by Lance Morcan
“A damned curse upon you all!” he shouted at the crewmen who now lined the barque’s near rail. “I demand to know what flag you sail under, and who is your master?”
“I am master of Northern Skies and we sail under the flag of Mother England!” a gruff voice responded in the strongest of Devon accents. “Captain Philip Jamieson at your service.” The captain, a short stocky man almost as broad as he was tall, waved down to his opposite.
Mathers eyeballed him and, using the foulest of seafaring language, proceeded to berate him uninterrupted for a good two minutes. In that time he told Captain Jamieson he was an apology for a captain and had no right being master of a floating bathtub let alone a three-masted barque.
When Mathers finally ran out of profanities and ceased his tirade, Captain Jamieson asked, “Did you not think to post a lookout aboard Minstrel, sir?”
“Of course we had a lookout posted you bloody idiot!” Mathers saw red and hurled his now empty bottle in Captain Jamieson’s direction. The bottle fell short and smashed against Northern Skies’ hull. “Yours is the bigger, faster vessel,” he shouted. “The liability for the collision is yours and yours alone, sir!”
That was the last straw for Captain Jamieson who proceeded to direct profanities at Mathers.
Looking on, Susannah thought Mathers looked so angry he was about to have a heart attack. He was red with rage and appeared ready to dive over the rail and attempt to board the barque.
When Captain Jamieson had had his say, he ordered his crew to prepare to depart. The securing ropes were disconnected and quickly pulled in, and Northern Skies was soon on her way.
As the barque sailed off into the darkness, the two captains continued to hurl insults at each other.
Mathers, who was now standing at Minstrel’s stern, got the last word. “You could have caused the deaths of scores, nay hundreds, of passengers and crew!” he shouted, seemingly oblivious to the exaggerated utterances that spewed from his drunken lips. “Little do you care, I now have a hundred weeping women below deck in need of comfort!”
At that, several passengers and crew aboard Minstrel burst out laughing. Mathers continued his tirade until only the barque’s stern light was visible. Having finally run out of steam, the captain weaved his way forward and disappeared below deck.
At the same time, several crewmen emerged from below deck and reported to Paxton that, aside from superficial damage to the exterior of the hull, all was well below.
“Who was on lookout tonight?” Paxton asked.
Goldie stepped forward. “I was, Chief.”
“Did you not see the barque, Mister Archibald?”
“Not until she was a hundred-and-fifty yards off the bow, Chief,” Goldie replied.
“Then I would contend you were negligent in your duty,” Paxton grumbled. “If this was a naval vessel, you’d be hung, drawn and quartered for that.”
Goldie bowed his head in shame. Looking on, Susannah felt badly for him.
The first mate turned to the two nearest crewmen. “Escort Mister Archibald below and intern him in the store room tonight.”
“Yes Chief,” the crewmen said in unison.
“And he’s to remain there until we reach Cape Town.”
The two crewmen led a chastened Goldie below deck. As he was led away, Goldie was too ashamed to look at Susannah.
Susannah turned to Drake Senior. “I need to go below, papa.” She felt ill – and not because of anything she’d eaten or because of the smell of bilgewater that wafted up from below deck.
“Of course, my dear.” Drake Senior led Susannah below deck. The clergyman thought it understandable his daughter had been left shocked by the near miss. He didn’t realize there was more to it than that.
As they returned to the stateroom, Susannah experienced a myriad of emotions. She felt relieved they’d survived what could have been a fatal collision, and she felt guilty that she was as much responsible for the near-catastrophic event as Goldie was. If I hadn’t tempted him so, he’d have done his duty and seen the barque in time. The thought of what could have happened, and the lives that could have been lost, almost overwhelmed her. She stumbled as she walked.
Drake Senior reached out an arm and steadied her. “Are you alright, Susannah?”
“Yes papa,” Susannah assured him.
The young Englishwoman took the night’s events as a sign that she wasn’t meant to give herself to Goldie, or to any man, before she was married. At that moment, she was certain God had intervened, and she promised herself she would resist any further temptations the devil put in her way.
33
Pacific Ocean, 1841
Sitting in the confines of the tea-chest in Besieged’s storeroom with his knees drawn up to his chest, Jack was feeling ill. He wasn’t sure if it was the overpowering smell of tea or the motion of the schooner that was causing it. He guessed it was probably a combination of the two.
Unable to take it any longer, he opened the tea-chest lid and climbed out, gratefully sucking in a lung-full of sea air as he did so. Desperate to relieve himself, he hurried out of the store-room and made his way above deck. There, by the light of the moon, he urinated over the port-side rail. He had to stand legs astride to maintain his balance as the schooner ploughed through heavy Pacific swells. Fortunately, no-one else was around.
Enjoying his first pee since Besieged departed the Sydney Town docks a good three hours earlier, and breathing in the sea air, Jack was feeling exhilarated. Apart from the brief escapade down the river at Parramatta a year earlier, and the three weeks he’d just spent at the Todds’ boarding house, this was his first taste of freedom since sentence had been passed on him in London’s Central Criminal Court four years earlier. He breathed in several more lung-fulls of air. “Ah, freedom!” he sighed.
The sea air soon revived him and the feelings of nausea passed. Not wanting to push his luck, he quickly retired below deck before someone saw him.
Back in the storeroom, he searched for some food and drinking water. He soon found fruit and fresh bread, but no water. The schooner’s freshwater supplies were obviously stored elsewhere. He did find a bottle of rum, though. This’ll have to do, he decided none too dejected.
Next, he looked for an alternative hiding place. He located an empty crate that was at least twice as big as the tea-chest he’d just vacated. Crawling inside it, he was pleasantly surprised to find there was even room to lie down.
Jack proceeded to enjoy a three-course meal of sorts. The entrée was a fresh orange, the mains fresh, doughy bread and dessert a ripe banana. Each course was washed down with generous helpings of rum, which he drank straight from the bottle. After draining half the bottle, he fell into a contented, dream-filled sleep.
In his dreams, he was cavorting naked with a buxom woman. In one dream the woman looked like Joan Todd; in another she looked like Mary O’Brien. Later, when he finally woke, he wouldn’t be able to recall who the woman of his dreams was. But that wouldn’t matter to him: he had equally fond memories of both.
#
Next morning, the ship’s Scottish quartermaster carried out what for him would be the first of many daily inspections of the storeroom. He had to concentrate to keep his balance as the schooner rolled in heavy seas.
The sound of a bottle rolling around inside a crate attracted the quartermaster’s attention. He pulled the lid off the crate and was surprised to find Jack fast asleep inside. Having finished off the rum during the night, the stowaway was sleeping off the results. The now-empty bottle was still rolling around beside him.
“What have we here?” the quartermaster asked himself. He then shouted, “Stowaway!”
Other crewmen came running.
Jack woke to find himself being pulled out of the crate by several pairs of rough hands. He was hauled above deck and half-carried to the captain’s quarters.
At the sight of Jack, the ship’s Welsh master, Captain Jones, asked, “Who is this?
“Can’t
get a word out of him, sir,” the quartermaster responded. “He’s as pissed as a newt.”
The captain could see Jack was too inebriated to respond to questioning. Turning to his first mate, Quincy Adams, he said, “Bring him back to my quarters after he’s sobered up, Mister Adams.”
“Aye, sir,” Adams answered in a heavy Cornish accent.
The first mate escorted the stowaway topside and ordered two sailors to throw buckets of seawater over him. They performed this task with zeal.
A short time later, cold, wet and almost sober, a shivering and bedraggled Jack stood before the ship’s master once more, water dripping from his sodden clothes.
“Your name?” Captain Jones asked without ceremony.
“Jack Halliday,” the Cockney responded without thinking. He immediately regretted revealing his name.
“Which penal institution did you escape from, Mister Halliday?” the captain asked perceptively.
Jack feigned surprise. “I’m no convict, sir. I’m a humble citizen from Sydney Town just wanting to work me passage to Fiji.”
“A humble citizen, eh?” Captain Jones glanced at his first mate. “What do you think, Mister Adams?”
“Someone wanting to work his passage doesn’t stow away, sir,” Adams said. With that, he suddenly reached down and pulled up Jack’s trousers, exposing his ankles. The tell-tale marks left by innumerable pairs of leg-irons were highly visible. Adams looked up at his captain. “He’s an escaped convict, sir. Probably from Parramatta.”
“I’m a blacksmith,” Jack protested.
“A blacksmith?” Captain Jones asked. “How did you come by those marks?” He glanced pointedly at the marks.
“They’re caused by a rash,” Jack mumbled lamely.
The disbelieving captain eyed Jack as he decided on a course of action. Without warning, the first mate ripped Jack’s shirt from him, exposing the stowaway’s scarred back. In the cold light of day, the marks of lashings were there for all to see.
Captain Jones studied Jack grimly. Finally, he said, “You can work your passage to Norfolk Island.”
Jack wondered if he’d misheard the captain. His understanding was the vessel was Fiji-bound.
Captain Jones continued, “You won’t be paid for your endeavors, and as soon as we arrive at Norfolk you’ll be handed over to the penal colony commander there.”
Jack didn’t like the sound of that one bit. He’d heard horror stories about the infamous Norfolk Island penal colony.
As an afterthought Captain Jones added, “You’ll either be interned there or, if you’re lucky, you’ll be shipped back to Sydney Town and returned to Parramatta, or whichever penal settlement you escaped from.”
Jack prayed it would be the latter, although the prospect of being returned to Parramatta didn’t fill him with joy either.
The captain turned to his first mate. “Get him a change of clothes then put him to work, Mister Adams.”
“Aye, sir.”
Jack opened his mouth to protest, but before he could Adams pushed him out the door. The first mate escorted Jack to stores, below deck.
As they walked, Jack asked, “I thought this ship was bound for Fiji?”
“She is,” Adams answered. “But we have supplies to drop in to the penal settlement at Norfolk Island first.”
That confirmed Jack’s worst fears. Norfolk Island was also a British colony. Administered by the New South Wales authorities, the penal settlement had a well deserved reputation as a hell-hole – a living nightmare for its convict population. It was common knowledge convicts interned there often committed suicide rather than serve out their sentence. Jack realized there’d be a very real chance he’d be interned on the island, and if that happened it could well be a death sentence.
Down in stores, Jack was outfitted in standard-issue working clothes then Adams escorted him back topside. There, the first mate handed him a mop and bucket, and pointed to the deck. “See that?” Adams asked.
Jack nodded.
Adams snarled, “I want you to mop the entire deck until it’s so clean I can see me handsome face in it.” He walked off, leaving Jack to start mopping. Looking back at the stowaway, he added, “And if you’re caught slacking, there’ll be no rations for you.”
Jack began mopping. As he did, he rued his change of fortune. Now his future looked bleak indeed. He couldn’t decide which would be worse – to be incarcerated at Norfolk Island or returned to Parramatta. The consequences of either didn’t bear thinking about. He knew he had around two weeks to rewrite his future: that was how long he estimated Besieged would take to complete the thousand-mile voyage to Norfolk Island.
34
Philadelphia, United States of America, 1843
Nathan had his hands full. He tried not to spill champagne from the near-full glass he balanced as two giggling, skimpily-clad showgirls draped over him, showering him with kisses. One, a fetching chorus girl, sat on his knee; the other, a soloist, leaned over him from behind.
It was the interval during a song and dance show at Philadelphia’s popular music hall of the day, The Merry Menagerie, and Nathan was celebrating his twenty-first birthday with a group of boisterous friends. As was the custom at the popular nightly show, the showgirls mingled with the patrons between acts in the establishment’s parlor.
Nathan’s rowdy group included his blind date for the evening, three boyhood friends, their girlfriends of the moment and an assortment of hangers-on. All had had too much to drink and they’d already been asked twice by parlor employees to keep the noise down.
Nathan was almost unrecognizable as the young man who had been living amongst the Makah just one year earlier. Dressed in the finest European clothes, sporting the latest fashionable hairstyle and spending money like there was no tomorrow, he looked and acted like a spoiled beau.
As he admired the exposed cleavage of the young woman on his knee, Nathan dropped his champagne glass. Its contents splashed over the woman’s breasts and the glass shattered on the wooden floor. “Anchors away!” Nathan shouted to the amusement of his companions.
Other patrons weren’t so amused. Several had already complained to the management.
“More champagne for the prodigal son!” one of Nathan’s male friends called out.
“I’ll drink to that!” Nathan shouted, prompting more laughter among the group.
A floor manager approached the young Philadelphian and raised a forefinger to his lips, indicating he and his companions should demonstrate a little more consideration for fellow patrons. Nathan mimicked the floor manager, raising his own forefinger to his lips and making an exaggerated shhh sound. This prompted more laughter from his companions and drew more glares from their fellow patrons.
What no-one knew outside Nathan’s little group of confidants was that the young man was determined to make up for his lost years with the Makah. Since his dramatic escape from Oregon Country, he’d indulged himself in almost every excess known to man. The past six months had been a blur of parties, gambling and women, and he had no intention of slowing down. Not yet anyway.
After evading Tatoosh and his braves at Whale Bay, and scrambling aboard the schooner that had fortuitously anchored there, Nathan had endured a six-month voyage before arriving back on America’s east coast. Endured because he’d just wanted to get home. Unfortunately, to do that, he had to work his passage aboard Spirit of the Sea as she worked her way down the west coast of North and South America, and then up the east coast.
On his return to Philadelphia, incredulous friends and family couldn’t believe their eyes. Nathan had long been given up for dead along with his other crewmates on the doomed Intrepid. He became something of an overnight celebrity when the local newspaper ran a front page article that chronicled his miraculous return. After that, there was no shortage of friends wanting to buy him a drink and hear about his adventures first hand.
Adjusting to civilization hadn’t come easy. Even to this day, his mind and body remained i
n Makah mode. This manifested itself in a number of ways – not the least being he sometimes lapsed into Makah when conversing. He also shunned sleeping in a conventional bed, preferring the floor; when asleep in the arms of his latest bit of skirt, he often alarmed them by uttering Makah chants and war cries; when dining he preferred raw fish to meat; and he’d often disappear for days on end, hiking through the countryside as he’d done in Oregon Country.
Gradually, as the months went by and he adjusted back to city life, he’d cultivated some bad habits – like whoring and partying to excess – to make up for the lost years.
When the New York Times heard about Nathan, its editor offered a handsome payment for the full story on his time with the Makah. The story was serialized over four editions and occupied the center spread of each edition. The first installment was published under the heading: Young Philadelphian returns from the dead after being enslaved by Northwest savages. By the time the fourth installment ran, Nathan was a celebrity up and down the entire eastern seaboard.
As a result, he was a popular guest at balls and dinner parties throughout Pennsylvania and even further afield. The press loved him, too, and his handsome image was often seen in newspapers – usually with a pretty woman at his side.
Nathan’s good fortune didn’t end there, however. Even before the New York Times story ran, a mysterious benefactor had started anonymously depositing funds into his bank account. The funds were substantial and financed the high life he’d been leading. Furthermore, the deposits had continued, like clockwork, on the first of each month.
The ringing of a bell signaled the interval was over. Nathan’s group joined the other patrons in filing back to resume their seats for the second act.