BOOK 4
Preview
Morgan Blake was wet, cold, but he had to keep moving through the dense forest. The baying hounds had been uncomfortably close a quarter-hour since and they had driven him almost to the point of exhaustion. The last creek he had crossed appeared to have thrown them off the scent but there was no guarantee they would not pick it up again. Right now, he was bent upon putting as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible. To that end, he pushed himself as far and as fast as he could. Adjusting the straps of hit kit-bag once again, he pressed on. The forest, bathed as it was in the light of an almost full moon, provided sufficient cover until he reached the coast road. He knew this woodland well, but not necessarily better than those who were tracking him.
Two hours ago, Morgan had left the hamlet of Tusket, where he had spent the last three summers. Initially, he had headed north towards Carelton, but now, having circled steadily around for some distance, his direction was a little south of west. Before long, he encountered a gap in the tree-line. A hard surface underfoot told him he had found the dirt road that ran from Ste. Anne de Ruisseau. At midnight in these rural communities, there was no traffic and little danger of being seen. A mile further on, this road connected with another that ran north-south along the east bank of the Tusket River. Unchallenged, the youth turned south, trotting towards Hubbard's Point.
Scouting along the riverbank, he found what he was looking for within minutes. Moored to a short wooden jetty that jutted out into the river, was a small rowboat. Fortuitously, the owner had been kind enough to leave the oars on board. Casting off, he settled himself amidships and, picking up one oar, he used it to ease the vessel away from the jetty. Then, slipping both oars into the rowlocks, his strong arms pulled him towards the opposite bank, about one mile distant.
With a harbour pilot for a father and his family's proximity to Yarmouth, Morgan had been around boats for most of his eighteen years and he could handle most small craft well. With the help of an easterly breeze, he estimated he could cross this stretch of river in little more than half an hour. However, the current proved to be somewhat stronger than he estimated because about fifteen minutes later he ran aground on Butter Island, which was roughly halfway across. Using an oar to push the boat free, he skirted the southern tip of the island and changed to a heading slightly north of west.
Upon reaching the far side, he hid the boat under bushes growing at the water's edge. As he turned, he was startled by a whoosh of air, as something passed not a foot above his head.
Two hours ago, Morgan had left the hamlet of Tusket, where he had spent the last three summers. Initially, he had headed north towards Carelton, but now, having circled steadily around for some distance, his direction was a little south of west. Before long, he encountered a gap in the tree-line. A hard surface underfoot told him he had found the dirt road that ran from Ste. Anne de Ruisseau. At midnight in these rural communities, there was no traffic and little danger of being seen. A mile further on, this road connected with another that ran north-south along the east bank of the Tusket River. Unchallenged, the youth turned south, trotting towards Hubbard's Point.
Scouting along the riverbank, he found what he was looking for within minutes. Moored to a short wooden jetty that jutted out into the river, was a small rowboat. Fortuitously, the owner had been kind enough to leave the oars on board. Casting off, he settled himself amidships and, picking up one oar, he used it to ease the vessel away from the jetty. Then, slipping both oars into the rowlocks, his strong arms pulled him towards the opposite bank, about one mile distant.
With a harbour pilot for a father and his family's proximity to Yarmouth, Morgan had been around boats for most of his eighteen years and he could handle most small craft well. With the help of an easterly breeze, he estimated he could cross this stretch of river in little more than half an hour. However, the current proved to be somewhat stronger than he estimated because about fifteen minutes later he ran aground on Butter Island, which was roughly halfway across. Using an oar to push the boat free, he skirted the southern tip of the island and changed to a heading slightly north of west.
Upon reaching the far side, he hid the boat under bushes growing at the water's edge. As he turned, he was startled by a whoosh of air, as something passed not a foot above his head.
Then, just a few moments later, he heard the hoot of an owl. It took a few moments for his heartbeat to return to normal.
Having emptied his boots of excess water and wrung out his woollen socks, he put them on his feet again and pushed through two hundred yards of thick scrub until he found a narrow track. He followed this for less than a mile, to the point where it met the road that led to the port of Yarmouth. Now he had only five miles to go.
Having emptied his boots of excess water and wrung out his woollen socks, he put them on his feet again and pushed through two hundred yards of thick scrub until he found a narrow track. He followed this for less than a mile, to the point where it met the road that led to the port of Yarmouth. Now he had only five miles to go.
Back in the nineteenth century, Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, was one of the busiest seaports in the world and that morning there was no shortage of ships in the harbour. With luck, he could smuggle himself aboard a freighter before daylight, emerging from his hiding place only when it was well out to sea. He would then throw himself on the mercy of the captain and hope the man had enough humanity to grant him safe passage.
The trick was to find a ship that was about to sail. Any new arrival would be useless since there was no telling how long it might remain in port. Best to wait until dawn, when the waterside workers showed up. Then he would be able to determine which ships were taking on cargo rather than discharging it.
Squeezing between two large packing crates against a warehouse wall, he settled down to wait. At first, grateful to be out of the biting wind, his plight became more wretched as a sudden rain squall soaked his already damp clothes.
His father's familiar words echoed in his mind. "Toughen up, lad. Don't be such a mammy's boy. This is a hard land, designed for hard men, so don't be such a softie!" Such mantras might be of benefit to some, but Morgan felt he needed something more. Being told what to do is one thing; being shown how to do it is another.
His father had spent virtually all his life on the water. It was something he knew and understood. He never tired of talking about tides, and currents, shoals and sandbanks, but the woods and the wilderness were too dark and mysterious for him. They filled him with unease.
So it was left to Reni, a Mi'kmaq boy from school, who first showed Morgan how to face his fears and endure the harsh wintry conditions particular to the Acadian Coast. Morgan already knew some of the practicalities, such as, how to build a shelter, how to light a fire, and so on. But Reni taught him other survival skills, for example, which berries were poisonous, and which were safe to eat. Sometimes, however, the absence of dry kindling and fire-making tools meant lighting a fire was impossible.
Morgan had never tested Reni's answer to that particular problem and he wasn't sure he even believed it, but right now he was willing to try anything. Think warm; think fire. Think strong, think iron. Think warm; think fire. Think strong, think iron.
Within a few minutes, the convulsive shivers that had begun to wrack his tired body ceased. He was calm; he was at peace. Sleep or, to be more accurate, sheer exhaustion enveloped him. Consciousness returned less than two hours later. It wasn't any particular sound that woke him, it was more a sense of danger. Until he was sure what that danger might be he resisted the urge to rise and take a look over the crates. Better to wait for now and stay alert.
Although it was still dark and gloomy, the shuffle and slap of boots on the cobblestones, muffled conversations, and the shouts of waterside workers and crewmen announced that the working day had begun. One wharfie stopped less than ten feet from Morgan's hidey-hole. A minute later, a match flared briefly, followed by a sucking sound. Strands of aromatic tobacco smoke wafted in Morgan's direction. The same leaf my father used if I'm not mistaken.
As Morgan crouched even lower he remembered Reni's advice should he ever encounter a black bear in the wilderness. "Think invisible. Think somewhere else. Bear not see you."
Morgan had stared at him uncertainly. "Chances are, he's seen me already. And even if I think I'm invisible he sure as hell won't. He's not gonna fall for that."
Reni had laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're not as dumb as you look, Blakey."
Morgan grinned and shook his head. "You say the nicest things. The truth, now, Reni. What do I do?"
"Whatever you do, don't run. He's big, but he's fast, much faster than you think. Stay calm. Back away, very slowly."
Morgan was thankful that although he had seen bears in the woods and on the outskirts of town many times over the years, he had never been close enough to become prey. The sound of more footsteps approaching brought his attention abruptly back to the present.
"No time to hang about Mac," a voice called sharply. "Chop, chop! The boss wants five wagon-loads of cargo on board The Maid of Merioneth by midday. She sails on the evening tide."
"Can't a man enjoy the fresh air without a hurry-up from the likes of you?" Mac complained.
"Hah! If it's fresh air you want, you can toss that filthy pipe in the harbour. Come on, man, he'll dock our pay if we don't pick up the pace. And you have a wife to answer to, don't forget."
"Aye, you're right, Jimmy. I'll take a tongue lashing from Mr MacDonald any day, but not from the missus. You just wait, I'll be six months in the grave and she'd still be telling me off!"
Not until their footsteps receded along the wharf did Morgan risk a peep over the top of the crate. In the half-light of dawn, he spied the two men join a team of fellow workers near a line of wagons parked alongside a three-masted clipper. He did some quick mental calculations. Sunset was about nine o'clock. High tide would be shortly before five, another twelve hours away. The sun would be up in half an hour.If he was to get aboard under cover of darkness he would have to go now.
At that very moment, Fergus MacLeod, the doughty captain of The Maid of Merioneth, was shaking a very sleepy First Mate out of the wildest dream hed had in months. "Get up, Shorty, there's work to do." So saying, he turned up the wick of the bulkhead lamp to brighten the room."
"Huh?" Dennis Logan's red-rimmed eyes had trouble adjusting to the light. "What's going on?"
"We weigh anchor before sundown," MacLeod told him. "And your first order of the day is to find us a cook for the journey home."
Logan blinked. "We've got a cook," he protested, croaking the words through dry lips.
"Correction. We had a cook. I have just been informed that Milligan started a fight in the Black Swan last night and someone was seriously hurt. He's in the clink right now and the constables are reluctant to let him go until he has had his day in court."
"Bloody typical," snarled Logan. "He can't boil an egg to save his life but he's an expert at getting into hot water. Didn't I warn you about him?"
The Captain's look was sour. "Aye, you did indeed. And, because you're such a good judge of character, it's your job to select the right candidate this time. So, prove your worth, my good fellow. And don't take all day. Your regular duties still require your attention." He left the cabin without bothering to close the door.
Logan cursed and reluctantly swung his stockinged feet out of the bunk and stood up, all six feet three of him. "Fine. Whatever you say, Captain," he muttered to himself. Since he had not bothered to remove his pants and shirt the night before, his dressing routine was brief. He only had to pull on his boots, slip a well-worn woollen jersey over the shirt, and jam a battered hat on his large head.
Emerging onto the rain-washed deck in the grey light of dawn, he skirted around assorted lengths of rope and deck cargo and headed for the gangway. He had taken only three steps when he saw a young fellow, carrying a kit-bag, approaching the gangway from the dockside. Despite the dim early morning light, their eyes met. Logan summed him up in three seconds. Not a dock-worker, nor your typical tradesman. Might be useful.
"Right, young feller, what are you after this fine morning?"
Morgan had his little speech prepared. "The shipping agent said you might be taking on extra hands," he lied.
"Can you cook?"
"Can I what!" Morgan replied, hoping that brash confidence might be the winning formula.
"Experience?"
"Plenty."
"How old are you, lad?"
"Twenty-one."
"Do you drink?"
"Does communion wine count?"
Logan laughed. "What's your name, son?"
"Blake. Morgan Blake."
"Well, Blakey, you'd better come aboard and get cracking in the galley, such as it is. The crew will be wanting their breakfast any tick of the clock. But I warn you, their vote is crucial. If its negative, you'll be back on shore before you can say Dick Turpin. If you're very bad, like as not they'll toss you straight over the side. Understood?"
Morgan grinned. "Aye, aye, Captain."
"First Mate," Logan corrected him. "You'll call me Mr Logan. As for the skipper, Captain MacLeod, you'll meet him soon enough. You'll need to impress him as well. I'll show you your sleeping quarters. You can stash your bag there for now. Then," he added with a flourish, "I'll give you the grand tour of the galley."
"Great," said Morgan, following dutifully in the first mate's wake.
The fo'c'sle, located on the main deck, just aft of the foremast, housed the sleeping quarters for the bosun, the carpenter, the sailmaker, and the cook. Forward of this was the hen-house, home to a dozen Rhode Island Reds.
"Good layers, all of them," Logan told him. "Except for that lazy tart, there!" He pointed to a large, shifty-eyed hen in the corner of the coop. "You'll need to show her your meat-cleaver at least once a day and let her know you mean business!"
Aftmost of the fo'c'sle, was the galley. Built to serve a crew of fifty or more, it was not insubstantial in its dimensions. There were cupboards and drawers galore, stocked with food and cooking utensils. There was also a metal tank filled with thirty gallons of fresh water.
"Right, young feller, what are you after this fine morning?"
Morgan had his little speech prepared. "The shipping agent said you might be taking on extra hands," he lied.
"Can you cook?"
"Can I what!" Morgan replied, hoping that brash confidence might be the winning formula.
"Experience?"
"Plenty."
"How old are you, lad?"
"Twenty-one."
"Do you drink?"
"Does communion wine count?"
Logan laughed. "What's your name, son?"
"Blake. Morgan Blake."
"Well, Blakey, you'd better come aboard and get cracking in the galley, such as it is. The crew will be wanting their breakfast any tick of the clock. But I warn you, their vote is crucial. If its negative, you'll be back on shore before you can say Dick Turpin. If you're very bad, like as not they'll toss you straight over the side. Understood?"
Morgan grinned. "Aye, aye, Captain."
"First Mate," Logan corrected him. "You'll call me Mr Logan. As for the skipper, Captain MacLeod, you'll meet him soon enough. You'll need to impress him as well. I'll show you your sleeping quarters. You can stash your bag there for now. Then," he added with a flourish, "I'll give you the grand tour of the galley."
"Great," said Morgan, following dutifully in the first mate's wake.
The fo'c'sle, located on the main deck, just aft of the foremast, housed the sleeping quarters for the bosun, the carpenter, the sailmaker, and the cook. Forward of this was the hen-house, home to a dozen Rhode Island Reds.
"Good layers, all of them," Logan told him. "Except for that lazy tart, there!" He pointed to a large, shifty-eyed hen in the corner of the coop. "You'll need to show her your meat-cleaver at least once a day and let her know you mean business!"
Aftmost of the fo'c'sle, was the galley. Built to serve a crew of fifty or more, it was not insubstantial in its dimensions. There were cupboards and drawers galore, stocked with food and cooking utensils. There was also a metal tank filled with thirty gallons of fresh water.
The stove was large and it would take all of Morgan's skill to dish up hot food for this small navy of men. "This," said Logan, pointing to the copper stove-pipe that reached from the back of the stove up through the roof of the fo'c'sle, "is your Charlie Nobel."
"I know."
"Pull the other one!" Logan was sceptical.
Morgan nodded. "Sure. I've been around ships for a while."
"Ah! said Logan, "but have you ever been to sea, like across the ocean?"
"No," Morgan shook his head. "I've been around the harbour a few times. Went up to Halifax once, but that was ten years since."
Logan said, "The Atlantic can be mighty unpredictable, like most women I've known. Sometimes she's your friend. But she can turn on you real quick. And when she's upset there's no telling what she'll do to you."
"Are you trying to scare me?" Morgan asked. "Because I'm not easily scared, Mr Logan."
"No, lad, I'm not trying to scare you. I'm just making sure you know that every journey has its risks."
"I understand, Mr Logan. I heard what happened to the City of Boston. But such things don't bother me. I reckon the odds are in my favour."
Logan seemed satisfied with his response. "Foster, the cabin boy, will do the serving and clearing up. It's his tenth trip so he knows the ropes. So then, Mr Blake, do you reckon you can handle it?" he asked.
"Piece of cake," Morgan said with far more confidence than he felt. Feeding a crew of fifty ravenous sailors on a lurching ship was a huge leap from serving a dozen customers in his aunt's small cafe in Yarmouth during summer break.
"I'm counting on you, Blakey," Logan informed him. "If you let me down, I'll feed you to the fishes myself."
Morgan nodded. "I understand, Mr Logan." Chances were, whatever punishment Mr Logan could conjure up in his imagination would be mild compared to what awaited him if his pursuers ever caught up with him. While Logan left to supervise other members of the crew, Morgan busied himself with refuelling the stove, and pots, pans, and foodstuffs. Grateful for everything he had learned from his mother, grandmother, and maiden aunt, he put it to good use.
In between supervising the loading of cargo and stores, Logan kept his protege under observation. Late morning, there was a brief lull in activity and Logan approached Morgan's new lair.
"What's the verdict, Mr Logan? I'm ready to start the midday meal if you want me to."
Logan ran a hand over his beard and struck a thoughtful pose. "So far, nobody's reported sick, so it doesn't look too bad for a first attempt," he told Morgan.
Morgan, who had been under tension like a tightly coiled spring, felt a flood of relief. "So you're hiring me then?"
"Yes."
Morgan felt even more relief.
"And no," added Logan.
Morgan's stomach began to knot again as he struggled to comprehend what that meant.
Logan noted the look of panic with satisfaction. "What I mean is you'll not be paid. Too much paperwork. So, to keep things simple, you'll just be working your passage."
"Mr Logan!" The call came from a crew-member standing at the gangway.
"What is it, Shawcross?"
"These constables want a word."
Morgan's face paled instantly as the blood drained from it. Logan didn't see it; he was already moving quickly towards to larboard rail. Morgan followed, but discreetly, and only as far as the corner of the fo'c'sle. He wanted to be close enough to hear what was being said, without being seen.
Three members of the local constabulary stood at the bottom of the gangway. The largest and most senior of these, a man in his early forties, with a florid face asked, "Are you the captain?"
"First Mate," Logan replied. "The captain is ashore. You might find him with the shipping agent or the harbour master or the chandlers warehouse. Is this about Milligan?"
"Milligan? Ah, you mean the drunken sailor who beat up one of our esteemed citizens? No, that is not why we're here."
"Then what?"
"We are looking for a young fellow. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes. Seen anyone like that lurking about?"
Logan waved his left arm in a wide arc. "Hah!" he said derisively, "you just described half my crew. But if I've taught them anything in these last three voyages, it's that they're found lurking, or larking about, when they should be putting their backs into it, they will pay for their sins!"
The constable's sneering tone perfectly matched his sneering face. "He's not a sailor. He's a local lad."
Logan's face broke into a smile. "Oh, I see. And you think he might have run away to sea?"
"That is our present line of inquiry."
Logan nodded. "Well, Constable, let me assure you that our security is tight, very tight. It has to be, in order to protect our valuable cargo from pirates, plunderers, and petty thieves. No shortage of those in Yarmouth, as I understand."
The constable wasn't sure whether he should take Logan's assessment on face value or take it as a slur. He cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, we are searching for a fugitive. Have you seen anyone acting suspiciously?"
"Yes," said Logan. As a matter of fact, I have."
Morgan's heart fell, or so it seemed to him, with a dull thud onto the deck. The rat's betrayed me, he thought. I'll be arrested, for sure.
The constable's interest was piqued. "Oh yes?"
"Indeed. I remember it clearly. Three bells on the middle watch, it was." He paused, for effect.
"Go on," urged the constable.
"Yes, three bells. Or was it four? Anyway, I apprehended one of our swabbies trying to smuggle a woman on board. He's still regretting it, I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, Mr Mate," said the constable with distaste. "Thank you for wasting my time."
"Don't mention it," Logan replied. "Pleased to be of service." He watched the uniformed men move along the wharf to the next ship, then returned to the fo'c'sle where he found Morgan busy peeling potatoes. "They're gone," he told his newly-appointed cook.
"I'm very grateful, Mr Logan," Morgan said. "You could have given me up."
Logan nodded. "You'd better be worth it," he said. "Few things I hate more than misplaced trust."
Morgan nodded. "I understand. I won't let you down."
Later that afternoon, as the last cargo-hatch was covered and sealed, the mooring ropes were slipped and deftly coiled. The gangway was heaved aboard and secured. Then, steam-powered tugboats, their funnels belching black smoke and powerful screws churning the water, eased the clipper away from the wharf and out into the channel. There the sails were unfurled and the tugboats released their captive. Strong hands strained on capstans, ropes and spars. Hundreds of square feet of canvas were hauled upward, and an onshore breeze took The Maid of Merioneth out to sea.
"Where are we headed?" Morgan asked a deckhand.
The man stared at him. "You mean you don't know?"
"I haven't a clue."
The deckhand rolled his eyes. "You've got that right!"
Morgan returned to the galley and was preparing the crew's evening meal when a crew-member appeared and informed him that the captain required his presence in the saloon just aft of the officer's mess. On arrival, he found a timber-panelled room, some twelve feet square, furnished with two couches and two small, square tables, each with four chairs. The captain was seated at one of these. He was a large, well-built man with a wrinkled, weather-beaten face that testified to a lifetime at sea.
Morgan said, "You want to see me, sir?"
Piercing blue eyes swept over the latest addition to his crew, starting with his boots and travelling upward until they settled on the young fellow's face. "So you're the new cook?" As expected, the voice was gruff, rasping, no doubt a legacy from years of bawling orders to his crew in the teeth of force-nine gales.
"Yes, sir," Morgan said, returning the man's gaze.
"Sit," he told Morgan, indicating a chair opposite.
Morgan looked at the old sea-dog with more than a little trepidation. The captain's deep blue eyes, set well back beneath craggy brows in a leathery face, seemed to be the sort that would pierce steel plate if necessary. And, as he fell under the captain's unrelenting scrutiny, Morgan had the disquieting feeling that those eyes could just as readily pierce the very depths of his soul.
"I'm a busy man with many responsibilities, so I'll keep this brief," said the captain, by way of introduction.
Morgan nodded.
The captain's gaze was already probing, penetrating. "I understand you name is Morgan Blake?"
"Yes, sir."
"Age?"
"Um... eighteen this year."
The captain's eyes narrowed. "Yet you told Mr Logan you were twenty-one."
Morgan bit his lip. "Sorry for the lie, sir. I thought if I gave my real age, he would assume I was too young to have enough experience. I really need this job, sir."
"Why this job? Have you been employed as cook on any other vessels?"
"Not exactly, sir. I have worked in a family-run cafe and I have some experience with boats. I thought I could combine the two."
"Did you, now?" The captain took a pipe from his pocket and filled it with tobacco from a small pouch. Tamping it down with the end of a match. Only when the fire in the pipe's small bowl was burning to his satisfaction did he continue. "So, tell me, Mr Blake. What, or who are you running from?"
"Sir?"
Captain MacLeod's eyes were orbs of hardened steel; his gaze unwavering. "Let me be frank, young man. I've been at sea for more than forty years, half that time as captain. I've dealt with every kind of man you can imagine and more besides. Strong, weak, brave, cowardly, honest men and rogues. Men running from creditors, men running from women and kids, men running form poverty or..." there was a slight pause before he added, "...from the long arm of the law." He pointed his pipe directly at Morgan's heart. "So what are you running from, Mr Blake?"
Morgan wasn't sure how best to answer this question. His expression was one of total helplessness.
"Are you a fugitive from justice?" prompted the captain.
Morgan said. "Yes. And no."
MacLeod's patience was running thin. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"What I mean to say is, I am a fugitive, but not from justice," Morgan replied. "The exact opposite, in fact."
"Would you care to explain that?"
Taking a deep breath, Morgan gave him a condensed but truthful version of his story.
At its conclusion, the captain asked, "So, what is your plan?"
"Plan?"
"When you disembark."
"I hope to find my uncle. He's a cotton merchant. He might employ me or at least put in a good word for me."
"And where is he based?"
"In Liverpool."
"Really?" The captain looked impressed. "Do you believe in Providence, Mr Blake?"
"I believe in luck."
"Then it might interest you to know that until last Tuesday my orders were to deliver certain goods to Boston and to go from there to New York. A redirection order from our offices in Liverpool changed all that. If that is luck, it must be the luck of the Lord!"
"I know."
"Pull the other one!" Logan was sceptical.
Morgan nodded. "Sure. I've been around ships for a while."
"Ah! said Logan, "but have you ever been to sea, like across the ocean?"
"No," Morgan shook his head. "I've been around the harbour a few times. Went up to Halifax once, but that was ten years since."
Logan said, "The Atlantic can be mighty unpredictable, like most women I've known. Sometimes she's your friend. But she can turn on you real quick. And when she's upset there's no telling what she'll do to you."
"Are you trying to scare me?" Morgan asked. "Because I'm not easily scared, Mr Logan."
"No, lad, I'm not trying to scare you. I'm just making sure you know that every journey has its risks."
"I understand, Mr Logan. I heard what happened to the City of Boston. But such things don't bother me. I reckon the odds are in my favour."
Logan seemed satisfied with his response. "Foster, the cabin boy, will do the serving and clearing up. It's his tenth trip so he knows the ropes. So then, Mr Blake, do you reckon you can handle it?" he asked.
"Piece of cake," Morgan said with far more confidence than he felt. Feeding a crew of fifty ravenous sailors on a lurching ship was a huge leap from serving a dozen customers in his aunt's small cafe in Yarmouth during summer break.
"I'm counting on you, Blakey," Logan informed him. "If you let me down, I'll feed you to the fishes myself."
Morgan nodded. "I understand, Mr Logan." Chances were, whatever punishment Mr Logan could conjure up in his imagination would be mild compared to what awaited him if his pursuers ever caught up with him. While Logan left to supervise other members of the crew, Morgan busied himself with refuelling the stove, and pots, pans, and foodstuffs. Grateful for everything he had learned from his mother, grandmother, and maiden aunt, he put it to good use.
In between supervising the loading of cargo and stores, Logan kept his protege under observation. Late morning, there was a brief lull in activity and Logan approached Morgan's new lair.
"What's the verdict, Mr Logan? I'm ready to start the midday meal if you want me to."
Logan ran a hand over his beard and struck a thoughtful pose. "So far, nobody's reported sick, so it doesn't look too bad for a first attempt," he told Morgan.
Morgan, who had been under tension like a tightly coiled spring, felt a flood of relief. "So you're hiring me then?"
"Yes."
Morgan felt even more relief.
"And no," added Logan.
Morgan's stomach began to knot again as he struggled to comprehend what that meant.
Logan noted the look of panic with satisfaction. "What I mean is you'll not be paid. Too much paperwork. So, to keep things simple, you'll just be working your passage."
"Mr Logan!" The call came from a crew-member standing at the gangway.
"What is it, Shawcross?"
"These constables want a word."
Morgan's face paled instantly as the blood drained from it. Logan didn't see it; he was already moving quickly towards to larboard rail. Morgan followed, but discreetly, and only as far as the corner of the fo'c'sle. He wanted to be close enough to hear what was being said, without being seen.
Three members of the local constabulary stood at the bottom of the gangway. The largest and most senior of these, a man in his early forties, with a florid face asked, "Are you the captain?"
"First Mate," Logan replied. "The captain is ashore. You might find him with the shipping agent or the harbour master or the chandlers warehouse. Is this about Milligan?"
"Milligan? Ah, you mean the drunken sailor who beat up one of our esteemed citizens? No, that is not why we're here."
"Then what?"
"We are looking for a young fellow. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes. Seen anyone like that lurking about?"
Logan waved his left arm in a wide arc. "Hah!" he said derisively, "you just described half my crew. But if I've taught them anything in these last three voyages, it's that they're found lurking, or larking about, when they should be putting their backs into it, they will pay for their sins!"
The constable's sneering tone perfectly matched his sneering face. "He's not a sailor. He's a local lad."
Logan's face broke into a smile. "Oh, I see. And you think he might have run away to sea?"
"That is our present line of inquiry."
Logan nodded. "Well, Constable, let me assure you that our security is tight, very tight. It has to be, in order to protect our valuable cargo from pirates, plunderers, and petty thieves. No shortage of those in Yarmouth, as I understand."
The constable wasn't sure whether he should take Logan's assessment on face value or take it as a slur. He cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, we are searching for a fugitive. Have you seen anyone acting suspiciously?"
"Yes," said Logan. As a matter of fact, I have."
Morgan's heart fell, or so it seemed to him, with a dull thud onto the deck. The rat's betrayed me, he thought. I'll be arrested, for sure.
The constable's interest was piqued. "Oh yes?"
"Indeed. I remember it clearly. Three bells on the middle watch, it was." He paused, for effect.
"Go on," urged the constable.
"Yes, three bells. Or was it four? Anyway, I apprehended one of our swabbies trying to smuggle a woman on board. He's still regretting it, I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, Mr Mate," said the constable with distaste. "Thank you for wasting my time."
"Don't mention it," Logan replied. "Pleased to be of service." He watched the uniformed men move along the wharf to the next ship, then returned to the fo'c'sle where he found Morgan busy peeling potatoes. "They're gone," he told his newly-appointed cook.
"I'm very grateful, Mr Logan," Morgan said. "You could have given me up."
Logan nodded. "You'd better be worth it," he said. "Few things I hate more than misplaced trust."
Morgan nodded. "I understand. I won't let you down."
Later that afternoon, as the last cargo-hatch was covered and sealed, the mooring ropes were slipped and deftly coiled. The gangway was heaved aboard and secured. Then, steam-powered tugboats, their funnels belching black smoke and powerful screws churning the water, eased the clipper away from the wharf and out into the channel. There the sails were unfurled and the tugboats released their captive. Strong hands strained on capstans, ropes and spars. Hundreds of square feet of canvas were hauled upward, and an onshore breeze took The Maid of Merioneth out to sea.
"Where are we headed?" Morgan asked a deckhand.
The man stared at him. "You mean you don't know?"
"I haven't a clue."
The deckhand rolled his eyes. "You've got that right!"
Morgan returned to the galley and was preparing the crew's evening meal when a crew-member appeared and informed him that the captain required his presence in the saloon just aft of the officer's mess. On arrival, he found a timber-panelled room, some twelve feet square, furnished with two couches and two small, square tables, each with four chairs. The captain was seated at one of these. He was a large, well-built man with a wrinkled, weather-beaten face that testified to a lifetime at sea.
Morgan said, "You want to see me, sir?"
Piercing blue eyes swept over the latest addition to his crew, starting with his boots and travelling upward until they settled on the young fellow's face. "So you're the new cook?" As expected, the voice was gruff, rasping, no doubt a legacy from years of bawling orders to his crew in the teeth of force-nine gales.
"Yes, sir," Morgan said, returning the man's gaze.
"Sit," he told Morgan, indicating a chair opposite.
Morgan looked at the old sea-dog with more than a little trepidation. The captain's deep blue eyes, set well back beneath craggy brows in a leathery face, seemed to be the sort that would pierce steel plate if necessary. And, as he fell under the captain's unrelenting scrutiny, Morgan had the disquieting feeling that those eyes could just as readily pierce the very depths of his soul.
"I'm a busy man with many responsibilities, so I'll keep this brief," said the captain, by way of introduction.
Morgan nodded.
The captain's gaze was already probing, penetrating. "I understand you name is Morgan Blake?"
"Yes, sir."
"Age?"
"Um... eighteen this year."
The captain's eyes narrowed. "Yet you told Mr Logan you were twenty-one."
Morgan bit his lip. "Sorry for the lie, sir. I thought if I gave my real age, he would assume I was too young to have enough experience. I really need this job, sir."
"Why this job? Have you been employed as cook on any other vessels?"
"Not exactly, sir. I have worked in a family-run cafe and I have some experience with boats. I thought I could combine the two."
"Did you, now?" The captain took a pipe from his pocket and filled it with tobacco from a small pouch. Tamping it down with the end of a match. Only when the fire in the pipe's small bowl was burning to his satisfaction did he continue. "So, tell me, Mr Blake. What, or who are you running from?"
"Sir?"
Captain MacLeod's eyes were orbs of hardened steel; his gaze unwavering. "Let me be frank, young man. I've been at sea for more than forty years, half that time as captain. I've dealt with every kind of man you can imagine and more besides. Strong, weak, brave, cowardly, honest men and rogues. Men running from creditors, men running from women and kids, men running form poverty or..." there was a slight pause before he added, "...from the long arm of the law." He pointed his pipe directly at Morgan's heart. "So what are you running from, Mr Blake?"
Morgan wasn't sure how best to answer this question. His expression was one of total helplessness.
"Are you a fugitive from justice?" prompted the captain.
Morgan said. "Yes. And no."
MacLeod's patience was running thin. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"What I mean to say is, I am a fugitive, but not from justice," Morgan replied. "The exact opposite, in fact."
"Would you care to explain that?"
Taking a deep breath, Morgan gave him a condensed but truthful version of his story.
At its conclusion, the captain asked, "So, what is your plan?"
"Plan?"
"When you disembark."
"I hope to find my uncle. He's a cotton merchant. He might employ me or at least put in a good word for me."
"And where is he based?"
"In Liverpool."
"Really?" The captain looked impressed. "Do you believe in Providence, Mr Blake?"
"I believe in luck."
"Then it might interest you to know that until last Tuesday my orders were to deliver certain goods to Boston and to go from there to New York. A redirection order from our offices in Liverpool changed all that. If that is luck, it must be the luck of the Lord!"
Far astern, the setting sun was an indistinct orange orb, veiled and distorted by a thickening evening mist, but Morgan paid no attention to it as he returned to the fo'c'sle after his interview. Aloft and on deck, various crew members attended to their allotted tasks, all under the watchful eye of First Mate Logan. The ship was under full sail with an eight-knot breeze off the starboard stern quarter. The swell was moderate and movement around the deck area was not seriously hampered by the gentle pitch and roll.
As per the first mate's instructions, before retiring to his quarters Morgan made sure all loose items in the galley were secured. As he sorted and tidied his work-space, the strains of music or, at least, the strained sounds of musical instruments and voices could be heard through the bulkhead.
Closing the galley door behind him and entering the fo'c'sle's sleeping quarters, he found the sail-maker squeezing assorted noises from a battered concertina, while the carpenter scraped a bow across the strings of a well-worn fiddle with questionable skill. What these men lacked in accomplishment and finesse, was counterbalanced by enthusiasm and vigour. Added to this cacophony was the booming baritone voice of the bosun, assisted (or perhaps impeded) by the no less strident, but considerably less gifted, voices of his cabin-mates.
"Blakey!" said the bosun. "Come and join us, lad. Pull up a chair!"
Since there were no chairs, except for the one occupied by the bosun, Morgan took this directive to mean that he should sit on the edge of a lower bunk, which he did.
"Right, shipmates," the bosun said. "The Trade Wind's Song. Give us the note, Chas."
Chas Wood, the aptly named carpenter, dutifully played an F, and so it began:
Oh, I am the wind that seamen love
I am steady strong and true
They follow my track by the clouds above
O'er the fathomless tropic blue
For close by the shores of the sunny Azores
Their ships I await to convoy
When into their sails my constant breath pours
They hail me with turbulent joy.
This song was followed in swift succession by The Clipper, The Homeward Bounder's Song and quite a few others. Bad as they were, from the viewpoint of any serious music critic, Morgan found the whole thing strangely infectious and, before long, he was singing along at the top of his voice as well. After the tension of the last twenty-four hours, this unexpected musical interlude and camaraderie afforded his emotions a most welcome release. It was well over an hour later that the bosun called a halt to the proceedings.
"Well, shipmates, that's enough for one night. Reckon I'll take a turn around the deck and see that all's ship-shape and Bristol-fashion." So saying, he departed.
Bill Lafferty, the sail-maker, fastened the clasp on his concertina and said to the carpenter,
"Well, shipmates, that's enough for one night. Reckon I'll take a turn around the deck and see that all's ship-shape and Bristol-fashion." So saying, he departed.
Bill Lafferty, the sail-maker, fastened the clasp on his concertina and said to the carpenter,
"Played like a man, Chas!"
"Thanks, Bill."
Then, Bill added mischievously, "Perhaps, tomorrow, you might like to play it like another man."
"Eh? What are you saying? There's nothing wrong with the way I play," said Chas defensively.
"Well it certainly doesn't help when your fiddle isn't tuned properly," responded Bill.
"And how do you know it isn't your squeeze-box that's out of tune?"
"Because it has metal reeds, not strings. The pitch never varies," said Bill confidently.
"Ah," said Chas. His eyes were gleaming as it all became clear, at least it was clear to him. But everyone knows that metal expands when it's hot and shrinks when it's cold. Therefore the pitch would change with the temperature."
"And what do you say, Blakey?" The bosun asked the newest member of the crew.
Morgan hesitated for a moment, then extended his hand towards the carpenter and said, "May I?"
Chas handed him the fiddle. Morgan waved away the proffered bow. "I won't need that," he said amiably. Placing the instrument upright on his knee, he plucked each string in turn, grimacing as he did so.
"See what I mean?" Bill said.
"Give me a G, if you will, Mr Lafferty," said Morgan.
Bill unclipped his concertina once again and obliged.
Morgan made an adjustment to the relevant tuning peg. "Now the D." The process was repeated for the remaining two strings, after which he returned the instrument to its owner. "That should just about do it."
Chas Wood played a succession of notes across all four strings. "Close enough," he agreed reluctantly.
"Let's do The Drunken Sailor," Bill suggested. They played it through, twice.
"Well, blow me down with a feather," Chas said to Bill. "It's a miracle. He fiddles with me fiddle and then, real sudden like, your squeeze-box comes back into tune. That's uncanny!"
"Thanks, Bill."
Then, Bill added mischievously, "Perhaps, tomorrow, you might like to play it like another man."
"Eh? What are you saying? There's nothing wrong with the way I play," said Chas defensively.
"Well it certainly doesn't help when your fiddle isn't tuned properly," responded Bill.
"And how do you know it isn't your squeeze-box that's out of tune?"
"Because it has metal reeds, not strings. The pitch never varies," said Bill confidently.
"Ah," said Chas. His eyes were gleaming as it all became clear, at least it was clear to him. But everyone knows that metal expands when it's hot and shrinks when it's cold. Therefore the pitch would change with the temperature."
"And what do you say, Blakey?" The bosun asked the newest member of the crew.
Morgan hesitated for a moment, then extended his hand towards the carpenter and said, "May I?"
Chas handed him the fiddle. Morgan waved away the proffered bow. "I won't need that," he said amiably. Placing the instrument upright on his knee, he plucked each string in turn, grimacing as he did so.
"See what I mean?" Bill said.
"Give me a G, if you will, Mr Lafferty," said Morgan.
Bill unclipped his concertina once again and obliged.
Morgan made an adjustment to the relevant tuning peg. "Now the D." The process was repeated for the remaining two strings, after which he returned the instrument to its owner. "That should just about do it."
Chas Wood played a succession of notes across all four strings. "Close enough," he agreed reluctantly.
"Let's do The Drunken Sailor," Bill suggested. They played it through, twice.
"Well, blow me down with a feather," Chas said to Bill. "It's a miracle. He fiddles with me fiddle and then, real sudden like, your squeeze-box comes back into tune. That's uncanny!"
The instruments were put away and soon it was time for the lamp to be dimmed and for the men to retire. Morgan forsook his boots, wiggled his toes and lay full length on his bunk, pulling the coarse grey blanket up over his body. He cared not that the pillow was lumpy or that it smelled of stale sweat and seaweed. He was relieved to have escaped the men who were seeking his life and able to close the door on his recent past. Whether it would be safe to return at some point in the future, he had no way of knowing. What he did know was that another door had just opened, a door to a different world, a different life, and a fresh start. And, when he landed on that distant shore, new opportunities.
The warmth of the cabin, the relative comfort of the bunk, combined with the rhythmic motion of the ship and sheer exhaustion ensured that Morgan had no trouble drifting off to sleep. The snoring of his bunk-mates did not bother him. The creaks and groans of the ship's timbers, the wind moaning its way through the rigging, nor even the pounding of the waves against the hull, none of these were sufficient to disturb his deep slumber.
It was a dream; a very vivid dream. He was running through the woods. Armed men were after him, getting closer. He could hear the hounds barking. Worse, they were growling, which meant they were very close. He tried to push his way through the undergrowth but it was too thick. He stumbled into what he thought was a creek. It turned out to be thick, cloying mud, reaching halfway to his knees, impeding his progress. He jerked one leg free, only to find he had lost his boot. His other boot suffered the same fate and his socks were gone too. He was running again, but jerkily. He was now on a gravelled path strewn with sharp stones that ripped and tore at the soles of his feet.
Coming to a clearing, he stopped for a second or two trying to decide which direction to take. Too late. As the cloud overhead peeled away, moonbeams revealed yet another obstacle. Right in his path stood a huge black bear, towering over him. As he looked at the bear's face, it morphed into something more human and much more evil. Though distorted, it was a face he recognised and it terrified him. As the creature lunged at him, Morgan woke in fright. Although frightened by the dream, he was relieved to realise it was only that. He was on a ship bound for England. He was safe. For now.
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