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