<![CDATA[Great Wits Jump - Consequences of the Past]]>Tue, 14 Oct 2025 00:29:23 -0600Weebly<![CDATA[Consequence of the Past - Part 1]]>Fri, 19 Apr 2019 06:00:00 GMThttp://www.greatwitsjump.com/consequences-of-the-past/consequence-of-the-past-part-1
2 Wooden Sailing Ships on Rough Ocean
“Ship astern, aft starboard,” a voice echoed from aloft.  “Three masts, and runnin’ full!”

Captain Morton grabbed his spyglass and moved to the rail.  Steadying himself against the firm railing he peered toward the horizon and searched for the approaching vessel, hoping his eyes would quickly adjust to the morning glare that was just making its presence known.  He frowned when he finally saw what he was looking for.

“What is it, Captain?”  Mr. Deprior softly spoke by his side.

“It’s her,” he replied, lowering his glass and pondering.  “It’s the Merriam!"


Consequence of the Past
~ Part 1 ~

by Steven C. Gardner

Picture


Early Summer
1787

     She was old, past her prime, yet the timbers held together well as she skimmed with determined purpose atop the dark-green frosted seas.  With sails full, Captain Morton calmly pushed every ounce of speed he dared out of her while maintaining a steady, vigilant course.  The mid eighteenth-century merchant ship obeyed each command with firm familiarity as the Captain corrected for the least deviation, all in an effort to hasten their arrival.  If the weather held, he thought, they could make it, but only just in time.
     “Maintain course, Mr. Deproir,” he sternly stated.  “Watch the crosswinds.”
     “Aye, Captain,” was the first mates reply as he checked the heading and ensured the Coxswain's vigilance.  “We’ll make it in time, sir, I’m sure of it.”
     “Yes,” he firmly answered, keeping his voice as calm as his self-control would allow.  “If fate favors us, we will.”
     The frail merchant ship creaked in protest against the strains it was being tasked to perform as the morning sun began to rise ever so slightly from behind the ships weathered stern.  Looking up, the Captain noticed the grayed canvas sails being attended to by many of his faithful, yet fatigued crew.  With luck, both men and ship would hold
     “Ship astern, aft starboard!” a voice echoed from aloft.  “Three masts, and runnin’ full!”
     Captain Morton grabbed his spyglass and moved to the rail.  Steadying himself against the firm railing he peered toward the horizon and searched for the approaching vessel, hoping his eyes would quickly adjust to the morning glare that was just making its presence known.  He frowned when he finally saw what he was looking for.
     “What is it, Captain?”  Mr. Deprior softly spoke by his side.
     “It’s her,” he replied, lowering his glass and pondering.  “It’s the Merriam.  I suspect she hasn’t spotted us yet.”
     “We’re probably to low on their horizon, protected by the morning darkness,” Mr. Deprior countered.
     “Aye, that is what I suspect as well, but it will not hold for long.”  Closing his eyes, he calculated for speed, shifts in the wind, and distance from their objective, factoring in every nuance he could.  “All hands-on deck!” he commanded, moving towards the Coxswain’s station.  “Slow to starboard, make your heading north by northwest.”
     “Slow to starboard,” the Coxswain replied.  “Make my heading north by northwest, aye.”
     “Furl all sails,” the Captain continued, checking the compass.  “Douse all lights to keep our profile low.”
     The Boatswains mate sprang into action, commanding the crew with the speed of a cannon blast.  “Ye he’rd him, make it quick.”
     With practiced efficiency, the crew sprang to their tasks, each aware of the consequences that lay before them if detected.  Men scrambled up the ratlines and sidled along the footropes that were attached to each yardarm.  The wind was spilled from each sail as the crew hauled on the clew lines rounding them upon their weather braces.  Each man that stood aloft straddled the yard and pulled on their respective reefs in silent unison, drawing the sail towards them, where they were bent or secured to the yards.  As this was being accomplished, others rummaged through the ship ensuring all lamps were doused or portals draped, all except one cabin that no one dared enter or disturb.
     Captain Morton watched with stern appreciation, conscious that his crew was constantly glancing towards the quarterdeck, attempting to assess if their work was acceptable.  He was vigilant of, and had tentatively cultivated, this attitude.  Years of careful crew selection, scrupulous training, and generous incentives had formed an almost paternal bond between them.
     “Sir,” the Boatswain interrupted.  “The fore topsail has given way, an’ several canvas strips have torn.  Might take awhile to repair.”
     Sighing to himself, he wondered what else fate could do to intervene and disrupt their progress.  “Break out the spare but wait till the Merriam’s masts have faded beyond the horizon before hoisting it.”
     “Aye, Capt’n,” he acknowledged, moving off to carry out his orders.
     Walking to the railing, he watched the distant ship plod along.  Time is what they did not have, and patience was not a virtue he possessed easily.
     “Captain,” Mr. Deprior quietly interrupted.  “It may not be my place, but do you think it is time to talk to our,” he paused momentarily, unsure what words to use to describe his thoughts, “our guest?”
     “Awe, yes,” was his reluctant response.  “You are right.  I’ve delayed this long enough.  Inform me immediately if there are any changes.”
     “Captain,” he answered with a nod.
     Abandoning his post, Captain Morton moved toward the officer’s deck.  Since their rushed departure several weeks earlier from the eastern shores of England, he had not spoken privately with their prisoner, who had been confined to quarters, except for the occasional meal with ship’s officers, and a couple of walks around the main deck during calm weather.  It was probably an obvious conclusion to say he had been avoiding this confrontation, steering for ‘other duties’ whenever the subject was subtly suggested by Mr. Deprior, or the ever-vigilant ship’s doctor.  But that time had passed, and if he neglected to grasp the opportunity now it would soon disappear once they arrived in Boston.
     “Good mornin’, Captain,” stated the guard as he approached the cabin below decks.
     “Good morning, Stevens,” he stated.  “How is the prisoner?”
     “Quiet sir,” he said, pointing over his shoulders at the cabin door.  “Not a sound that I could make out.”
     “Good.  I’ll relieve you for a while.  Go topside and get some air.”
     “Aye, Captain,” he replied, reluctantly heading for the active main deck.
Composing himself, Captain Morton took a deep breath. Gently, he knocked on the cabin door. Receiving no answer, he tried again.
     “Mother, are you awake?”
*****
     “Come in, Isaac,” she whispered, slowly rising from the bunk, wrapping the wool blankets tight around her feverish body.  She abhorred sailing.  Avoided the subject at all costs.  Now she found herself facing her worst fears—the ocean and a forced return trip to the once British Colonies of the Americas.
     Isaac entered the small cabin.  She was amazed at the stark change that had taken place in him since she had seen him last, more than eighteen years ago.  The once innocent seventeen-year-old, whose kind, trusting nature had dominated his every feature now stood before her a man full of self-assured confidence.  His above average height contributed to the image of deserved respect, which his crew appeared to give him freely, and just like his father, dominated every aspect of his surroundings.
     “Am I disturbing you?” he stated with an uncomfortable edge to his voice.
     “Yes, but it is your ship, is it not?”
     He moved across the small cabin and covered the window with the drape that loosely hung near by, ignoring her jab.  Then, sat in a small oak chair and rested his arm next to the worn brass washbasin that sat upon a small rustic table.
     “My abduction went quite smoothly.  May I now ask the nature of my imprisonment?”
     As she watched him ponder, she recalled the events that brought her to this point.  It was only seven years before the Colonies proclaimed their unjust independence against England and their sovereign, King George, that she had swiftly left the Americas for her family home in York, England.  The events of seventeen seventy brought pangs of sorrow to her soul, for not only did she lose the home she had so patiently cultivated in the new land, but her husband and son as well.
     “That is an answer I have not been privy to, Mother,” Isaac offered.  “Father—your husband—has adamantly made the request.  Nay, had ‘ordered’ that it be done, and so you are our guest.”
     She watched as he pondered his next comment, disturbed by his almost unflinching controlled demeanor.
     The ship made a sudden role as it seemed to crest a shifting wave and her head began to spin again, still unaccustomed to the ocean's constant influences.  Isaac sat unconcerned from the effects of the ocean.
     “Are you aware of the personal cost of your swift departure,” Isaac inquired with a pained determination.  She noticed a flicker of the past overtake his stern confident demeanor, one that carried some long-hidden memory that she was not privy to.  “There were consequences for us all.”
     “My reasons are mine to live with,” she replied bitterly.  The vast distance of time now seemed only a momentary crossing, and the years of separation slipped from her memory like a mild mid-summer afternoon English rain, at first an irritant but soon replaced by the bright growth of hollyhocks, delphiniums, and peonies that splattered so neatly through her families Yorkshire residence.
     The ship made a sudden turn and Isaac appeared to change from the grown son she both adored and despised, to that ship’s alert Captain.  He rose purposely from the oak chair and began to move toward the cabin door as footsteps rapidly approached from without.
     A firm knock interrupted her thoughts.
     “Excuse me Captain,” an excited voice rasped, “We appear to have a problem.”
     “One moment Mr. Deprior,” he replied, and turned sternly toward her.  She flinched at both the concern and disgust that framed his face.  “We may not have much time for conversation, Mother.  But know this, Father is waiting for your arrival with both trepidation and resolve.  The fate of which I know not, nor the purpose for your return.”
     He swiftly opened the cabin door and departed, latching the lock firmly from without.
     She shivered and pulled the few damp blankets tighter across her chilled shoulders.
*****
     “What is it?”
     “The Merriam, she’s changed course, appears to be doubling back, may have spotted us.”
     As they approached the main deck, Captain Morton immediately noticed the new topsail being hurriedly drawn and secured, and the crew rushing to raise all sails.  The winds were snapping each sheet full as they rose into place and Isaac could feel the exhilaration that began to thrust the old ship forward.  This was the thrill that all Sailors felt, what they dreamed of, the catch that sparked one’s imagination as the ship rushed through and crested each wave, the saltine spray caressing the skin and stroking the deck, energizing both men and ship with the urgency of the adventure that lay before them.
     Quickly assessing their situation, Isaac validated Mr. Deprior’s suspicions of the Merriam’s intentions.
     “Make your tack to the north west, we will match her course and hopefully her speed.”
     “We are but a day’s sail from the harbor.”
     “Yet we may still have to force our way to port, she will gain on us with every wave.”
     “Aye, sir,” Mr. Deprior confirmed.
     The ship crested each wave with urgency, rising and falling with that so familiar rhythm that each sailor fell in step with.  The old ship strained, its timbers vibrating, forging forward, battling the innate tempest that nature persisted to bestow, yet with persistent eagerness she edged forward, determined, unable to admit defeat, too proud to relinquish its rightful place upon the high-seas.  Each wave appeared to grow stronger, and the winds kicked harder at the masts with each breath.
     Then, as she strained, struggled, and endured, the morning sun crested the eastern horizon with a renewed burst, spraying the ocean’s façade with a brilliant sheen of reds and yellows, shimmering violets, pungent orange with a slight taste of turquoise.  Each ship basked for a moment it its newly found warmth, only to be presented with a revealing, fierce bank of dark, black, intangible clouds engulfing their destination to the west.
     The contrast was exhilarating.
     “Patience,” Isaac thought out loud as the Merriam drew closer, “there is always a way.”
     The sails snapped full as the Coxswain shifted the wheel slightly to port, catching the full thrust from the southerly winds and tilting the ship allowing the leeward side to rise.  The ship aggressively slipped across each rising swell.  A pelting rain began to wash the deck, drenching each sailor with its staining, chilled spray, numbing the skin as though possessing each soul it touched.
     The ships drew closer.  The H.M.S. Merriam possessed a smoother line to her keel.  Captain Morton sensed the chase was nearing its climax and constantly peered at their close pursuer.
     Determination, pride, and experience filled Isaac’s thoughts.
     “Mr. Deprior, what is your estimate of when she will be within range?”
     “Suspect sir, about another half hour at the most, yet, if I may interject,” he stated thoughtfully.  “How can her Captain fire upon us?  Our prisoner’s safety and return must be their main objective.”
     “High, Mr. Deprior,” Captain Morton firmly answered.  “She will attempt to disable a mast,” he said pointing upward, “slow our momentum, cripple the rigging, board us and retrieve her.”
     “Aye, but she must know we would tact to port, display our broadside and fire upon her.  We are not divested with the same purpose as they.”
     “Yes, yes, and that is their weakness!” he confirmed, slapping Mr. Deprior on the back.  “Here is what we shall do.”
*****
     Sir Thomas Preston watched with increased impatience, his dull tailored amber doublet, or long-coat, clung to his long linen shirt, moistened by the salt spray as he stood stoically on the bow of the Merriam.  He was a soldier not a sailor, and his last voyage upon these waters still penetrated his soul with a foul taste, and his mood was soiled by the drawn-out chase.  He had lost everything those many years hence, his rank, his dignity, his pride, yet the difference between then and now had changed from being the pursued to the reluctant pursuer.
     The ship, less than half a league ahead of them, was clearly no match in speed to the Merriam, it’s lines lower and deck slightly broader, with sails, though taut, were not as crisp nor fresh.  Yet, something oddly familiar settled through his memory.  Something about the way it moved, it’s look, it’s shape, which carried a baring of familiarity that he had somehow been unable to grasp until now.  It was the Fortunate, an old merchant vessel, the flag ship of his Brother in-law’s fleet, Jonathan Morton.  Who possessed the helm now he knew not, for years take their tole on men whose lives contemplate the vigor’s of the seas, and it was so the last time he laid eyes on Captain Morton.  The only pertinent truth that he could attest to was that his Sister and wife of the said Captain was captive aboard the vessel before him.
     “A poor stinking ship,” he muttered to himself.  “The blight on the soul of my household.”
     He turned from the bow and hurried his way across the length of the ship, a seething stench drawn upon his weathered face.  Those in his path gave way, having felt his wrath since their rapid departure from the eastern shores of the Yorkshire.  With a pained expression Sir Thomas approached the quarterdeck and sternly climbed up the railings.
     “Commander Jenkins!” he spilled.  “It is her!”
     Turning from his conversation with his Lieutenants,  Commander Jenkins eyed him with an air of dismissive irritation, but acknowledge Sir Preston’s intrusion with the proper baring his title requested.
     “Sir,” the Commander questioned, “What is your need?  We are finalizing the approach.”
     “It is her, it is the Fortunate!”
     It took a moment before the naming of the ship came clearly into focus and the meaning finally pieced the puzzle together, a neatly placed circumstance that solved the ‘why’ of the matter.
     “Awe, the story now comes in complete circle.  I know your history in this case.  Is it coincidence?”
     “No, consequence,” Thomas concluded.
     A distant yellow clad of lightening flashed far off to their port side and illuminated the darkened westerly horizon, dampening the seas with its crystal display of sparks that crackled along the breath of its domain.  A low, beating rumble soon followed, bouncing through the hull with the radiance and power of what all knew was a fierce warning from nature of what was to come.
     “Then,” concluded Commander Jenkins, turning quickly back toward his comrades, “let us commence.”
     “All hands to station!” the 1st Lieutenant shouted as the first piercing wave of rain from the approaching storm began to hail upon the deck.
     Sir Preston watched with a slight smile of revenge as their ship rose upon the approaching wave and split the crest, sending a chilled spray along the sides of the fore and main-decks in tune with those of the storm’s front.  The Fortunate in-turn dipped slightly from view, its bulk edged downward as its sails seemed to float independently from the hull.  Each wave brought the Merriam closer to its desired goal and Thomas to a satisfactory finale’.
     Though the safety of his Sister was paramount and her return to civilization was the pursuant goal, he relished in the prospect of defeating this demon before them once again and completing the circle, extracting some resemblance of revenge for his disgrace those many years hence.
     “She’s tacking hard to starboard!” a voice urgently echoed from above.
     All heads turned in disbelief.  Commander Jenkins spouted without thought, “She’ll stall, be breached by the waves, what demons possess’ her helm.”
     With a curious feeling that penetrated his soul, Sir Thomas Preston felt a sudden twist of spite rush through his demeaner, salted, soured, and twisted by the ill winds that rushed possessively about them.  A thought flickered through his mind, that of illusion, deviousness, trickery, something about the fate of his obsession which was about to melt before him.
     As the Merriam began its descent it was obvious that the Fortunate’s tack was indeed straining to starboard as it slipped toward the basin of the well.  All stood astonished at the unpredictable tactic.
     “Hard fifteen degrees to port!” proclaimed the Commander, “We be fools that follow the foolish!”
     Just as their ship began to slip down the wayward side of the churning wave, committing itself to this capricious, insane course of action, the ship before them swiftly sliced back to port, a hard almost dream like maneuver, perfectly timed to allow it’s timbers to slice up the next wave, and sloped just enough to present its angled port side to that of the Merriam’s.
     Several flashes illuminated the storm laden seas, blasts that emanated from the lower hull of the demon vessel that twisted before them.  Clouds of froth puffed from the gun ports of the Fortunate’s side, bellowing upward, slowly dissipating into the rain-mist fog that now drenched both vessels.
     At the same moment, Sir Thomas Preston felt the breath of multiple projectiles passing all around him, scraps of iron, small sharp nails, debris of all types, each burning, whistling past, with a hellish fever and whose only aim was to maim, destroy, and tare to shreds anything that came into its path.  They burst into the railings and planks, splintered the timbers, shredded the main canvas mast, each with a thundering strike that continued to cascade throughout the ship, plunging the surrounding scene into an image of raw evil.  Those about him screamed in terror as they were sliced, muscles torn, flesh devoured, legs and arms mangled, opened wide to the elements, where there was no escape from the on slot of chaos that bled upon the deck.
     Thomas instinctively crouched, his cold shaken hands protectively reached to shield his exposed head, as a chaotic blast hit the steerage on the quarterdeck, evaporating the wheel instantly.  The few Marine’s that stood nearby had their once pristine battle-ready dress lacerated and pierced from their bodies, with men and muskets being thrown fiercely toward the starboard wings, where several were helplessly tossed into the turbulent ocean below.  Fires erupted and began to slip across the deck, each sizzled and cracked with a destructive intent that all sailors knew too well.
     Orders were barked by the few remaining officers, at least by those who had maintained their wits and their lives, all in an attempted façade to save the ship from further destruction, yet all Sir Preston could grasp was a penetrating sense of anger that encapsulated his very being.
     And all he could see was the Fortunate cresting the turbulent swells in the distance, a vail of rain and mist shielding its putrid hull, as it gleefully disappeared and escaped his grasp.
~ End of Part 1 ~
Cast Off to Part 2 of "Consequences of the Past"
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© Copyright 2018 S. C. Gardner
]]><![CDATA[Consequences of the Past - Part 2]]>Fri, 19 Apr 2019 03:38:37 GMThttp://www.greatwitsjump.com/consequences-of-the-past/consequences-of-the-past-part-2
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“Well?” the Captain demanded harshly, an edge of tension radiated from its taut command, while his weary countenance showed the rigors of years at sea, gruff lines that stained his face and marred his character.  The ship’s company stood in forbidding silence, most with confused looks that canvased their faces, while a few seethed in angered anticipation.  “I will ask this only once more, speak or be silenced.”

Smoke continued to bellow from below, seeping through the many cracks and broken planks, making Isaac’s weary eyes water.  His mouth was dry, his skin scorched and swollen from the heat of battle, while his muscles groaned in protest from the scraping ropes that confined him to the mainmast.  Stiffness plagued his bound arms as he sought to keep his footing firm and steady.  His long, matted charcoaled hair stuck roughly to his young neck, his stubbled face caked by sweat as ash and powder floated freely through the air and stuck with a tarnished hiss to his bare back and tense arms.

He remained silent, refusing to answer.  He did what he did and now he must endure the consequences.


Consequence of the Past
~ Part 2 ~

by Steven C. Gardner

Picture


"Mercy On A Storm-Laden Sea"

~ Early Spring, 1771 ~

     The air was swollen with drifting smoke that seeped through the splintered timbers.  The smoldering air was a reminder of the quick, damaging conflict that infected the swaying deck as Isaac tried to keep his last ounce of wits about him.  Both his arms were stretched tight, firmly secured to the mainmast, his backside forcibly stripped of it’s sweat stained shirt.  He felt a chilled breeze slap his skin which forced painful shivers through his drenched body, convulsing to the rhythm of the old wooden merchant ship as it swayed slightly back and forth.
     “Contemplate the answer before you speak,” Captain Morton’s stern yet strained voice echoed from above the quarter deck.  “Speak true.”
     Isaac searched his thoughts in vain for a suitable answer to what had just occurred.  His mind pained with despair, numbed and battered.  “Don’t deny,” he whispered to himself, firmly grasping the ropes as his muscles tightened in anticipation of what was to come.  “Remain true.”
     “Well?” the Captain demanded harshly, an edge of tension radiated from its taut command, while his weary countenance showed the rigors of years at sea, gruff lines that stained his face and marred his character.  The ship’s company stood in forbidding silence, most with confused looks that canvased their faces, while a few seethed in angered anticipation.  “I will ask this only once more, speak or be silenced.”
     Smoke continued to bellow from below, seeping through the many cracks and broken planks, making Isaac’s weary eyes water.  His mouth was dry, his skin scorched and swollen from the heat of battle, while his muscles groaned in protest from the scraping ropes that confined him to the mainmast.  Stiffness plagued his bound arms as he sought to keep his footing firm and steady.  His long, matted charcoaled hair stuck roughly to his young neck, his stubbled face caked by sweat as ash and powder floated freely through the air and stuck with a tarnished hiss to his bare back and tense arms.
     He remained silent, refusing to answer.  He did what he did and now he must endure the consequences.
     The Captain placed his trembling hands behind his back.  His blackened red breasted trimmed coat was as stiff as he was, a worn broad three pinned hat sat squarely on his thinly covered graying head, and a small lick of soot covered his normally spit-shined boots.  He nodded towards the chief boatswains’ mate, who in turn raised a palm and turned with an unspoken order to the ship’s carpenter, who crisply cracked the knotted cattails making the entire crew jump unexpectedly.
     “Captain Morton,” the first officer spoke, just loud enough so the rest of the ship’s company could hear this breech in protocol, yet almost in a whisper, “he’s your son!”
     “Hold your tongue, Mister Jacobs,” was the hardened but subdued response.  “Keep your place.”
     The trill of the snare drum rolled through the air as the stunned crew stood in morbid silence.  It was too sudden, too hasty, and too harsh.  The ship was broken, torn from bow-to-stern, crippled, fractured, and in need of immediate care.  The call to stop all repairs’ and stand-too made no sense.  Yet, even though the battered deck was strewn with debris, she still floated, at least for the moment, and one of their shipmates was about to pay the price for this tragedy.
     The Captain remained stiff and expressionless as he stood upon the swaying quarterdeck.  Though defeated in battle, Isaac knew his father was still determined, and duty bound, to maintain ships order, even at his own son’s expense.
     Bracing himself, Isaac clung tighter to the ropes that secured him in anticipation of the cattails sting.  Beads of sweat began to roll down his face making his already chilled body quiver uncontrollably.  Glancing to starboard, he saw the fading sails of the escaping ship slip beyond the cloud-covered horizon.  Lightening from the approaching storm seemed to encase its hull as it safely disappeared, while his ship, or his father’s ship, lay at the mercies of the coming storm-laden seas.
     The drum stopped.
     His senses tightened as sounds became more prominent.  His world slowed with each heartbeat.  He could hear the drawn-out swish of the whip as it flicked back, accompanied by a barely audible gasp from the ship’s company.  With frightened anticipation he took one drawn-out breath, then, nervously exhaled.  The ship swung slowly to port as the electrified snap from the lash reached its vertex and proceeded with haste toward its goal.  Then, with the force of thunder, it struck.
     Pain roared through his body.  Every nerve was alert and filled with agony.  His body screamed.  His mind shot back to memories past, searching for some path to escape too.
*****
     “Isaac,” he heard a soft voice call, an echo heard ages ago.  “Isaac, will you come here please?”
     “Coming Mother,” he replied, placing the heavy leather-worn, yet recently printed 1765 ship’s rigging manual aside and proceeded to the common room.
     He could feel his mother’s intense lite blue eyes watching him as he strolled in through the high beamed oak entrance.  She often stated that like his father he possessed a natural air of command, with self-confidence beaming from his untried yet enthusiastic walk.  But unlike his father, he was outwardly calm, gentle and understanding, traits that would serve him well or prove to be his undoing.  His mother often described his character as amiable, stating that it would change as time and experience set in, just as it had with his father.
     “Your Uncle will be coming over for supper,” she said, setting her knitting cloth down and rubbing her sore hands.  “Will you greet him warmly when he arrives?”
     “Shall I load the muskets now, Mother,” he stated with a mischievous smile, “you know what is going to happen.”
     “Yes,” she replied nervously.  “Nevertheless, with tensions as they are lets not provoke them further.”
     He shrugged his shoulders.  It was ironic that a family so split, so divided over tensions here in Boston, could even ponder sitting down at the same table.  Then to throw his Uncle into the mix was like placing a smoldering fuse on a dry powder keg.  He chuckled; it would definitely be an interesting evening.
     His Mother stood, her warm evening dress rustled smoothly along the hardwood floor, as she walked over to her son.  The room was lit by the crackling glow from the fireplace, accompanied only by a small oil lamp she used near the sewing table.  Placing a gentle hand upon his arm, she looked deep into his eyes with a worried subdued look that sent a chill through him.
     “What is it,” he asked.
     “It is nothing you need fear,” she replied.  “Just be careful this evening.  You’re Father doesn’t inform me about his whereabouts lately, and I suspect he may be involved with those who seek to force the colonies toward insurrection.”
     “He is only thinking of our future.”
     “No!”  She exclaimed.  “He is steering us towards trouble!”
     “Mother,” he responded urgently.  He paused and took a deep breath, then continued.  “I know where your devotions lie, and father’s.  But why evoke it.”
     “Your father has been at sea a long time,” she timidly stated.  “He rarely comes home, and when he does, he spends much of his time assisting those provocative friends of his.  Your Uncle is coming over to try and persuade him from the danger of his actions, and how he has put us all in harms way.”
     “You mean Uncle Thomas is in a sticky situation, being who he is.”
     “That too.  His position in the British Army demands a sense of propriety that your father flaunts.  I’m concerned for you as well, Isaac.”
     He sighed and watched as his mother faded back into her own thoughts.  ‘She knows where my sympathies fall,’ he thought.  ‘But does she know where my loyalties are?’
     “Will you go and inform your father of your Uncle’s arrival,” she asked returning to the sewing table.  Then, with an air of sarcasm, “I’m sure you know where he is.”
     “Yes, Mother,” he obediently replied.
     Leaving the room, he retrieved his short heavy p-coat from the peg near the front door, given to him by Mr. Jacobs, his father’s first-mate, as a reward after Isaac’s first full voyage to Britain and back last summer.  Pulling up the collar, he stepped through the old oak door and was instantly entangled by a horde of large snowflakes falling from the gloomy Boston sky.  His breath instantly fogged as he stuffed his hands deep inside his coat pockets.  Walking down the slick, snow packed steps, he passed through the open iron-gate and headed for the Grossman’s Inn where his father was enjoying the company of those his mother so prominently disapproved of.
     As he walked down the path towards the square, his thoughts wondered, recalling what had brought his parents to this crossroads.
     When he was younger, his mother would tell fond stories of her days growing up in the pastoral countryside of York, England.  Her father owned a rather substantial estate outside the town’s eastern boundaries, handed down from father to son for as far back as could be remembered, and she had grown up in a world free from the turmoil she now found herself entranced in.
     Grandfather Preston had been posted to the American colonies early in the spring of 1752, before the conflict with the French had escalated into all out war.  He brought mother over with him, after Isaac’s grandmother had passed away several years earlier, and left her with relatives in Boston while he was posted to the interior at Fort Duquesne, along the Ohio River.  Mother had met and married father only seven months after their arrival in the Massachusetts colony, and without grandfather’s consent, something, which Isaac found out later, caused great concern to this highly traditional British military family.
     “Aristocratic breeding factories,” his father would crudely comment to Isaac behind his mother’s back on occasion.
     Isaac’s father, on the other hand, was born to serve the sea.  His ancestry was from puritan, sea-fearing stock going back to the founding of the Massachusetts Colonies.  Everyone from his grandfather, father, brothers, uncles, and cousins were associated in some capacity or another to this trade.  Strict in his duty, fiercely independent, and extremely loyal to the land of his birth, he portrayed both the image and the myth of what it meant to be a Captain in command of a Merchant ship.  Isaac himself was being primed for this position, a choice he had not seriously considered until recently.
     Kicking at several small snowdrifts that lined the decorative metal fence railings he walked passed, Isaac thought of his mother and how she remained loyal to her upbringing as well, extraordinarily faithful to King and Country.  He knew this was not an uncommon attitude here in Boston, at least until after the end of the war with France back in sixty-three.  For some incomprehensible reason, Isaac thought, as if attempting to stamp out all feelings of good will towards the mother country, King George, along with a conspiring Parliament, began enacting land and taxation laws in some unfathomable attempt to control the colonies.
     The cool afternoon winter air continued to coat him in large flakes of snow as he finally approached his destination.  He loved days like this where the snow rained down and drenched the ground, blanketing it in an attempt to subdue the muddy winter streets that usually lay before him.  For some unknown reason his thoughts peacefully drifted towards the future, where a career stood waiting for him, a future planned, mapped out and prepared, that is if he chose it.  ‘What would that future bring?’ he pondered.
*****
     Each lash ripped into his skin as welts instantly formed, bathing his back in moist strips of blood.  His thoughts clouded while his body instinctively tensed, preparing for the next strike.  Then, as abruptly as it began, it stopped, and everyone was silent.
     Isaac gasped for air.
     “Ahoy,” a faint voice called from high above in the crow’s nest.  “Strong waves a bearin’ down from starboard aft!”
     “All hands lay too,” the Captain instantly shouted.  “Bark the foresail, then stand ready to raise the mizzen-mast on my command.”
     “Aye-aye Capt’n,” the boson replied, then turned and shouted at the still stunned crew.  “Ye heard him, up the riggin’ with ya!  And make them buntlines taut!”
     Without further hesitation the crew responded as the first howls from the approaching storm breached the deck of the ship.  The ship tilted slightly, swaying to the power of the oncoming forces.
     Turning towards his first mate, Captain Morton quietly nodded in the direction of his son.
     “Aye Captain,” Mr. Jacobs responded with equal subtlety, then hurried down to the main deck.  Quickly he cut the ropes to Isaac’s bindings and caught his limp body before it fell.  With the assistance of a petrified cabin boy, he managed to get Isaac below decks and into his own private quarters.  “Boy, get me the salve from the galley, and be quick about it.”
     When they were alone, Mr. Jacobs asked, “Why did you do it Isaac?”  Tears began to form down his weathered cheeks.  “Your own Father’s ship, and the enemy bare before us.”
     Painfully he whispered, “I only did it to save him.”  The ship seemed to jump in response, emphasizing the seriousness of his words.
     “To save him?” Jenkins responded with wounded shock.  “Captain Preston has brought nothing but disgrace to your father, and to this ship’s company.  Why would you protect him?”
     “No, not my uncle,” came Isaac’s weak reply.  “To save my father.”
     Isaac’s world began to spin as the ship was slammed by both wind and waves.  For an instant it felt as if all control was lost, then under the protesting mourns of the timbers, she turned slowly towards a purposeful direction.  The frail ship jumped the foam-frosted seas and began running with the wind, yet all Isaac could feel in his delirium was the frightened tones of a hopeless battle that could only result in tragedy.  He remembered the events that brought him to this point and the last several nights that he saw his Uncle.
*****
     “Boston is being choked because of its own insolence; must we continue to labor the point…”
     “Captain Preston, I believe in the rights of the Colonies,” Isaac’s father interrupted, pushing his dinner plate briskly to the center of the polished oak table.  “The King is damning himself by his own suppressive laws!”
     “Nay, sir,” Isaac’s uncle replied, resting one elbow upon the table and leaning closer, “it is the colonists that lack any regard for the laws.  They rally in the streets like dogs in heat panting at every new decree that wonders by, no matter how favorable, as if it’s a sore thorn in their sides.”
     “Thomas,” his Mother finally interceded, giving her brother a disapproving look.  He breathed a slow submissive sigh and leaned back in his chair.  Turning to address her husband, she continued, “Jonathan,” she paused momentarily, “is it not better to remain calm.  Trouble only follows those who provoke it.”
     “To remain silent is to submit to the injustice that now surrounds us.”
     “I must agree with Thomas,” Isaac’s Mother forcefully stated.  “To speak in such a way will only bring misfortune upon us.  You’re targeting yourself and subjecting us all to the King’s indignation.”
     “We are not the prize,” his father said dismissively, “my voice is insignificant.”
     “That may be true,” Thomas interjected.  “But by the company you associate with your name has been whispered to those who can cause this family trouble.”
     “Are you insisting, sir, that we are in peril!”
     “Nay, as far as my sources tell me—or don’t tell me—you are safe, for now.  It is for my Sister’s sake that I am here.  Be cautious is all I am insisting on.”
     “How can one be cautious with the imminent threat of a storm approaching.  Action, not patience, is what is needed.”
     Isaac watched with mild interest, having heard his mother labor this same cautionary point many times.  Attempting to divert the conversation, Isaac interjected, “Excuse me Uncle Thomas, I’ve been told that your regiment will be billeting more soldiers soon.  Will that affect our family?”
     “Most likely, yes,” Captain Preston responded, looking towards his sister.  “But I suspect arrangements can be made as needed.”  His mother nodded in agreement, while his father only glared.  He continued, “It can only be hoped that this futile insurrection can be averted.”
     “Sir?” his father instantly chimed in.  “Insurrection?”
     “Poor choice of words, I’ll grant.  But tensions, it seems, still remain high.  It is a precautionary tone only.  But I speak too freely,” he concluded rising from the table tucking at his red British uniform.  “It is late, and I must be going.”
     With practiced ease, Uncle Thomas turned and said his farewells, then proceeded toward the door.  His father remained seated, lost in thought, his face stern and tense.  Mother noticed the mood and quickly escorted her brother to the door, whispering to him quietly.  She handed him a note when she knew father’s attention was diverted elsewhere.  Isaac saw the exchange and wondered.
     “Isaac,” his father quietly spoke, his tone serious, “We leave in a fortnight, ensure your gear is in order.”
     “Aye, father, all will be ready.”
     “Mr. Jacobs needs your help securing the cargo.  I’ve ordered extra powder and shot for the cannons.”
     Instantly attentive, he averted his gaze and focused on the underlying message of his father’s request, while noticing how his appearance had aged in the past year.  His neatly trimmed beard had grayed, which added a touch of thoughtfulness to his demeanor, while his tanned skin cast a more weathered look, beaten after years of traveling the open seas.  He was hardened, both inside and out, a fate Isaac wished not to emulate.  Yet, there was something bothering him that had softened his gruff personality.  Something Isaac could not grasp.
     “Isaac,” his father interceded his thoughts, “be watchful this voyage.  There is much adrift and…”
     Mother re-entered the room, which instantly silenced any further private conversation between Isaac and his Father.  She looked tired, almost distressed, like something beyond this night’s conversation was bothering her.  With keen interest he watched her pensive, distant look, wondering what events were taking place that he was not privy to.  With tired resigning eyes, she looked toward her husband.
     “Jonathan,” she whispered, “I’m afraid.”
     “As you should be,” his father responded, still deep in his own thoughts.  “As we all should be.”
     “Is it that serious?” she asked.
     With a resigning sigh, he looked up.  “There are those who feel a choice is about to be thrust upon us, that the colonies must become independent.  Open conflict may be inevitable.  Tis’ a shame.”
     “Yes,” she responded quietly, “it is indeed a shame.”
     The rest of the evening waned on in strained silence, each left to contemplate and ponder the choices that lay ahead.  Isaac was unsure what those choices were.
     As the days passed, Isaac was kept busy preparing for the upcoming voyage.  The responsibility of ensuring all was stowed safely in the ship’s hull was his to oversee, while Mr. Jacobs watched closely, advising and instructing as the need arose.  It was long, tiring work, a task he enjoyed.  Soon the Abigail would be readied, cast to sea and another venture begun, fraught with unforeseen struggles.  He enjoyed the prospect and was beginning to relish the thought of the coming voyage.
     It was late one evening, only a few days before taking to sea, with only the ship’s stores left to load when Isaac decided to spend the evening at home.  Walking through the snowy streets of Boston, lit by the glow of the rising moon and by the brightened candles from the various shops and taverns that dotted his path, he passed through several avenues and began crossing King Street when he heard shouts near the Custom House.  Curious, he walked toward the commotion and found himself at the rear of an angry crowd that appeared to be taunting a lone British sentry posted there.
     “Damned rascally scoundrel,” one shouted as the small crowd became larger, pushing their way closer toward the sentry. 
     “Tis’ my ground and I’ll keep it,” the sentinel barked.  “An I’ll run any-of-ya through who try an’ moless me!”
     Looking around, Isaac spotted one of his father’s mates, and forced his way over to him.  “What’s happening here, Mr. Caldwell,” Isaac shouted.
     “Awe, Isaac,” he replied.  “The sentry there has bludgeoned one of the boy’s with the butt of his musket.  He’ll pay for it if I have a say.”
     Sensing the rising tension, Isaac moved away from the crowd and positioned himself atop a stone fence to get a better look.  The angered colonists numbers quickly grew to thirty and their tempered attitudes became more agitated.  The sentinel was now assisted by several other soldiers, along with the company of a few sympathetic colonists who seemed to be pleading with the assembly to calm itself.  The nearby church bells began to ring, usually sounded as an alarm for fire, but which now brought out more restless and bewildered citizens, adding to the already swelling mob.
     As the gathering became more agitated, Isaac saw his Uncle rushing toward the Custom House accompanied by seven British soldiers from his regiment.  Pushing their way through, several of them forcefully ordered the crowd to, “Make way!”  With muskets raised and bayonets fixed, they prodded those in their path, forcing them to give ground as they mustered near the sentinel’s position.
     With sword in hand, his uncle appeared to survey the crowd, trying to determine the mood of the growing assembly.  He wore a red military coat and a regimental silver laced hat that smartly fit his large height and commanding frame, a purposeful attempt at intimidation.  His determined gaze frowned in disgust as he formed and readied his troops.
     The chatter from the growing crowd echoed through the crisp air as several sticks and clubs were waved in angered protest.  The throng taunted the newly arrived soldiers by pressing close to their formation, shouting base and odious insults, causing uneasiness amongst the ranks.
     “Come on you rascals, fire if you dare,” could be heard.
     “Fire and be damned,” another shouted, “We know you dare not!”
     Someone close shouted at his Uncle, “For heaven’s sake, take care of your men!  For if they fire you must be answerable.”
     “I am sensible of it,” was his uncle’s grated reply.
     Then, as if on queue, several snowballs flew from the rear of the assembly splattering in several places around the British line.  One found its mark and slammed into the head of a soldier who was turned and unprepared for its arrival.  He jerked in anger, raised his musket, and fired.  At the same time, Isaac heard from his right, away from the crowd, shouts of “Fire, fire!”  The soldiers heard it as a command to discharge their weapons upon the crowd.  A few seconds later, several more shots rang out, echoing through the shocked colonists.
     A large mulatto man that had been near the front of the colonist’s rank instantly grasped at his chest and fell lifeless to the snowy ground.  Another round of muskets fired and Isaac saw Mr. Caldwell plunge face first in the snow as he attempted to flee, the back of his coat growing red as he fell.  Another man staggered a short distance away as the crowd now fled and stumbled in panic.  Then a third volley sounded and several more colonists were hit, some collapsed where they stood, while others fled in a tangled attempt towards safety.
     “Fire no more!” his Uncle shouted, “Fire no more, you have done mischief enough.”

The Boston Massacre
March 5th,  1770

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Sail on to "The Final Consequence"
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]]><![CDATA[Consequences of the Past - Part 3]]>Wed, 17 Apr 2019 06:00:00 GMThttp://www.greatwitsjump.com/consequences-of-the-past/consequences-of-the-past-part-3
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     With a few moments to spare, Isaac retrieved the envelope from his pocket, broke the seal, and read its contents.  Panic etched his face.  Shoving the letter back into his pocket, he retrieved his spyglass and raced to a small port nearby.  Carelessly, he flung it opened, raised his glass, and peered out at the approaching sloop.

     “No, please,” he slowly mumbled to himself.  “Don’t be…”


Consequence of the Past
~ Part 3 ~

by Steven C. Gardner

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"The Final Consequence"

Early Summer ~ 1771


     Isaac woke from his restless sleep and found himself lying on his stomach, his exposed back burned from the open wounds that throbbed and twitched relentlessly.  He was alone in the cabin and could feel the bow of the ship rise, crest the sea-swollen waves, and rapidly fall, sending a shudder through the ship’s hull.  Occasionally, he heard shouts from the crew above as they battled the storm, attempting to force the ship to respond to their efforts.
     Chilled and feverish, he slowly sat up, willing his body to ignore the stabbing pains that wrestled through his arms and shoulders.  Reaching for a wool blanket from the foot of the bunk, he carefully wrapped it around his swollen back, gently applying it to his scraped skin.  He wrenched as the fabric pricked at his wounds but was soon satisfied by the warmth it brought.  Looking about the cabin, he spotted a flask draped across the foot of the bunk and quickly quenched his thirst.
     His thoughts wondered, recalling the angered and confused shouts from the battle that raced through his mind.  He pictured the quick volley that brought so much destruction to the ship and the actions that resulted in the pains he now suffered.  ‘Why had fate turned so suddenly,’ he thought, ‘why had it turned on me?’
*****
     “Ship ahoy, two points off the port side,” came an echoed cry from Isaac’s memory as he relived the past once more.  Events that were now freshly stained upon his mind, ingrained into his very being, and torn into his now welting flesh.
     The Captain had turned from watching the steady breeze, retrieved his spyglass from behind the coxswain, and pointed it towards the new arrival.  Isaac was on the main deck, repairing several of the spare foresails, as he noticed his father’s concentration harden.  After several minutes of gazing to port, his father turned and whispered a few commands to Mr. Jacobs, who had been patiently waiting by his side.  Nodding in agreement, he turned toward the Coxswain.
     “Five degrees to port, slow and steady,” he called.
     “Five d’gree to port,” was the reply, “slow and steady, aye.”
     Isaac retrieved his spyglass from his pouch lying close by and moved toward the port railing to get a better view.  Though still a ways off, he tried to identify the approaching boat.  He noticed that the ship looked like a two-master, probably a sloop, definitely British, running full sail and in a hurry.  It was obvious that his father’s intentions were to lie close to the approaching vessel.
     He noticed Mr. Jacobs leaning over the railing of the Quarterdeck softly speaking to the Boatswain, who also nodded in agreement.  Several of the crew noticed the exchange as well.
     “Suppose this is the one we’re after,” one commented.
     “Could be,” came the reply.  “Not many ships about this time of year.  It was luck indeed that we came upon her.”
     “Aye, t’was indeed.  An’ with a storm comin’ in as well.  Might be tricky sailin’.”
     In answer to their question, the Boatswain called all hands to stand-to.  The crew assembled with an excited air of anticipation as mingled conversations swept through the main deck.  For months, the crew had been preparing for this moment, hoping and planning to extract revenge for their fallen shipmates. 
     “Quiet now,” the Boatswain ordered, “the Capt’n wants to say a few words.”
     Isaac’s father slowly approached the railing and surveyed the stern faces below.  With unaccustomed bravado, he placed his hands purposefully behind his back and addressed the crew.
     “You are all aware,” he began, “why we are here and what risks we are about to undertake.  Do not let the depth of your resolve be dwarfed by the odds for success.  With subterfuge we shall approach, with guile we shall open our guns upon them, and with determined force of will we shall breech the foes defenses and claim redemption!”
     With restless conviction, the crew murmured in agreement.
     “Lay the balls in em’,” someone shouted.
     “They’ll pay this day, Capt’n,” responded another
     “Remember, we cannot avenge our fallen shipmates by our actions this day,” Captain Morton continued as a respectful silence met his words.  “No, it is not about that.  We fight for the sea and the right to sail upon her.”
     They cheered and nodded in agreement.
     “Aye, Captain,” they roared.
     “Remember, if this be the ship, she carries those who are to blame back to England, in an attempt to dismantle justice,” he stated with determination.  “We seek no payment from those who sail her, only respect from those who wish to abuse her passage.  It may be a desperate act we undertake, but fairness shall prevail.”
     As the crew’s convictions peeked into firm resolve, Isaac noticed Mr. Jacobs motioning him to come up to the Quarterdeck.  While he maneuvered his way forward, Isaac thought of the upcoming conflict and the events that brought them to this moment.  Could the demise of those soldiers settle the uncertain pains of justice that occurred on that cool, clear night back in Boston?  He had no answers, nor quite understood all the reasoning that brought them to this point.  Yet, he was determined to accomplish the tasks he had been given and prove himself a member of this crew.
     “Isaac,” Mr. Jacobs said quietly while pulling him over to the side railing, “what do you make of her?”
     “She appears fast, probably carrying twelve to fourteen guns, light eighteen pounders’ maybe, but could be twenty-fours.”
     “And the crew?”
     “Seventy or eighty, most likely.”
     “Aye, I’d agree as well,” Mr. Jacobs replied as he raised his glass and focused on the approaching ship.  “Do you think your Uncle is on that ship?”
     He thought for a moment, conflicted by the circumstances that placed him in this position.  “I hope not.”
     “Isaac,” Mr. Jacobs continued, lowering his glass.  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope.  “I was told to give you this note if he was.”  Then, turning back toward the crew, he shouted, “It’s her, Captain.  It’s the Webster!”
     “Quietly now,” the Captain ordered, “All hands to station.”
     Stuffing the unread letter into his breast pocket, Isaac proceeded to his battle station, as everyone stealthily did the same, hoping not to arouse the suspicions from the approaching vessel.  He made his way aft to the Gun-deck, located one level down, by crossing the main deck toward the stern of the ship.  Entering the forecastle—where the crew was quartered—he climbed down the stairwell and gained access to the foremost cannon. 
     Since this was a merchant ship, she was not specifically designed to carry large amounts of armament.  Yet, she was fitted with eight twelve-pound, and two eighteen-pound cannons, and carried one small caliber weapon on the bow for close range firing.  An unusual configuration for a ship of her type, but the modifications had been intentionally built in during construction at the insistence of Isaac’s father years ago.
     Slowly, the cannon was run out towards the closed gun-hatch, then the quill tube was placed in the vent and the gunlock cocked.  The hatch would remain closed until the last second to disguise their true intentions.  Isaac had assisted in drawing the cannon out and would help pull the tackle that would open the gun-hatch when the command was given.
     With their task complete, the others dashed to the starboard guns to prepare them incase they were needed.  Isaac remained at his post, along with the gun-captain, whose charge was to pull the lanyard and fire the weapon.  The other crews along the gun-line were doing the same.
     With a few moments to spare, Isaac retrieved the envelope from his pocket, broke the seal, and read its contents.  Panic etched his face.  Shoving the letter back into his pocket, he retrieved his spyglass and raced to a small port nearby.  Carelessly, he flung it opened, raised his glass, and peered out at the approaching sloop.
     “No, please,” he slowly mumbled to himself.  “Don’t be…”
     He froze as his attention focused on the command deck of the HMS Webster.  The ship was about five hundred yards off the port bow and closing fast.  He spotted the blue royal uniforms of several of its officers, who were watching his ship with the same intensity that he was theirs.  That is when he spotted him.  Tall and proud in his red dress uniform, his Uncle stood adamantly conversing with several of the deck officers.
     With only moments to spare, Isaac made his decision.  Dread and despair soaked through him as he raced over to the cannon and fiercely yanked the lanyard, triggering the firing hammer to slam shut.  With a thunderous clap, the ball spat out the barrel and slammed through the closed gun-port, sending hot smoke and wood splinters everywhere.  At the same moment, the cannon recoiled with such intensity that it clipped Isaac and sent him sprawling against the bulkhead.
     Chaos erupted throughout the deck as the ship rocked slightly to starboard, while those who were close to the blast tried to recover from the shock.  Without warning, the ship rocked hard to port sending those not sure of foot slipping across the unsteady deck, along with anything else that was not secured or bolted down.  The turn seemed to last an eternity, causing the timbers to creak and mourn to the strains they were put under.
     Several muffled cannon blasts erupted, swiftly followed by one of the balls penetrating through the forward starboard bulkhead and exploded next to a flannel powder bag, sending men and debris haphazardly flying through the air.  Smoldering fires spread throughout the deck and those who were able fought to subdue their effect.
     Isaac was stunned, unable to raise himself from the deck, while his head continued to feel the repercussions from the blasts.  Looking around, he saw several of the crew looking at him with disdain.
     “Why’d he do that,” he heard one ask contemptuously.
     “What you expect from a bloody loyalist,” another replied angrily.
     Several more cannon blasts echoed through the air.  Isaac felt his head spin and sway uncontrollably as he limply collapsed on the deck and passed out.
*****
     The Captain stood with his hands held tight behind his tired back, looking toward the east, as the dawn began to glow through the dissipating clouds.  With the storm past, the battle lost, and his son defamed below, he felt nothing but pure exhaustion.  Nothing made sense.
     They had fought the storm through the night with shattered determination.  With the main mast damaged and the rigging on several of the sails torn beyond repair, they stitched what they could and tried to maintain a true bearing until the turbulent winds and waves ran their course.  Below decks was awash with debris and would only be salvaged by a trip to the shipyard.  They were fortunate that none had died, though several were in serious condition, while many more had sustained wounds that would take weeks or months to recover from.
     “Captain Morton,” a voice softly spoke from behind.  “Captain, I believe you should see this.”
     “What is it, Mr. Jacobs,” he replied without turning.
     “Sir, we found a letter amongst Isaac’s clothing that you should read.”
     “I…cannot,” he spoke.  “Will you read it?”
     “It is not my place,” was the shaken reply.  “You should…”
      “Please, sir,” the Captain slowly, but firmly insisted.
     There was a moment’s hesitation, followed by the sound of rustling paper.  Mr. Jacobs nervously coughed, paused, and then began to read aloud the note in his tired, soiled hands.
     “Isaac, my son,” he read.  “I hope all is well with you, and your father.  It is with a troubled hand that I write this letter, but with the wish you respect my decision and console your father.  With the recent conflicts in the colonies and the rebellious dispositions that forced the tragedy here in Boston, I do not feel…”
     He stuttered, to shocked and self-conscious to continue.  The Captain seemed to stiffen, sensing the outcome.
     “…I do not feel it is safe to remain here,” he continued to read.  “If you are reading this note, then you are aware that your Uncle is aboard the ship you are approaching or have just encountered.  I will be on that ship as well, sailing back to my home, my family’s home in England…”
     “That is enough, Mr. Jacobs,” he softly spoke.
     “Yes, sir,” was the reply as he quietly folded the letter and removed himself.
     Waves broke upon the bow of the ship, as it rose slightly, then rhythmically descended.  A slight breeze filled the air, causing the many torn canvas strips to flap slowly, as the ship pitched back and forth.  The sun crested the horizon and streaked through the clouds, calmly lighting the morning sky.  Another day had begun, as another ended.
*****

Boston Harbor

Early Spring, 1787


     Jonathan Morton stood stoically upon the dock, his demeanor passive, an expression of firm control radiating from his appearance, a man who was respectfully given the distance a person of his importance required by those who labored all around him ensuring the Fortunate’s mooring lines were properly secured.  His thick gray coat clung to his stout frame with tailored purpose as he scrutinized the upper deck of the ship in anticipation of what was to come.      His outward façade was calm and determined, but internally he was a fluid of mixed emotions, unsure of the moment, where once the act had seemed so purposeful now appeared fallacious and reckless.
     The years of separation had been a spear in his side.  No counter could pierce the ache that festered the wounds of his emotions.  Yet, he had learned determined control and darkened the swell of grief and replaced it with an indignant and veracious appetite in the success of his shipping enterprises.  Once he was respected for his skills as a navigator, a man who had fought for this youthful country, it’s grown independence, a Sea Captain of praised qualities and sure-footed determination.  Now his fleet of merchant ships spanned the horizon even beyond his expectations and dreams, which had granted him the status in a social class that was more to his long-separated wife’s qualities then his own.
     His son, Isaac, appeared near the railing on the quarterdeck above him, proudly attired, hands clasped firmly behind his back.  They made eye contact for a moment.  A clouded spark played between them, grown from that day so many years hence.  Father and Son they once were, but now distant associates, whose aims were as diverse as the English King’s and Lord’s that once controlled the America’s.
     A sturdy gang plank was hoisted to the railing of the Fortunate, and moments later she appeared.  Jonathan Morton impulsively gasped.
*****
     Isaac watched passively from above.  Two Marine’s stood attentive, several respectful paces behind his Father, which confirmed one of Isaac’s suspicions for the clandestine purpose of this voyage.  Hard was the man that stood below on the congested dock, a piercing look earned from years of apparent spite and bitterness that seemed to control the man’s every movement.  It trailed him like ghostly sprites wherever he went.  Yet, as his Mother approached the gangplank, his Father’s visage suddenly gave way to an impulsive expression of surprise, a yearning, a hopeful look that had not covered the man in over a decade.
     His Mother seemed to hesitate, looking about, unsure of what lay before her, then she too spotted her husband.  Isaac could not see her expression, nor judge the thoughts that she was harboring, he could only watch as she slowly descended toward the dock below.  The stiffness that usually fell upon his Father appeared to drift and surrender to the emotion of this forced reunion.
     As she reached the bottom of the plank, his Father appeared to say a few quiet words that were indistinguishable to Isaac through the noise that surrounded them.  Holding out his hand, almost pleadingly, an apologetic gesture that slid away the years of separation between them.  His Mother began to sob as his Father embraced her comfortingly, as she dissolved into his grasp.
     “Not what I had expected,” Mr. Deprior gestured with a shrug.
     “Yes,” Isaac quietly replied.
     As his Mother and Father began to move away from the ship, Isaac felt the sudden pangs from the scars that laced his back, memories that now carried a new meaning.
     Turning from the scene below, Isaac announced with an uplifted voice, “I want the ship ready to clear the docks in three days.”
     “Aye, Aye, Captain,” Mr. Deprior acknowledged with a smile.  “As you wish.”
     “She’s old,” Isaac concluded.  “But still has some life left in her.”

~ The End of Consequences of the Past ~
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