I exhaled and leaned back on the cabin top. “So what do we do now? Suggestions?”
A voice came out of the darkness up forward. “I’ve an idea, sir.” Our young black sailor appeared out of the gloom.
“Then I’m listening, Ab. You did very good work today, son. Saved our lives. Thank you.”
Ab sat on the deck. “I think we need to get repairs as soon as possible—right, sir? Get Delilah careened and caulked and re-rigged.”
“Yes, Ab, we do. But it’s going to be a tough voyage. Key West is at least a week or more of upwind tacking—against that current—assuming we’d even make it that far, which is assuming a lot with this hull and rig. Nassau’s closer, but still no less than four days’ sail in our condition. We’ll have to exit that cut, get back out into the ocean, sail up to the Bimini Islands. Then we’ll use the deep-water channel to cross the Great Bahama Bank from there to Northwest Channel. Head onward to Nassau from there.”
The young man shook his head. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I can get us through Elbow Bank and Sandy Ridge Shoals to Lowes Sound at Andros Island by tomorrow night, if the wind holds steady and fair enough to send us downwind. We don’t have to go north. We can go east from here. Downwind, with less strain on the rig. Once there we can careen the ship and repair her ourselves. They’ll help us there.”
It was a tempting thought, but it wouldn’t work. “Delilah draws six feet, probably more with this water in her, Ab. There’s no channel across the banks for her draft south of Gun Cay.”
Ab shook his head. “That’s what I’m saying, Captain. There is a way, one you outsiders—even folks from other island groups—don’t know. Just us Red Bays people know the way.”
He was referring to the Bahamian Seminoles, on the isolated upper west coast of Andros. It was how they’d stayed hidden for the previous six decades.
“Sounds good to me, lad,” said Rork. “An’ if we do go down, it’ll be in shallow water.”
“You sure you know the way, Absalom?” I asked, studying him by the dim glow of the binnacle.
“Aye, sir. That’s how I got us through that cut in the reef back there—Brown’s Cut. My grandfather showed me the way. He was one of the original people that came here from Florida sixty years ago.”
Never look a gift horse in the mouth, I’ve been told. “Then you’re just the man to lead us through, son. We weigh anchor at dawn. Now go get some rest until your spell at the pump.”
“One more thing, sir. Could we have a service tonight for Mr. Dunbarton? You, being the captain, you could run it. It’d be the Christian thing.”
“That we can.”
***
All hands met on deck. The reef still rumbled, but the wind had lightened to twenty knots and I could see stars shining through holes in the clouds. That meant the storm was past—continuing west to Florida and thankfully not south, toward us.
There was no Bible aboard, so I extemporized as best I could to the bedraggled crowd assembled on the after deck. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Dear Lord, please take care of the soul of James Dunbarton, a sailorman upon the mighty sea, which rose up and took him away today, to go and dwell with You in Your house, never to feel pain again.”
I was about to finish with “Amen” when Rork interjected, his head bent down but his eyes squarely on the cook. “An’ dear Lord above, please help us poor sailor lads still alive down here, that we may pull together an’ find young Luke, to return him to his ever lovin’ mother.”
To which all of us, even a reluctant Connerly Blackstone, said “Amen.”
Seconds later, following Blackstone’s frightened gaze, I noticed that Rork had unsheathed that false left hand, letting his wicked marlinespike reflect the light from the binnacle. He’d kept it covered for the entire voyage until then.
When everyone had gone back below, Rork winked at me.
“Thought it were time to air out me spike. We’ve a long way to go.”
13
A Most Interesting Time
Village of Red Bays
Northern Andros Island
Islands of the Bahamas
Friday, 13 July 1888
Delilah, waterlogged and sluggish, began her journey to Andros Island, a most anxious transit of the Great Bahama Bank. The day was devoid of sunshine, negating the usual practice in the islands of “eyeball navigation” by spotting the shoals and reefs from the colors of the water ahead. The water was a uniform slate gray. We proceeded anyway and subordinated ourselves to the innate judgments of Absalom, who had learned navigation from generations of his family.
Undaunted by the conditions, that young worthy, for whom my respect was growing considerably, set us on an easterly course from the southern point of Brown’s Key, one of the two islands Absalom pointed out the morning after the storm. Brown’s Cut separated them, the southernmost being called Beach Key. Our departure was attended by much effort in dragging in all that scope of chain and weighing anchor. I’d estimated it would take an hour. In reality, the struggle took three and a half. The damned thing was dug in like the Devil himself was holding it.
The wind had backed southerly, the last of the rain bands visiting us intermittently, further indication the swirling storm was westbound to our north. Conditions remained steady at twenty knots until mid-afternoon, when the strength left it. By our arrival at Andros, it was a normal afternoon sea breeze. Setting the triple-reefed mains’l and the full forestays’l, the only canvas we could support with our diminished rig, Delilah managed to make four or five knots as she barged her way on a broad reach across the banks toward an unseen destination.
Rork and I were quite worried about the stirred-up state of the water—reading the bottom was impossible, even for Absalom. But he used a technique I’d learned as a boy in the New England coaster trades, another way to read the bottom beyond seeing it in clear water. If you know its composition, then you can read it through a leadline.
Rork and Dan took turns in constantly swinging the lead, a cylinder of the namesake metal with tallow slathered in its concave end. With each cast and recovery, they showed Absalom what it had picked up from the bottom, two or three fathoms below us. He examined it closely, then would stare at the sky for a moment, conjuring up memories from the past as to what type bottom should be where on the banks. An Oriental oracle would have nothing on this lad. Scanning the horizon and pouting his mouth, our guide would then solemnly announce a continuation of our course, or a change in direction.
Forty miles along our way, the black Seminole saw weed imbedded in the tallow for the first time. Checking the wind and our decreased ability to sail close to it, he declared we should steer southeast right then, a bit earlier than normal, so that our leeway would compensate and we would be on the correct course for a place called Cross Cay. Mind you, there was no land, nor beacon, in sight. Sailing southeasterly for two hours, we picked up a brownish mud, which made our young navigator smile.
The sun was setting at the time, a diffused gauzy light to the west, and I thought Absalom would recommend anchoring for the night. But no, he said to bear off and steer due east again. Fifteen minutes later, in the final light of dusk, he spied a ridge topped by pine trees on the horizon and nonchalantly stated that we were home. Red Bays, the village of the lost Seminoles, was dead ahead.
***
We anchored with only a foot under the keel, fully a mile off the beach, the shoals extending that far out on the shallow coast. In the rapidly falling dark there was no light from the village, but Absalom said, “They know we’re here. They’ve known we’ve been coming for some time. Since noon at least. And they know that a local man has piloted you here. They’ll expect him to come ashore directly.”
He then assured us of the natives’ amity and asked permission to row ashore in the dinghy, suggesting that I accompany him to present our respects and explain our que
st. I would return to Delilah in the morning.
Well, truth be told, I wasn’t keen on leaving my ship in the dark on a strange shore with a disgruntled cook still aboard, but Rork, touching his false left hand, assured me there would be no mischief in my absence. Delilah’s condition was the primary thing, he said, and the sooner we could get some assistance in repairing her, the better. Sound advice, thought I, so off Absalom Bowlegs and I went, into the murky night.
***
The bugs received us warmly some distance from land. My companion seemed oblivious as he rowed, but I filled the time with slapping the tiny creatures. They were even worse than ours in Florida, a distinction I had previously thought impossible. Feeling the dinghy touch the sand, Absalom and I waded ashore the final hundred yards, then walked up from the beach through a pine and mangrove forest to a group of thatched huts.
“It’s a poor but proud community. Mostly spongers and fishermen,” my guide said, “and whale oil is expensive.” That explained the lack of lamp light.
I sensed we were being watched, though no one was visible. Then a match flared thirty feet ahead and a pile of cordwood, evidently full of pine resin, flared up in a sheet of yellow flame, immediately illuminating a crowd around us. Shouts of glee erupted, directed at Absalom. As his shipmate, I was instantly treated as a dear friend by the populace.
Poor in pecuniary terms they might have been, but I’ve seen fewer people richer in confidence and conviviality. We were gaily conveyed to the center of the place, the church, where the preacher, a Pastor Newton, who was head man in those parts, gathered all hands for a prayer of thanks at the return of one of their beloved sons.
Afterward, over a dinner of crab, redfish, and pineapple, concocted by the good reverend’s wife, I explained to Pastor Newton the purpose of our voyage. In a deep bass voice, he expressed sympathy for the mother, concern for the boy, and admiration for the group of men who had taken on the challenge.
As for the wounded status of the schooner, he said there were shoals nearby where the vessel could be careened. If additional labor was required for the job, he would ask for volunteers, a gracious act that I explained wouldn’t be needed. His suggestion of local pine tar pitch and lumber for a new topmast, I did accept, however. Northern Andros Island is full of pinewoods, like Florida, with a fair amount of good lumber for spars and good resin for caulking pitch.
It was quite apparent to me that heavenly intervention was involved in our arrival at this out-of-the-way but intriguing place. I was itching—literally—to learn more about their fascinating heritage, but thought it impolite to delve into that topic right then. Better to wait until my friend Corny, the Smithsonian ethnologist, was ashore. I knew he would be delighted with the opportunity.
And so, after an eventful and exhausting journey that ended in such an unusual burg of Christian tranquility, I yielded to slumber in a corner of the Bowlegs family’s hut. In this instance, I gratefully breathed that smudge pot smoke in exchange for a reduced number of mosquitoes and no-see-ums draining my blood.
***
After rowing myself back to the schooner in the morning—Absalom stayed ashore with his family—I gathered the crew and briefed them on what I’d discovered and what we would then set about doing.
Corny Rathburn was almost delirious with joy. “They really are the descendants of Bowlegs and the Seminoles of the eighteen-twenties? I thought Absalom was jesting, or maybe mistaken about his history. Peter, this is astounding. Clay McCauley should be here to see this. The Institution will want to know of it. Obviously, I need to document everything. When can I go ashore?”
“The ship always comes first, my friend. So we’ll we repair the vessel, then attend to academic matters ashore.”
Dan Horloft and Rork, being practical seamen, asked where the careenage was and when they could get the material to caulk the hull seams. Cynda quietly asked for someplace to get a decent bath. I wanted to hug her right then, she was so pitiable. Blackstone said nothing, sullenly returning to his galley where I heard pots slamming around. The man was aggravating my patience. It was all I could do to not go down there and slam one of them on his head.
Seeing my reaction to the sounds from below, Rork whispered to me after the others had dispersed, “That scoundrel of a cook’s not fancyin’ this place at all. Thought we’d get to an island like Bimini, where he could jump ship, like the rodent he is, an’ find a cozy hole. Aye, he knows this place ain’t for him. Too far away from grog an’ women—an’ another vessel to ship aboard when he gets hungry. Ooh, that evil sod’s not a happy lad right about now, sir. Keep a weather eye out for ’im.”
My thoughts exactly.
***
The work started later that day, which fortunately saw the sun return to our lives after several long days of gloom. First job would be repairing the hull. Delilah was careened at high tide on a bar near Cross Cay, and Ab rowed a dory full of heated pitch and flayed oakum made from shredded palm fronds out to us. He then took Cynda to the village, where she was treated royally by the ladies. Not quite the spa at Monaco, but very welcome by my dear lady, who was a rejuvenated soul when she returned to the ship later that afternoon.
Detailed inspection of the hull by Dan and I revealed that most of the opened seams were along the waterline, below the main and forward shroud chainplates, where the hull planking had proved itself the most flexible in the storm. Dan pronounced it not as bad as he’d feared and suggested we attack the problem areas straight away. Corny, Blackstone, and I worked in knee-deep water at stripping the seams of the old worn-out caulking, while Rork and Dan followed along behind, paying in new caulking and pitch, an art with which they had experience.
The work went steadily, one seam at a time, each at least twenty feet long. Corny pleasantly regaled us with the delight he would have in presenting his paper on the Bahamian Seminoles to the Smithsonian annual meeting. I spoke of the Abaco boat builders I’d met during the war, an enterprising lot who’d made a bundle in gold coin building blockade runners. Dan compared New England and Bahamian ship designs, and Rork provided us with some tales from his homeland, of which he was always in good supply.
Blackstone continued his dour manner—most sea cooks regard themselves as a station above the seamen aboard a ship—barely keeping up with the productivity of the rest of us. At one point, I caught him eyeing me with undisguised contempt while holding the knife in an unfriendly position. That was enough for me.
Heartily ready to settle accounts, I asked, “Is there something you want to say, Blackstone?”
He mumbled, “Nay,” and grudgingly returned to his work, which went even slower thereafter. Rork, who saw the exchange, gave me his cocked eyebrow look, meaning “I told you so.” I rethought his idea of dumping Blackstone overboard. Unfortunately, that option was no longer viable, as we were now in shallow water.
***
Later that evening the cook made his move, but in keeping with his culinary skills, he botched the attempt. Having somewhere secured some rotgut on which to screw up his courage, Blackstone cornered me alone in the passageway by Cynda’s cabin. He spoke with that unique manner of the white-inhabited islands in the northern Abacos—a mixture of Scots, Irish, and English from the middle seventeen hundreds.
“When’re we gettin’ to a real port, like Nassau?” he asked, pointedly omitting the customary “sir.”
I recoiled from the stench emanating from his mouth. “When we repair the ship, Blackstone. Probably another few days, maybe a week.” I tried to move past him, but he wasn’t budging.
“A week in this bug-infested hellhole? Gawd, what a mess we’ve gotten into.”
Interesting assessment. I thought it far better than the other fate we’d faced. “We were lucky to survive that storm, Blackstone. You should be thankful.”
“Thankful? For what? This is all your fault, an’ so was the end of poor Dunbarton. He warn’t l
ucky, was he? Yer a lousy sailor an’ even worse navigator. We’ll be lucky, all right, to live till we see Nassau.”
It was time to end this charade. “Move aside, Blackstone. And take yourself forward right now, where you can sober yourself up.”
He stood there, a leer spreading across his pudgy face. “What, so you an’ your trollop can dance the dance o’ delight, while the rest of us work our arses off? Not anymore Wa—”
I must be honest here and report that Blackstone never got the chance to complete his sentence, for his ample belly had my right fist rammed into it to the depth of about six inches. As he bent from the blow, the cook pulled his knife in response, but was far too sluggish. I had anticipated that little maneuver on his part.
My right hand was already withdrawn from his gut and swung up above the cook’s head as he doubled over. I then brought my right elbow down into the side of his neck where it meets the collarbone. It’s an effective move when done quickly with all your weight against a slower opponent, which Blackstone most certainly was that night.
Ordinarily, as Rork well knows, I do not indulge in violence. Nor do I enjoy it. But I will admit that Blackstone’s actions and comments, from the very beginning of our voyage, made my efforts in the passageway especially gratifying. The big loudmouth was stunned by that elbow and went down to his knees, falling into the cabin door.
I have discovered over the years that chivalry in combat is an excellent way to die a ridiculous death. When one has an opponent staggered, that is not when kindness is a virtue. Quite the contrary—that is precisely the moment to definitively end all opposition and the ability to mount any future aggression. My right knee drove into the center mass of the cook’s gasping face. Blackstone’s head snapped backward, knocking a melon-sized hole in the thin veneer of the cabin door. Splinters flew everywhere, and through the dim light of the lamp inside I saw Cynda peering out at me with a horrified expression.
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