Reflections in the Wake

by James Spurr

  Two birchbark canoes were creekside; a third was upside down awaiting a major repair by way of a patch. A horse was tied to a tree some distance beyond what James more fairly considered a hovel than a home.

  His feet crunched through some ice encrusted snow. There was simply no way to proceed in silence.

  He was intrigued with the design of the hovel. It appeared to be actually attached to and depend upon two live trees, with loose packed moss and mud between logs serving as walls, with which the bark had not even been removed. A couple of additions appeared to have been added over time, but the total square footage was less than the Great Cabin of John Adams.

  As James considered whether one of the additions, the tallest, might actually have served as a barn, a voice called out from the hovel, by way of threat, “That’s far enough, Navy man!”

  James was still some forty feet from the door, from which he suspected someone in the shadows of the interior had for some time watched his approach. He heard the distinct click of a hammer locking at full cock. James knew he was well within range, even for a musket with no rifled barrel. The chance of such an occupant leveling a smooth bored musket, as opposed to a rifled barrel was about as slim as his survival should the trigger be pulled. Watermen were without fail equipped with the best of weapons for hunting and were excellent marksmen.

  James called out, “I am unarmed.”

  The voice assured, “Well, I am armed.”

  A woman began to laugh from inside. A young child stepped into what little light filtered inside from the partly open door, even on such a bright sunny day, but stayed within the hovel.

  The door opened further and James could make out a long rifle in the additional light intruding within. The darker shadows within obscured the man who leveled the long rifle.

  “Who the hell are you?” the voice demanded.

  James recognized the voice, “I am Captain Lee. James Lee.”

  There was dead silence inside the hovel for some moments.

  James continued, “And I am looking for one of Perry’s men.”

  Again, James endured some moments of silence, followed by hushed tones culminating in an angry admonishment. The door swung open. At first, no one emerged. Finally, the long polished barrel, the only implement suggesting particular care or casual cleanliness, lowered as a man stepped over the log serving as a threshold. He asked, gently, “Is that you, James?”

  “Aye,” James replied, removing his hat. He then asked, “How are you, Trove?”

  Trove spat some tobacco aside from the entrance and muttered, “Well, I’ll be damned.” He leaned the long rifle against the door frame and stepped closer. Another child, not so young though smeared in dirt and with matted hair, showed himself in the doorway.

  James asked, casually, “May I come in?”

  Trove nodded but did not move. Instead he asked, looking over the uniform, “Are you still in the Navy?”

  James shook his head and explained, “I retired just a couple of months ago, but still wear the uniform on occasion…and this seemed like a good one.”

  Trove nodded and asked, “Where are you staying?”

  James half smiled, “In Detroit, above the old dry goods store, if you can believe it.” James walked closer and extended his hand. Trove accepted it and his handshake revealed a man of strength and power, well beyond his modest size. A calloused hand, much older in its appearance, than the actual years should suggest.

  Trove gestured James inside, although seemed ashamed once within. He stood by the fireplace with James left standing by the half open door. There was simply not that much room remaining within. Trove gestured quickly to a woman, unkempt and unfriendly, scowling at James from a corner, where a large straw-stuffed mattress, half covered by a blanket, served as a bed. Trove pointed to the younger child and offered, by way of explanation, “She tells me that one is mine.”

  James nodded in acknowledgement to both the woman and the two children. The hearth drew poorly and a smoke haze filled the hovel, burning his nostrils and stinging his eyes as he beheld squalor and ignorance, apathy and want.

  Trove offered a brown jug, asking, “Care for a drink?” James could not refuse the only gesture of hospitality as he guessed he would witness that day. He took a swallow, which burned intensely. James handed Trove the jug, who swallowed much more easily and asked, “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  James explained, “I have been in Detroit since November. I quit the Navy after retrieving the Commodore.”

  Trove halted a second swallow, half completed and looked at James, seemingly stunned.

  James saw the effect his matter of fact statement had upon Trove. It had the effect he had hoped for. James repeated, “That is right, all the way to South America. Perry now lies in Newport, where he belongs.”

  Trove nodded, with a surprising reverence, “That was a good voyage; one I would like to have made.”

  James then explained, “I sought you out, not easy I might add, because I need help repairing some planks on a schooner, up-rigging and commissioning her; and fast. I need your help, Trove.”

  Trove reacted like James was speaking a foreign language. He explained, “Haven’t been to sea in anything but my canoes in many years.” He then stared off, as though he was imagining the roll of a deck yet again.

  James assured him, “You remember well enough, I would wager.”

  Trove changed the subject, buying time, “Which schooner?”

  James replied, “St. Clair.” The woman threw a log on the fire and moved an iron pot from the side of the hearth over the center of the fire.

  Trove nodded, “I know her from a distance but haven’t seen her lately.” The larger child stepped outside, largely out of boredom James guessed, although barefoot.

  “That’s because,” James explained, “some damn fool captain ran her aground and sprang some planks. The rig remained standing, but now is strewn all over the yard.”

  Trove asked casually, as though no time had passed between them, “Break any frames?”

  James nodded, “Only one that cannot be sistered.”

  Trove sighed, took another swallow and offered the jug to James, who declined.

  “What’s the hurry?” Trove asked. He assured, “You have plenty of time until May.”

  James waited until Trove looked at him. He then looked him right in the eye and said, with the force of conviction that always preceded action, “Having retrieved the Commodore, we will now fetch the Captain. As soon as open water allows.”

  Trove’s eyes went wide. He asked, “Your father?”

  The woman muttered, “Like hell, you will!”

  Trove shot her a glance and admitted, “I heard years ago the Captain went down above the Sault.”

  James nodded, his eyes revealing the pain he still felt, “November of ’16. Except he wrecked on a beach, Trove. I was half a world away. But Bemose wants him back and so do I. So we will launch St. Clair and bring him home.”

  Trove always admired Bemose, she having saved his life, most likely, on a previous voyage to down Lake Michigan just as the late war began. He asked, softly for such a hard man, “How is she?”

  James assured, “Very well, but still in pain from losing the Captain. She is living with my Uncle Oliver and Mary, with many of the children near grown.”

  Trove asked simply, “Where?” in a voice that suggested he missed them all terribly.

  James taunted him, “Not far really, less than a day’s ride, west of here. They have a farm.”

  Trove looked at James with a longing in his eyes, confirming for James what he suspected as he came to appreciate the path Trove’s life had taken since those days in which they were all of one family surrounding the sloop, Friends Good Will.

  James meant only to have Trove help with the repairs and rigging. But in convincing him, he reminded, “Trove, you sailed with the Captain to Chekagua, snatched up British ships with him in Black Rock and trained Scorpion’s 32 pounde
r, with him in command, the day we all became Perry’s men.”

  Trove dropped his eyes to the dirt floor.

  James said softly, “Certainly, you will help us bring him home.”

  The woman objected, “Trove’s a married man, mister, leave us be!”

  Trove was embarrassed, “Not by any preacher, woman!”

  “Come, Trove,” James encouraged. “Let’s be on our way. I need your help. Maybe a week or two at the most. We need to bring the Captain home.”

  Trove looked around the hovel. He looked at a woman to whom his commitment was questionable, children of ambiguous birth who faced dismal futures. He looked at his life as a waterman, having so little to show, forcing him to admit utter failure as man, amid the memory of other Lake sailors who were so obviously far more capable at life on the land. He reached for his crude coat, made of animal skins and furs.

  The woman grabbed him and objected, “No!”

  Trove cast her aside, grabbed his rifle and offered gruffly, “The older boy can fish and shoot, woman. You will be fine.”

  She began to curse, a look of fear in her eyes.

  Trove stopped for a moment at the threshold, turned and handed his rifle to the older boy, standing just outside the door. He returned within and took another down from above the mantle. “Keep that one, boy. The sights are better. I will make do with t’other.”

  James, unnerved by the scene unfolding before him, called back, by way of feeble attempt, “A couple of weeks, at the most!”

  The cursing continued as the cries of the younger child joined in an unholy din. Trove and James crunched through the snow to the canoe.

  As Trove bent over to launch the canoe from its midsection, James removed the blankets from aft, grabbed his clothes from their folds and left both blankets on the banks of the creek, in such manner as Trove would take no notice nor offense.

  That night, the two riding double on a rented horse, they arrived and returned it to the livery and walked to the old dry goods store, where

  Trove met Marie and made his apologies for his unkempt appearance. Trove preferred the floor before the fire and declined a proper bed in the spare room.

  Chapter Ten

  Captain Lee began the log of St. Clair at noon, in the naval tradition, 3 April 1827.

  He knew the practice would greatly annoy Mr. Figgins and that he would likely, in time, bend to the common practices found throughout the inland seas. But on this, his second voyage of such purpose, he would to the extent possible with a very unusual crew and passenger list, retain the practices and traditions with which he was most recently familiar.

  Even as the ink dried on the log book, St. Clair was leaking. While well caulked, the cold water did not swell the planks as quickly as might have otherwise occurred had she been launched in the summer months. But Captain Lee expected the problem, assured the pump was operating flawlessly and lifted a pump from another vessel as a margin for safety. He fully expected to hear Mr. Figgins curse, from the shore, but was not concerned. Not any longer.

  Captain Lee began to make his second entry into the log:

  4 April 1827

  Slipped docklines, seven bells, forenoon watch. Light SW wind. Proceeding to set all sail, needed against swift current. No ice spotted upriver; ice dam reported downriver.

  He placed the logbook inside the binnacle and noted the warmth of the sun on his face. Soon, he hoped, he could remove his wool coat and hat.

  With sail now set, all aboard were for some minutes completely silent. Wasebitong traced with his eyes the lines as had allowed the brailed foresail to set so swiftly. Oliver studied the sail trim, principles learned so many years ago evidently retained. BeMose, Captain Lee noted, looked intently upriver; not for ice, he suspected, but to where she hoped within days to find William. Marie stood beside him and was focusing upon how to adjust the tiller so to keep the designation on the compass card of “NE” in line with the mark deeply cast into the bronze rim.

  Oliver’s presence aboard was regarded by Captain Lee as a welcome surprise so long as both steered well away from politics. Oliver’s experience with Friends Good Will many years before added some depth of experience to the crew of St. Clair. Given their purpose in searching for his father’s remains, Captain Lee came to realize that Oliver’s insistence that he be included should really not have been a surprise at all.

  Captain Lee considered Trove. His help was invaluable in repairing and rigging St. Clair. Just before their departure, Mr. Figgins offered Trove a position as paid crew and advanced his wages to Mackinaw. As Trove boarded St. Clair that morning, Captain Lee cast him a reproachful glance. Trove offered in defense, “They know how to fish and shoot. They will be fine. After all, I haven’t collected wages in years.”

  Trove now walked from station to vantage point, checking for chafe from hanks and hoops, from sails on stays. Captain Lee quietly assured Trove as he walked past him in the waist, “St. Clair could easily heave to near the delta. We could lower the boat and Oliver could row you ashore.”

  But Captain Lee offered that for which Trove had not asked. As an experienced Captain, he was well familiar with the men among whom he sailed and knew that despite a reminder, however well intentioned, the creek which would soon bear just off their beam would most likely be ignored. Captain Lee struggled with the fact that just up the creek there lay a hovel, with a woman and two children fending for themselves, alone.

  Aware he could not effect the situation, Captain Lee broke the mood, “All hands, gather aft.”

  Within seconds, he faced five pairs of expectant eyes, offering varying degrees of skills and strengths.

  “Until we break out in Lake Huron, we will have two watches. Oliver, you will lead the larboard, assisted by Trove and Marie.”

  Captain Lee caught the look of disappointment given him by Trove, by far more qualified than Oliver to lead the watch. Captain Lee added, “For now.”

  Trove understood. Until Trove passed upon what opportunity Captain Lee insisted upon presenting him, a chance to rejoin his family within hours, he would not impede Trove by assigning him leadership responsibilities on deck.

  Stating the obvious, Captain Lee continued, “I will lead the starboard watch.” He followed the statement with that which was already known, “I will be assisted by Bemose and Wasebitong.”

  Captain Lee concluded, “Larboard watch has the deck, with a credit for this last bell.” Marie stayed at the helm, Trove joined to assist her and Oliver assumed his station on the foredeck.

  Bemose offered, “I will attend to lunch and feed those on watch, first. Wasebitong, will you help?”

  Captain Lee nodded and replied, “Thank you. While we are still in the river, I will remain on deck.”

  The voyage had begun. A simple muster, Captain Lee knew, but with the watch set in such manner as only he could fully fathom. Bemose and Wasebitong were the least experienced sailors. Captain Lee felt confident he could single-hand St. Clair were circumstances to require. But the real reason BeMose was assigned his watch had far more to do with the fact that the leather satchel, so full of letters referencing places, events and a history as was relevant to their collective purpose, was lying on his bunk. The two of them would take some time talking in hushed tones under cold, starlit skies.

  Soon, St. Clair was sailing out into the lake of the same name. Captain Lee ordered a course change, calling back to Marie but fully aware that Trove would instruct her accordingly, “Two points to larboard.” St. Clair would sail nearly due north until Trove revealed whether he had any interest in rejoining his family.

  Captain Lee joined Oliver on the foredeck. Oliver had little vessel traffic to report, their voyage having begun so early in the season. But he stared intently to the horizon off the starboard quarter.

  Captain Lee thought and then recalled. “Considering the Thames?” he asked.

  Oliver replied, as would any sailor, “Aye. I recall it as yesterday. And those days before, with Friends G
ood Will, or Little Belt, although I never liked that name, transporting us from Middle Sister Island, spread across it like a flock of flightless birds, uncertain as to what would await us ashore.”

  Captain Lee, replied, “Those were frantic days. My ears, I think, still ring from the battle.”

  Oliver smiled slightly and spoke loudly, joking, “What say?”

  James laughed. Wasebitong, also off watch and having finished with lunch, took the deck and joined the men at the windlass. But the bell rang and signaled a rotation. Trove took the foredeck. Oliver rotated back to the helm. Wasebitong and James followed, enjoying the light conversation and Marie remained at the binnacle. With no work needed elsewhere on deck, she was free to listen and with every reference, learn.

  Oliver took the helm and looking to James, recalled, “Your father was such a relief to Perry. Amid all the doubt and chaos following the victory over Barclay and with an invasion imminent, William was strong as the oak in the keel of my handsome merchant sloop.”

  James and Oliver talked, for their subject was not of politics and the memories were of times when both considered England an enemy and Detroit must be freed. Wasebitong, as well as Marie, listened as they recalled.

  * * *

  Middle Sister Island, Lake Erie, 26 September 1813

  As the sun set, Captain William Lee, First Officer James Lee and Trove saw the last of Harrison’s regulars climb into the bateaux from the deck of Little Belt. As the bateaux set off for shore, Trove cast off the painter as others pushed off from the side of their ship with several oars. Captain William offered an estimate, “I would wager forty-five hundred.”

  James nodded. “I am not sure there are tents for all. With the weather now clearing and if their luck holds they will camp here only this night.”

  Trove added, “Which means we will have to take them off and transport them again tomorrow.”

  Captain William confirmed, “We will anchor in the lee of the island with others of the squadron. Let’s get underway while the wind still blows and hope for a quiet night. James, set all fore and aft sail. I will