Great Wits Jump

Consequences of the Past - Part 2

4/18/2019

“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

"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.”