Linda Collison's Blog, page 11

Water Ghosts — the movie?

There are many ways to tell a story. Ever since I stood on board Intrepid Dragon II in Honolulu’s Ala Wai Small Boat Harbor I’ve envisioned Water Ghosts, the movie. I wrote the novel but the idea of a feature film still haunts me. I can hear the dialogue, the music, the scary voices of the ghosts in my head. I can see their dead faces peering up at me from beneath the water. I can envision the colorful splendor of Imperial Ming Court of early 15th century China.

After actor Aaron Landon gave voice to the characters in his terrific narration of Water Ghosts on the audio book, I was convinced; I had to try to get the movie made.

One person can write a novel but it takes a team to produce a film. Even though Water Ghosts has not been optioned by any major studios I decided to look into what it would take to make a movie. With all the independent films being produced these days, maybe I have a chance.

I have a little experience writing scripts but Water Ghosts is a big project. I wanted help so I went to Hollywood and attended a weekend book-to-screen workshop to learn the basics and to connect with some people in the business. I pitched my novel, got some valuable feedback — as well as connected with a producer and a young screenwriter interested in the project.

When books are adapted to the screen the story changes, often significantly.  To be commercially viable feature movies must fit into a genre. The novel Water Ghosts is marketed as YA — young adult — but the producer I’m working with steered me away from making a YA movie. Most successful “teen films” are franchised (Twilight, Hunger Games). I also learned that to develop Water Ghosts as a family movie meant that I couldn’t mention, much less show, castration — which is a major theme for Yu, the Ming Court eunuch. So family film was out. I might have gone with straight drama/adventure but decided to focus on the horror aspects of the story.

Chinese mythology and folklore is fairly dripping with horror. Ghosts, gods, and demons vie for power and use humans like pawns in their eternal struggles much the same way as the Greek pantheon plays us.  Fear — terror — horror — all play a big role in the novel, so why not make a horror film?  Horror movies are popular, inexpensively made, and a lot of independents want to make them.  With a professionally written script based on a successful novel, I have a chance of attracting a producer and finding a studio dying to make Water Ghosts. At least, that’s the dream.

Intrepid Dragon II, the junk that inspired the novel, has been used as a movie and television set in the past.  Who knows? Maybe she’ll be cast as the Good Fortune? Fingers crossed…

Water Ghosts, the novel, is available for download from Smashwords and Amazon.com. The audiobook, narrated by actor Aaron Landon, is available from Audible. The trade paperback edition can be ordered from Amazon or from your favorite independent brick-and-mortar bookstore.

A horror film? What do you think?  As always, I appreciate helpful comments and shares on social media.

 

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The power of Setting in fiction

I’m reading Birds Without Wings, by Louis de Bernieres — a novel I chose partly because I enjoyed Corelli’s Mandolin and partly because the particular setting is one I know so little about. Birds Without Wings is the story of a small coastal town in South West Anatolia in the dying days of the Ottoman Empire. I was lured by the setting – an element important to me as both a reader and a writer – and I bought the book on the promise of setting and my confidence in the author’s proven ability to transport me.

Is it because I like to travel that I’m drawn to novels that give me a vivid sense of place and time?

As fiction writers we hear a lot of advice about the importance of plot, conflict, and character development.  Stories happen to people (or other sentient life forms). What happens is plot. Characters and plot make a story but stories don’t take place in a void, they grow out of a particular place at a particular time in history. This time and place is the story’s setting.  Setting is more than a backdrop on a stage — it’s the medium, the stew, the garden in which the story is born and takes shape. Setting directly affects plot and character development.

There are different techniques writers employ to portray setting. One way is to write an establishing shot for the beginning and subsequent scenes, shooting with a wide angle lens, so to speak. The establishing shot is a sentence or paragraph that reveals the environment and places the reader in the scene – before focusing the lens on the protagonist and his actions or on the thoughts inside the character’s head.

Hemingway use of the establishing shot is evident in the short story “Hills Like White Elephants.” Here are the opening three sentences: The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies.

In these three sentences (each one a little longer and more complex than the one before it) the author sets us in the scene. Even if we don’t know where the Ebro River is at first, we know it is a dry and barren place through which a river and railroad tracks run – a place so hot even the shade cast by the building is warm. The curtain made from strings of bamboo beads is a tangible object that forms a bridge from something we know or have seen before to this particular setting. By the end of the paragraph (three more sentences) we know the story takes place at a remote train station in Spain between Barcelona and Madrid and it involves an American man and a “girl.” After this establishing shot of six sentences Hemingway slips into his effective style of terse dialogue and short, simple, powerful sentences to develop the characters and reveal the inherent story.  (Tim Tomlinson of the New York Writers Workshop talks about Hemingway technique on pg. 57 of The Portable MFA in Creative Writing. The story “Hills Like White Elephants” is available online in pdf format and is free to download.)

Neal Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane beings with the protagonist driving down a long, narrow, winding, bumpy road. As we ride along with him we feel we’re driving back in time and we’re not entirely sure it’s a good place we’re headed.

Developing a rich setting – is it accomplished through experience and imagination – or is it through the mechanics of craft? Both, I’ve discovered. The immersive technique of writing helps bring the setting into focus. Writers who have lived or can deeply imagine their settings and can bring to life details otherwise unseen by a writer who crafts by technique alone.  Details and nuances of setting can be uncovered or added on during a second or third draft. Don’t go overboard – less is more – according to twenty-first century tastes.  By choosing just the right details and the right words to convey the atmosphere – the physical, emotional, political, and the cultural environment – you immerse the reader in setting without bogging her down.

Deconstruct your favorite stories for setting, to see how its done. Browse novels in the library, at the bookstore, or online (Amazon’s “look inside” feature) to find techniques that resonate with you.

H.P. Lovecraft’s The Shunned House is all about setting – can a setting be the protagonist?

Joseph Conrad’s settings – often hot, tropical, shipboard, Victorian – are rich in mood, atmosphere, and moral conflict.

She floated at the starting point of a long journey, very still in an immense stillness, the shadows of her spars flung far to the eastward by the setting sun. At that moment I was alone on her decks. There was not a sound in her –and around us nothing moved, nothing lived, not a canoe on the water, not a bird in the air, not a cloud in the sky. In this breathless pause at the threshold of a long passage we seemed to be measuring our fitness for a long and arduous enterprise the appointed task of both of our existences to be carried out, far from human eyes, with only sky and sea for spectators and for judges.

In this, the second paragraph of the novella The Secret Sharer, the author not only puts us on a sailing vessel in deathly quiet waters on the eve of a long voyage, he also evokes a supernatural atmosphere in his introspective tone and hints at a struggle of some sort, as well as a mystery.

Details of setting can mirror the mood or it can be in opposition to it. For example Shirley Jackson’s short story The Lottery begins on a beautiful blue sky day when nothing bad could possibly happen:

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green.

 There is inherent tension here because the reader knows something is going to happen, but what? And to whom?

Another way to reveal the setting is piece by piece, weaving minute but important details into each paragraph – details that create atmosphere and remind us where we are. Neil Gaiman does this particularly well in his literary coming-of-age fantasy — except he wants to make us wonder when we are — have we traveled back in time, or forward in time? The place is familiar but is it now or is it then?

Part of the trick of portraying an exotic place or an historical time is not just showing what is unique about that setting but connecting us to sensations that are familiar to a modern reader; details or descriptions that form a bridge between what we’re familiar with and what we’ve never experienced first-hand.

Setting is often thought of as adjectives, phrases and entire sentences devoted to description, yet too much detail bogs the reader down the way a forest of kelp clings to a swimmer’s limbs.  Instead of objects or description of weather, clothing, or architecture, think focus. What’s important to the story in the particular paragraph, the particular sentence you are writing? What do you want your reader to see or hear that grounds them in the setting – the place and time where this particular story was born? Don’t describe everything the character sees in the room, choose one or two details and work them into the action or dialogue.

Within the structure of a declarative sentence whole worlds can be evoked. Nouns and verbs can help express setting, even in an action sentence stripped of adjectives, adverbs and modifying phrases. This is setting at its most elemental. The mere action of moving a character from one place to another can evoke different settings. Nouns, verbs and direct objects are freighted with meaning so that even a six word sentence gives a hint of time and place. Here’s a simple exercise: Using only a noun, verb, and prepositional phrase or direct object, try to reveal a different setting.

The couple strolled through the park

 

The carriage clattered across the cobblestones

The teenagers raced down the highway

Having chosen the best nouns and verbs for the job you can now flesh out some sentences with descriptive clauses to enrich the story’s environment. A character’s thoughts, personal values, cultural mores and prejudices can also indicate setting. Don’t forget dialogue but avoid overusing dialect and slang; it can be distracting, confusing, or even annoying. Instead, examine speech patterns, rhythms and vocabulary to suggest time and place.

 

Most of my own fiction is inspired by setting. In writing Water Ghosts I wanted to explore a setting within a setting, within a larger setting. That is, a boat carrying ghosts from the past as well as living souls, adrift on a vast unfathomable ocean.  The story had its beginnings in my imagination aboard a real vessel — the Intrepid Dragon II — moored at the Ala Wai Small Boat Harbor on Oahu where Bob and I kept our own sailboat for many years. My experiences at sea further fueled the setting as well as the plot. Yet it took numerous drafts to portray the setting in a powerful way – as powerful as the ocean itself. Or at least that was my intention.

On the advice of a writer whose opinion I value, I added an establishing shot at the beginning of the first chapter, showing the boat Good Fortune at the crumbling docks of the Marianas Marina in Honolulu.  Since most of the story takes place aboard this floating stage it was important to show the reader the boat from the protagonist’s perspective on the first page.  In an earlier draft I had this information but it was further along in the chapter. Moving it to the beginning felt right and I thanked the writer (Rick Spilman, Old Salt Press ) for this suggestion.  Here then, is the establishing shot.

Chapter 1

The doomed ship is set to sail at ten A.M. and I am to be aboard. The taxi has dropped us off at the marina – my mother, her boyfriend and me. They’re here to see me off.

From the parking lot I can see it. Good Fortune is unmistakable because it’s bigger than the other boats and because it’s old and foreign-looking. Three masts rise up like pikes from the rectangular deck. A tattered pennant hangs limply from the smallest one. Faded yellow silk.

I don’t want to go but Mother is making me. Walking toward it, carrying my sea bag, I already feel like I’m drowning. Dragging my feet along the rickety wooden pier, past neglected powerboats and sailboats covered with blue plastic tarps, I’m trying to resign myself to my fate. I’m trying to do what Dad used to tell me to do when I was afraid. Think of something funny! But nothing funny comes to mind.

Looking around at this run-down dockyard in an industrial park near the Honolulu International Airport I’m thinking it’s wrong, it’s all wrong. Hawaii is not paradise – at least, not for me. A jet takes off, flying low overhead, drowning us out momentarily with its thunderous roar. Mother covers her ears with her hands and squeezes her eyes shut until it passes. The boyfriend glances at his big gold watch and grins.

“Nine-forty,” he says. “You’ll be boarding soon.”

I wrote the first draft of Water Ghosts under the working title “Blue Milieu,” which gives you some idea of how important the setting was to me. More than background, setting surrounds us and is organic to each story we write. Setting influences plot and character development and provides a portal to the imagined past and future.

Bon voyage…

Water Ghosts, as narrated by Aaron Landon

James McCafferty, a 15-year-old troubled by the visions and voices in his head, is a unwilling passenger aboard a Chinese junk — an adventure-therapy sailing program for teens with behavior problems. Once at sea James’s premonitions of doom begin to take shape in the form of long-dead ghosts who populate the hold of the ship. One in particular, the spirit of Yu, a young courtier from the Ming Dynasty, makes himself known to James and seemingly tries to befriend him. Then one by one the adults on board go missing and the teens are left alone to fend for themselves — and struggle for their very lives.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Water Ghosts — Read First Chapter here

 

Water Ghosts

Copyright © Linda Collison 2015

Published by Old Salt Press, LLC

ISBN: 9781943404001

LCCN: 2015941395

 

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Certain characters and their actions may have been inspired by historical individuals and events. The characters in the novel, however, represent the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

——

 

Under heaven nothing is more soft and yielding than water.

Tao Te Ching

——-

 

Water Ghosts

A novel

by Linda Collison

Chapter One

 

The doomed ship is set to sail at ten A.M. and I am to be aboard. The taxi has dropped us off at the marina – my mother, her boyfriend and me. They’re here to see me off.

From the parking lot I can see it. Good Fortune is unmistakable because it’s bigger than the other boats and because it’s old and foreign-looking. Three masts rise up like pikes from the rectangular deck. A tattered pennant hangs limply from the smallest one. Faded yellow silk.

I don’t want to go but Mother is making me. Walking toward it, carrying my sea bag, I already feel like I’m drowning. Dragging my feet along the rickety wooden pier, past neglected powerboats and sailboats covered with blue plastic tarps, I’m trying to resign myself to my fate. I’m trying to do what Dad used to tell me to do when I was afraid. Think of something funny! But nothing funny comes to mind.

Looking around at this run-down dockyard in an industrial park near the Honolulu International Airport I’m thinking it’s wrong, it’s all wrong. Hawaii is not paradise – at least, not for me. A jet takes off, flying low overhead, drowning us out momentarily with its thunderous roar. Mother covers her ears with her hands and squeezes her eyes shut until it passes. The boyfriend glances at his big gold watch and grins.

“Nine-forty,” he says. “You’ll be boarding soon.”

“Oh, James! It looks like an old pirate ship, doesn’t it?” Mother’s perky voice edges toward hysteria. “A Chinese pirate ship, how cool is that! You are going to have the time of your life. I wish I was going!” She continues to talk but I can’t hear her anymore. Her words are bursts of color, blinding me. I look away.

I see things other people don’t see.

The old wooden ship lists in its slip. Doesn’t look anything like the picture on the website. Up close the Good Fortune doesn’t look fortunate at all. It looks bedraggled and unseaworthy; it looks like it’s about to sink right here at the dock. I think of a lame cormorant, riding low in the water, awaiting its fate.

Cormorants are different from most other water birds. Cormorants will drown if they don’t dry their feathers. That’s why you see them on a pier or on shore with their dark, dripping wings spread out in the sun and the wind. But they’re the bravest of birds because they are not really at home in the water; they’re not as buoyant as ducks and geese. They’re marginal creatures, living on the edge. They have to work harder to get by.

My father taught me about cormorants. He was a wildlife journalist, specializing in birds. Dad always said he was going to take me on a photo shoot to follow the sandhill crane migration. It was going to be a man-expedition, he promised, an epic father-son trip from Canada to Mexico. We never went.

On the front side of the boat a painted, peeling eye stares at me. A dead man’s stare. An eye that never closes. Is there a matching eye on the other side?  I don’t want to look, I don’t want to know.

“What a piece of junk,” I say. “No wonder they call them junks. “Can’t you see it’s a scam? How much did you pay for this, anyway?”

“Don’t be ungrateful, James,” Mother shoots back. “You’re so unappreciative. This is Hawaii. You’re starting your summer adventure in Hawaii. How many kids your age get to do that? You are so lucky!” Orange light leaps out from her head, a solar flare. The intense light triggers the song.

With a yo-heave-ho and a fare-you-well

     And a sullen plunge in the sullen swell

     Ten fathoms deep on the road to hell

I hear things other people don’t hear.

The dead men sing as they march through my head, the men from the dream. And now the dream is bringing itself to life in the form of this summer adventure program. Somebody’s sick idea of “helping” kids with behavior problems, a sort of boot camp for misfits. Mother found this program on the Internet. Or maybe the program found her, summoned her somehow. She doesn’t know she’s being influenced by people she has never met, some of them dead.

“What’s the matter, James?” Her concern is real, I feel it, little ripples of warmth. But she doesn’t get it. At all. Right now we’re standing side-by-side but we’re worlds apart. Like birds and humans, we merely coexist.

I’d like to tell her what the matter is – but what exactly am I going to say? Mother, the dead men are singing, it’s a bad sign. The boat is a doomed cormorant that can’t dry its wings. That’s the kind of talk that gets me into trouble. She hates it when I repeat what they say; she’s afraid I’m psychotic or something.

“James?” Gone is the false cheerfulness. Now her aura crackles and spits. A Fourth of July sparkler penetrating my skin with hot little darts.

Mother’s face is splotched red from the Honolulu heat. Her once pretty face, now unnaturally fragile, a face stretched too thin, too tight. A face that’s known too many Botox injections, too many interventions, a face carefully composed yet beginning to crumble. Yet even now I can see the blue light of her love for me shining through the veil of disappointment. Disappointment and shame.

I look normal enough on the outside (at least, I think I do) but inside me there’s this, like, hole – a cavity – that I’m constantly trying to avoid. Sometimes I hear my dead father’s voice calling me. James!  But his voice doesn’t come from the hole inside, it comes from behind me, and when I hear it my heart flutters. It’s not really him, it’s the echoes of his words bouncing around the universe, never at rest. Then comes the weight of his hand on my left shoulder and the sound of him breathing hard, like he’s been running to catch up. Sometimes when I close my eyes I see his face against the backs of my eyes, like a poor quality video. His lips are moving but I can’t make out what he’s trying to tell me.

Mother’s boyfriend interrupts my thoughts; his voice is a Doberman’s whine.

“He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, won’t you, kid? Come on, now. Man up!” He reaches out to grip my shoulder but I step back to avoid it, nearly falling off the dock. I’ve hated all my mother’s boyfriends. I know what it is they want and it sickens me.

She smiles, her lips tight. “It’s just – now that we’re here – he seems so young. Compared to the others.”

And now I see them – three guys sitting on the dock at the end of the pier. They’re leaning against new Urban Outfitter gear bags, all sprawled out with their long legs and arms, their hair spiked up with gel. They are cut from the same mold, they could be brothers, they could be triplets.

They’re going aboard with me, I realize. We’re all in the same boat; we’re all going down together. These guys don’t seem to know it, or care. They’re all holding cell phones, making last minute texts to their friends back home, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. I didn’t bring any cigarettes, I don’t smoke. But I did bring my lighter, I carry it everywhere because you never know. I brought my cell phone too, but it’s already dead and there’s no way to charge it on the boat – that’s what it said on the website. I don’t know why I even brought it, except the weight of it, deep in the pocket of my shorts, feels solid. Comforting.

My shipmates have man-legs, I envy them that. . Coarse hair covers their muscular calves like sea grass. Billabong shorts hang low on their hips, they look like some kind of California surf gang. Their feet are all huge in their ragged Converse All-Stars: black, brown, red. These three are the shit and they know it. These fuckers will taunt me, they will make my life miserable; of this I’m sure.

“He’ll be fine. He just hasn’t got his growth spurt yet. Your boy’s old enough, hell, he’s fifteen. Aren’t you, Jim? You’ll be fine.” The Jerk-du-Jour looks at his watch again. His face is shiny, his Tommy Bahama aloha shirt is all creased and damp, and his gut presses against it like he’s pregnant. “It’s not like he’s going off to war. This is just a cruise, a floating summer camp. They used to send kids like him to military school. Kids these days have all gone soft. Now they get to go sailing the South Pacific. Pretty sweet deal, if you ask me, right Jim?” He has the nerve to wink at me, like we’re buds. Like we share a secret. I hate that he calls me Jim.

The truth is I’m here because my mother wants to be rid of me. She can’t deal with what I am, with what I’m becoming. She needs me gone. Not like dead gone, just out of sight, out of mind for the summer. So she and the jackass boyfriend can – ugh – I can’t let myself think about what it is they want to do with each other when I’m not around.

Last summer it was a different boyfriend (I forget his name, I forget all of their names) and the Teens for Christ Summer Camp for me. There I endured six weeks of forced socialization, thrown in with people I had nothing in common with. Of course I was immediately rejected from their group, expelled into the void of oblivion where I remained in orbit around Planet Jesus like a piece of space junk – potentially dangerous but mostly forgotten, a reflected light passing overhead. What were the odds of my re-entry? The resident life forms ignored me. .

But this summer is going to be worse. Much worse.

*

“All hands!” a man bellows through a bullhorn. “Ten minutes ‘til cast-off!”

Was that the captain? His voice reverberates through my bones like the crash of a gong and I nearly piss my pants with fear. This is it. This is where I board the boat, never to be heard from again. Mother bends her head for a kiss. I feel her warm lips brush my left ear as I turn my head away. She touches my shoulder, like she’s afraid of me.

“I’ll miss you, Jamey, honey. Love you!”

I want her to hug me, to be enfolded in those fake-tanned arms. “You don’t have to miss me, Mother. You could take me home.”

She stiffens and a wave of white light shoots from her head, a scorching flame, a solar flare. She is thinking, You ungrateful brat!  She’s also singed with guilt. I can smell her guilt like a slice of bread stuck in the toaster, smoke filling the kitchen.

“It’s not every kid who gets to go sailing on a real Chinese junk for the summer,” says the boyfriend, backing her up. Wanting me out of the way. Like he’s the one who paid for it. Maybe he was, for all I know. I don’t think we have that kind of money.

The energy pulsates from her body, so intense I’m afraid she’ll spontaneously combust. Her lips move but the words are drowned out by the dead men from the black hole inside me, chanting that stupid poem again.

     ‘Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead

     Or a yawning hole in a battered head

     And the scuppers glut with a rotting red

     Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum…

END of CHAPTER ONE…

Available in trade paperback, electronic and Audible editions wherever good books are sold

 

 

Beyond Research: Creating Verisimilitude in Historical Fiction

Here are a few of the slides from my power point outline, Beyond Research, shared at the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writer’s spring Genre Con, May 14, at Table Mountain Inn in Golden, Colorado. The keynote and morning session was given by Kristin Nelson and Angie Hodapp of Nelson Literary Agency. The afternoon was devoted to craft in genre breakout sessions.

Rebecca Bates — Mystery  Linda Collison — Historical Fiction  Nathan Lowell — SciFi/Fantasy

Bernadette Marie — Romance   Aaron Michael Ritchey — YA

The works-in-progress of the writers in my group is indicative of the wide spectrum of historical novels being written and published today. Our stories include historical mystery, historical fantasy, historical paranormal, historical adventure, literary historical, family sagas, fictional memoir, and contemporary novels with strong historical elements.  Interest in historical fiction has never been stronger.

The importance of setting is something all historical fiction has in common — and it’s generally agreed that these stories takes place before the author was born, usually set 50 years or more in the past. Setting isn’t arbitrary; a story happens in a particular place and time for a reason. Setting affects character, plot, mood, and tone. 

But how do we go beyond gathering events, dates, and second-hand details to make our setting feel real? How can we bring first-hand authenticity to the page?

While there are effective techniques a writer can use to enhance setting, credibility can’t really be crafted. The old “write what you know best” is what leads to convincing settings.

To tap into our own individual wells of verisimilitude we discussed our personal connections to our stories.  I asked the group to consider:

What drew you to write about your particular time & place? How did you fall in love with your setting? What problems does your character face that are inherent to the setting?

What areas of expertise do you have; what skills, hobbies, and life experiences can you take back to the past with you to enrich your story and add meaningful and credible detail?

For me, it was my sailing experiences and my nursing experiences. Another woman has a biomedical background, having worked for the Federal Drug Administration. She takes her 21st century knowledge in writing about medieval herbalists and apothecaries. Several writers had a deep interest in genealogy and were writing novels based on the immigration stories of their own ancestors. These personal connections and experiences give our stories conviction and authority and direct our focus. We bring our own past and passions to the page.

Discovering your personal connection to the story and using it with authority gives your work verisimilitude.  It’s also part of your author platform. Be sure to mention it in your bio; use it to engage your readers.

 

 

 

 

 

Water Ghosts a Foreword Reviews Book of the Year Finalist

Foreword Reviews Finalist — Water Ghosts

Today, Old Salt Press is pleased to announce Water Ghosts has been recognized as a finalist in the 18th annual Foreword Reviews’ INDIEFAB Book of the Year Awards, in the Young Adult category. Here is the complete list:

https://indiefab.forewordreviews.com/finalists/2015/

Each year, Foreword Reviews shines a light on a select group of indie publishers, university presses, and self-published authors whose work stands out from the crowd. In the next three months, a panel of more than 100 volunteer librarians and booksellers will determine the winners in 63 categories based on their experience with readers and patrons.

“The 2015 INDIEFAB finalist selection process is as inspiring as it is rigorous,” said Victoria Sutherland, publisher of Foreword Reviews. “The strength of this list of finalists is further proof that small, independent publishers are taking their rightful place as the new driving force of the entire publishing industry.”

Foreword Reviews will celebrate the winners during a program at the American Library Association Annual Conference in Orlando, Florida in June. We will also name the Editor’s Choice Prize 2015 for Fiction, Nonfiction and Foreword Reviews’ 2015 INDIEFAB Publisher of the Year Award during the presentation.

About us: Old Salt Press is an independent press catering to those who love books about ships and the sea.  We are an association of writers working together to produce the very best of nautical and maritime fiction and non-fiction.  We invite you to join us as we go down to the sea in books.

About Foreword: Foreword Magazine, Inc is a media company featuring a Folio:-award-winning quarterly print magazine, Foreword Reviews, and a website devoted to independently published books. In the magazine, they feature reviews of the best 170 new titles from independent publishers, university presses, and noteworthy self-published authors. Their website features daily updates: reviews along with in-depth coverage and analysis of independent publishing from a team of more than 100 reviewers, journalists, and bloggers. The print magazine is available at most Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million newsstands or by subscription. You can also connect with them on Facebook, Twitter, Google+, and Pinterest. They are headquartered in Traverse City, Michigan, USA.

Yankee Moon — Chapter 4

Landfall: Havana

Andromeda slowed to a drift and we dropped anchor into the muddy bottom on the far side of Havana Bay. A Spanish Customs sloop watched us all the way and was already heading toward us with all due speed. A show of our false papers and some silver to line his pocket seemed to satisfy him – at least, for a while. If we lingered too long, he would be back for more, and I had none to spare.

My plan was to get it done quickly and leave for home as soon as possible. First I had to find my contact, a man called Sancho. Right at that moment, it seemed quite impossible. Perhaps Sancho would find us.

We were anchored off Regla, a small fishing village in the back bay, a few miles across the water from the city of Havana – the very same city we had besieged three years before, in the summer of 1762. Our hard-won prize had been handed back to Spain in the peace treaty, six months later. And now the rebuilding of the city – and the fort we had taken. Alejandro O’Reilly, the Irish-born governor of Havana, was overseeing the re-design and enlargement of the fort –it was to be unconquerable, they said. Perhaps. But in the meanwhile adventurers of many nationalities were making profits in trade. The savvy O’Reilly had essentially turned Havana into a free port, for a short time. And now, though the restrictions against trade were once again in effect, nobody seemed to pay them any mind –as long as the customs officials were given their due. British and American ships were bringing building materials and machinery, flour and foodstuffs, and Africans by the thousands. This island would soon have sugar plantations to rival Jamaica.

All around us now, hustle, hustle, goodwill and prosperity. Englishmen fraternizing with habaneros, with French, Dutch and Danes, everyone trying to make a discreet profit before Spain shut the door again. That’s all we were looking for. Not empire, just a return on our investment and labor.

At sunset I changed into a fresh shirt and neck stock, slipped into my waistcoat, donned my wig and hat and launched the ship’s boat, heading to a shabby waterfront pothouse on Regla’s shore. This was where I hoped to meet Sancho; this was where I had met him the last time I was here. Sancho’s counting house, he had said with a grin. Indeed, the establishment had no sign, no name in print. Everyone knew it as Sanchos.

 “Aguardiente?” the matron asked, resting her plump elbows on the plank of polished wood that was the serving bar. The cane liquor they called aguardiente was a vile spirit. A man must be low indeed to let that spirit pass his lips. I thought of the fine Rhode Island rum I had to sell.

“No, gracias. I’m here to see Sancho.”

The senora winced at my bad Spanish. “Of course you are. Señor Sancho, he’s a busy man.” She looked me up and down with shrewd black eyes as if she was inspecting a side of beef for maggots. The mole beneath her left eye quivered ever so slightly. “You are Inglés.” It was an accusation. We had broken El Morro, destroyed their forts, damaged their fine homes, humiliated them. Now that Havana was theirs again they held us in disdain but welcomed the goods we brought and defied their own king’s law to buy them.

“I was born of an Englishman,” I said with a slight sniff of superiority, bred into me. “But I haven’t seen her shores in years. The sea is my proper home.”

She shrugged and allowed me a jaded smile. “It’s all the same to me, señor, where you come from. Havana is a regular barnyard these days. Pigs, goats, chickens, all grubbing together. But all animals must drink. What are you drinking, inglés?”

“I’ll have a pint of ale, señora,” I said, overlooking the insult.   Indeed, it sounded like a farmyard – the brays and squawks of men laughing, talking in a variety of languages, loud with their liquor. Even though Cuba had been returned to Spain and officially closed once again to outsiders, it wasn’t closed at all. Havana was essentially a free port; Havana was prospering and no one wanted to put a stop to that.

The matron brought my ale –warm, flat, and slightly sour. I drank it down, not caring, and ordered a second.

“Relax, inglés. Stay awhile. Nothing happens fast in Regla. Have some supper while you wait for your friend.” It was an order I couldn’t refuse. I took my second pint and found a chair in front of a barrel in the far corner of the room where I waited for whatever fare she was serving up. Fish, I expected, but instead it was goat stewed with peppers and plantains. Only in Havana would this taste good, I realized, lifting the first spoonful to my mouth. What it needs in a bit of Rhode Island johnnycake to soak up the broth – and I had barrels of cornmeal in the hold to sell.

Not wanting to invite company, I pulled out my little pocket book and pretended to look over some accounts. The last thing I wanted to do was converse with someone. I was here to make a trade and the sooner I could do so, the better. With any luck we could exchange goods quickly and be on our way back north in a day or two.

Glancing around the dark room I saw I wasn’t the only one who seemed to be waiting for someone. A den of freebooters, this was, yet I was neither pirate, thief, nor smuggler. A Rhode Islander avoiding unjust taxes is quite a different animal than a common smuggler. Besides, the war was over. We were no longer trading with the enemy, we were trading with neighboring colonies for mutual benefit. Did that make it right? By whose law? By a Parliament we had no voice in; a Parliament who was overstepping their bounds and directly taxing the colonies to raise revenues.

Enough of these thoughts. What do I know? Precious little when it comes to governments and the rights of man. My schooling prepared me to bang at the harpsichord, speak French, dance the quadrille, and embroider a collar –all badly. The only thing I excelled at was riding; I could ride a horse with the best of them. Oh, but why think of those days, they’re gone. And where is Sancho? I want to go back to my boat and sleep. This squalid tavern like so many others I’ve been to – dark as a cellar, the smell of spirits and beer where men go seeking something they don’t have.

My eyes were beginning to blur. I had finished the peppers and plantains, two pints of ale and was making my way through a carafe of cheap rojo when I felt his presence. From across the room a man was looking at me, looking at me in the manner of a man looking at a woman he wants to bed. It wasn’t Sancho. I could feel his eyes and his gaze unnerved me, yet I met his eyes, man to man. My cheeks flushed, but I squared my shoulders and narrowed my eyes. My God, he picked up his glass and was walking toward me across the crowded room. Was this someone Sancho had sent in his place? He looked magnificent in his bleached white shirt, no stock, open at the neck revealing his Adam’s apple and the hollow beneath it. His well-cut breeches, flawless stockings, like he had just stepped out of the haberdasher’s shop.

And as if I had been struck by lightning, I recognized him. But how does one greet a former enemy and captor?

“Lieutenant Guyon. What a surprise, meeting you here,” I said coldly, though I felt a strange and warm excitement as he approached. I stood to greet him, wondering if I should bow first. He was taller than I remembered. More handsome. I found myself staring.

“Docteur.” The Frenchman bowed. “The pleasure is mine.”

My heart was knocking ridiculously in my chest and I felt the blood race up my neck. “You have keen eyes and a good memory to recognize me from across the room,” I said as dryly as I could manage.

He regarded me with frank knowing – as if we had been lovers. “I never forget a face.” His own face, so perfectly made, so composed. An enigmatic smile played on his lips and lit up his dark eyes.

What does one say to a former enemy – the man who boarded your vessel and took you captive? Yet, he had been ever the gentleman.

“How is your Captain’s health?” I had pulled Renwez’s offending tooth in exchange for our release.

Guyon shook his head and gave me a Frenchman’s dismissive shrug. “I am my own captain now. But if you’re referring to Renwez, I’ve not seen him since the war’s end. I’m told he has retired to a little cottage back in Bretagne. Raising cabbages. With one less tooth to give him pain, thanks to you.”

“And you, Lieutenant? Or shall I address you as Captain Guyon? Have you retired?”

“Au contraire. But the King of France doesn’t require my services at the present.”

“Do you work for Spain, then?” I goaded.

He smiled, his dark eyes dancing. “I work for my own gain. As do you, I would venture.”

“I would ask you to join me, but there seems to be a shortage of chairs.”

“Such an ill appointed little pot house. But I have a chair for you at my table. Will you do me the honor?”

“I do not intend to stay long,” I feigned. “I’m here on business matters.”

“Of course you are. We’re all here on business matters. Mon Dieu, this place is not known for its food! But since we are waiting for a certain someone, we might as well pass the time in good company. As I recall, we started a backgammon game in Martinique that was never finished.” His look was unmistakable. “Come, have a glass of wine and roll the dice with me while you wait for your contact.”

A flush of heat crept up my already warm neck. “I’m not a gaming man, Guyon.”

He looked at me and smiled, his eyes filled with my secret. “I believe you are quite adept at games. Le jeu, c’est tout, n’est ce pas?”

Against my better judgment I followed him across the room, weaving in and out between the tables filled with traders and fishermen, to his table where he poured me a glass of wine from an open bottle. French wine, not Madeira. “There, that’s better. It’s no good to drink alone. Now, let me guess, is it Sancho you’re waiting for? He’s always late. It’s unfortunate you have fallen in with him. Juan is much more trustworthy.”

Was I so transparent? Was I a fool?

“Do you always have an extra glass?”

“But of course. One never likes to drink alone.” He raised his glass and smiled warmly. “Once enemies, now friends?”

“Friends? On what basis? On whose authority?” I challenged, my insides beginning to go soft as butter in the churn.

“Fortune. It seems she has flung us together again.”

“For me, friendship is based on more than chance. Let me make one thing clear, Lieutenant: We are not friends. But I bear you no ill will and I will drink to your health.”

He smiled broadly, warmly, and raised his glass.

Touching his glass, hearing the little clink, I felt like I was entering deep water.

“Salut. To our health and to our mutual success. Money brings us all to Havana, does it not? The richest city in the hemisphere. Why the British returned it to the Spanish is quite beyond me. Ah, but you kept the cold Canadian provinces, didn’t you? That would not have been my choice. And you gave Nouvelle Orleans to the Spanish to weaken France even further.”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

He laughed. “Of course not. None of ever has a say in the treaties.” Then, leaning across the table as if to confide in me, he said. “I know a better place than this. Shall we?”

My heart nearly leaped from my chest. “I told you I’m waiting for someone. I have business to attend to.”

“Ah, yes. Sancho. Waiting for Sancho. Everyone is waiting for Sancho.” His eyes, dark-lashed and moist, were to be avoided. I looked past them, at his left ear, but I felt them like hands, caressing my face. “Sancho is not to be relied upon. He’s an opportunist, Doctor MacPherson.”

“Actually it’s Captain MacPherson. I am now master of the schooner Andromeda. The vessel you detained.”

“Captured, you mean to say.” His smile was unmistakably flirtatious. “So you are no longer a ship doctor? You no longer practice medicine?”

I had served as a surgeon’s mate in the navy but did not have a medical degree; in fact, though I was skilled as a ship surgeon, I had never sat for the exam. I was an imposter.

“I can still pull a tooth or dig out a bullet. Or remove a gangrenous limb, should the occasion arise.”

“Handy skills for a merchant captain to have.” He sipped his wine, regarding me the whole while. “I too, have advanced from my former rank. Now captain of my own vessel – a fine merchant brig. Like you, after the war I turned to trade. We have much in common, MacPherson. We’d made a good team.”

Now that he had my attention, Guyon prepared to take his leave. “The habaneros will be here shortly; I’ll leave you to your rendezvous. But you may find his terms less favorable than you would like. You’ve only just arrived. The rules of the game here have changed, you’ll find. In any case, perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

He pushed back his chair and I stood up, wondering whether to offer him my hand in the cordial Yankee fashion. He bowed courteously and I touched the corner of my hat in return.

“Speaking of games, we never finished that game of backgammon, Capitain. Later this evening, perhaps? Your vessel, Andromeda, such a lovely little schooner. To think, I let you go.”

Guyon left a doubloon on the table and walked out into the night. I sat there as if in a trance, staring after him.

*

Sancho showed up soon after and helped himself to the rest of Guyon’s bottle.; we quickly closed our deal over the rest of the bottle Guyon had paid for. He wanted everything we had, offering molasses, tobacco, and coffee in return; the only catch was, he did not have them ready. It would be a week, maybe two. For a price he could perhaps expedite the transaction. I didn’t like sitting around in a foreign port, and he knew it.

“There are many pleasures in Havana for you to take advantage of, while you’re waiting for the goods. If you’d like a woman, for instance? A nubile young girl?”

“I cannot afford to wait very long. Maybe we should call the deal off.”

Sancho smiled, showing his yellow teeth. “I wouldn’t, if I were you, Capitan. The officials would not look kindly on an English Colonial trading vessel. The woman, she’s complementary. My gift to you, to make your short delay –more bearable.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “I will see what I can do.”

*

I gave Lovelace and the crew the night off. The men changed into their liberty clothes and gathered their personal articles to sell, then took the ship’s boat across the bay to Havana proper, which offered more prospects and excitement than sleepy little Rigel. I remained aboard, in the cockpit, enjoying the night air and my inebriated state. Havana wakes up when the sun goes down and the land breeze brings the smell of burning cane from inland. From the new fort, a cannon rumbles and the great chain guarding the entrance is winched up off the harbor floor.

A bumping alongside, a soft, Ahoy. I dropped him two lines – one to secure his jollyboat and one to climb aboard. Guyon scrambled nimbly up the side and onto Andromeda’s deck.

“I’ve come to tell you I’ve spoken with the harbor master. He will ignore you for a week.”

“I should thank you, I suppose. But what do I owe you for the favor of your influence?”

“Only that you entertain my proposition.”

“Your proposition?”

“Of an alliance. We would make a good pair, you and I.”

“You’re mad, Guyon,” I said, my heart knocking furiously in my chest.

He stepped closer, close enough to kiss me, I thought. And I realized I wanted that very much. “You’re quite right. You make me so.” His voice was low and strained with desire. But I could not believe it. I could not believe he could find me attractive. I was an abomination.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, backing away. “Are you an unnatural man? Are you looking for a young boy to bugger?”

“Come now, Madame. I recognized you for a woman the first time we met. Remember our game of backgammon aboard my ship? We never finished.”

“I detest games.”

He smiled and gestured in a French-like fashion. “All of this is a game, my dear. Life is a game. Best to have a good partner. Someone who knows your mind and can back your play. Someone to throw your lot in with, win or lose.”

Guyon was one of the very few who knew me for the woman I was, he sensed it almost immediately. Yet he had not tried to take advantage of me, for those hours I was his captive, nor had he exposed me. The fact that he was a Frenchman, a former enemy, bothered me not in the least. What held me back was much more complicated. Still, the desire was there, an enormous and powerful presence that would occupy my thoughts and dreams in the hot days and sultry nights to come.

He lifted his hat, gave me a courtly bow. “I respect your independence, as well as your disguise, Captain. But do allow me to be of service to you and to enjoy the pleasure of your company for a few evenings. Allow me to show you Havana and her many charms.” With that he disappeared over the gunwale, untying the painter and casting off in his boat, leaving me wanting him.

*

Havana wakes up when the sun goes down and the land breeze brings the smell of burning cane from inland. From the new fort, a cannon rumbles and the great chain guarding the entrance is winched up off the harbor floor.

The next few evenings Guyon showed me Havana, the Havana he had come to know. The old Spanish stronghold and the newly rebuilt, emerging city – all of it was new to me. Even though I had been among the victorious besiegers, I had never set foot in the great old city proper. All I had known of it were the jungles of the heights where Dudley Freeman and I, as Richmond’s surgeon’s mates, had been sent to operate a field hospital. More of our men died from tropical fevers and fluxes than from battle wounds. I had fallen to disease myself and taken prisoner in the Moro. For us, Havana had been a hellhole. Now Guyon was showing me the opulence and opportunity of the city, once more a possession of Spain but no longer entirely Spanish.

The Havana he showed me was a city of churches, convents and elegantly aloof palacios, built in the Moorish style. The soldiers, the tradesmen, the engineers, and the servants who were rebuilding the fort and the city mingled in the cobblestone streets and plazas, Havana’s public places. We moved among them, Guyon and I, to El Arsenal, the shipyard, where a dozen vessels were under construction. The smell of sawdust hung on the thick, sweet evening air. Havana had been building ships for nearly two centuries. “This one,” Guyon said, stopping in front of a massive frame on blocks, “is to be the largest ship of the line ever constructed – over two hundred feet long. Designed by the Irish naval architect Mullan. Mateo Mullan, an Irishman in the service of King Charles. Built of mahogany from the forests – forests being cleared for sugar cane.”

Mullan wasn’t the only wild goose working for Spain, my companion assured me. Alejandro O’Reilly had left Ireland to fight for Spain in the last war, rising in the ranks to become major general. Now that England had returned our prize, Havana, as part of the peace treaty, King Charles III sent the Irishmen to oversee the rebuilding of the city and forts.

Havana was a gold pot of opportunists, attracted to a free port, bringing all sorts of goods for a tidy profit. Captive Africans were being shipped in and sold at the slave market. We walked among them now, finishing their long day’s work under the watchful eye and whip of the overseer.

It was very late when we supped, nearly midnight, at a tavern near the water’s edge. We quenched our thirst with small beer, brewed on site from New England barley. It was then he popped the question. “Will you accompany me to the Lieutenant Governor’s palace tomorrow night? There are some men I’d like to acquaint you with.”

“Really, Guyon, I think you’ve confused me with someone important. I’m a Yankee merchant who, at the moment, is sitting fully laden in a forbidden port, waiting for a disreputable factor to deliver the goods.” I found myself returning his smile. “I’m a freebooter of no consequence.”

“Precisely.” Now the smile was gone. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the tabletop. “What I have in mind for you – for us – is much bigger than Sancho. I am well-connected with the men who operate the new Havana.”

Why would he want to include me, I wondered? What could I possibly offer? If he wanted a woman – or a man – he could get one, God knows. I’m sure he has no difficulty finding someone to share his bed. Surely there were any number of wealthy creoles with beautiful, well endowed daughters. Lively widows with fortunes aplenty.

“Bien.” The smile returned and he reached for his glass. “I will come for you at sunset.”

*

— from Yankee Moon; the Patricia MacPherson Nautical Adventures

copyright 2016 Linda Collison

 

 

Yankee Moon — Chapter 3

Yankee Moon; Book 3 of Patricia MacPherson’s Nautical Adventures

Chapter Three (working draft)

Christiansted, St. Croix

November, 1765

 

The wind, barely a whisper, teased us, flirting with the sails and making us work the sheets to keep them filled. Everyone was on deck and I at the tiller, coaxing the crippled rudder as we ghosted into the outer reaches of Christiansted harbor, anchoring on the lee of Protestant Island. Launching the ship’s boat, George and Moses towed the schooner to back down and set the anchor in the rich black mud. Stripped of their shirts, they strained at the oars, their bodies glistening with sweat. Lord, it was hot.

I breathed easier now that we were at anchor, safe for the moment in this shallow, sheltered bay. With any luck we’d quickly fix our rudder – or make a new one – and be on our way before incurring too many fees. That is to say, Moses, our carpenter would make a new rudder; he worked as a shipwright at the Redbone yard. Meanwhile, I would check in with the Danish port officials and explain that we were just here for emergency repairs and not to trade. Then I would look up my old friend Rachel. The last I had heard from her she was leaving Nevis for St. Croix with her adventurer, whose two children she had born. It was Rachel who had discovered me washed up on the beach outside her home after the British hospital ship I was serving hit the reef and went down. It was Rachel who helped me carry off my new identity, and it was the absent Mr. Hamilton’s clothes I borrowed for the purpose. I never returned them. If I should find her here in Christiansted I would compensate her, for the clothes, along with her care and coaching, had got me back on my feet.

Dressed in my best going ashore attire, I climbed down into the boat and cast off, leaving the vessel in Mr. Lovelace’s care, rowing for the wharf in front of the yellow bricked Customs House, dazzling in the hot afternoon sunlight. Approaching shore, my spirits rose unaccountably, as if I were discovering a new and wonderful land. Every time I make landfall, I have this secret expectation. Maybe this time I’ve come back, found my real home, the place where all know me and accept me, the neglected house that I can re-inhabit, re-kindling the logs in the long cold hearth. Or would this be just another ravaged, plundered sugar isle? I was a child of sugar, my own father had been a Barbadian plantation owner, my mother, his Irish maid. When she died he sent me back to England to be raised by strangers where I was more or less forgotten. The profits of sugar sustained me now. I bought and sold the sweet gold, worse yet, foreign grown sugar. I made a profit trading with our former enemies, the French, the Spanish, the Dutch.

Slavery is not a sweet word, yet the Christian Bible does not forbid it and neither do the laws of this land. But these same men say that woman is the weaker vessel and that we are lesser beings than men, that we are incapable of rational thought –yet look at me, doing a man’s work. If they knew they would likely revile me. Maybe I should become a Quaker. Would they, who abhor slavery and war, accept me as I am? A woman in man’s attire? A woman making her way in this world as a man?

Almost to shore now, the breeze has died. I drop the little sail and pick up the oars, rowing the rest of the way, perspiration trickling down my back and pooling under my breasts, hidden beneath chemise and waistcoat. The crushing heat, the hard sparkle of sunlight on water drive all musings from my head. Must approach the authorities, find a cool tavern and slake my thirst before looking for Rachel.

After two weeks in a rough sea, walking on terra firma made my head swirl and my ears roared with the sound of the wind and the sea. I walked with the peculiar lurching gait common to seamen who become accustomed to walking across a constantly shifting deck. Land sickness, we called it – very much like sea sickness – and this too, shall pass.

The fort, customs house and warehouse all built of Danish yellow brick, brought in ballast, to this island, an island they purchased from the French. Everything is available at a price, the entire world is being discovered, conquered, plundered, settled, sold. Every time I stepped foot on land after being at sea, I had the same feeling of wonder, of homecoming. Here the streets are laid out wide and straight, covered with a thick layer of crushed coral and limestone. Not a thatched roof to be seen along the water front, all very tidy, very prosperous. Looking around like Robinson Crusoe washed up on a new shore, I tramped, making my way to the Customs House, ship’s papers tucked under my arm, weaving my way through a throng of hucksters, fishmongers, errant boys and militia men, stepping aside for the black men rolling hogsheads of molasses to the docks. A chatter of patois I couldn’t understand; the blend of French, English, Danish, and a dozen African tongues sounded like a great flock of starlings. Children of all shades of black, brown, and tan, chasing chickens and herding goats through the streets, hitting them with green sticks, shrieking at them like lieutenants. Women with dark, shiny, imperturbable faces glided along carrying baskets of laundry to the beach to be bleached in the sun. Barefoot beneath their brightly colored skirts, yet imperious as Bantu queens. I felt a sudden and inexplicable longing for my childhood home on Barbados.

Presenting my papers to the Danish official, I explained as best I could about the broken rudder, and was granted permission to stay long enough to make repairs. I then quenched my thirst at a nearby tavern where I obtained an address for the Hamilton family. Now I walked along Company Street, looking for the tile marked 34. And there it was, with a prim little sign hanging above the door. Faucette Dry Goods. Would she recognize me? Expectantly, I entered the shop, the bell on the door ringing as I opened it.

“Hallo?”

“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

I couldn’t see her – my eyes had not yet adjusted to the dark interior – but her voice I remembered well. The French creole accent, the musical inflection. Her voice reminded me of a woodwind instrument, distinctively mellow as an haut bois.

“Rachel.” Her name burst from my mouth.

She moved from behind the counter in a rustle of taffeta. I smelled her before I could clearly see her face.

“Have we been introduced? Tell me sir, what is your name?”

“Ah, what good are surnames, Madame? They are never our own.”

Yes, it was Rachel, and I had clearly caught her off guard. “T’was what I replied when you first asked me my name on Nevis after you rescued me, a castaway, on the beach. Took me in and nourished me. Dressed me in your husband’s clothes.”

Another brief silence as she came from behind the counter and stood directly before me. “Patricia? Is it really you?”

A great guffaw escaped me. “Yes. But please, call me Patrick. It was you who helped me become Patrick. Patrick MacPherson.” I removed my hat and made a flourishing little bow. “I kept my late husband Aeneas’s name.”

Her hand, a white tern, fluttered to her décolletage. Her lovely décolletage. “What joy! Can it be?” She approached me, her dark eyes wide, taking me in, enveloping me in a sisterly embrace. We both laughed, tears in our eyes.

“Let me look at you.” She held me at arm’s length to examine me, her dark eyes bright with curiosity and concern, then drew me close again, more fiercely this time. “Oh, Patricia.” I could feel her heart beating against my own and her own particular scent enveloped me. I had forgotten how she smelled but now remembered but cannot adequately describe it. Warm milk and irises, the oil from her hair, hair gone silver at the temples.

“But what brings you here to Christiansted? Why didn’t you write and tell me you were coming? And how do you fare? How does a man’s life suit you?” Her lilting voice, her laugh, bright as the tinkling bell over the door, lit up her face – a face beginning to show its age by the fine lines at the corners of her dark eyes and around her mouth, like delicate parentheses. An exquisitely expressive face.

“You are as beautiful as ever, Rachel.”

“And you, sir, are…” She held me at arm’s length to study me. “You are absolutely original.”

I laughed but found myself close to tears.

“Pray tell me, what brings you here? I cannot believe my good fortune.”

“I’m a shipmaster, can you believe it? Part owner of a small trading vessel out of Newport, Rhode Island.” It all sounded quite unbelievable as I spoke it aloud.

“A shipmaster? I thought you were a medical man. A ship surgeon.”

“Ah, but there was little profit in bleeding and cupping. Fewer bones to be sawed, with the war over and the treaty signed. Newport is filled with medical men, besides. Filled with merchants too. The trading business is profitable, Rachel. Risky but profitable. And you –you are minding Mr. Hamilton’s store?”

Her face clouded, the furrow between her eyes deepened, then vanished in a proud smile. “This is my store. My own business. I will tell you the details over supper, and you must relate your adventures. You will stay for supper, won’t you?”

“I’d like nothing better, but I must see to my vessel. We’ve damaged our rudder and stopped here just to repair it.” Oh, but I wanted to stay for supper. I missed female companionship – Rachel’s in particular. She and I had developed a close rapport during those weeks I stayed under her roof.

“Go see to your ship, Captain MacPherson, of course.” She grasped both of my raw, red hands in hers, squeezing them. “But do come back and join us. If I can be of any help, if you need any materials at cost, do let me know. I have connections with the chandler. Oh, Alexander will be so pleased to see you again, and you’ll meet James who was with his father when you stayed with me on Nevis. We have so much to catch up on, so much to say to one another. Please do say you’ll sup with us, and stay the night.”

The bell above the door tinkled as a customer entered – an older gentleman who greeted her in accented English. Tipping my hat, I bid Rachel a good afternoon, and stepped out into the street, squinting against the late afternoon sunlight. Back to my ship where Moses was at work making a new rudder with a slab of oak we had aboard. He was confident it would be finished in a few days’ time.

*

I went back to Rachel’s at dusk, bringing with me two gifts – a small cask of stone-ground Rhode Island flint corn and a pamphlet of essays from the Goddard’s print shop. The smell of pepperpot wafted from the apartment overtop the store.

Close around the table we sat, the heat, the spices, and the warm red wine flushing our faces. My head swam pleasantly, I could hear the waves lapping against my ears as if I were still at sea. Toying with a piece of gristle left in my bowl, I listened to Alexander and James recite their lessons, at their mother’s insistence. She was eager to show me what good students they were.

“James starts his apprenticeship in a few weeks. He’s to learn carpentry.”

“An excellent trade, James. I have a great respect for woodworkers, ashore or at sea. Andromeda’s carpenter is making us a new rudder, to replace the one that broke during the storm.”

The boys were eager to hear a death-defying tale, yet what was there to say? It had been exciting, yes. But also monotonous. Miserable. Exhausting. But I couldn’t disappoint them, so I told them the story they wanted to hear, a story of man against nature – and man winning.

“What do you carry in your ship?” Alexander asked.

“Whatever we can fill our hold with. This voyage we have corn meal, cobblestones, candlesticks, and Rhode Island rum.”

“Rum to the Caribee? Isn’t that like shipping coals to New Castle, Mr. MacPherson?”

I smiled. “It would seem so. But Rhode Island makes very good rum. And Spain is rebuilding her forts – rebuilding the city of Havana itself. They don’t grow enough cane in Cuba yet, to meet the need, though that is changing with all the Africans the English are bringing in for labor. But right now all of the engineers, the soldiers, the artisans, they’re thirsty for our good Newport rum. It fetches a high price in Havana right now, but the opportunity won’t last forever. The world is changing rapidly.”

“Perhaps,” Rachel said, with a wry little smile. “But not fast enough for me.”

After eating, Rachel and I left the boys to their reading and went for a walk about town. The land breeze was welcome, after the heat of the day.

“Walking is good for the digestion.”

“Spoken like a true man of medicine,” she teased, pushing back her chair. “Ah, but now you’re a shipmaster, not a ship surgeon.”

“I am an opportunist, madam. That’s what I am. And you? You’re a woman of business. And a mother of sons.”

“I’m an opportunist as well, Patricia. We’re adventurers, you and I. I trust your luck has been better than mine.”

Now, away from her sons, the cheerful mask dropped away, the lilting voice flattened. I tried to lift her spirits, to make her smile. “What will people thing, a strange man come to dinner, then strolling the waterfront with you, with your husband gone?”

She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “People think the worst of me as it is. My name is ruined, I have nothing to lose. My only goal in life is to make a better life for James and Alexander.”

“Every mother’s goal, I’m sure. But what of Mr. Hamilton?”

“It appears he has sailed out of our lives forever.”

“What? But you were to be married, here on St. Croix. When I saw you last on Nevis, you told me yourself.”

“I hoped so, but when we arrived, the Danes, and the church, forbade it. Mr. Lavien remarried, yet I was denied the right to remarry. Oh, it wouldn’t have suited Mr. Hamilton anyway. Not to mention, he’s lost what money I gave him from my little inheritance. Lost it all in bad schemes. He has neither the head nor the luck for speculating – and too much pride to admit defeat. He’s a wanderer.”

“But to leave his family –

“We manage well enough.” There was a hint of pride in her voice.

Three seamen stumbled down the street, exuberant in their liquor and oblivious to our presence. Out in the harbor a hundred lanterns glowed, their light dancing on the dark water. An orchestra of blocks tapped and hemp rope slapped against masts in the night breeze sliding down from the hills. The sound, heard in every port I’ve ever been to, made me restless to leave.

Ahead, the stone fort. A sentry leaned against the wall, waiting for his watch to be over. Rached stopped.

“Years ago I was jailed there, for adultery. Lavien branded me a harlot.” Her mouth twisted into an ugly smile. “But I’ve told you all this before, back on Nevis. My reputation is ruined – except as a merchant. The men of Christiansted do business with me. One man in particular whom I count as my particular friend.”

The night land breeze felt refreshing to me but my friend shivered and pulled the light muslin wrap draped around her shoulders closer, grasping it in both hands. I put my arm around her and drew her close, knowing it wasn’t just the cool night air that caused her to tremble. She stiffened, shaking her head. Rachel wasn’t seeking my comfort, rather she was unburdening herself. It was a sensitive and sympathetic ear she needed, more than a strong arm.

“For three months I was held there, behind bars. And the guards, they have their way with women said to be whores. They bound and gagged me so no one could hear my rage against them.”

I had heard her story before when we first me, but I listened again as she relived it again.

“It was then Lavien took Peter from me. Peter, my first born, and Lavien’s own. He poisoned his mind against me.”

“Is there no hope of reconciliation?”

Her thin nostrils flared. “Peter is lost to me, I fear. Only in the next world might I know his love and he, mine. But in this world I still have James and Alexander’s welfare to consider.”

“Mr. Hamilton’s children.”

I felt her bristle and realized my gaff. It sounded like I was questioning their parentage. “I didn’t mean to imply –I just meant, well, does he not support his own offspring?”

“Mr. Hamilton claims them as his own, yes, but he’s not a dependable means of support. He never has been. James isn’t a bad man, he’s just…” She sighed. “Ineffectual. He was never a provider. A schemer and a dreamer. Still, he took me in and protected me when I fled from Lavien and I shall always be grateful to him for that.”

“But the store you manage? Is it not profitable?”

“The store is my own venture.” I thought I heard a note of pride. “A friend, Mr. Stevenson, loaned me the capital. My sister’s brother pays for my lodging – at least, for the time being. And yes, the store keeps us fed. But I want a better life for my sons. James starts his apprenticeship soon. Next year Alexander will apprentice as a clerk with Mr. Stevenson. The boy had a quick mind, he’s good with figures, have you noticed? He is very close to the Stevenson lad – the two are fast friends. As close as brothers. In fact, Mr. Stevenson thinks of Alexander as his own.” She gave me a quick look, freighted with meaning but I dared not pursue her insinuation.

“Which one is your ship, Patricia?”

“She’s way out there, just to the right of the island. A schooner. My Andromeda.

“I see her, yes. She looks rather small from here.”

I felt a blooming of pride in my chest, like a parent might feel for a child. “Oh, she’s a very stout vessel, very weatherly. And because of her size we don’t require a large number of men to manage her, leaving most of the available space for goods. Which is profitable. As a woman of affairs yourself, you can appreciate the advantage.”

It was good to feel her shoulders soften, and to hear her laugh in agreement.

“Can you stay, Patricia? A fortnight? ”

“No, I must sail as soon as the rudder is repaired. Every day sitting in a harbor is costly and cuts into the profits.”

“Profits, I understand. But I hope you’ll come back some day.”

“If only we could do business, you and I…But I’m afraid the Danish duties are prohibitive.

“There are ways around that.”

That, I well knew for my living depended upon it.

We walked along the waterfront, hand in hand. The docks were mostly quiet now; those that had come ashore for the evening were ensconced in the taverns and pot houses, leaving just a few low women as there are in any port town looking to make a krone, a peso de ocho, or whatever bit of currency she could get.

“Tell me, my dear Patricia, how is it, being a man? I’ve often wondered.”

A laugh burst from me and I squeezed her hand in mine. “It’s very much to my advantage, I must say.”

“Always?”

“Most always. It can be lonely.” My chest swelled, my throat thickened with feelings seeking release. Being here with her, not having to pretend, not having to prove myself, made me realize how lonely I was.

A three-legged beagle hobbled across the street in front of us; a bitch dog, heavy with milk. We paused as she passed, limping down a dark passageway.

“And is it to your liking?”

I shrugged. “Mostly. Being a man has its advantages.”

“Yes, but don’t you ever tire of it? The pretense? The burden? Don’t you ever just want to be yourself?”

The breeze from the hills enveloped us. After the stultifying heat of the day, it made me shiver.

“I am myself, Rachel. This is who I am.” I turned to face her, holding my arms open as if to say, behold. She slipped her arms around my waist and pulled me close.

“You are strong and proud but you’re not content. I sense your loneliness. Is there anyone who knows your secret? Is there anyone who knows you and loves you?”

“There was one man. A man I served with aboard the frigate Richmond. He loved me, and I him.”

“Was is a sad word. Past, gone,” she murmured.

“Will you write me, Patricia?”

“I will,” I said. “If you will answer.” I buried my face in her hair, glad for the darkness, glad for her arms around me.

— from Yankee Moon copyright 2016 Linda Collison

 

 

 

 

 

Yankee Moon — Chapter 2

Yankee Moon is a a work in progress. Told as a memoir, the book is from the viewpoint of 20 year old Patricia, who has taken a dead man’s identity and lives as Patrick MacPherson. It takes place in Rhode Island, St. Croix, Havana — and aboard a merchant schooner at sea in 1765. Comments, questions and suggestions are appreciated!

Chapter 2 — The passage

A voyage to the West Indies from Newport this late in the year was always a gamble, yet for the moment luck seemed to be on our side. We sailed out of Narragansett Bay on a broad reach, the October air crisp and tart as a crab apple. I pulled my cap down low on my brow, squinting into the rising sun. Visibility was good – but a herd of wispy mares’ tails high overhead foretold of a blow to follow.

Andromeda was not a large vessel but she was efficiently constructed and could carry a good deal of cargo when properly loaded, and didn’t require a large crew to sail. She was a tops’l schooner – sixty-five feet on deck, nineteen feet wide at her beam, and drawing seven feet of water. I had come to call her home and took tremendous pride in her.

On the foredeck the two watermen stowed the anchor line, washing away the Narragansett mud with buckets of seawater as they flaked the hemp rope neatly into the foredeck. George, whose face seemed permanently twisted into a disfiguring scowl, as if scarred from birth, was younger than he appeared. Twenty years old, he had been working on local coasters and fishing boats since he was a lad of ten. The other one – a young African, property of Dominic Hale by way of his wife – worked with an unreadable expression. His flaring nostrils indicated either determination or suppressed anger, I couldn’t be sure. Hatless, he wore his hair long, plated into a queue and made slick with grease; a scrap of faded red cloth tied around his forehead, Indian-fashion, kept the perspiration out of his eyes. He was called Moses, a name given to him by the Redbones, upon acquiring him as a boy, from Guinea. He seldom spoke, but when he did his English was understandable.

Beside me, the blue-eyed Mr. Lovelace looked very much at ease with his hand lightly on the tiller, his feet comfortably apart, rocking with the boat’s motion, as effortless as breathing. Like he had learned to sail when he had learned to walk. Below, in the galley, Sam was singing as he prepared a sea pie for our midday meal, his rich voice carried up on the bones of the vessel and into the wind. What was it, a song from his homeland? I could not make out the words.

Who were these men, my crew? I trusted them because Dominic did. Did they trust me for the same reason?

Soon we were past the point and into the sound where fishing shallops and coastal traders were converging, all in a rush to get to port and unload before the stamped papers arrived and the tax went into effect.

I say we because I already considered myself a Newport man – a Rhode Islander. We enjoyed a great deal of independence and free thinking here. We elected our own governor, a privilege guaranteed under our charter. Called Yankees, Rogue Islanders, pirates, and worse, we were proud of it and profited by it. Rhode Island suited me. I had few possessions to call my own, but I had a deck under my feet, a cabin top over my head, and best of all, I had a future in Newport. As a man, that is. I was slipping deeper into my deception, like a hand into a snug glove. It had been three years – a little more – since I had changed my name from Patricia to Patrick, and assumed a dead man’s identity –that of my late husband’s nephew, a surgeon’s mate who had gone down with his ship in the Indian Ocean. The pretense had served me well. Yet only at sea did I feel entirely comfortable with the strange creature I had become.

The one person who had known me well, the man who had accepted my ruse but had loved the woman inside –that man was gone from my life. The sorrow over losing him, I still experienced it, though I never could have lived as a warrant’s wife, huddled in dark, close quarters belowdecks on the very ship I once served as surgeon’s mate. We had been friends — but sometimes in a reverie, I imagined myself his woman, his lover, his wife and it was good, it was enough. Sometimes I wondered if I had made a mistake, but it was too late to make amends. Some choices can’t be undone. Perhaps most.

*

The anchor now secure on deck, the wet line properly stowed, George and Moses loosened the sheets to allow the sail to catch the wind, aft the beam now, coaxing every bit of speed they could from the schooner. They worked without speaking, not needing words, for they both knew what needed to be done. Yet I sensed resentment, an animosity, between them, yet they had been hand-picked for me by Dominic Hale himself, so I knew they were good hands, the best to be had. George was a Rhode Island man, born and bred to the water. Moses was an African who belonged to the late Mr. Redbone and worked as a shipwright at the Newport shipyard. He was now the property of Dominic’s wife and her new husband. My partner now found himself in the possession of multiple ships, warehouses, a fine Newport home, and servants – slaves – to do his bidding. All of this with an “I do” and the stroke of a pen.

“She rides well,” Mr. Lovelace said, grinning. This was his first time steering the schooner. “No pull on the helm, she’s well-trimmed. A pure joy to sail.”

I nodded, feeling warm inside, as if it was me he had praised. “Let us make all due speed, Mr. Lovelace. With any luck we can outrun the foul weather sure to be on our heels.”

“Outrun the storm, we can – with any luck. But what happens when we return? It won’t be the same. There’ll sending new agents to enforce the duties and every transaction will require the stamp.”

“There’s talk the act will be repealed,” I said.

He laughed. “If it is repealed it won’t be because the rabble burns a straw man on the tax collector’s step. There are men a-plenty willing to take his place.”

I bristled at the Yankees brashness. “A congress is meeting now – in New York –representatives from all the colonies. Everyone is protesting. It can’t last.”

Lovelace shrugged. “Still, coming back could be tricky. Not like it used to be.”

“That’s why I have you along, Mr. Lovelace. Dominic assures me you’re the man to play chase with the King’s men –and win.”

“I am just the man for dodging the revenue cutters.” He flashed me a cocky grin. “I was one of the Newport men impressed by the St. John gang last year. Arrogant son of a bitch, that Lieutenant Hill. But we showed ‘em. Shot their mainmast off, we did. With the Governor’s approval, at that. You don’t abuse Rhode Islanders.”

Cyrus Lovelace had all the cheek of a Yankee, born and bred. He would speak his mind whether I asked for it or not. Perhaps because we were so close in age. Or maybe he thought he was more qualified to be captain, and in some ways he probably was. My mate had more sea time than I did and he knew the local waters, but I knew the ship better. Andromeda was my home; had been for two years. After my intense initial dislike of Dominic Hale, I had gradually developed a respect for the man. Respect and allegiance. I inoculated him and Chauncey against the dreaded smallpox, which took the life of his beloved French wife, Marguerite. In return, he gave me a berth and a job when I had none. Hale had taught me the finer points of navigating and how to drive a hard bargain. And he had put me in charge. I depended on my first mate but I must maintain my authority.

We left the Rhode Island Sound behind us, entering the open sea. The wind blew more forcefully and the deeper waters were the color of gunmetal. We eased the sheets and picked up some speed across the water, crashing into the big swells on a broad reach. The salt spray seemed to hang in midair for an instant, sparkling, before raining down on the foredeck.

“Ease the foresail,” I called out to George. “Give her some rein!” He let out the line, the triangular sail on the bowsprit billowed, and the schooner settled into her stride like a seasoned racehorse on the backstretch.

I looked at Cyrus; he was grinning with the pure pleasure of being at the helm of a well-trimmed sailing vessel making hull speed on her voyage out. I took a deep breath and allowed myself a smile. This was going to be a successful venture.

Three weeks to our destination, with any luck. It would be touchy – Havana was no longer a free port since it had been given back to the Spanish at the peace talks. But the local magistrates turned a blind eye –at least they did a few months ago when we were last down. They knew the fastest way to rebuild their city (and to make themselves a profit on the side) was to overlook all but the most blatant of illegal trade. Rebuilding the wealthiest city in the Caribbean and enlarging the fort (the same one we had captured) required all manner of goods. On this run we carried New England cobblestones as ballast; stones to pave the city’s new streets and squares. On top of the cobblestones were hogsheads of good Rhode Island rum to be sold to supply the soldiers. And on top of that had been stowed barrels of stone round flint corn, a few bundles of barrel staves, and good Rhode Island spermaceti candles. Each man carried his own little adventure as well, to be traded or sold for his own gain.

Trading in Havana had been my inspiration and Hale had not taken keenly to it – not at first. He generally traded with the French island of Martinique, where his first wife had been raised. All his business connections were there. But when he began courting the widow Redbone some months ago, it changed him. Whether he had his head in the clouds or whether he was scheming to get his hands on her wealth, I couldn’t say. But we made a run to Havana and had been most fortunate, returning with a bigger profit than ever.

*

Two days out of Newport and the glass began to fall. The drop in the mercury meant bad weather and, sure enough, the next day the wind backed, setting in strongly from the north. I wanted to ride that north wind for all it was worth, hoping it would take us quickly across the Great Current. This too, I had learned from Dominic Hale.

“Let’s make ready for a blow,” I announced at breakfast, the one time of the day our crew was together, if possible. They knew it was coming as well as I did, probably better. We finished our cornmeal mush quickly, the sound of spoons scraping wooden bowls, and drained the last of Sam’s bitter, burned coffee then spent the morning making certain everything aboard was stowed properly, battened, lashed, secured to keep the ship balanced and to prevent objects from flying about. Sam cooked up enough johnny cakes to last three days and brewed three gallons of sugared coffee to be drunk cold.

Mr. Lovelace heaved the log which showed we were making seven knots through the water – top speed for Andromeda. I took the noon sight just as the foreboding clouds began to appear on the horizon, charting our deduced position. The wind picked up through the day, driving the water into froth, and by late afternoon the sky was dark as midnight. Hatches battened down, sails reefed, we sailed south by southeast. The rains came, slashing at us, stinging like pellets and the sea rose into mountainous peaks, lifting us up and bearing us along. We took turns at the helm, hands firm on the tiller to keep us from broaching. Sam sang when he took his turn, his voice rich and deep as a cello, providing a contrasting bass note for the wind, an unseen soprano screeching high in the rigging.

Andromeda raced along on a scrap of a foresail, plunging down the iron gray slopes, ever in danger of burying her bowsprit in the troughs, which would pitch-pole us, nose over heels, and be the end of us, for certain. We needed to slow our speed, to ride instead on the backside of the mountainous swells. The wind and seas were favorable for running before the wind, but steering was critical.

“George, Moses – us a sea anchor, if you please.” I had to shout, cupping my hands around my mouth to be heard. The men lurched to the lazaretto, bending low as a deluge of water swept over the rail and across the deck, swirling around our legs in its mad rush to return to the sea. hip

Darkness swallowed us. The schooner sailed well, though an occasional cross swell knocked us about. No lanterns could be lit, in case of a knock down. We took our turns standing watch, steering by the feel of the wind on our cheek and the force of the water against the rudder. All aound us, deafening sound. The snarl, hiss and roar of the black ocean mixed with the furious screaming of the wind. Belowdecks, it was worse. Lying on my bunk, I could hear every crack and groan of Andromeda’s bones as she flexed with the ocean’s mighty arm. I prayed she would not founder. Try as I might I could not sleep but lay wide awake in the blackness, wedged into my bunk, bracing myself against the jarring movements, trying to make sense of the din, and listening for the knock at my cabin door.

I had just fallen into oblivion it came. “Captain MacPherson?”

“Aye, Mr. Lovelace. I’m coming.”

Midnight. My turn at the helm, with George, who seemed eager for the task. A nod of thanks to Sam and Cyrus, dripping wet and exhausted as they went below. I turned the sand glass on its gimble mounted on the binnacle. George’s bare hands on the tiller, moving easily, rhythmically, like he was working a weaver’s loom or a printing press. The trick was not to fight it but to work with the powerful liquid force flowing past the rudder. Each enormous wall of water rising behind us presented a game of skill and luck, a seemingly endless succession of life-or-death chances dealt out by God or the devil, I knew not. With our sea anchor, the canvas buckets and tangle of knotted hemp dragging off the stern to slow our speed, and a reefed sail for stability, I hoped we could ride out the gales.

Pitch black, I couldn’t see the foremast. All a roar, the wind screaming in the rigging, the snarl and roar of running seas, had to shout to be heard. My hands, drawn up inside my coat sleeves and balled into fists for warmth. We’d be fine, I was fairly certain, if we didn’t take on too much water and if we didn’t get beam end to the seas. Every minute seemed like an hour and there was nothing to do but endure it.

I turned the sand glass and relieved George, settling in for my turn steering. The rudder felt like a demon had it in its grip and it took both hands to steer. We were both tied to the binnacle. This is nothing out of the ordinary, I told myself. Just a gale.

And then it blew harder. The wind’s scream rose in pitch, the wall of water behind us steepened and a cold spray of salt water pelted us from behind. I hoped the sea anchor would hold. I hoped the rudder and rigging would hold. I prayed I would hold. George stood swaying like a young tree, his feet spread, one knee wedged against the binnacle. He seemed in a trance, or maybe he was sleeping on his feet; I had seen men do it on watch. But I knew if I needed him he’d be awake instantly.

I had no warning, just that odd feeling that one experiences sometimes, that something is about to happen. Out of the black night an enormous cross swell hit us on the beam with a crack and cascaded over the rail, knocking me down, covering me with a deluge of water and carrying me away. Only the rope around my waist kept me from being swept out to sea. I felt the boat fall to her side, her deck perpendicular. The vessel shuddered as she strove to right herself, like a horse that has fallen. God but I loved her at that moment. Such a fine ship, Andromeda, and my crew, the best men ever. I was held under, caught on something. I struggled, my lungs wanting air, I was mad to breathe. I felt a hand grab the back of my coat and pull me to my feet, choking, gasping and spitting. It was Cyrus Lovelace, stark naked, having rushed up from below.

“Hell’s teeth!” I said, sputtering. “Thank you, Cyrus.” I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss his face. “But look at her –look how she rights herself. Damn, sir! She’s a treasure, she is.”

Below, behind my cabin door, I stripped down to my shivering wet skin and crawled between the damp flannel sheets, pulling the scratchy woolen blanket up and huddling in a ball, wanting the release a flood of tears would bring but unable to bring them forth. Meanwhile, the ship lurched like a drunkard on the riotous sea. The screaming of wind in the rigging sung me to sleep.

*

Out on the open ocean Time plays tricks on my mind. Hours pass slowly, slowly, and then an entire day slips through my fingers. Only the shipboard routines accurately measure the passage of time. The daily winding of the clock, taking a noon sighting of the sun, heaving the log, plotting the deduced position on the chart. Keeping the captain’s logbook, a monotonous record of weather, sea conditions, latitude and longitude. I look forward to the meals; the meals break the monotony. Simple food becomes a sumptuous feast, eaten at sea, especially in the companionship of the crew. No one says much, the cabin is filled with the sounds of contemplative chewing and appreciative grunts. It was the same aboard His Majesty’s frigate with my mess mates. Though the fare was so much worse – salt pork, biscuit, mouldy cheese –the camaraderie was a welcome spice.

Storms break the monotony of sea as well – but the excitement and activity is soon overshadowed by fatigue, which makes Time slow down to a standstill, like a haggard old mule hitched to an overladen cart, refusing to budge. Enduring a storms at sea is exhausting. You believe you have witnessed the pinnacle of its fury, and then it worsens. Nothing to do but keep going. Trust your vessel – and Providence. And when at last you sleep, it is with abandon. You sleep like a newborn. You sleep like the dead.

Morning broke, the sun, a swollen red eye peeking over a bruised horizon. The wind was moody, huffing and sighing, and the seas slopped against our hull from three different directions, playing havoc with the sail trim. Sodden gray skies, above. I heard Sam in the galley, smelled coffee brewing. Quickly dressing, I hurried on deck to greet the day.

The men had pulled in the sea anchor and now began to shake out the reef on the mainsail. The masts and rigging had weathered the storm well and though we had to pump the bilge, Andromeda was not taking on any more water. Yet we had not come through unscathed.

“This rudder not working,” grumbled Moses.

My heart fell. We had not come through without damage after all. “What’s wrong?”

“Maybe she lose a pintle.”

“Good Christ, will she steer at all?” I took hold of the tiller, moved it to starboard then back to centerline. It felt lose and the ship barely responded. Making Havana was out of the question. “Who will go below and have a look at it?”

“I will,” Moses said, to everyone’s relief.

We dropped sails, wallowing in the chop. George fetched a dockline while Moses stripped down, leaving his damp, salty clothes in a heap on the deck. He tied one end around his slim waist, secured the other end around the taffrail then dove off the stern, disappearing under the vessel with a kick of his long legs. We watched his dark shape beneath the water as Andromeda rolled back and forth on the swell. After about a minute Moses surfaced, gasping and blowing like a whale, and pulled himself up by the rope, his dripping black body sparkling in the weak morning sun.

“Rudder split along the gudgeon. Split nearly in two, Captain.”

“Can you stabilize it?”

“Bind it with tarred rope might help.” He didn’t seem assured.

“Do so, then. If we can keep this course we’ll raise the Virgins.”

Although we could steer in a general direction by the set of the sails any radical maneuver such as putting the helm over, might be too much strain, breaking the rudder completely.

“Lash the tiller in neutral, George, then assist Mr. Lovelace with inspecting our cargo. Make certain all is stowed well below. Moses, do whatever you can to stabilize the rudder.” According to my deduced navigation St. Croix, a Danish possession, was less than two hundred nautical miles to the southwest.

Everyone breaking fast together in the cockpit, eating cold Johnny cakes rolled up with blackberry jam, washed down with more Cuban coffee, strong enough to grow hair on my chest. It had been a hellish night but the ship was afloat and we were alive. Alive! Life’s blood, it was simply enough to draw breath and be under way. We rejoiced by filling our bellies and feeling the warmth of the sun drying the clothes on our backs, laughing together over ribald jokes in the light of a new day at sea, with the promise of land in the offing.

— from Yankee Moon; Book 3 of the Patricia MacPherson Nautical Adventure Series.  Copyright 2016 Linda Collison.  Barbados Bound; book 1  Surgeon’s Mate; book 2

Yankee Moon — Chapter One

Book 3 of Patricia MacPherson’s Nautical Adventures
In which Patricia becomes captain of her own ship.

Providence, Rhode Island

From the Providence Gazette; October 13, 1765:

Last evening, well after dark, a straw man was erected and subsequently set ablaze on the front doorstep of the house newly occupied by John Robinson, appointed by the Crown to distribute the stamped paper. The  tax is to go into effect on the first day of November, after which the official paper will be required for all newspapers, legal documents, shipping manifests, and every other recorded transaction. It is believed the effigy was burned to protest this onerous new tax imposed on us against our consent by a Parliament who does not represent us. By the time the constable arrived the fire had burned itself out, leaving behind only a smouldering heap of ash. The perpetrators had dissipated, vanishing into the night. This latest incident is reminiscent of a similar protest in Newport, in August, in which an effigy of Augustus Johnston, the Distributor of Stamps, was tarred and dragged through the streets before being hung from a gallows on the courthouse lawn. The first shipment of stamped papers is expected to arrive from London within the fortnight – but after last night’s warning will Providence still have a King’s man in residence to distribute them?

October 15, 1765

Newport, Rhode Island

It was a fine day for a wedding. Promising blue horizon, nary a cloud, the sun already trying mightily to burn the frost off the pane. I opened the window, called down to the water boy and hauled up a bucket, tossing him a coin; then pulled the shutters tight, lifted the shift over my head and bathed quickly in the cold water, goose bumps rising on my skin.

Placing the freshly groomed peruke on my stubbled head, I looked in the mirror hanging above the dresser of my rented room, adjusting the wig slightly. Acceptable. Yes, except for the ears –rather too small and pink – I passed muster. The only feminine feature about me were my delicate ears and perhaps my pillowed lips, though these were often sunburned and wind-chapped. I regarded the young man staring back at me from the looking glass. Patrick MacPherson, a rising young merchant seaman dressed to go to a wedding feast where he will rub shoulders with Newport’s best. Good day to you, sir! In this colony anybody could be a gentleman, if he had the means to dress the part. Here, the lowest born man could rise above his station through cunning, hard work, and the right connections. Oh, and luck, I should add. Luck always plays a role. Thus far my luck had been most unpredictable.

The wig had been made from my very own hair, flaming gold as a Guy Hawkes bonfire, shorn from my head and at last tamed into submission by the peruke maker’s hand. Two smooth ginger-colored rolls just above my ears and a compliant queue held at the nape by a blue satin ribbon. A shaved head was so much easier, especially at sea, when all I needed was a snug Monmouth cap to keep the wind out of my years. A shaved head was free of tangles, free of lice. My hair, perfectly groomed, kept in a box, ready for going ashore. No need for powder, no one in Newport bothered with powder anymore. Men were flaunting natural colors – black, brown and auburn too –though none were as vibrantly colored as mine.

I should have been born male, I thought, regarding my reflection. I cut a fine figure in my pressed linen shirt, lace stock, and brocade waistcoat that completely hid my breasts, the size of two quail eggs. My long legs were shown off to their best advantage sheathed in the finest of silk stockings, the tightest of breeches buttoned just below the knee. I had the hind end of a young boy and, as for that part of my anatomy that was decidedly lacking, an old pair of stockings, knotted into a ball and stitched inside the crotch of the breeches, added the slight bulge.

Trinity’s bells pealed the hour. The biggest wedding feast Newport had known in months was about to begin. I slipped into my coat, fastened the pewter buttons, adjusted my cravat, and placed the tri-corn on top of my wig. One last look at the man in the glass, then down the stairs, a greeting to the innkeeper’s wife, and out onto Thames Street, busy as always this Saturday, with ox carts and carriages drawn by fine Narragansett-bred horses. No carriage for me, but the walk was a short one and I welcomed the opportunity to stretch my legs and catch a glimpse of Andromeda, tossing on the harbor chop and pulling at her dock lines like a restless filly. The schooner was more often my home than the rented room above the Osprey Inn. I inspected the hemp lines for chaffing, making certain she was well before turning toward Spring Street, shoving my hands into my coat pockets to warm them. The sun was bright but the October air was raw, smelling of tidewater and wood smoke from hundreds of chimneys.

My own wedding day, I couldn’t even recall what the weather had been, foul or fair, but I well remember my mood was gloomy and resigned. Ah, but Aeneas had been a good old man, a firm but kind husband for the brief time I was his wife. And I might have married again, to him whose memory is a burning desire, but no. It wouldn’t have worked. Best not to think about it, ever again. Accept your fate: There will be no more weddings, no connubial rights, and no conjugal bliss for you, my dear.

But freedom, of that I had plenty. The freedom to do, to be, to pursue – and a livelihood too. As a man I could support myself, and more, I could invest, buy and sell property, take risks. Through my own hard work I had acquired shares in the schooner Andromeda, and her cargo – barrels and barrels of West Indian sugar to be distilled into Rhode Island rum. Yankee gold. A fair number of Newport men had made their fortunes in this manner – why not Patrick MacPherson?

*

The widow Redbone’s house was as fine as any in these colonies. Liveried servants waited to attend to horses and carriages of guests. I walked up the steps and lifted the iron knocker. An African took my hat and silently escorted me to the parlor, filled to over-flowing with fashionably dressed guests. Ship owners, merchants, distillers, councilmen and their wives, none of whom I had been formally introduced to. A relative newcomer to Newport was I – the groom’s mate, business partner, and when the occasion arose, a surgeon – a bleeder and cupper and puller of teeth. The dull roar in the great parlor, the rumbling hum of conversation was the sound of a receding wave raking a pebble beach. I experienced a moment of awkwardness as I looked about for a familiar face – someone I could converse with.

Dressed in a man’s clothes, passing for a man, I had been doing it for several years now and it was becoming second nature. I no longer had to think about how I stood, how I walked, or how I sat – it came rather naturally. My voice was low of its own accord, and rather scratchy, but speaking like a man, I had learned long ago, was more than just employing a lower register. There were many subtleties that distinguished male voice from female. Men tend to speak in declarative sentences, I had observed. No rise of inflection at the end of a phrase. Men don’t drop their eyes and they don’t chatter. The most powerful men are comfortable with silence and can use it to their advantage. Yet though I had mastered masculine mannerisms the inner tension of knowing I wasn’t who I pretended to be was always tightening my jaw and twisting my gut.

“Mr. MacPherson!”

I turned around at the familiar voice – Everett Lee – the bridegroom’s younger half-brother. At his side, a young woman in dove gray silk with alert gray eyes – eyes that took me in and measured me with one shrewd glance.

“Patrick, I’d like to introduce Miss Goddard, of Providence.”

I recognized the name; the Goddards were Everett’s employers, ever since returning from the siege of Havana, not yet seventeen, minus his right leg. Bowing with a flourish, I couldn’t help but wonder if Everett were merely an escort or if he was indeed courting the young Goddard woman. Mother and daughter ran the late Mr. Goddard’s press, well-known even in Newport.  The two of them had been sent to Newport to write an account of the wedding for the Providence Gazette, the Redbone family being a prominent one in Newport and the wealthy young widow’s choice of a second husband, particularly so. Dominic Hale brought no family fortune to the marriage but he was highly regarded in the Colony for his shrewd business practices and his dependability as a shipmaster. Still, there were sure to be a few disappointed suitors in this very room, forcing their hearty congratulations.

“Have you heard about our recent bonfires?” Everett asked, nearly bursting with news.

Of course I had read about it; every coffee house in Newport subscribes to the Providence Gazette as well as the Newport paper and half a dozen other colonial broadsheets. The spark in his eyes and the expectant look on his face made me wonder if he had more to do with it than just compositing the article and printing the edition.

“Young mischief makers? Or were our Sons of Liberty behind it?”

“Why Mr. MacPherson, I have no idea what you’re insinuating,” Everett said, unable to contain himself. He was inclined to act impetuously, as was I, with unpredictable consequences. He was fairly bursting with his cause – by all accounts a changed man from the bitterly forlorn one whose gangrenous right leg I had removed after it had been smashed by cannon’s recoil, during the siege of Havana.

“I shouldn’t think such boyish pranks perpetrated by the rabble will change the mind of Parliament,” I said.

“Oh, it’s not just the rabble, I assure you. There are bigger men behind it. Have you read Mr. Franklin’s address to Parliament? Do you know there’s a congress in New York at this very moment, to discuss what’s to be done?” He was all afire; as outraged as his older brother on the matter.

“Whether or not Parliament rescinds the act,” Miss Goddard interjected, “I dare say there will be no tax man who dares enforce it in this colony. Look at what’s happening in Boston.”

“Colonists are a fractious, headstrong lot –especially Rhode Islanders. I’m glad to see Newport and Providence can at least agree on something,” I said. The neighboring towns had long been rivals and I believed anything that brought us together was good. “But let’s not ruin your brother’s wedding feast with such talk of rebellion. Look, there’s John Eli,” I said, spying my other partner across the room, speaking with the host and hostess.

Everett smiled wryly. “Shall we join our friends in giving the newlyweds our joy?” The tinge of sarcasm in his voice was not lost on me; Everett had long nursed resentment toward his older brother.

“Indeed, sir, and wholeheartedly. Come, let us rejoice in his good fortune.”

We crossed the crowded room, Everett stumping along on his wooden leg like a lugger sailing to windward, bearing Miss Goddard proudly on his arm. We took our places at the tail end of the queue of guests waiting the opportunity to offer congratulations to Dominic and the new Mrs. Hale, who had been married in a private ceremony that same morning. Her gown was a lustrous yellow silk, cut in the latest fashion and smacking of Paris, her narrow face, blade-nosed and thin-lipped, improved by a stylish coif (again, in the French manner) and a bride’s radiant smile. This young widow had been courted by half a dozen eligible bachelors, yet she had chosen Dominic Hale, who was not a wealthy man, but a man who had ambitions.

Though it was a second marriage for both, they couple seemed giddy as virgins, all blushes, smiles and sparkly eyes. I was glad to see him so ebullient, having seen him in angry sorrow after his first wife died aboard Andromeda two years before.

I watched as the two men greeted, and as Everett congratulated his half-brother, bid joy to his new wife, and introduced Miss Goddard from Providence, who would write an account of the wedding feast for the gazette. And then it was my turn, I was last in the receiving line.

“Mrs. Hale,” I said, making a knee and taking the bride’s outstretched hand, gloved in fine kid. “Give you joy, madam. Every happiness.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacPherson. Mr. Hale has spoken highly of you – a seaman as well as a medical man. I’m so pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Welcome to our home.”

Standing at her side, Hale beamed with pleasure, his normally obsidian black eyes had gone soft and moist as prunes.

“My congratulations, sir.” I extended my hand but Hale opened his arms and to my surprise, embraced me, gruff as a bear. “Every joy, Dominic,” I managed to say, as he squeezed the air from my lungs.

“Anna is a jewel and I am a lucky man. But what’s this? Your hand is empty.” He looked for a servant, raised his hand peremptorily, and within seconds I held a large goblet of wedding punch. Rum – the entire town had grown rich on it.

“To your health and happiness,” I said, raising my glass. A good stiff punch it was, made from the finest Rhode Island rum, warming my throat and softening my brain.

When his wife turned to speak to a young man, Hale pulled me aside.

“Before we sit down to dinner I want to acquaint you with your first mate for the upcoming trip. His name is Cyrus Lovelace. Anna’s cousin on her mother’s side.”

“My first mate?” I must have misunderstood, or perhaps he misspoke in his exuberance. For I was Dominic Hale’s first mate and had been for nearly two years, ever since our partner John Eli had taken a wife and inherited a sheep farm from his father.

Hale gripped my shoulder with his bear paw of a hand, his black eyes boring into mine. “I’m promoting you to shipmaster, Patrick. What do you say to that, Captain MacPherson?” He grinned like a madman and slapped me on the back, nearly spilling what was left of my punch.

At the word “shipmaster” my heart did a strange little jig. I felt my jaw drop. Looking into his face I could think of nothing to say. Was he jesting? Baiting me, perhaps?

“Lovelace grew up a waterman, he has sailed as mate on coasters. He knows these waters intimately. But he’s young –younger even than you are. Still green when it comes to the nuances of trading. Patrick, you know how I carry out my business. Our business. You’ve made connections, you know Andromeda well – how she is to be laden, how she handles in every condition. I want you in command. I’m giving you Cyrus Lovelace and three others. But you must leave as soon as she’s loaded.”

My head spun, my ears roared. “But – what – have you retired?”

Dominic laughed and clapped me on the back again, but this time I was ready, standing strong.

“Retired? I’ve never been more occupied. But just now I need to involve myself with my wife’s fleet of vessels, all making ready to leave the harbor before the damned papers arrive. You too, Patrick, must oversee the preparations for our little venture and depart as soon as possible.”

“But what about the livestock? Do we have sheep? Horses?” We specialized in animals on the hoof, had modified our hold to accommodate them, and had a ready market in the West Indies.

“None to be had – not until spring, Eli informs me. But I’ve bought up odds and ends, enough to fill her hold. A bumboat collection of cornmeal, candles, cobblestones and rum. Plenty of rum. All to be delivered tomorrow and loaded. You’re to get your clearance papers and set sail as soon as the weather allows. There won’t be a ship left in the harbor, come November when the new tax goes into effect. Though who will be foolish enough to enforce it here in Newport, God knows.”

“And what about returning?”

“The colony has formed a protest against it, and we’re not the only one. I’m betting that Parliament will come to their senses and rescind it –when we refuse to comply. But there may be trouble. To be on the safe side, enter the bay at night, by the light of the moon. Off-load at John Eli’s wharf, then we’ll have watermen freight the barrels down from the island with local produce.”

I fairly reeled with the knowledge of my elevated status and the increase in my percentage of the profits it entailed. I was to be in command; I was to be Andromeada’s shipmaster, though only because Dominic would be too busy with his new responsibilities, the Redbone’s fleet, brigs and proper three-masted ships built for transatlantic trade. That was the way of the world. One man advanced and another rose to fill his place. As for my instructions to slip in to back waters on return, I had few qualms; we none of us ever paid duty on foreign sugar, though in the past it was through an unspoken agreement with the customs official, one of our own. The onerous new tax was but another way for Parliament to squeeze more money from the colonies, and if I had to return at night and offload by moonlight like a common smuggler this one time, I was willing to risk it. The men of this colony would back me up, I felt certain.

“Thank you, Captain Hale. I relish the opportunity.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve returned and the sugar is safe in the warehouse, Captain MacPherson,” he shot back, emphasizing the title in a manner that was meant to challenge me, rather than flatter me. Then pulling me close in a brotherly fashion, he whispered hoarsely, “Patrick, I’ll always be grateful to you for helping Marguerite in her last hours. And for your concern for Chauncey. You’ve been like an uncle to her.” His jaw tightened, he clenched my shoulder. Captain Hale’s newfound happiness and fortune had made him both magnanimous and vulnerable. I examined what remained of my punch, giving him a few seconds to regain his composure, wondering where young Chauncey Hale was. Hiding on the stairway with her new step-siblings, spying on the adults? The girl had pulled at my heart strings, had stirred my maternal instincts, yet I could not act on them. I hoped Hale’s wife would be a kind stepmother.

“Yet it’s not for your concern nor your surgical skills that I pass to you command of our little schooner. I trust you to make a quick and profitable trade for our shareholders, and a discreet return. Here’s to your first run Captain MacPherson. To fair winds and fortune.”

We touched our glasses and I tipped my head back, draining what was left. I felt on top of the spinning world.

“Here comes the Governor,” said Hale, looking over my shoulder. “Now I shall introduce you to a very influential man.”

*

A solemn black man, one of the Redbone’s servants, announced dinner with the ringing of a bell – a bronze ship’s bell – then opened the door to the grand dining room. A banquet table, large enough to seat thirty-two, was covered with Irish linen, set with fine Dutch porcelain and locally made silverware. Rhode Island-made spermaceti candles burned in silver sconces – an extravagance since it was midday and we had no need of light, yet they provided an ambiance of enlightenment and affluence. Thirty-two Chippendale-style chairs, made by our Newport craftsmen, Goddard and Townsend, fit easily around the long table – which was actually three tables, end to end, I discovered, when seated where one table met another. Yankees are practical and resourceful, I’ve discovered, even when making a spectacle.

The bride groom sat at the head of the banquet, his new wife at the opposite end; fifteen guests along either side. Hale was the very picture of a gentleman, in the manner of Yankee merchant gentlemen. At sea I was accustomed to seeing him wearing serviceable canvas trousers, a coarse shirt and a Monmouth cap; this afternoon he sported silk breeches and stockings, a brocade waistcoat and the finest lace for a stock. No wig, Dominic never wore a wig, but his own shock of black hair, tied at the nape of his neck with a grosgrain ribbon, glistened like a crow’s wing, but for a few strands of gray at each temple. He was a handsome man, in a hard way. I might have fallen for him myself – in fact, I rather did – but I found it much more advantageous to be his partner; he never would have appreciated me as a woman.

I found it liberating how here in this colony a man can jump so easily between the classes, though none of these Yankees were men of leisure — certainly not titled – though many did own property. Becoming wealthy was their occupation and they worked at it fanatically.

Dinner table talk: The new wharf, new houses, new horses, new babies. The various and sundry achievements of the sons and daughters of Newport. News from friends and relations afar. The earnest conversation would come later – after dinner. This I had learned upon becoming a man.

French Champagne served in Chinese porcelain coups served with Narraganset oysters served uncooked on the half shell with lemons from the Azores and sprinkled with Bahamian sea salt. This delight was followed by four more courses featuring beef, lamb, pork and fowl from the Narraganset plantations, each served with a different libation – Bordeaux, claret, cider, and Muscat – finishing with a Yankee pudding and a lovely Sauternes. Next would follow coffee, brandy, and cigars for the men, though I was surprised to see that the new Mrs. Hale and Miss Goddard stayed behind with us instead of joining the others of their sex in the parlor, keeping silent for the most part, but listening. Miss Goddard made notes in a leather bound book she discreetly pulled from her pockets.

The October afternoon soon became evening. Men got up to relieve themselves out back. A servant added a log to the fire in the hearth, sending a shower of red embers up the chimney. I turned my attention to the spirited after-dinner conversation led by two prominent merchants, one from Newport and one from Providence, who I presumed were among that secret society known as the Sons of Liberty. For years now I had been listening to Dominic rail against Parliament’s latest attempt to squeeze us for money to pay for their wars, and I had heard the same talk in the coffee houses of every colonial port I had visited. When I had little to lose and was struggling for my very existence in this world the talk of taxation meant little – but my situation had greatly improved. As Andromeda’s captain, I now paid very close attention to the conversation and its radical bent.

We all agreed it would be business as usual for us. The colony might be fiercely divided in local politics – the Hopkins faction versus the Ward faction – but when it came to new taxes imposed on us from across the Atlantic, we were of one mind.

To Dominic Hale’s good fortune – and to my own. I took a mouthful of the French brandy from Cognac, savoring its smoky burn that filled my mouth and expanded my head while the voices around me swelled and crashed like waves on a new shore. Dominic handed out cigars from Havana, obtained on our last run (undeclared, of course) evading Spanish as well as English trade laws. We lit these tightly rolled tobacco leafs with the Rhode Island still burning brightly on the table, feeling united in our defiance and our growing power.

To be continued…

— copyright Linda Collison 2016

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Yankee Moon — a prologue

Aboard His Majesty’s frigate Richmond

October, 1765

At sea, off the coast of the colony of Virginia

 

Brian Dalton nursed a fat head. Belowdecks in the gunroom, sipping his second cup of coffee, the Richmond’s gunner stared vacantly at the jumble of initials carved into the tabletop, summoning the will to start his day. Four bells sounded. It was halfway through the morning watch; above, the decks had already been scrubbed clean and the men were setting the courses. He felt the slight lurch and easing over as the vessel adjusted to the increased sail and the resulting speed, his own spirit lifting ever so slightly like a pennant in the breeze. Those weeks ashore in colonial Norfolk were a drunken blur. It was good to be at sea again.

Gruen, the boson, his missus, and Smitty, the carpenter, sat around the table with him, spooning their burgoo sweetened with Barbadian sugar. The two men reminisced about their previous warrants, a much-worn topic. The boson’s wife said not a word but seemed lost in thought, not hearing the banter between her man and the carpenter, an on-going argument about which ship had been the better. The young woman shifted the infant to her other breast, adjusting the cape for modesty, and smiled shyly at Dalton over the rim of her cup. He looked away.

“I’ve not seen Lily yet this morning. Is she well, Mr. Dalton?”

“I wouldn’t know, Missus Gruen, ye must ask her yerself.” Damned women make much of nothing, always prying, always assuming. He drained the bitter grounds in the bottom of his mug and stored them in his cheek – something to chew on – and pushed his chair back. Stood up, head pounding, and summoned his will.

“My day begins. Good day to ye.” Dalton’s voice, like his head, suffered from last night’s debauch. His throat felt like a dusty road.

He left the gun room, bending his head under the low deck. Slipped on his woolen jacket, feeling the letter crackle against his chest. Her letter, written more than two years ago –nearly three – but just caught up with the frigate, laid up for repairs in Norfolk. She had written it a month after they parted in New York, explaining why she had not met him, as promised. Now memorized, he had stitched the water-marked letter tightly inside the lining for safekeeping. So much could have happened in all that time, yet the words penned by her own hand fairly jumped off the page and the sound of her voice rang again in his head. Ah, but it was nothing but a ghost from the past come to haunt him. He should drop the letter overboard. He would. No good could come of it. Buttoning his jacket, the gunner went up the ladder for a breath of air.

“Good morning Mr. Dalton.” Goodwillie, the gunner’s mate, ever cheerful. The best of the lot, in spite of his club foot and his diminished hearing. The two men had been seen a lot of action together. “The breechings on number four are showing wear, shall I replace them, sir?”

Dalton shook his head and barked. “Nae, we’re low on cordage. Wasn’t enough to be had in Norfolk. Serve them as best you can with what we’ve got.”

“Aye, sir.”

Beer and rum, there had been a plenty in the taverns of the tidewater colony. And tobacco, there had been an abundance of that – not to mention a young woman the color of molasses with fleshy lips and a remarkably agile tongue. Couldn’t remember her name, didn’t want to. The frigate had anchored for a fortnight in the Norfolk roadstead and was now heading up the Chesapeake to Chestertown, to deliver a lieutenant to his newly-built revenue cutter, then continuing on north to patrol the mouth of Narragansett Bay where smugglers operated as brazen as you please. A preventive man’s work, hardly worthy of a ship’s crew that had helped win Havana.

The war, he missed it, the greater sense of purpose, every man with a duty, courage in the face of death. The war was won and he had done his part to help England vanquish her enemies, emerging from his service alive, with all his limbs intact – and a nest egg too – his share of prize money from the sale of enemy ships he had risked his life to capture. But the seven-year far- flung conflict with France and Spain was history. Now it was just this patrolling of colonial waters, squeezing the merchants. There was little honor in it, and less reward. At least my ship still sails. At least I have employment. A floating home.

The morning wore on. Another day to be endured.

*

A drum roll broke the routine, signaling the men to quarters. Dalton set off at once to his station in the magazine deep in the belly of the ship. A rustling and thunder of footsteps as every man and boy hurried to his position, the gun crews assembling – a well-rehearsed maneuver than transformed the frigate from a floating city to a fighting machine. No matter that it was probably just a drill or a colonial fishing smack to harass, the rolling of the snare drum never failed to produce the same sharp sense of coming to life as it had during the war. A tingle of fear and thrill, a narrowing of focus, a heartbeat to keep pace with the drum beat. Nothing like a good chase, the thunder of guns and the sulfurous smell of burned black powder to set him a-right. Duty and purpose, that was the cure. Norfolk, astern, just over the horizon. He had grown soft on liberty. Soft and restless. Had drunk too much rum and lost too much money on the dice. Dalton breathed deeply, blowing off the fog-like remorse in his head. Norfolk, where her letter had finally caught up to him.

Word came down they were chasing a Yankee merchantman suspected of evading import duties. It was easier to catch these buggers offshore where the frigate had the advantage of speed and firepower. Once they slipped into some shallow, backwater cove the Yanks, with their local knowledge and their smaller vessels with greater maneuverability, had the upper hand. Still, he welcomed the hustle, the activity. Anything to break the monotony. It wasn’t as purposeful as exchanging broadsides with a French warship but a chase and a warning shot would be enough to clear his head. It would feel like old days.

The world was changing and Brian Dalton felt the years piling on, though he was not yet thirty. The war that had lasted seven long years had been over for more than two years. At first he had been relieved. Grateful to be alive, with all his limbs. His eyesight. Like his mate, his hearing was going, he was nearly deaf in his right ear, but compared to so many men he had come out well and was glad to collect his pay and his share of prize money. When the ship paid off he had taken a coaster for Whitby to see his mother and paid his respects to his father, buried in the parish churchyard these many years.

He might have changed his life then. Might have left the navy and enlisted on a merchantman again. A collier or a fishing boat, which paid reliably, if not particularly well. So why had he returned? There was nothing in Whitby for him. Richmond was being sent out again to the Northern colonies to deliver the official stamped papers and seize Yankee merchantmen suspected of violating the American Revenue act – and because this would more than likely be the frigate’s last cruise before put in ordinary, maybe even scuttled, for she was getting on in years and was in need of a refit. Yet that wasn’t likely to happen. The frigate was his home, his livelihood, his fortress, his mistress. Nae, his wife. He was her gunner, he would serve her to the end of her days.

Dalton entered the powder magazine, dark as a moonless night except for the dim glow from the light room where the lanthorn shone through the glass. The magazine was his battle station; his duty during an engagement was to dole out flannel bags of powder to the runners who supplied the gun crews. As gunner, he was in charge of it all. He was a warrant officer, and the ship’s guns were his pride as surely as if they were his children. Still, he missed the action. Up on the gun deck, now that’s where the thrill was – the ramming, the running out, the command of “Fire!” barely heard over the din – the deafening thunder, the terror, the glory of battle.

The best part of his life was already over. He had a little money saved, not much. He had Lily, who mended his clothes, shared his biscuit, and gave him what a man needs. It was his privilege as a warrant officer to keep a wife aboard, he had received permission. Not that Lily was a church-wed wife; she was a wife simply by habit. Dalton wasn’t even sure how and when Lily had slipped into his bed.

— copyright 2016; Linda Collison

from Yankee Moon; Patricia MacPherson Nautical Adventures