by James Spurr
Marie realized they had stumbled, or rather sailed, into waters she did not understand. With Detroit looming just over the horizon and fully expecting to meet James’ relation very shortly, she asked, “James, tell me of this treaty.”
James began with the facts. “The United States and Britain have agreed that neither nation will have but two small ships, with only one gun each, on all of the Upper Lakes. It is criminal negligence the manner in which we invite a world power to take advantage of our utter lack of preparations. We have far more cities and commerce along our shores and those vessels and interests, such as Louise, are as deserving of our nation’s efforts and expenditures for defense as any other.”
Captain Phelps calling to his crew briefly interrupted. “Set the course. I want to make Detroit before dark.” The crew divided the tasks, one aloft removing gaskets, the other taking lines off pins so to release the clews and haul away sheets.
Marie risked one more question as the course filled and their speed increased to Detroit, “What role did your uncle play?”
James answered, though somewhat distracted as he searched the waters for what were that day in ’13 vessels of every size and rig gradually converging and unleashing their fury. “I had heard at the time and have since read in the letters you delivered that my uncle consulted with and encouraged Mr. Bagot, the British diplomat representing Lord Castlereagh, Britain’s foreign minister in North America. My uncle supported terms of a treaty which disarmed both nations in these waters and left our interests so vulnerable, as you see!” James gestured to the empty gun ports as exhibits of culpability.
Marie, hoped for both understanding and tolerance as her first meeting with this uncle of which James often referred drew ever near. She offered, “Perhaps there are advantages in starting fresh.”
James turned and looked at her as one of numerous clouds darkened the sun on a cold November afternoon upon a sea as would soon be ice. He pronounced, “The frontier is a hard land, Marie. Beautiful, certainly, these pristine inland seas, but make no mistake, our history is of hard men and ruthless nations taking every advantage. Our future is very much uncertain and such circumstances often do not allow forgetfulness, much less forgiveness.”
“I just thought perhaps…”
James continued, “You know my feelings for you.” He searched her eyes.
Surprised at the change of subject, all Marie offered was, “Yes?” as a decided question and not confirmation.
James reached out for a tarred shroud and rolled with the ship off the crest of a wave. He steadied and explained, “Despite how you and I feel for each other, I want you comfortable here in the Old Northwest.” He sought out understanding in her eyes.
Marie reminded, “I have not so much as stepped ashore, as yet.”
James agreed, “I know. It may be unfair, but before you do, know who we are, as a people and a family.”
Marie sensed James felt the need to warn her about something, something having nothing to do with a treaty he thought foolish. She stood close, leaned against the bulwark and answered, “And who are you?” She lowered her shawl to her shoulders allowing her hair to blow in the wind so to encourage his continued explanation. She purposefully did not clarify if her question went to him as a person, as a member of a family, as a mariner of the inland seas, or as a people devouring a continent as an animal refuses to share a meal.
James looked to the northwest horizon, considered for a moment but elected to continue, “Would it disturb you to know that people here, whether native, French, English or American have long memories, especially of their enemies?”
Marie did not answer what she suspected was not really his question. She looked aft at Captain Phelps who stayed at the wheel so to not intrude in what had obviously become an intense exchange.
James continued, “Would it trouble and disappoint you to learn that my own father killed a man for reasons many would consider as very good, accumulating over a period of many years?” James looked down at the deck even as he spoke the words. He waited for her answer, testing, she knew, her profession for peace and forgiveness as she had sometimes suggested in their most serious discussions.
She parried, “I suppose it may depend on the circumstances. Are you certain?”
James nearly whispered, “As is most evident from the letters you carried.”
She offered, “You are not your father.”
James cast adrift that excuse, “You did not know him. I am my father in so many ways. And I am not ashamed of the similarities. Indeed, I suspect you would be grateful that I am very much like him.”
James looked about the horizon, opening wide his arms, “This region is wild and beautiful. But it does not engender perfection in those who embrace it. The Old Northwest did not allow such in your uncle, Father LaPointe.”
Her eyes met his as he referenced without naming Bemose; whose very existence evidenced failure when faced with temptation.
Before she could react, James offered still other examples, “Nor did the forests engender perfection with respect to my uncle, who apparently was all too willing to surrender hard fought liberties over to old enemies, not respecting the sacrifices and service of others. Nor did its rivers make such demands of my father.” Finally, James warned, “It is therefore unlikely these seas will have such an effect on his son.”
Referring to his father once again and his act of revenge, James explained in a tone pleading for her understanding, “This land, Marie, exacts its own toll, which we who benefit from it cannot refuse; a simple justice, really, imposed upon those who fail to respect, refuse to prepare and who underestimate whatever or whoever presents what will surely be a continuous onslaught of challenges. Whatever my father did with respect to Lieutenant Fleet, it truly does not trouble me, nor should it.”
Captain Phelps called out, his eye pressed to his extended long glass, “The Detroit River lies dead ahead and not far!”
Marie heard James and saw his truth in his eyes, but she looked away. She looked to the nearing northern shore of Lake Erie, the shore of Upper Canada which her uncle, Father LaPointe, tried to civilize by faith and conviction though found it far more demanding than his will was strong. She considered James and his introduction to her of her new found home, should she elect to forge in her heart tools long in memory and short on tolerance.
Marie did not answer. She refused to believe. Say what James will, of this she was certain: He was, without the facts or details, deeply troubled by the actions of those he loved, even while condemning his live uncle and exalting his dead father.
Chapter Eight
The wind failed Louise on her final approach to the entrance of the Detroit River. Captain Phelps unleashed his frustration in language none too polite with a lady aboard.
And while Marie could, were she to so decide, move among the best of society, stemming from her aristocratic birth and early upbringing, James knew the salty language caused her no embarrassment or offense. Her capability and independence acquired and demonstrated in the turbulent time as she had witnessed in Europe had exposed her to as much and worse.
As the current slowly set Louise further from her destination, distance that had already been made good and would have to be regained when the wind returned, there was little for James and Marie to do but acknowledge their near future was left to the vagaries of weather. James above all on board understood and was comfortable with the notion. Together they enjoyed a fine sunset with land in view to the west and north, the best dinner possible from the meager stores on hand through a late season voyage, followed by the warmth below from a galley fire let burn in the calm, and a sleep filled with anticipation of their long journey ending, they hoped, early the following morning.
The calm surrounding the near shore waters soothed both souls and spirits, so close to land as to suggest the strong scent from the turn of soil and a successful harvest. Their time spent offshore allowed both James and Marie to assure the changes as they would ver
y soon experience together were indeed what they both had decided was best, as long ago as the spring of the same year unfolding on the Tyrannien Sea. The quiet imposed by the slack sails, limp sheets and inert blocks caused all to relax and reflect.
The wind returned gradually from the west well after midnight. Captain Phelps and the crew stood off the Detroit River entrance, tacking back and forth on reciprocal courses of north and south, of equal length, for some hours until dawn. Captain Phelps timed it well, cutting short the last tack to the south so to assure the distance lost in the calm was won again just as the sun broke the eastern horizon.
James joined him at the binnacle, having felt the ship move through the night and guessed at the purpose of the several tacks. He offered, cheerily through steaming breath, “Good Morning, Captain.”
“And to you, sir,” came the weary reply.
James offered, “And how would you warm to a short nap?” He gestured if whether Captain Phelps cared to surrender the helm of Louise.
Captain Phelps admitted, “I could have, I suppose, set the anchor and slept through the night, but this is our last voyage of the season and with the harvest moon and the soft breeze, I thought I’d enjoy just one more night sail before we lay her up this afternoon at River Rouge.”
James understood and nodded, assuring, “I know these waters well. Just give us, your crew, your standing orders and we will wake you as you please.”
Marie joined them at the binnacle earlier than normal, obviously too excited to remain in her cabin and not witness the final landfall of a journey in the making for some months. She made her greeting with Captain Phelps and she and James exchanged warm glances.
Captain Phelps relented, “I expect you will see very little other traffic, given the hour and the season. Just stay in the middle until past the River Rouge and then favor the Michigan shore. Call me when you can clearly make out the commercial docks.”
James replied, “Aye” and thought how Detroit must have grown. One of the last sails he took in these waters, in the fall of ’13 and with Detroit yet flying the Union Jack, there were only two docks, hardly warranting a reference for piloting.
James took the helm, the spokes slightly frosted. Captain Phelps went below and James felt the schooner heel to a slight gust of wind. He confessed to Marie, “It seems strangely appropriate, yet of course in a manner in which I gave not a thought and could never have known.”
She smiled, guessing at his reference, “How so?”
James gestured to the land ahead as Louise entered the river, “That I would return to Detroit after so many years at the helm of a merchant ship.”
Later, as they walked down the dock, Marie formed her first impresssions. James gathered his bearings with respect to growth and changes and promptly rented a dock cart and asked the lad, “The Woodworth Hotel, if you please.” James recalled the name after so many years, the first and best established hotel in Detroit, from before the late war.
The boy gave him an odd look, but just nodded and affirmed “Yes, sir.” He proceeded behind them with the trunks and boxes.
Arriving at their destination, James bounded up the steps of the large porch and he and Marie inspected the lobby. It was well appointed and, although far from new, reflected an air of respectability and investment so to attract many guests. They proceeded to the desk and James requested, “Two single rooms for what could be several days.” He looked up at the sign above the desk and was surprised. In carved relief and gold leaf, it proclaimed, “The Steamboat Hotel.”
As the clerk rotated the register and checked his inventory of rooms, James asked, “What happened to the Woodworth?” He was certain he was in the same building as had stood for many years.
The clerk replied, surprised at the question reflecting no recent experience with Detroit, “Sir, we changed the name now eight years ago, in recognition of the first steamboat to call upon our city in 1818. We want to embrace the future and the growth of commerce!”
James looked at the sign as if it might cause him to withdraw his request. Marie smiled slightly and the clerk asked, not understanding his patron’s expression, “You still want the rooms, sir?”
James did not realize he had caused confusion and quickly confirmed, “Yes, of course.” But the change was a shock, one of many that day as they strolled the streets, took in the sights and began to envision the future, both near and extended. Steamships indeed plied the river, and although well outnumbered, clearly had carved their niche, especially as sailing craft were no longer still in commission so late in the season.
James and Marie took dinner that night in the hotel dining room. They were excited, full of thoughts and ideas, discussing options and plans.
James suggested, “I may call upon Mr. Figgins tomorrow at his warehouse and docks just a block from here. We passed it this afternoon on our walk.”
He held Marie’s interest and continued, “I noted his firm owns several ships and seems to manage quite an operation, with destinations, passengers and cargoes throughout the Great Lakes.”
“That sounds promising,” Marie encouraged. “Any steam vessels?” she teased.
“I did not notice,” James assured, but more seriously and in an effort to convince himself, observed, “How hard could it be, so long as they not confine me to the boiler room!”
Marie laughed, but James soberly reminded, “But of course my timing is terrible; arriving in town just as shipping is all but over for the season and with ice about to form.”
Marie offered, encouragingly, “I passed two bakeries and perhaps there are more. I suspect there may be some need for my experience with ovens!”
James warmed to the sound of them planning, together, then changed the subject slightly, “Very soon, we must seek out my uncle’s farm. I suspect Bemose will be staying with him and my aunt Mary.”
Marie asked, “Is that a long journey?”
James admitted, “Truly, I do not know; a day or more, I suspect. Many new roads have been hacked through the woods, like the spokes of wheels outward from Detroit. Many are recent creations, some yet pretty rough. They were intended to help farmers get their harvest to market and encourage settlement in the interior of the territory, further from Detroit. I shall see whether any roads lead into what was referenced in their letters as ‘Oakland County.’ I will ask around tomorrow.”
Marie nodded but did not seem at all disheartened at what comprised the frontier. After two glasses of wine and with another yet for both in the bottle, James gathered his courage. He had not been this nervous since inviting Marie to board John Adams for a sail to Genoa, never completed.
“Marie,” he began, “I must finally, given all of the months and all of the miles, confess what has been on my mind since the mid-Atlantic. Let me remind, we have walked medieval walls, shared a volcano, survived both storms and a prolonged absence.”
His eyes now held hers more firmly than he grasped her hand. She put down her fork, touched her napkin to her lips, inhaling a breath as she did so.
His voice quivered the slightest bit, but he continued, “We have shopped, dined, traveled and cared for each other over many miles and through the passage of seasons. I know you very well. And I have hid from you none of my many faults and shared with you my innermost concerns and dreams.
“My future lies,” James assured, “I am convinced, after chasing so many shadows, wherever mine would lie alongside yours. And if the Great Lakes do not suit, we will travel the world until we find wherever will be best for both of us.”
James took her other hand into his. A waiter approaching had the good sense to drift astern, “Will you marry me?” he asked. He then offered, “Let us continue this adventure we have shared for the last five months for the next five decades.”
Marie needed to breathe. So she did. Long and hard, which surprised James but he did not press. He waited as she collected her thoughts and looked down to the table. She stared at nothing, while she tested her instincts, emot
ions and gathered her thoughts. Love was not the question. She wanted to be with James and enjoyed those moments above all others. She hesitated only for the loss of what she wondered might be her freedom. She had grown accustomed to answering to no one and doing as she pleased. But what, she asked herself, was the value of that if where she wanted to be was with James? She also knew that with James a merchant master on the Great Lakes, she would still likely have a comfortable amount of time to herself, as she had come to enjoy. Marie knew she did not quite fully trust anyone, but as she and James seemed to approach life more as partners than other couples with which she was familiar, those frustrations, she hoped, would be minimized.
Marie took a sip of wine, held her glass out and up in celebration, promising, “Yes, James, I will marry you.” She smiled, as did the waiter now riveted to the scene from a distance. James kissed her, raised his glass and felt as though together, the frontier would only present opportunity as both would forever enjoy, together.
The waiter gave them several more seconds to exchange endearments and enjoy their very special moment. He then approached and asked, “Mr. Lee?”
James looked up, nodded and was handed a note. He smiled, looked back at Marie and announced, “My dear, this simplifies matters a bit.”
“What is it?” she asked, aware from his expression it was good news.
Dated nearly a month before, he explained, “Bemose wrote the hotel asking that they look out for our arrival. Unaware of any reliable date, she would make three trips to Detroit and hope to encounter us on one of these. We are to look for her on November the first, the fifteenth and the thirtieth.”