Chapter 2

In The Beginning

Life in the waning decades of the eighteenth century was reasonably comfortable for the well-heeled, marginally tolerable for the industrious employed and downright impossible for everyone else. Most families eked out a bread and potato existence working their strip farms or laboring for the noble gentry. The agricultural and industrial revolutions were blossoming, but few benefits trickled down to the lower classes.

Reynolds Lovingdale I was fortunate to be born into the higher echelons of British society and grew up with the arrogance and selfish expectations common to the upper crust’s self-proclaimed higher order. His parents, the Duke and Duchess of Hallsworth, of notable old money extraction, were luminaries in European circles and enjoyed great wealth and prestige. But it was the excitement and glamour of the New World that lit the lamp of their first-born.

“I am sorry, but I absolutely must go,” the eager lad insisted after much discussion. “The New World is to me a ripe, red apple waiting to be plucked. I simply feel it must be my hand that bends the bough.”

“And will you also be first to taste the fruit?” his mother remonstrated. “Have you forgotten the fate that befell Adam? He, too, was beguiled by the unknown.”

“Mother...” Reynolds interjected; but before he could finish his father stood up, crooked one arm customarily behind his back and silenced him with the palm of an upturned hand.

“What your mother is trying to say,” the Duke dutifully explained, “is that the consequences of your actions may not bend to accommodate your capricious pursuits. Your decision will carry a great weight with it across the seas. You are burning with the passions of youth and blinded by your inexperience. I am afraid that when your eyes finally open, you may discover yourself in a place far different from that which you imagine.”

“Father, you know I care deeply for both of you, but surely you understand my desire for adventure and my need to find my own way. Were you not a merchant seaman in the King’s navy as a younger man?”

The Duke of Hallsworth peered at his first born over the silver frame of his reading glasses and nodded in confirmation.

The Duchess turned to face the oversized windows of their study, grasped the gold-tasseled edge of the embroidered burgundy drapery and used the bulk of stately fabric to support her sinking frame. When she had gathered her poise sufficiently, she spoke again�" her voice tinged with melancholia.

“Go if you must, Reynolds. But I will hold you to a promise of a safe return. Promise, also, that you will not forget the values we have labored so tirelessly to instill in you and that you will let them guide your life daily.”

“I promise nothing less, Mother,” Reynolds answered affirmatively. “And now, I must beg your leave. I have much to plan and more to do.” The young man could not contain his pleasure and excitement at gaining their blessing. He embraced his mother warmly and vigorously shook his father’s hand before he departed.

The Duke and Duchess watched from their crown glass window as their son boarded a waiting carriage. The coach rattled across the cobblestone courtyard to the road leading to Kingsbury Harbor and disappeared around the bend. Solemn and smiling weakly, the Duchess turned to her husband. As she approached, his arms opened wide and surrounded her with the reassuring strength of his embrace.

Less than a fortnight later, the Lovingdales reluctantly bid their son farewell at the Port of Kingsbury with a desperate longing in their hearts. They did not wish to taint their son’s pilgrimage with overt sentimentality at its beginning. Instead, they hid their dismay and projected a faux air of optimism and stoic detachment.

The year was 1773. The prospect of immigration to English colonial America at the ripe old age of twenty-one set the impatient lad’s head spinning even before the schooner Crimson Gale departed Kingsbury Harbor. The pocketed sailcloth billowed before the mast like a gathering of great canvas clouds, puffed with pride and eagerly pointing the way to success and prosperity.

Reynolds waved wildly from the aft deck and watched his parents shrink in the distance. His gestures continued until he could no longer distinguish his own family from the teeming throng of well-wishers hovering about the docks. The ambitious Reynolds had reservations about leaving his parents behind. He may not see them again for many months or years, or ever again. A jolt of panic spurred by his last thought surged up from the pit of his stomach and lodged in the back of his throat. He felt he might choke, but steadied himself with reassurances that ‘never’ was not an option. He loved them, of course, and his intention was never to sever ties to his heritage and entitlements�"blessings far too valuable to forsake. He genuinely anticipated establishing his fortune on virgin soil, and he knew drawing heavily upon his family name and resources would be essential.

The Crimson Gale was a square-rigged, three-masted merchant carrier, a full one hundred ten feet from bowsprit to stern and thirty feet across her beam. Weighing in at over five hundred tons, she was well equipped for trans-Atlantic travel. Her structural members were primarily of pine and oak, her masts of fir. A battery of twelve cannon fitted in her ample belly offered reassurances against pirate attacks so prevalent on the high seas. Twelve miles of rigging and five thousand square feet of canvas sails graced the skies above her teakwood decking.

Unlike most ships of her class, she also sported fore and aft sails stayed to her foremast and mizzen that allowed the craft to carve into the wind. Should the trade winds blow fickle on their journey, the ship should loose little time.

Brass and copper detailing reflected the sun’s rays most admirably on clear days and sent the prancing light merrily on its way from wave crest to wave crest. The crow’s nest near the top of the craft’s one-hundred-foot main mast seemed to scrape the heavens free of clouds, and from the deck appeared a mile distant to the novice’s untuned eyes. Aye, she was a fine ship, and she knifed through the water like Neptune’s trident.

Reynolds had been at sea a wee shy of two weeks before the uneventful Atlantic crossing began to grate on his nerves and test the limits of his patience. The daily routine aboard a ship sailing a seemingly boundless sea would, in time, erode the enthusiasm of the most ardent seafarer. Conditions were deplorable. Food was scarcer than hen’s teeth and of low quality. Redworms and spiders infested food stores, and lice hospitably allowed the seamen to share their berths. Fresh water was anything but fresh, fouled with insects and offal of the most awful kind.

Captain Bainbridge, concerned for the morale of the crew but also valuing their cleanliness and good heath, restricted crew visits to the scuttlebutt to twice daily but allowed watered rum to augment their refreshments. Once weekly, the good captain encouraged revelry and offered more generous rations. Unfortunately, the carousing of the tipsy seamen on those occasions left the deck and sleeping quarters reeking of vomit and dysentery, despite subsequent double scrubbings. The Captain’s decision, though applauded by the crew, seemed irresponsible to Reynolds. Yet, the addition of high-proof alcohol to the fresh water stores added a degree of antiseptic benefit without which consumption of said stores might cost lives.

Stories of corsairs, buccaneers, and other fearless seafaring men were the staple of vagabond minstrels across Britain’s imperial domain. Reynolds absorbed every detail of the exploits of his daring nautical heroes from the romantic yarns he heard, and he envied their freedom to travel the world and do as they wished. However, he quickly learned the life of the common seaman was anything but free.

Foremost, a body aboard ship was as much a prisoner as one condemned to a prison cell. It was a larger cell, to be sure, but a constricted space nonetheless. The vessel, in turn, danced within the confines of the bounding sea. The mates on board acted in accordance with the captain’s directives without question, much as prisoners obey the commands of their oppressors. To do otherwise guaranteed harsh punishment.

Aye, sailors were far from free but, unlike their landlocked cousins, seemingly content to labor under a tyrannical ruler for a meager portion of the spoils. Their scandalous shanties sprinkled with hearty “yo-ho-hos” and “way heys” served to allay the burden of their duties. The musical rhythms forged a spirit of camaraderie among the men and fostered relative happiness.

Yet, the crew was a scurrilous lot not easily given to friendships with passengers and certainly unlikely to befriend the pampered son of an undeserving monarchy. Now, despotism: there was an idea they could understand and embrace wholeheartedly. They were rebels and anarchists, for the most part, sharing an affiliation and love for the open sea.

Most men on board ignored the gangly Lovingdale’s attempts at levity and good humor and passed by the sea-green lad as if he were invisible. There was one man on board who was different. He was quiet, observant and hard-working, yet carried an air of learning and wisdom about him that the others did not possess. His name was Laird Cromley.

Captain Bainbridge, who felt an unusual mix of uncertainty and confidence when Cromley approached him for a position, ordered his “operatives” to gather intelligence about the stranger. They reported back promptly, as directed.

“As far as we can tell, no one about has ever ‘eard of ‘em”, began the first agent. His crony angled in. “From all accounts, he arrived in Kingsbury from corners unknown on the day before the ship was to sail. No one can say where he come from, he just appeared, or so we’re told.” The Captain nodded.

Laird Cromley had the swarthy, weathered look of an able-bodied seaman and his calloused hands spoke of hard work in tough times. Still, hiring the mysterious stranger could portend trouble and asserting absolute control over him once they sailed might prove difficult.

A man of strength, character and experience was paramount to serve as boatswain, a supervisory position with emphasis on rigging, general deck maintenance and task assignments. Seemingly trivial duties at face value, but enormously important when at sea. A brief test insured he was no stranger to knots and the windlass, and his no-nonsense demeanor would set well with the deck crew. Time was short, and to delay sailing was unacceptable.

The Captain took the chance. Tried and true men were few and far between, he reasoned. He christened the newcomer “Chance” when introducing his new addition to the crew assembled for that very purpose�"and to serve as a daily reminder, no doubt, that his trust in the man was not lightly given.

“Men, meet Master Cromley, our new boatswain.” The Captain began. “Ye shall refer to him as “Chance” when addressing him aboard ship, as shall I.” Captain Bainbridge rested a hand upon Laird’s right shoulder and gazed upon his able subordinate approvingly. “He is yet unproven, but seems hale, hardy and fit to the task. You will all answer to him, and him to me. That is all.”

 It was not long before Chance realized the young Lovingdale’s plight and took it upon himself to watch out for the fledgling, at least until the greenhorn “found his legs”. The lad reminded him of himself not a score ago when he set out to see the world. A ship at sea could be a dangerous place for the unprepared. Chance was willing to talk and listen to his young friend’s concerns. The two men quickly established a repartee that developed into an enjoyable and anticipated daily exchange.

At Chance’s behest, Reynolds was permitted to share in the boatswain’s deck duties. The Captain was undeniably aware of his passenger’s pedigree; otherwise, Reynolds would have found himself a galley rat instead of in the covetous position so graciously bestowed. Chance was responsible for the division of labor on deck and, in so keeping, assigned his young protégé to duties befitting his age and experience. As the lad’s seamanship evolved, Chance exposed him to tasks requiring greater skill, which Reynolds mastered easily.

All mates had equal share at watch, and Reynolds was no exception. Favoritism aboard ship might spark mutiny and could not be flaunted. Normally, Reynolds served as “second dog”, but after a month at sea he earned mid-watch for failing to properly secure a capstan hoist.

One dawn, a topman spied several small pods of baleen whales breaching and cavorting off the starboard bow. The mammals’ alabaster bellies flashed like battle flags during the frenzy of their morning ritual. Unusual considering that Minkes, as they were called, were known to be generally solitary by nature, preferring to travel in pairs or in small groups of three or four. They were usually observed nearer shore as well. Perhaps, a healthy shoal of shrimp or fingerlings, secure in their instinctive massing, had been unlucky enough to lure the beasts to breakfast.

This was Providence, indeed!

Although baleens were small by whaling standards, the resources obtained from their numbers would add measurably to already diminishing provisions. Meat and blubber spoiled quickly in the humid expanse and were always in short supply. It was customary, indeed essential, to exploit fully every opportunity to replenish stores.

Captain Bainbridge ordered the jollys let go and several seamen reeled the davit cranks and deployed the jollyboats near the stern. The chase was on! After the hunt, the animals were cleaned and butchered near their weighing stations. Chance tasked Reynolds with retrieving the harvest with hawsers threaded through a cat hole and weighed with an improvised capstan designed for such a purpose. An incorrect twist of his wrist when securing the lanyard to the capstan arm was all it took to send the blankets of cherished blubber back into the sea. As punishment for his carelessness, Captain Bainbridge decreed that Reynolds should pay for time and materials lost by serving as surrogate for any ailing seaman unfit for duty, regardless of danger, for a period of two weeks. The captain castigated Chance, as well, for failing to assign a duty of such importance to one seasoned and well-learned.

After such an embarrassing episode, Reynolds forgave any pretenses of status and courtly privilege he may have formerly entertained. However, his new duties, menial and unglamorous as they were, did much to alleviate the tedium of the endless stream of wind-dogged days and nights. The physical challenges were refreshing, and he realized that his labors clarified his mind. The clarification, in turn, helped him crystallize a strategy for future successes. Reynolds continued to perform his assignments admirably and slowly gained a margin of respect from nearly all the fellow seaman he contacted daily. All but one.

Peter Blythe was the exception. He had it in for the “arrogant snot”, as he affectionately called Reynolds from the beginning. Peter was small of body and sported a complexion burned red and raw by exposure to sun and wind, dark even by seafaring standards. A short man was typically more stable on a pitching deck, but being of lesser stature than the rest, Peter adopted an exaggerated gait and puffy pretense. He talked louder and coarser than all the others talked and was quicker with a hook or marlinspike when an enemy’s back was turned.

One balmy morning, Reynolds found himself alone with Blythe on a rigging inspection. Normally, Chance would not have assigned the vitriolic pair together, but Peter’s usual mate was down with dropsy and failed to muster that day.

“Well, now, if it isn’t the royal snotty?” Peter began his caustic rebuke on sight. “What a pleasure it ‘tis to be sharin’ the company of such a fine example of gentrification as yerself.” Peter glanced around the deck to insure their privacy then boldly approached Reynolds to within an inch of his nose. His eyes gleamed with hatred, and jealousy dripped from his skewed jaw like a mad dog’s slobber. He drew a dagger from his waistband and held it to his enemy’s throat. “Let me be reminding ye that yer blood runs true and red as any man’s. I’ll be obliged to back me words with action, if you’ve a mind to test me theory.” His grimace was painfully intense.

Reynolds backed away until the bulwarks forestalled further retreat. “I’ve done nothing to you. Why not leave me alone?”

“Why not, says you? Yer a bugger and a coward, says I, and a mealy-mouthed spawn of a w***e. Give me cause, and I’ll slit you from gut to gullet.”

Reynolds could not control his trembling. He was thankful the thick fabric of his trousers muffled the sound of his knocking knees.

Just then, Chance appeared from around the corner of a stack of crates amidships. “Everything shipshape, here?” He asked, glancing from Reynolds to Peter.

“Aye”, Blythe replied, after secreting his knife beneath his cotton weskit.

“Get the rigging on the main and foremast taught and ready,” he ordered. “We’ve a blow behind us, the winds are up and the seas are capping. The fire at dawn this day spells trouble, but we’ve hours of sailing, yet. Look lively, now.” He glanced, again, at his callow protégé and then departed as quietly as he arrived.

“Aye, sir,” Peter answered, stepping away, his pretense at conscientiousness failing to fool the astute boatswain. The two incompaticos worked in silence for several minutes, until a cry of despair roused Reynolds from his sullen reverie.

“Waahh!” Peter bellowed, just as a crate of halyard blocks crashed to the deck with a thunderous sound. He strategically positioned his leg beneath the pile of tackle to indicate the accident had pinned it fast. Forgetting their earlier row, Reynolds rushed to the blackguard’s aid and lifted the mass from off the man’s person. He helped his “injured” mate to the upturned crate to rest, noting by a rudimentary inspection of the man’s calf that the professed injuries were not immediately apparent.

“I’ll not be a-going topside today,” he moaned as pitifully as he could manage. “You best be climbing the shroud by your lonesome to stay the halyards. And don’t forget to furl the jib afore ye sling it to.”

“All right, I’ll go.” Reynolds said without thinking. He hopped atop the starboard bulwark and stepped gingerly from the lower deadeye to the upper before pulling himself into the shroud. Slowly, he scaled the netting, ratline by ratline, and paused to rest and look about just beneath the royal mast. The winds forty feet above deck were high and blustery, much fiercer than below. He could hear the sharp snap of the flaxen canvas sails as they resisted the unrelenting force. Constant billowing before the wind had stretched the fabric and loosed their stays, setting the lengths of running hemp vibrating like harp strings all the way down to their deadeyes. The enchanted sailor delighted in the humming effect and whistled a shanty in harmony.

He gazed down upon the vessel’s plan. The ship seemed to swing beneath him like a mighty pendulum as it rocked to the ocean’s lullaby. Indeed, it was he, not the deck, that enjoyed the greater motion. Had he considered that the extent of the ship’s perceived movement beneath him correlated directly to his height above deck, he would not have advanced another inch.

A sudden gust caught him off-guard and twisted him sideways in the shroud. He now faced astern. His mind raced as he clung to the ratlines, trying desperately to re-establish a sound purchase on the pliant cordage. Looking out, he was appalled to see an advancing mass of blue-black clouds filling the eastern horizon. The storm approached must faster now than he first assessed and promised to be the devil and more. Thinking it best to alert his shipmates below him, he averted his gaze from the ominous skies and scoured the foredeck below him for Blythe.

Peter was not where he last was. It was Peter’s task to guide him to the main stays running from the royal spar to the topgallant yard, where the flaccid sails screamed for attention. When aloft, it was quite difficult to discern areas most in need, and a sailor might as well be blind as to crawl unguided along a cantilevered yardarm.

“Alooo!” Reynolds shouted, cupping his free hand to one side of his mouth to funnel his call. He heard no response. “Alooo-oo-o!” He shouted again, raising his pitch to make the sound travel as far as possible above the din of the musical strands. He considered retreat, but climbing ropes in gale conditions on an angry sea was no easy matter. He preferred completing his assignment now to attempting a second climb. But where in blazes was Peter?

Unbeknownst to Reynolds, Peter hid on the port side of the main mast where he awaited the decisive moment to act. The time was now. The hardened seafarer sprang from his concealment, knife in hand, and severed the main shroud’s master strands. The standing rigging to which Reynolds clung collapsed like a squeezebox and sent him on a dangerous collision course with the main mast. Fortunately, the flailing web, supported by precautionary transverse strands installed before the ship set sail, stopped Reynolds before he collided with the mammoth central pole. Heedless of the young man’s peril, the gale blew him about like laundry.

Responding to the alarming screams aloft, the men on the aft deck assembled in a knot directly beneath Reynolds. Experienced hands, strong and sure, quickly secured the swinging netting, allowing the shaken novice to descend unscathed. So weak were his knees upon reaching firmer footing, they buckled beneath his weight. Poor Reynolds collapsed into the arms of two able bodied seamen on either side.

Captain Bainbridge, ever mindful to threats to his vessel of any kind, appeared magically amidst the excited throng of sailors. He eyed Peter Blythe suspiciously, but accepted his protests of innocence pending evidence that suggested otherwise. He dismissed the groveling worm to the galley and ordered Chance to investigate the matter fully and to report his findings as soon as they were completed. “Look sharp, ye landlubbers,” the captain barked before returning to his quarters. “Reef the topgallant on the main, boys, and furl the fore and mizzen. Aye, there be a blow about. We’ll know soon enough if she be mistral or mistress.”

 

#

 

That night, as the ship rolled sickeningly on an agitated sea, Reynolds left the stench of his hammock for an overdue breath of rejuvenating air. He climbed the rope ladder that dropped from atop the roundhouse cabins that squatted above the quarter gallery near the stern. He was sleepy-eyed and dog-tired, but his mind sharpened when he saw a shadowy figure hunkered on the upper deck immersed in the throes of some ritualistic and clandestine activity. He could not make the identity of the mysterious practitioner, but the figure’s gestures and indecipherable mutterings mesmerized him. Reynolds lowered his body on the rope ladder until only his eyes and forehead protruded above the deck planking.

The figure sat face to the wind within a circle of white powder, which he replenished as needed to keep the circle intact. At the center of the circle, a small flame flickered. Strangely, the prevailing wind did not disperse the silvery smoke swirling about him. The smell of burning wormwood was powerful and prominent. After scribing a circle in the air with a forked stick, the stranger pointed the stick to the four cardinal directions of the compass. He then blew a pinch of the white powder from between his fingers and uttered a chilling summons:

 

“Guardian of the Threshold, I call unto Thee.

Awaken Thy Hidden Light. Hear me, Asmodeus!

Pass beyond the Realm of Light,

O, Devil Lords of Wind, Water, Earth, and Fire.

Hear me, Lord Leviathan!

Reap the soul of Thy servant, Peter Blythe

And cleanse this vessel, if it be Thy will.

Hear me! Send him back beyond the Shadows of Death.

Let Thy Black Flame within me shine as light.

Hear me, Asmodeus, Waking Lord of Sabbath!

Allow Thy servant through the Veil of Wakening

To stand upon the Hill of Dreams.”

 

As he finished his infernal chant, the stranger extended both arms above his head and arched his back in what appeared to be an exaltation of ecstasy. A flash of lightning followed by an egregious peal of thunder consummated the sorcerer’s pleas and illuminated his features. Reynolds was stunned. He sank down below the deck with an expression of surprise and disbelief. The sorcerer was no other than his friend and mentor, Chance Cromley. In the wake of another thunderous clap and with presence of mind regained, Reynolds straightened to his former station that he might confirm his conclusions. To his amazement, there was no one there. Only the portentous glow in the heavens remained. In disbelief, Reynolds returned to his berth, but remained disturbed and awake until exhaustion sealed his eyes just before dawn.

By early morning, force nine conditions battering the ship awakened Reynolds and nearly catapulted him out of his linens. All berths and hammocks were empty, save for his. He had neglected to undress prior to retiring the night before. He readily made his way up the steep ladder to amidships. The storm was raging. Dark clouds swirled menacingly overhead and showered rain in buckets. Wave after ocean wave shattered over the railings. The deck was a pool of brine eight inches deep in which unsecured crates sloshed back and forth like rotting fish.

Amidst the turmoil, Reynolds was amazed to find the entire company of seamen huddled en masse, eyes fixed skyward toward the foremast gallant. Rain drenched his eyes as his gaze fused with that of his fellow men’s. Suspended by the neck from the gallant yardarm, swung the lifeless body of Peter Blythe.

Peter’s right arm was stiff and frozen outright before him, pointing west. The electron glow of St. Elmo’s fire danced over his person, travelled down twin transparent ribbons of water that spiraled from his extremities to the flooded deck and shimmered up the rigging again. Reynolds rubbed his eyes free of the blinding deluge and looked again. His eyes were not mistaken. He fell back against the cabin jam, mouth agape, his eyes fixed on the apparition.

Then, as if numbed by a great truth, each man turned and ghosted past the startled youth with no acknowledgement of his presence. As the sailors passed, Reynolds noted their blank expressionless faces and dead lusterless eyes, like those of the Great White, sunken in a fleshy paleness that rivaled the moon. The one face that should have been present was not. That face was Laird Cromley’s.

Reynolds ran to check the boatswain’s quarters first. No Chance. He checked the galley next and then the cabin of Captain Bainbridge. No Chance. He knew the Captain’s quarters were off limits to every mate aboard, and had his judgement not been fired by the passion of the moment he would never dared to enter.

A general alarm sounded and a search of the ship ensued. No trace of Laird Cromley was ever found. Most hands speculated that their capable boatswain was somehow lost overboard in the churning seas on the night of Peter Blythe’s demise. Reynolds would not see Laird Crowley for the duration of the voyage nor ever again.

Reynolds remained unconvinced that his friend and mentor had perished so carelessly at sea. Laird Cromley was much too competent a seaman to ever succumb to a layman’s fate. Reynolds knew Chance had passed on to a higher calling…to an untold plane of existence. Perhaps he had found his way through the Veil of Wakening to stand upon the Hill of Dreams?