Consequence of the Past - Part 1

“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!"

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Consequence of the Past
~ Part 1 ~

by Steven C. Gardner

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 ~

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Cast Off to Part 2 of "Consequences of the Past"

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© Copyright 2018 S. C. Gardner