by Ron Carter
Shortly after 9:30 p.m., while the Richard was slowly sinking with five feet of water in her hold, a crewman from the Richard threw a hand grenade from the rigging, which dropped through an open hatch into the second deck of the Serapis, igniting barrels of gunpowder in quick succession and blowing out the entire second deck. Captain Pearson feared that his ship was sinking, and on Jones’s demand he struck his colors and surrendered. Jones’s men worked to save the Richard, but after one day and a night, it was obvious she would not last. So Jones transferred the wounded and the desired munitions and supplies to the Serapis, jury-rigged the captured ship’s battered mast, and made other emergency repairs. During the morning of September 25, 1779, to Jones’s regret the Richard finally sank, and he sailed the Serapis, with prisoners, to a Dutch port and thence to the United States. (See Knox, A History of the United States Navy, pp. 32–36; Jobé, ed., The Great Age of Sail, p. 151.)
October1779
Chapter XXIX
* * *
Matthew dropped the shovel into the wagon bed, wiped the sweat from his face, and took his coat from the wagon seat. He buttoned it while he walked back to the fresh mound of dark earth, and he stopped and stood quietly in the silence and looked about the valley, peaceful in the warm autumn sun.
October frosts had nipped the oak and maple trees, and the gently rolling hills were ablaze with red and orange. The grasses of summer had come to full head and were yellow and nodding heavy. To the east, Marsden Creek was lined with willows and brown summer-cured cattails where it worked its way through the low ground and disappeared at the south end of the valley. Shaggy squirrels darted to snatch up seeds and nuts and crowd them into their cheeks before they stopped for a second to inspect with beady eyes the intruder, then made their run to store their winter supply in a tree hollow. A mother raccoon led two little ones with rings on their tails to the creek and watched patiently while they washed their faces and paws and then settled down to wait patiently for a fish to venture too close. Four hundred yards to the north, a doe and yearling fawn raised their dripping muzzles from the creek, long ears pointed, twitching while they studied Matthew, and then they lowered their muzzles once more.
Matthew looked at the small marble headstone with the inscription. “THOMAS SIEVERS. DIED SEPTEMBER 24, 1779. BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, FRIEND, PATRIOT.”
He went to one knee beside the fresh-turned mound and placed one hand on it.
“It’s the best I could do, Tom. From what Father said, the church was over there, and your home should have been about here. I hope we’re close to where Elizabeth and Jacob are sleeping.”
He crumbled moist clods between his fingers.
“Mother and Billy wanted to come, but somehow I thought you and I should do this together, just the two of us. They said their good-byes yesterday before I left. I hope you don’t mind.”
He brushed dirt crumbs from his hands.
“I told Mother what you said about Father, and it did her good. She said sometimes he’s so close she feels like she can reach out and touch him.”
He looked about for a moment. “Your little valley is beautiful. You’ll like it here.”
He stood and rubbed the palms of his hands against his trouser legs. “Wish I could see you with Jacob. That must be something, after twenty-five years. Really something.”
He felt the warm sun on his face and shoulders, and drew and released a great breath. “I have to go now. I’ll be back soon, and I’ll bring Mother and the family, and Billy.”
A strange feeling rose in his breast, and for a moment he knew Tom was there, close, and he smiled down at the mound. “I know, Tom. I’d stay if I could. You wait, and we’ll be back soon.”
The moon was full overhead when Matthew unhitched the mare at the Boston livery and emptied a gallon of oats and two forks of hay into her feed manger, and pushed the wagon against the back wall of the shed. It was ten minutes before one o’clock a.m. when he opened the front door and walked softly into the twilight of the parlor.
Margaret started and rose from the rocking chair. “Are you all right?”
Matthew nodded. “Good.”
“Hungry?”
Matthew shrugged, and Margaret opened the oven and set a plate of hot roast beef and potatoes and gravy before him.
“Tell me about it.”
For twenty minutes Matthew ate and spoke slowly, quietly, and a deep sense of peace and rightness settled in the room.
When he finished, Margaret wiped her eyes. “I’m so glad,” she said. She sighed and stood. “Well, tomorrow’s the Sabbath. It’s late. We better get to bed.” They knelt together for their evening prayers, and then walked through the archway to their bedrooms.
In the glow of the single lamp on his nightstand, Matthew lifted his wallet from his coat and laid it on his pillow and opened it. A moment later the small watch fob lay on the white pillowcase, delicate and beautiful. He touched it gently, and his thoughts came: Three years. Where is she? her family? Are they safe? warm?
He carefully rewrapped it and pushed the wallet back into his coat and turned out the lamp as he slipped into his bed.
Dawn found Margaret humming while she stirred the banked coals in the fireplace and added wood shavings, then kindling, and transferred fire to the oven in the kitchen. Matthew got squash from the root cellar while Brigitte sliced fresh apples for dumplings, and Margaret worked cloves into the pork roast.
The family stood for Matthew’s inspection before they walked out into the street, and none of them could remember a more beautiful, exhilarating October day, air still in the warm sunshine, leaves so many colors they nearly hurt their eyes. Greetings were called and chatter abounded. Silas led them in song and sermon, then prayer, and the congregation emerged again into the bright sunlight to gather in small groups, feeling the touch of magic in the crisp air, needing release, to talk and laugh, reluctant to leave.
Billy and Dorothy stood with Matthew and Margaret and Brigitte, while Adam and Prissy sought their own to tease and run on the thick grass.
It was Matthew who saw Silas approach with an envelope in hand, and he saw the concern in Silas’s eyes and sobered.
“Matthew, could I see you for a moment?”
Matthew looked at Margaret, then Billy, then back at Silas. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t wish to alarm you, but could I see you?”
“Of course.”
He followed Silas back into the vacant chapel, where the sun streamed through the stained-glass windows to transform the sparse room into a kaleidoscope of color.
Silas led him to one corner and spoke quietly. “I’m deeply concerned about Kathleen.”
Matthew started, instantly tense, focused. “Kathleen? What’s happened?”
“I received a letter from her the last week in September. It was written ten months ago, in January. I have no idea why it was so long getting here.”
Matthew took control of his racing thoughts, fears. “What was in the letter?”
Silas looked toward the door, then reached inside his robe. “Read it. Maybe you’ll understand.”
Matthew opened the frayed envelope and silently read the letter, and his shoulders slumped for a moment. “This is the last you heard from her?”
“Yes. Now do you see my concern?”
“She said she would be here in eight months. That was ten months ago. Is that it?”
“Yes. You know about ships and the ocean. What could be wrong?”
“Too many things. Storms, shipwreck, white slavers, high-seas pirates, a lying captain—too many things. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“You’ve been home only a few days, and she wanted no one to know. What can be done?”
Matthew skimmed the letter once more. “Captain Jacob Schaumann, of the Van Otten. I’ll go to the docks and find out all I can about the ship and the captain, and everything available about the weather in the North Atlantic for the past two months. October is bad for storms.”
“Will you do it?”
“I’ll need this letter.”
“Take it.”
Matthew refolded the letter and jammed it into his inside coat pocket and started for the door, when Silas grasped his arm.
“Don’t make this generally known.”
“I’ll have to tell Mother, and probably Billy. He can help.”
“Do what you have to do. If that poor child is gone . . .” Silas’s eyes were pleading.
Matthew said nothing as he walked out the door, directly to the waiting families. “We have a little emergency. Billy, can you come with me now? Maybe for the rest of the day?”
Billy’s eyes widened at the rare request. “Of course.”
“Mother, will you take the family home and finish the day without me? I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
Margaret’s face paled. “What’s happened? Trouble?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”
He turned to Dorothy. “I’m sorry to take Billy. I’ll explain later.”
Dorothy shrugged. “Any danger?”
“No. We’ll be at the docks.”
The two left the churchyard, and Matthew handed the letter to Billy, who read it as they hurried northeast onto Franklin, then east to India Street and down to the east docks of the Boston Peninsula.
“She’s two months late?” Billy asked.
“Yes. I’ve got to know why. Come with me and listen.”
Matthew trotted south on the docks to the first ship tied up unloading, strode up the gangplank, and faced the officer of the deck, Billy at his shoulder.
“Sir, I am Matthew Dunson. I’m a navigator. I’ve just received news of an overdue ship from either Holland or London. Have you come in from the North Atlantic?”
“Yes.”
“What was your port of origin?”
“Cherbourg.”
“What was the weather?”
“Bad. Delayed four weeks.”
“Hear of any ships lost?”
“Three.”
“Any of Dutch registry?”
“One.”
“What name?”
“The Amsterdam. Went down with all hands one hundred twenty miles northwest of La Coruña. Hurricane. We turned back, but she didn’t. Have you lost someone?” The narrowed eyes softened.
“Maybe. Heard anything of a Dutch ship called the Van Otten?”
The man pondered for a moment. “Heard of her, but nothing this trip.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man watched as Matthew led Billy back to the heavy oak planking of the docks and stopped.
“If we separate, we can cover twice as many ships. This is Sunday and not every ship is going to have the gangplank down and someone on deck, but some of them will. The Dutch flag is three bars, red on top, white, blue on the bottom. Watch for that flag especially. If the office of a shipping company is open, go on in. Can you handle it?”
“Yes.”
“You work south, I’ll go north. One more thing. Don’t get caught on these docks after dark. Too many crews from foreign ports will cut your throat for the coins in your pockets and hide your body under the docks. Meet me back here at six o’clock.”
The docks ran for four miles, from the Colony Depot on the east side of the peninsula to Fruit Street on the west, with ships moored on one side of the street, and on the other, weathered warehouses of brick or frame and office buildings with names of national and international shipping companies printed in square letters across the windows or on signs above. The two men patiently walked the gangplanks of the ships that were loading or unloading, and entered the doors of shipping companies when lights showed inside, patiently inquiring. The day wore on and the sun dipped to the west and set, and they each retraced their steps to meet back at India Street.
“Anything?” Matthew asked, and Billy shook his head.
“Can you help tomorrow?”
Billy thought for a moment. “Beginning at noon. I’ve got to finish balancing accounts and a profit or loss statement for Bingham Foundry—one of our biggest clients—and then I think Mr. Becksted will give me the rest of the day off. I’ll go to the accounting office early.”
“Your mother will need to know about all this, but try to not let it go further.”
Billy nodded.
At full dark Matthew walked into the parlor and closed the door. Margaret and Brigitte were waiting. Margaret set a hot supper on the table, and they sat down, the women silent, waiting.
Matthew laid Kathleen’s letter on the table in front of Margaret and began eating.
Margaret read silently, gasped, and put her hand over her mouth. “Phoebe’s gone!” she exclaimed softly. Brigitte started, then settled, and Margaret finished and handed her the letter, and said quietly, “You and Billy went down to the docks to find out about that ship?”
“Yes.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“There was bad weather in the North Atlantic—hurricane—three ships went down. We’ll go back tomorrow. I’ve got to know what happened.”
Dawn came clear and calm, and the Boston docks were alive with tall ships moving in and out and with dockworkers dressed in woolen sweaters going to and coming from the vessels being loaded or unloaded. Matthew worked his way through the crowds and patiently continued his search. At one o’clock Billy found him and they separated.
At three-forty p.m. Billy studied a ship newly arrived under a flag he did not recognize, tied to the Aspinwall Wharf, next to the landing of the Winnisimmet Ferry. He walked up the gangplank and stopped before the deck officer.
“Sir, I am Billy Weems. I have need to inquire about a ship that is long overdue. Do you come from Europe?”
“Lisbon. Portugal.” Billy was aware of the strong Spanish- Portuguese accent.
“Do you know anything of the Van Otten? Dutch registry.”
The small, bearded Portuguese officer thought for a moment. “Sailed from London three months ago?”
Billy came to an instant focus. “Yes.”
“Hurricane in the North Sea—she was damaged—put in at Lisbon for repairs. I saw her.”
“Is she still there?”
“No. She sailed the day we sailed.”
“Has she arrived here yet?”
“No. We distanced her. One day or two days behind us.”
“What ship is this?”
“Ferdinand.”
“Thank you!” Billy spun and ran thumping down the gangplank onto the dock and started west, working his way through the stacks of crates and cargo and the milling throng. At four-thirty p.m. he caught up with Matthew, panting, breathless.
“There’s a Portuguese ship—the Ferdinand—at Aspinwall Wharf. They saw the Van Otten.”
With the sun casting long shadows from the masts of the tall ships, Matthew trotted up the gangplank of the Ferdinand, which rose and fell gently with the incoming tide, and faced the deck officer.
“I’m Matthew Dunson, a navigator. Do you have knowledge of the Van Otten?”
The man glanced at Matthew, then studied Billy for a moment before recognition showed. “The Van Otten should be in tomorrow or the next day.”
“Do you know which company her captain trades with?”
The man pursed his mouth for a moment. “DePriest, I think.”
“Thank you.” He spun and Billy followed him trotting, three hundred yards south, stopping before a square, weathered brick building with a peeling sign across the front, “DEPRIEST INT’L. TRADING, LTD.” Inside, a man in black tie and shirtsleeves had just locked the door, and Matthew banged.
Irritated, the man opened the door a foot. “Yes?”
“Are you expecting the Van Otten?”
The man sobered. “Yes. Have you heard something?”
“The deck officer of the Ferdinand says she’ll probably be in within two days.”
“He told us.”
“Do you know Captain Jac
ob Schaumann?”
“We know him.”
“Is he reliable?”
“Been fair with us. What’s your interest in this?”
“Does Schaumann take on passengers?”
“Sometimes. Are you expecting someone?”
“Maybe. Thank you. Very much.”
The man locked the door and disappeared in the office.
Matthew turned to face Billy, excitement rising. “She might be on it. Kathleen might be coming home!” He turned and looked east, out towards the mouth of the harbor to the open sea. “You go on home. I’m going to stay. She could arrive yet today. Tell Mother I’ll be home after dark.”
“Want me to wait with you?”
“I’ve taken you too much the past two days. You go on.”
It was past ten o’clock when Matthew pushed through the door into the parlor, and minutes later Margaret set a bowl of steaming beef broth before him while they talked.
At five-thirty a.m. Matthew was back on the docks, his telescope in his coat pocket, peering intently eastward into the gray dawn, watching the mist rise from the sea. The rising sun came in calm, clear skies, and the mists stopped, and Matthew stood with his telescope extended, moving constantly back and forth for any speck that might appear on the horizon. He paid no heed to the incessant sounds and sights and smells of merchantmen unloading tea and silk and spices from the East, or porcelain and wool from Europe.
Three times before noon he stiffened and tracked a fleck on the horizon until it became sails and then a ship and then a schooner or a frigate from New York or the West Indies. He was unaware when the sun reached its zenith and began to set towards the western horizon, nor did he care that he had not eaten. In his heart and mind was but one thought. She might be coming—she might be coming . . . It repeated like an unending chant, and he could hear nothing else.
At two-thirty p.m. Billy walked up beside him, and Matthew looked at him and then resumed scanning the horizon with his telescope. At three p.m. Matthew turned to Billy. “No need to stay.”