciously, for what their ship told them while they were lying in their bunks. The whole point of port and starboard watches, of first and second mates, was to permit the master to be on deck only when needed. It was intended to keep at least one person aboard clearheaded: the captain.

  At 2:15 in the morning, the barometer stood at a low 29.8 inches of mercury and the wind came coyly at five knots from east by east-southeast, in cat’s-paws. Griffin saw Providence brace her yards. The waves were running from nine to twelve feet high and the lightning put on a spectacular show, illuminating the sky with a copper hue. Providence was on the port tack, carrying every ounce of canvas she could carry, and steering full and by and southing. When the chip log was tossed to check her speed against the Bliss log, both recorded a bare three knots; still, this was southing.

  “Damn it.” Isaac Griffin wanted to pound his chart table to find some relief from his frustration. He had spent nearly a week on deck watching the sky and watching the barometer. He projected his dead reckoning track through noon of the twenty-eighth and measured the day’s run at just fifty miles. His mind, his imagination, saw the heat smiling and sucking up the ocean’s moisture, storing it in great vertical columns of immobile clouds, only to let it fall back down on him, on his helpless ship. The clouds laughed at his helplessness.

  When will I see the clouds move? They’re supposed to! I’m south. I’m south.

  There were no mirrors in the chart room to reveal to Griffin the extent of his fatigue. He did not see the dark bags under his eyes, the bloodshot whites, the slump of his posture, or the deterioration of his mental acuity. No mirror could reveal the conflict waging within his mind—his desire for sleep contested by the will to drive his ship. He had always imagined himself as a Titan.

  “Damn you, Carver!” His pencil flew across the chart room. For a moment Griffin realized how ridiculous it was to vent his anger on a pencil. “Why can’t that man push her harder?” He left the chart room, turned left through the saloon, entered his parlor, and then climbed his companionway ladder. He was on deck again. The rain seemed to boil off him in wisps of steam as he stood again on the quarterdeck peering into the wheelhouse through the open port door.

  “Where’s Mr. Carver?I want you—”

  “When’s the last time you’ve slept, Captain? Why are you still on deck? All we can do is keep her pointing south and take what the wind and ocean give us. No, sir, this ship will not run into Cape Saint Rogue or move a quarter knot faster than what the wind allows.”

  Griffin saw Carver’s anger and realized he had pushed himself and his mates too hard. He attempted light conversation.

  “You know, this watch was my favorite when I was a mate. It’s nearly always peaceful. We should be sighting a homeward bound sail or two the closer we get to Rio. I’ve got a letter for Boston.”

  Damn it, Captain, why are you here? Don’t you think I’d call for you if you were needed? Look at you, man! Any fool can tell you’re exhausted. Go below and let me stand my watch!

  “I’m concerned about Thomsen, Captain. He has a fever and can’t work. Mr. Lennon will need to send Craig aloft again.”

  “It’s too early to tell on Thomsen,” Griffin replied. “We’ll need to wait and see what type of fever he has.”

  “What if we need to set Thomsen off in Rio, to the hospital, Captain?”

  “No. Not now. Damn it, man, we cannot afford the time! Why even consider that when we don’t know if it’s serious or not!” Griffin began to simmer. “I hate losing time! We won’t make fifty miles today!” He realized he had just vented his anger. He stopped abruptly and changed subjects. “What did I tell you about crossing the doldrums? The farther east you cross, the less chance of wind. You can really cost yourself time by hunting for it.” He knew Carver was aware of this. It was common knowledge. They’d seen three other ships near the line and had exchanged signals with the Arlie bound for Liverpool.

  Isaac Griffin walked forward on the windward side past the whaleboat. He was tired from being on deck and he knew he was not treating Peleg Carver evenly. His mind drifted a moment to remind itself that it needed sleep. He brought himself back by focusing ahead to the Southeast Trades. T
here the ship would quickly gain latitude.

  Rise, rise, let the damn air pressure rise and bring back the trades.

  He forced himself awake and returned to the quarterdeck.

  “Mr. Carver, once past Rio, I want you to be in heavy canvas by the fifties.”

  Peleg Carter knew that. Some mates would take offense at a captain telling them something so obvious, but he knew his captain had to be straining to keep awake.

  “Heavy canvas, sir.”

  Peleg Carver made a mental note to have the lifelines made ready to rig on a moment’s notice and to have the beckets made up for the yards. It would not be a bad idea to check every purchase also and once again overhaul each block and check each line for chafing. He’d waste no man’s life. He would intensify the men’s work.

  “When’s your wife due?”

  “November, Captain, early November.”

  “So you’ll have no word until we reach Liverpool.”

  “Sally’s a strong woman, Captain. It will be our first, though, and I’m looking forward to a son.” Please, God, bless us this time, no miscarriage. Thy will be done.

  Griffin saw what he thought was a smile on Carver’s face and mumbled Kayleigh’s name aloud. I can’t concentrate. Stay awake.

  Peleg Carver pretended he did not hear and ordered, “Come up, there, thus, thus, so.” The helmsman came closer to the wind and the slight shake in the topsails stopped. The wheel moved no more than a spoke.

  “Keep those sails as full as possible, Mr. Carver.”

  He did not need to say that to me.

  Peleg Carver had seen fatigue before. He had seen captains lose so much sleep that they were consumed by blind rage and insensitive to their surroundings. This captain was stronger, but still he kept the deck too long. Irresponsible.