Another cheat.

In what may be a vain attempt to stave off the reboot's
eventual demise I'm posting another Fiction Friday thing. 

I had the idea to put a spin on one of the legendary 'Ghost Ship" tales, the Mary Celeste.  In my telling I imagined a man fleeing the New World and returning to Europe. During the voyage he was to transform both literally and figuratively into a monster. I hadn't yet decided on his fate, werewolf, vampire, homicidal psychopath or something taking an entirely new form, and would be either responsible for the disappearance of the crew, or the only surviving witness.

What follows is all that remains, every time I tried to get the main character into the violence we needed to tell the story, he flat out poo-poohed the idea. I tried to steer him in gently, force him in with a stick, coerce him in through the back door. Each time he basically told me to go screw myself, he was a proper gentleman and couldn't be bothered to act in such an atrocious manner. Either I'm too good at creating strong characters, or, more likely, not strong enough to impose my will and dominance. I don't really know how many attempts I made, several to be sure. Each ended in a fight between a fictional monster and his Frankenstein creator. None of the vain attempts survived the ire of the delete button. It's probably a good thing.

Mary's Curse.

©2009

November the sixth, 1872.
The night wind was cold and biting, heavy with moisture from the bay. A cold wind blew in from the north, singing in the lines and rigging overhead. The threat of snow seemingly diminished for the evening as that same night breezes broke up the clouds and pushed them on. The cold chilled me to my very bones. The exhalations of my breath were visible in the pale moonlight of Luna, waxing towards her first quarter as she attempted to peer out from behind the veils of the dissipating clouds. I made my way quietly down the darkened quay, trying to remain unobtrusive in the shadows along the side of the warehouse. A little brigantine rocked gently at her moorings near the head of the pier. The hawsers that bound her fast to the quay murmured as they alternately slackened and tensioned. That would be Benjamin’s vessel and my transport across the Atlantic Ocean. The embers of a sentry’s pipe flared briefly, glowing red, as its owner inhaled. Through the cover of darkness, I could barely make out his silhouette as he stood solitary watch near the head of the gangboard. In a voice both soft and low, I asked permission to board. 

“Ja, velkommen meester Kelly. Pleeze kom ombord zir. Jeg er zecond mate Gilling. Rikardzon zed you come, ja? Kaptajnen Briggs zed you to have Rikardzon’s cab’n. Pleeze, dis way ja.” His accent was thick and heavy from the Nordic climes of the old world and his ancestors had probably sailed in ships that bore names like Yrsa and Fyrdraca.

“Ja, vi zail vit da tide an dat turns near dawn.”

The little vessel, with me tucked away aboard, would depart New York bound for Italy. By the sixth or seventh of December she was due to enter the Straits of Gibraltar. From there, she would continue on to Genoa without me. Her master and partial owner, Benjamin Briggs was a good and dear friend and had offered passage, had it not been free, I could nary afford.  I shall not say that I am forced to leave New York, but there appears to be no finer time than the present. I suppose that I could have packed what little I owned and headed for the frontier, however, I am neither cowpoke nor pistoleer, nor have I any intentions of ever following either of those noble trades portrayed so eloquently in the dime novels. True, the west remains a wild frontier. Yet, the western portions of America are still America. Europe, I believe to be far better suited to my lifestyle, than would be the Colonies. New Orleans perhaps, may suit me, though of that, I have both reservations and misgivings.

I stowed my meager few belongings in the mate’s cabin, Benjamin has arranged for the mate to berth with the remainder of the crew. Not terribly uncommon when a vessel took a paying passenger, though, in truth, few would pay as little. I shall remain cloistered until we were well away under sail with fair winds and following seas. There would be eleven us aboard the little vessel, Captain Briggs, his wife, Sarah and their small daughter, and seven man jack sailors.

The tiny cabin was cold and dark, and reeked of manual labour. The stench of dried sweat was nearly overpowering. The small lamp struggled to illuminate a space barely large enough for a man to stand in let alone turn about. If one should trice up the hammock one should have nearly as much space as a small privy. Be it e’er so humble, be it e’er so frugal, and undemanding upon my purse.

The smells of dead fish and salt marshes permeated into the bowels of the ship. Many people associated those odors with the open ocean. I associated those smells with change, departing one location and arriving at another. The ocean for me smelled like a spring day after a cleansing rain, only better. Man-made odors dissipated quickly and the offensive rank smells that only man could produce oft failed to disturb even the worst of days under canvas. How I long to stand topside in the night air. While certainly an act I could easily perform, assumedly, it would be none too wise. I would err on the side of caution and endeavor to remain covert, at least for the time.

November the seventh, 1872.
I have dozed a bit, for I awoke to the roll of the deck beneath me as she heeled over in a port tack. The sounds that a vessel sings, the wind in the rigging, the murmurings of the timbers and the snap of canvas all familiar, were lightening to my countenance. The tide had turned shortly past dawn. I could see Fort Gibson on Oyster Island as it came athwart starboard. We had left the Battery astern, and Fort Wood would soon come into view. The Lower bay and the Atlantic beckoned, the open water three miles offshore would grant peace of mind and the boon of a bit of sanity. We could not reach that point soon enough for me. Soon we would add sail and start running with the wind, should fortune favour us, the wind would hold and we would make eight or ten knots, perhaps more. Three thousand and eight hundred miles to the east lay Gibraltar and Europe. It had been too long since I had set foot upon my homeland. I should be home by the Solstice.

A gentle tapping announced a visitor at the cabin door. I opened the door and was greeted by a tall and gangling young man of perhaps two and twenty years. One could tell by the cut of his jib that he was familiar with life at sea, not entirely an inexperienced lubber nor seasoned salt. He carried himself on legs accustomed to the motion of a deck beneath him. Perhaps on his second or third voyage. He brought with him breakfast. That would most likely make him the cook.

“Beg’n yer pard’n sir, Mister Rich’rds’n said to me he did, that ye might be spect’n some chow. I s’ppose it taint much at all what ye be used to be hav’n, but it be hot an it’ll fill the holler spot in yer belly.”

I relieved him of the trencher and the steaming mug and offered my gratitude. The look upon his face told me that he was unaccustomed to such treatment. If one desires to experience a pleasant voyage, one must strive to insure that both Captain and Cook take not offense. To further foster his goodwill I inquired of him his name.

“Ed’rd, sir. Ed’rd Head. Most always I jes git called cookie.
“Cap’n told me ta make sures I pass’d the word. Cap’n wud like ye ta join him an the missus for supper, Be’n if’n ye have a mind to.”

“Thank you Edward, I should be honored to dine with The Captain and Missus Briggs.” Sea Captains and masters rarely made requests aboard their charges. This was their kingdom, and they were king.

“How stands the day Edward?’

“Nigh two bells to the for’watch, sir.”

I thanked the man again, took my breakfast, and sat down at the small table that was lodged under the single scuttle in the after corner of the cabin. My body had required sleep, and evidently, being back aboard a ship had provided me with the opportunity as I had slept soundly and rested well. Now, judging by the sounds emanating from my stomach, my appetite needed sustenance as well. Edward was correct, the food was not precisely what I was accustomed to, but it was hot and would fill the hollow spot. With nary a few hours since weighing anchor the food would be the freshest of the journey, not having had time to ripen. The bread was nearly fresh, having been baked in the last week or ten days. The green spots were barely visible in the gloom of the cabin, and the weevils had not gained a foothold as of yet. The meat was fresh killed as well, I tasted nary a maggot one. This piece of beef, stringy and leathery tough, had probably whinnied and pulled a wagon not more that a month ago. Fresh food was always a boon on a sea voyage. Unfortunately, that would soon change soon enough, a change I fear would be for the worse. Long before we met landfall in Europe the meat would seem to be living once again as it squirmed with each mouthful and the hardtack should not be examined too closely, as it too would seem alive. Oh, how I do so look forward to rancid and maggoty meat, stale, insect infested hardtack, and rank water that smelt of rat shit. All of life’s rewards incurred a debt, a debt that must be settled with hardships. As far as hardships go, shipboard food is among the lesser. We could not reach the shores of the old world soon enough for my liking.

I longed to feel the sunlight, as feeble as it would be, warm upon my face and inhale the smells of the sea that carried in unobstructed on the ocean breezes. However, my desires must remain unsated temporarily, as the single, small scuttle provided my only views of the outside world as America fell astern. We would most certainly be under the guns of Castle Williams on Governor’s Island and would present a prime and tempting target should a gun captain experience a fit of whim or whimsy. One of the American Navy’s newest warships, a steam sloop, the Omaha, was patrolling here in the Bay. She could very easily catch us under steam alone should her master have want or warrant, and she was surely close by.

The ship’s bell sounded twice. Nine o’clock. The next chime and America would lay two miles further astern and Europe two miles nearer to hand.

“HANDS ALOFT. MAKE MORE SAIL. SET THE UPPER TOPS’L.” A voice rang out topside, which would have been Richardson, the mate. On this day and at this time, more sail was a good thing, a promise of a change of fortune. The hands were in good spirits and fine mettle, one could tell by their laughter and the good cheer in their voices as they swung into the ratlines and climbed aloft. Though I could not see them, I knew that most of them scampered into the tops, as would squirrels up a tree. An inexperienced hand would climb through the lubber hole, preferring that to swinging over the futtock shrouds to the foot lines as the more experienced sailors would do, an old salt might run along the yard to the end before dropping to the foot lines. Once the men had positioned themselves along the length of the yards they would have one hand for the ship, unfurling the upper topsail, and one hand for themselves to stay them a fall. The sail, once set would be trimmed to best catch the wind. Most of the men would drop gracefully back onto the deck, perhaps a laggard or two might remain in the tops, gazing eastward toward the open sea, hoping to see far enough ahead as to catch a glimpse of Europe from here.  Or perhaps, looking astern to the girl he left behind. These sailing men would all be as excited and as anxious as was I to feel the deck roll over the seas, may briefly, experience desire to spend time ashore, but always do they long to return to the seas. Mister Melville knew this call drove sane and rational flat landers to depart the prairies, leaving their homes and families behind in Kansas or Missouri or other parts of the heartland in order to take up the life of a sailor and to taste the salt air. He wrote eloquently of it in his excellent tale of whale men in pursuit of the legendary white whale. However, unlike his Ishmael, I prefer to sail as a passenger. Though I should prefer better accommodations, one must not look a gift horse in the mouth.

The little brigantine’s roll changed ever so slightly, we had entered the Narrows. The Lower bay and the deeper water of the Atlantic lay just beyond.

As always, thanks. Fair winds and following seas.

See you on Monday, peace.