Johnny Raw

First Chapter

Johnny Raw

 

Chapter One

Signing on the Crew

 

“Are you prepared for the possibility of death or worse?” The dark-eyed man asks with his usual solemn tenor.

“Worse?” The lad gasps, “What is worse than death?”

“Impressments into the British Royal Navy” Captain Cyrus Stewart poses the ominous question peering into the young man’s eyes as if he were discovering his soul.

“What do you mean?” The young man asks while invariably fidgeting with the lapels of his Sunday-go-to-meeting vest. Seeing his interrogator staring without blinking, he admits, “I just want an adventure on the high seas.”

“Adventure!” the captain repeats, “Adventure, is signing on as a hand from Dirigo to Boston and back the next day. Expedition, expedition,” he emphasizes it again, “is sailing to Trinidad and back.”

The adventurer’s eyes flash open, somewhere between excitement and astonishment. Yes, he did come to Dirigo for excitement, a change in his uninteresting common life, but a voyage to somewhere he had never heard of, this changes everything. It’s one thing to go for a passage to Boston, maybe as far as Provenience, and return within a week, two at the most. Now he recalls the words, death, or worse. “Trinidad, where is that?”

Captain Stewart scratches his scruffy grey beard, and leans forward, his stare now menacing, speaking plain and with intent, “This be a voyage of three months sailing. Ship and crew will endure the violent storms off the Outer Banks. Though smooth sailing through Caribbean waters to the island of Trinidad only a few leagues from South America, we could face certain death if seized by pirates. And the worst; If the British Navy captures and boards us they would indenture all into service for the King of England.”

The young man’s sense of adventure leaves his body as he wilts against the hard high back wooden booth. Caleb came to Dirigo specifically to sign on as seaman after a friend told him about the poster. If his father knew he was here, he would horse whip him. Many days his father complained Caleb didn’t finish his chores because of daydreaming of ‘putting out to sea’. Now he is sitting across the table in a gimcrack tavern drinking his first ale, with an actual sea captain.

“Finish your tankard of rum and go home to Ponalborough, New Milford, or wherever, and tend to the family farm, they need you more than I or the British.” The words of Captain Stewart, spoken with conviction, emphasize the young man’s importance.

“H-h-how did you know?” Startled, the ardent young farmer asks the lanky weathered captain seated across the table.”

“Your boots, they have muck all over the soles.” Cyrus brought genuineness to the want-a-be adventurer. He knew as the young man sat uneasy and pensive that Caleb wasn’t the caliber he needs for this voyage. The potential seafarer appeared out of sorts, glancing wide-eyed around at the spectacle of goings on in the tavern. The words the young man speaks are of dreams of being a swashbuckler, but his eyes show apprehension.

Although only thirty-six, Cyrus’ face casts the wisdom of an old salt. His astuteness is uncanny. Dark gray bushy eyebrows narrow when he speaks in earnest. Those deep blue eyes penetrate into your soul when he stares prudently. His voice, the ultimate effect, resounds with direct honesty.

“Go ahead, finish it, it’s on my P’s and Q’s.” Captain Stewart says dryly seeing the dreamer glance from the tankard to the captain’s face, and back to the tankard.

Caleb gulps the last of the rum and leaves without looking back.

 

In early May, 1796 The Ward Shipping Company posted announcement for desirable seamen. There were the usually professions required; Shipwrights, riggers, sail makers, carpenters, and strong men who long for the taste of the salty brine. When knowledge of a voyage, to trade lumber and potash, flour, wheat, and corn in exchange for sugar, spices, molasses, coffee, and, of course, rum would be leaving Dirigo in late May,  word of the destination spread, and many a seafarer with an adventurous soul wished to sign on.

They came from Boothbay, Camden, and Damariscotta. They came to the mainland from Vinalhaven and other Islands. Several stalwarts even travel from as far away as Belfast and Georgetown. Dirigo’s usual rabble staggered to the office smelling of rum and filth, landlubbers with smooth hands and combed hair applied, and several old salty dogs still with the love of the open sea desiring one more sail. However, this voyage required ardent brave experienced mariners.

It is the responsibility of the captain, accountable for the ship and manifest, to outfit ‘his’ ship with the finest seamen possible. Captain Cyrus Aloysius Stewart has piloted successful voyages for the Ward’s for over eleven years. Cap’n Cy, as the men call him, even to his face, garners respect for his sea worthy knowledge and years of sailing experience, and his fair treatment of his men. Although Cap’n Cy is somewhat lax on doing things by the book, he is able to keep the atmosphere on board lenient and congenial. Yet, Captain Stewart commands with firm assurance and sternness.

 

The next man approached Captain Stewart’s ‘office’, a tankard in each hand. “You looked thirsty, cap’n.” The stout, yet obviously muscular man says plunking them down sloshing ale on the planked table made from the hull of a wrecked ship, sliding one over in front of Cyrus.

Sizing up the gregarious obvious seaman outfitted with high leather black boots, dark green slops, and a crimson vest hung open over a white pleated shirt opened to his naval allowing the tattoo of a sailor swinging from the cordage, cutlass in his teeth and a pistol in hand. To top his attire off, he is sporting a blue bandana over his head.

With his usual scratching of his scruffy grey beard when contemplating, Cyrus questions the flamboyant seafarer, “How could you see my dryness way back in this corner?”

“Capn’s are always thirsty, either for rum, or for the sea. I figure you for both. If nay, then I have two tankards.” He sits hard leaning back bringing one boot to the bench in an obvious familiar position.

Glancing at the full tankard, Cyrus addresses the confident man’s attitude, “You have a swagger ‘bout you. Thanks for the rum, but nay. Not that I don’t imbibe, just need to be square these days, choosing my complement.”

The self-assured middle-aged blonde bearded man says after swallowing a gulp, “Aye, sir. Hold nothing against me, for drinking the two, I am a bit thirsty, just finished a day stocking shelves in Stewart’s General Store, and I sures wish I were to sea.”

“Aye, know the feeling.” A moment of thought brings him to say, “Worked there myself, once.” He rolls his eyes; the seaman doesn’t smile as Cyrus he thought he would. Agreeing he says, “I can’t be at ease on shore. What’s your name, seaman?”

 “The names Harrison, Enoch me first.” He takes another large swig, swallows brashly, and wipes his sleeve over his beard. I can reads and writes. Been to sea since I were eighteen or nineteen, that be ten or twelve year ago. I forget time, out to sea there is only sunrise and sundown, and I’ve seen plenty of em’.” He deposits the remaining beer from that tankard in his mouth.

“Haven’t seen the likes of you before”. Cyrus says, pushing ‘his’ tankard over to him. “I’d remember one as… colorful as yourself. You’ve sailed from Dirigo?”

“Nay, I ship out of Portsmouth mostly.” He sips rudely from the tankard without bothering to lift it. “Last sign-on was from Boston to Providence, after returning they’s needed someones to be a rigger up to Waldoborough, so I did, nows I’m here.” He lifts it to have a slug.

“Waldoborough, busy enough port, why not sail for Feyler’s or …” He pauses.”

“Storer’s.” Enoch says helping Cyrus remember.

Cyrus deliberately didn’t mentioned Storer’s, seeing if the man were story telling or lying.

“Both are building ships, and have no ships in port.” Enoch finishes the thought.

Knowing he is honest, well at least not a liar, Cyrus queries, “Aye, any sailings to the Caribbean?”

“Nay, but been to Savannah, if you are looking for time at sea during a storm.” He winks at the captain. “You were askin’ for rough sea experience?”

“Aye, I am. Sure as hell, we will encounter an Outer Banks storm. They are wicked.”

Enoch replaces the tankard to the table, shifts his weight to port leaning his weight to his left elbow on the table, and with remembrance of tragedy throats, “On that sail we lost two good men, the main topgallant, and the mizzen sail in a squall off the Banks.” With that admission, he sups the ale slowly and re-wipes his wet beard.

Staring at the seaman, not the man, Captain Stewart asks firmly, “Know where we are sailing?”

Enoch leans forward, resting both arms on the table, and after looking around whispers, “I heard to the Caribbean, maybe the West Indies.”

“No need to whisper now, it’s out. We’d be sailing for at least three months. Possible looting and death by pirates, and then there’s the British impressments.” Looking the seaman directly in his eyes seeking character, “Interested?”

A slow smile steels upon his lips, “And the a casual?”

Cyrus sits upright leaning back in assurance of an authoritative position, “The a casual is five dollars a week, paid in silver.”

Conspicuous by his manner Enoch asserts, “Paid on board?”

Captain Stewart smiles knowing he is enticed, informs Enoch, “I am a prudent man Mr. Harrison. Not till shore leave at the island destinations ports of Puerto Rico, St. Maartin, and Trinidad.”

“Aye, I hear it’s hot there.”

“That an aye or nay?”

“Where do I sign?”

               “I read this and you make your mark.” Cyrus reaches into his coat and withdraws a rolled parchment, unrolls it and reads, “As crewmember of The Benjamin W. Ward, and compensated in accordance to the company policy, I fully understand to abide by the rules and regulations of The Ward Shipping Company. In addition, I shall adhere to the unwritten laws of the sea.

Furthermore, I am obliged to heed the orders of the captain of said ship, and its staff. I have knowledge that any transgressions shall be dealt by said captain and staff in whatever punishment need rendered to offset the miss deed(s). Any unnecessary discord or outbreaks of anger will constitute punishment at the will of the captain not the least of severity to admit physical displeasure upon one, or may be sufficient in terms of righting the problem as to have one leave the ship at given port of captains discretion.

I shall live and work with harmonious attitude with my shipmates as best to my ability. I shall be a credit to myself and the crew, the staff and the captain, and to the company. I shall be an honest and straightforward. I will take no unnecessary booty or confiscate any belongings of any member of this ship or of anyone of civilian in visited port.

I shall dress in accordance to the code of the day, both on and off ship. I shall do my duties and workload to the best of my abilities.

That known, I will go above and beyond to aid in the survival of my fellow crew, staff, captain, and ship in any and all hazards; that being weather storm, or under attack.”

Captain Stewart glances across the table. Enoch has consumed the second ale. “If ye are in agreement, then shall ye make your mark on this paper?” He slides the inkwell and seagull-feathered quill across the table. He unrolls another parchment with many scrawled marks, and four other signatures.

Enoch belches, the reek of weak ale reaches Cyrus, and he grimaces. “Aye, aye, Captain Stewart.” He signs his name with the penmanship of a scholar. “When shall I come aboards?” he inquires as he takes both tankards and stands.

Rising and extending his hand, Enoch’s captain snaps his first order to his latest seaman, “Report to The Ward Shipping Company dock number two, this Monday, the twenty third, by eight A.M.”

“Aye, I’ll be there cap’n.” He offers a toothless smile as he leaves.

Cyrus watches as the man disappears through the crowded tavern and out the red door. When the barkeep notices, he waves for him to approach.

Sitting in the back most booth at The Golden Raven, Captain Stewart meets with each likely applicant. He always picks his men here, where men can be comfortable being who they are. He believes asking sailing questions in an office is like having a tankard of rum in church.

 

The Golden Raven, a mainstay in Dirigo, Maine and a haunt of local seamen and boat builders is Cyrus’ home off the sea. When shipbuilding first began in Dirigo, back in 1769, Angus McGowan started selling his home brewed smooth and robust ale from a pushcart, which soon prevailed for him to afford land to build a tavern next to the Ward Shipyard in 1772. A savvy man for business, Angus realized hard workingmen and those returning from the loneliness of the sea desired two things, a good ale to drink over swopped tales, and busty women to serve them.

Born to English heritage, Cyrus’s great, great, great, grandparents arrived in Boston in 1627 as indentured servants of a wealthy farmer who paid their passage. The farmer provided for them as they toiled as farm hand and maid until the end of their indenture in 1636. Then they were free to marry and eke out a living on their own two-acre farm. Five generations of Stewart’s farmed the homestead until his father, enticed to come to Maine by a wealthy storeowner friend, sold the land, to become the manager of his friend’s general store in 1759 at the new settlement of Dirigo.

 

“What say ye, Captain Stewart?” The proprietor asks.

“It’s late and I shall partake of some food, if that be agreeable to you Mr. Macgoun? Might you still have the makings of a boiled dinner?”

“Tis be for sure, I’ll have it prepared and brought. A tankard of ale?”

“Aye, the day be finally over. This is dry work Mr. Macgoun, I’ll have one now afore dinner.”

“So it shall be brought. Sign any worthy men of note?”

“Aye, some. A few of the regulars. I were fortunate to sign on Stumpy, though not able to be a topman, he is a fine sail maker. Plus he is an artist with his bone needles, passes as a stitcher of flesh. Naturally, there are several sorts for sure. This will be a most interesting voyage I can assure you of that Mr. Macgoun.”

“Tain’t worth sailing if it weren’t interesting now would it be Cyrus?” He slaps the table.

Cyrus nods. His friend gone back to fill him a plate, he studies the signed parchment. “Quite the lot. Only five could sign their name, and of that, one didn’t know his last name. One signed two X’s for his name, another drew a circle over his ‘X’, and one character made a star. The rest, nine, simple ‘X’s’. Let’s see that makes seventeen, I need twenty.” He sees Molly coming with his tankard, rolls the parchment, and replaces it in his long frock.

“Here ya go captain, one fresh ale and a fresh woman.” The gregarious bar maid places the tankard in front of him while leaning her chest forward exposing as much of her cleavage and ample bosom as possible.

“Nice, Molly, I like my ale and women fresh.”

She is about to say something when she hears Mr. Macgoun yell, “Molly, a tray is ready for the table by the bay widow, they look exceptionally thirsty tonight”.

“Gota go sweets,” she brushes her hand across his hand“, but I’ll be back for our second go round.”

A moment later, Alfred slides his heaping plate of corn beef, boiled potatoes, carrots, and rutabaga, sitting upon a bed of cabbage on a pewter plate in front of him. “Here ye be, Captain. Fresh meat tonight.”

“Seems everything’s fresh tonight.” Cyrus laughs as he inhales the warm steam of the vegetables and savors the hearty corn beef. Alfred shakes his head in non-understanding as he retreats to his kitchen.

While enjoying the meal Cyrus is taking a slow swig of his ale and sees through the glass bottom a well-dressed man slide into the seat across from him. “Black Jack,” Cyrus says almost spilling ale on his shirt, “thought you had gone to Thomaston with some fair maiden?”

“Aye, that were last week, and she no fair anythin’, seems she has this husband, a hefty fellow, the jealous type. When do we leave?”

“For your sake not soon enough, we leave after loaded, we begin loading Monday.”

“Hmmmm, I can hide out till then. See you then.” Cyrus finishes his ale as Black Jack leaves.

“Eighteen.” Cyrus tells the stabbed potato.

Molly, watching the proceeding, comes again with another full tankard. “I assume you want more, that didn’t fill your needs, but, I can fill your needs.” This time she throws her shoulders back.

A satisfying grin appears, and with merriment, he tells her, “Aye, Molly, you certainly can.”

“You bedding at The Narrows tonight?” She asks giving him the enthusiasm of a Don Juan.

“Aye.”

“I’ll bring a pitcher of fresh ale and two tankards to fill.”

“I’ll await your presence.”

Mary smiles as she returns to the bar.

Finishing his dinner, Cyrus leaves four bits on the left of the plate and two bits on the right, and starts through the crowded tavern. Looking over to the men tossing darts, he notices Galen taking his turn at the board. Smiling he knows the men against him haven’t a chance, as he is the best dart thower along the coast of Maine. Curious, as to why Galen hasn’t come to sign up yet, he approaches.

Galen is a trustworthy and experienced seaman. His first voyage is legendary in many gatherings. Born to a heritage of ownership of a large estate in Ireland, yet not of wealth. His family sold timber to the Royal Navy until deforested, then sold stock to the slaughterhouse in Cork, until the famine of 1740. His grandparents died. His father survived by leaving the family estate and found work in the very place where his family sold their beef and pork. Galen left Ireland and went to London to join the Royal Navy. This is where the truth may be legend. He proclaims, in 1776, at the age of fourteen, he began his seafaring days as a cabin boy on the HMS Resolution with Captain Cook, and was aboard the Resolution when Hawaiians took Cook’s life on the beach.

“Galen, tossing for rum?” Cyrus surprises Galen between tosses.

Without turning, he recognizes the voice of his captain and good friend, “Cap’n Cy”. He waits till Cyrus is in view, “Aye this be thirsty work”. He eyes the circular corkboard, and flings his personal feathered handmade dart into the center on the number 20. “Game, my foe. Payment is one tankard of dark rum. Bring it over to my table. Cap’n Cy, come sit, drink.” He fetches his darts, while the onlookers slap his back in victory.

Once seated, Cyrus, always to the point, asks, “Did you see notice of the Ward’s trading voyage?”

Lifting his left leg flat onto the bench Galen nods, “Aye, which ship?”

“I knew you’d asked that first. You will be pleasantly surprised to know, The Benjamin W. Ward just slid off the ways a week ago.”

“I thought she wouldn’t be off for at least another month.”

“I thought same, but she is rigged, sails fitted, and seaworthy.”

“And you are her first captain, good for you Cap’n Cy. Her first voyage and a long one to boot. You must have faith in her builders.”

“Aye built by the finest shipwrights along the Kennebec River in Hallowell and fitted with hemlock planking. The square-rigged sails were hand-stitched by the best sail makers in Augusta.” He brings himself tall, as if he owned the ship.

“I see she is black hauled. Ghostly.”

“In these troubled times sailing on the seas, Mr. Ward, and myself, thought it to our advantage to show arrogance in daylight, and cloak at night.”

“Is that not indicating something boding evil?”

“We hope for the best.”

 “So do I, Cap’n, so do I. I seen you over in your booth. You must be signing on able bodied seamen?”

“Aye that I am. As of this evening, the crew is eighteen in number. I need twenty.” He lifts his head to stare into the eyes of his old friend.

“I know why you’re here…”

“No secret, I guess.”

“Scuttlebutt has it you’re signing on for a voyage to the Caribbean.”

His darts opponent brings two tankards of rum to the table places one in front of each man and looks at Captain Stewart, “You got a full company?”

Sizing the brazen man for his core, and seeing his resolve, Cyrus looks at Galen and says, “I need three more able bodied souls, might you happen to be one?”

“Aye captain.” The broad-shouldered man standing tall, shoulders back, chin up, eyes straight ahead, as if at attention, affirms.

Cyrus slowly looks back to the man. The sweat-stained dingy-white shirt, with a laced V-neck has several tears. His slop matches the shirt in cleanliness and wear. He has a sash around his waist. A single jeweled handle, most likely a ruby, is protruding from a scabbard dagger tucked in the fold. “Well seaman, what be your name?”

“Tad, Thaddeus Hollingsworth, from Vinalhaven. Been sailing since I were twenty, been on most voyages leaving this here port for the past seven years. Sailed once for the Ward’s couple year ago, to Baltimore, good mate, that Mr. Ward.”

“Well Tad, I agree Mr. Benjamin is a good mate.”

Tad relaxes scratching his mangy matted, obviously cropped with his dagger, mange, “Pardon my askin’ cap’n, but I heared Mr. Ward passed.”

“Aye, unfortunately he did.” With his usual stare at the man’s eyes, he admits, “I was seeing to your knowledge and honesty. It’s the most important constitution of a seaman, aside from his experiences and abilities.”

“Tis fair. I may be a lowly deck swabber to the eye, but there ain’t none better in the riggin’ than I, cap’n.”

One more go round peering, staring at the seaman’s stubble face. Satisfied, he announces, “I take your word on that Mr. Hollingsworth.”

“Tad, call me Tad, me friends call me Tad.” He smiles, showing one missing tooth.

“Aye, but here’s the rub. This voyage is on a maiden ship. And it is named for Mr. Ward, the Benjamin W. Ward.”

“Aye, interesting. A virgin. Sailing that far, well now, that’s an adventure.”

“Adventure! No, this be a expedition. However, others have sailed to the islands, none as far south as we are sailing. The Island’s charted, but only by sight and speculation. Aye, should be interesting.”

Tad watches Captain Stewart take a long pull from the tankard. “You have a good seasoned compliment?”

“Mostly. What I require is a seaman who knows we shall sail twice along the Carolina’s and the Outer Banks, through waters patrolled by Red Coats frigate’s seeking men to impress into their navy, and we must sail among the islands full of native pirate ships waiting to plunder. That said; if you are interested, then I’d be willing to take you with us. We load this Monday, and shove off Wednesday or Thursday with the high tide.”

Without hesitation Tad says, “Let me make my mark.”

Cyrus unrolls both sheets, reads the contract, and slides the signing sheet over to the new crewmember. Tad makes a left slash and two right slashes through the first, rises, and says to Galen, “Maybe we can continue or little game on board.” To the captain he says, “Thank ya captain, what time Monday?”

“Eight sharp, dock two.”

As the newest member of the ship leaves, Cyrus says, “That’s nineteen; all I need is one more.” He focuses his eyes again on Galen’s eyes.

“Aye that you do. I could be that man, if I were to be sailing. I’m thinking ‘bout hanging up me jack tar. I’m thirty-five; maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe’s I’ll take a wife and settle down, have some offspring. I hear there’s a position opening up as a clerk in the general store.”

“The general store. My parents store. You would do that to me. You know I haven’t been in there since I decided to go to sea.” Cyrus laments, “I was nineteen, and saw no excitement standing behind a counter. My father said there was no future in becoming a seaman. I could die in so many ways. When I left, he told me not to come home. I haven’t.”

“Aye. I’m just carving on your wooden leg. Seriously, I am thinking ‘bout getting married and getting my feet dirty from the soil instead of waterlogged.”

“You think about it Galen, I really could use a man of your stature, and friendship.” He finishes the rum and turns saying, “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Aye, in the back corner booth.” Galen laughs as he empties his tankard, “They should put a plaque over head where you sit.”

Quite weary from choosing the right men for the ships compliment and his belly full, Cyrus heads for his room across the street at The Narrows, a boarding house owned by Mrs. Scheffington. Room 6, on the second floor, his other home away from the sea, affords the best view out to the sea through the center of Sanctuary Harbor.

With only the light thrown from the tavern window its tricky crossing the street stepping over the wagon wheel ruts and the puddle on the far side.

Up in his room he washes his face and hands from the basin that Mrs. Schieffington fills fresh for him every evening. Sitting in the rocking chair waiting, he reads from The Iliad and the Odyssey. It’s his favorites, knowing it well enough to quote passages when the right situation arises.