Great Wits Jump

Consequences of the Past - Part 3

4/17/2019

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

"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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