Tag Archives: fiction

William, March 1887

“We’re nearing Cape Horn,” Thomas walked up to where William leaned over the rail along the deck of the Vance Thurgood.  “See the water?”

Pushing back a few strands of light brown hair—it’d grown longer since they set sail–William watched as tiny white caps cascaded over their crests like so many falling mountain peaks.  Nodding, he replied, “Maybe something interesting will happen for once.”  The ship had, at first, been a place of excitement for William.  He’d been vaguely familiar with ships all his life, growing up so near the seaport.  However, his father had never brought him aboard the Vance Thurgood, or any other whaling ship.  The deck wasn’t so different from most other ships, except for the tryworks, where the whale blubber would be cooked down into oil, if and when they managed to catch a whale.

Davits, or wooden arms, arched over the sides of the deck.  On many ships, these held smaller boats, and in the case of a whaling vessel that was no different.  The whalers would be lowered to the water using pulleys that hung from the davits.  So too would platforms be hung so that the crew could move alongside the ship during the cutting in.  William had once asked his father to describe the process.  “Imagine dozens of men,” his father had begun, “crawling all over these platforms like ants on a log newly rolled over, carving the whale into smaller pieces so as to get it on board the ship.  If you think harpoons are sharp, they’re nothing to the tools used for the cutting-in.”  He still had not witnessed a cutting-in, so had only the memory of his father’s description to slake his curiosity.

Below deck, the whaling ship had a forecastle, or fo’c’sle as it was commonly called, which was located toward the bow, and that’s where the crew ate every day and slept every night.  Upon first boarding the ship, William thought it seemed bigger than he’d imagined—now it seemed tight and cramped after six months at sea.  Moving aft below deck were the cabins, and yet another level below contained such things as the blubber room and ballast.  He’d thoroughly explored all the nooks and crannies of the ship where he had access, and the novelty of being at sea had worn off months ago.

The wind brought his thoughts back to the present as it caused ropes to snap taut against the masts.  He could hear the ship creak and groan against the rudder and idly wondered how much wind it would take to cause the rudder to snap.  The wind smelled saltier too, almost as though William had stuck his head into the waves but could still draw breath.  Even without the approaching wall of cloud-cover, he could tell a storm was indeed fast approaching.

“I know you think it was a waste of time coming along,” Thomas was saying, “but it will get more exciting once we get around to the Pacific and can start actually working.”

Scoffing in reply, William straightened.  He was taller than his friend by almost a head.  “Did you forget why we’re here?  Not for whales.  For my father.”

Thomas held his hands up in surrender and shook his head.  “I didn’t forget.  Quiet about it though.” He nodded aft, past William’s shoulder.

Turning, William spotted Tobias, the first mate.  He frequently looked down his perfectly straight nose at everyone else on board, and now was no exception.  He’d made William’s list of people to avoid months ago.  Sighing, William replied, “Fine.  Maybe we’ll at least hit a storm and then I’ll have some repairs to make.  I need to do something.”  He glanced at the sky.  The sun was still shining but he knew from his father’s tales that near to the Cape, the weather could change at the drop of a hat.  The last six months had been spent sailing south.  They’d stopped once in South Carolina for three days, where William had spent almost the entirety of his time at a local bethel, a sort of library where sailors could rest from their travels without worrying about engaging in less virtuous endeavors. Thomas suggested that they might glean some information if they went with the others to a tavern, but William wasn’t keen on wasting what little money he had on drink.

Instead, they’d written letters home to Catherine.  William’s missive was short as he’d been unwilling to admit to finding out nothing thus far regarding their father’s death.  Now, as they approached a stretch of water most sailors tried to avoid, he wished he’d found out something.  “What if our ship is taken and I die without ever finding out who killed my father?”  William turned back to the water, staring into the grey-blue and vast beyond.

“You’d be in no worse shape than you’re in now.  Besides, storms around these parts are likely.  Not much we can do to avoid them and I’d be surprised if we didn’t hit any at all.  But just stay below deck when you’re not on watch, Greenhand,” he teased.  Thomas had tried to teach his friend the finer points of navigating and steering the ship, but to no avail.  Opportunities for a cooper who served also as an oarsman were rare.

“That seems boring.”  William sighed even as the wind whipped up around him, filling the sails.  The ship lurched forward and he staggered a couple of steps.

“Johnson,” Tobias called, “looks like you still don’t have your sea legs!”  he chortled before continuing toward the bow.

I wish I could move like him aboard the ship.  I might, if I didn’t have to go below deck every time we reach rough waters.  He said nothing in return to Tobias, as usual.  He wasn’t here for an argument, William reminded himself, as he turned to descend the steep and narrow stairs that led below deck.

Stooping to walk the confining corridor, he made his way toward the fo’c’sle.  Walking much of the length of the ship didn’t take long, particularly when everyone else was already above deck.  His cabin, as he thought of it, was shared with four other men; Thomas, who slept on the bunk above his, and a man named Michael and another named Walter.  It wasn’t even a room, but rather a bank of bunks, separated by the rest of the fo’c’sle by a navy canvas curtain.  He barely spoke to the other two men, as he thus far knew little about who he might trust beyond his friend from home.

Thomas continually reminded him that he’d have to start talking to the others if he wanted to find out what happened to his father.  None of their cabin mates were old enough to have been on board then, though, so he doubted there was much sense in getting to be friends with them.  One of the harpooners was definitely old enough—his hair was so white that on a cloudy day, William almost couldn’t see it—and of course he knew Tobias and David, the first and second mates, had been aboard ten years ago when his father died.  Aside from them, that left only Captain Matthews that he knew of, but he supposed there might be others.  The crew itself was fairly small with only twenty-six men including the Captain and mates.

Talking with the crew members wasn’t easy.  As cooper, his work didn’t necessarily align with theirs so there wasn’t the same sense of camaraderie that Thomas had found in the last half year.  What was more was that coopers made almost as much as mates when it was time to split the ship’s profits.  For this voyage, he would take home roughly one fiftieth of the ship’s profits, whereas much of the crew were lucky to see half of that.  He had to find some way to close the distance between himself and the rest of the crew, but right now, all William could think about was the storm raging against the outside of the ship.

The sun was hidden now behind the growing clouds, but William could still tell that it was late afternoon.  Might as well try to sleep a bit before the watch bell rings.  Even if a storm hit, he doubted he would be excused from his usual shift.  He stretched out on his bunk–it always felt good to lie down after walking around below deck.  Even though his feet hung over the end, there wasn’t anything forcing him into a stooped position.  Thankfully, the deck below this one, where he would be constructing most of the barrels, was a bit roomier.

He stared at the bottom of Thomas’ bunk.  The blank, almost white space allowed his mind to wander.  He thought about his father and tried to picture him aboard the Vance Thurgood.  Upon coming aboard the ship, he’d asked for his father’s bunk, but another sailor already claimed it.  The bunks were all the same, except some featured striped mattresses while others were solid colors.  He’d hoped though that the connection to his father would strengthen his resolve.

William fidgeted, even as the ship moved around him with each rise and fall though the unease of the ocean had little to do with his restlessness.  “Six months at sea and I’ve learned nothing,” he muttered to no one in particular.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” a voice argued.

William sat up so quickly he cracked his head into the bottom of Thomas’ bunk.  He cussed, winced and pressed his palm to his forehead.  “It’s rude to sneak up on people,” he began to suggest before looking to see who it was.  “Oh, Michael…nevermind.  I…sorry.”

Michael was short and William often thought he must have been born to be aboard a ship, where he didn’t have to duck at all to get through the tight spaces.  His shoulders were nearly as broad as the corridor, which William thought rather fitting as winding the winch that lifted the anchor was typically left to him.  Michael shook his head and moved to sit on his own bunk.

“Aren’t you on watch?” William rubbed his head where he could already feel a bump forming.

Nodding, he answered, “I am, but Thomas asked me to come and check on you.  He said you seemed unsteady.  Well, more than usual.  He’s taking over part of my shift.”

Why didn’t Thomas come down himself?  Could it be that he was regretting bringing me aboard, as they’d thus far found out nothing surrounding a death that occurred so long ago?  Twelve years, to be exact.  “Ah.  Well, I’m not all that good at sailing.”

“Most of the lads aboard the Thurgood have been sailing since they could walk.”  He tends to exaggerate, William cautioned himself silently.  “At any rate,” Michael continued, “you wouldn’t want to learn how to bring a whale in, would you?  The Captain would never go for sending you out on a boat but…if you’re bored, you could help with the cutting in when we catch one.”  The ship rocked hard to port.  William rolled back and Michael had to brace himself to keep from falling off of his bunk.  “Then again, perhaps you’ll have repairs to make before long.”

William felt bad hoping that there’d be something to fix.  He’d had work once in the last half year, and it was just to strengthen a weak board.  Three nails had done the trick.  Three nails and ten minutes.  If they’d been catching whales, he’d be busy.  Before a whaling ship left the seaport, most of the barrels were taken apart for easier storage.  As whales were caught and blubber cooked down into oil, those barrels had to be put back together—and it would take a cooper’s skill to complete the task.  Likewise, water barrels would be used and so the blubber casks would replace them as the ship’s ballast throughout the journey, and the water barrels would be disassembled.  “Maybe you’re right.  I’ll ask the Captain about it after we get out of this storm.”

“It hasn’t even really hit yet,” Michael stood and offered a dark grin before he left.

Lying back down, William thought about what might be the best way to approach Captain Matthews.

William, September 1886

“Who can that be?” Today’s newspaper lay half folded across William Johnson’s knees. He’d been combing through its pages for work at a cooperage near Fishtown; his apprenticeship had ended eight days prior, and he could not keep working so close to his master’s shop. The visitor rapped knuckles against the wood again, the silence between each knock shorter, more urgent.

Standing, he folded the paper and settled it upon a table beside the chair. Once his father’s chair, the soft, supple leather was lined with thin cracks like an aged face. William thought of his father as he walked out of the parlor and into the foyer. They shared the same first name, but his father had been a whaler, and his face lined not with age but from years of wind, the spray of the sea and smiling. William remembered his father often smiling until the corners of his eyes crinkled. Other differences in their appearance were minor: William wore his hair long, and kept it tied back whereas his father’s hair was cropped short, often uneven from his cutting it himself. Everyone in the family had dark hair and light eyes, but William was the only one with hazel eyes.

Squeezing the latch, he pulled the door open. “Thomas,” he smiled, “come to see Catherine, hm?”

“You, actually.” Thomas walked through the doorway. “If I may.” William noticed his friend wringing his hands, and the crease of his brow. Thomas was short, but carried himself as though he was the tallest man in the room—his back was always perfectly straight and he never craned his neck to look at anyone taller than himself. Some thought this gave him an angry expression but after so many years of friendship, William knew better.

“Of course. What’s happened?” Stepping aside, William offered to take his friend’s coat but his friend seemed disinclined to part with it, leaving him to let his hands drop to his sides.

“I’m here about your father.” Thomas did not budge from his spot in the foyer, and pushed his hands into his pockets. When William did not answer, he continued. “He was murdered.”

A sharp tone hummed in his ears. William wasn’t sure if he heard his friend correctly. His eyes focused on the striped wallpaper beyond Thomas’ right shoulder as he remembered the day, nearly ten years ago, that Captain Matthews stood in this very spot to tell his mother about his father’s death. He and Catherine had spied the scene from their hiding place in the parlor doorway halfway down the foyer corridor. “No, you must have it wrong,” he breathed out, wiping the fresh perspiration from his forehead. “My father died at sea. Captain Mathews said as much himself; he’s a friend of our family’s and wouldn’t lie about such a thing.”

“But he didn’t say how he died. Catherine has told me this before, that your family never really knew the reason. Doesn’t look good, does it, murder aboard his ship? How can you be sure that—”

“You’re wrong, Thomas. Captain Matthews wouldn’t keep it from us if my father had been murdered. Catherine and my mother are upstairs. Perhaps you should leave if you don’t plan on visiting with my sister.”

Thomas shook his head. “I cannot stay now. I’m signing up for Matthews’ ship, the Vance Thurgood. Why don’t you come with me?”

“I’m no whaler.”

“I know. But you’re a cooper now, and a ship always needs a cooper.”

“I think you’d better go now, Thomas.” William reached in front of his friend to open the door, in no mood now to entertain a guest, even if it was his brother-in-law to be. Before Thomas could leave, he asked one more question. “Why didn’t you tell Catherine?”

“I thought I’d speak to you first about it, to see if you ever had any suspicion that your father’s death might have been…something more. I will tell her, unless you want to.”

“No, don’t tell her. It’ll only upset her and besides, if anyone tells her it ought to be me.” Thomas opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but William just shook his head and asked him to come back tomorrow. “I need to think.” He stood at the open door, thinking about the newspaper folded over the arm of his father’s chair. He recalled in his mind’s eye the tiny section listing work needed in various areas of Connecticut.

He thought about his father. Is it better to seek the truth, or let my father’s spirit rest? If he died, William knew he would want someone to seek justice on his behalf…but he also knew that had there been a murder at sea, it was the Captain’s job, ultimately, to seek justice. Was it possible that Captain Matthews did not know the truth…or perhaps he was hiding it? This notion set William on edge. His stomach churned. His heart beat hard against his ribcage. A moment passed before he realized he was clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. William forced a deep breath and then shut the door before going upstairs to sleep.

Over breakfast in the dining room the next morning, William stood and cleared his throat. Both his sister and mother looked up from their plates. “I have news,” he began, standing from his chair at the head of the table. He glanced toward the wall behind his mother, where a painting depicted the roiling sea beneath a darkening sky. His eyes darted across the room to a portrait of his father and he wished he was making this announcement in a different room. He couldn’t decide whether it looked as though the smooth brush strokes which described his father’s face carried displeasure or concern, or whether he was simply imagining it. So many times, as a boy, he’d looked upon that portrait as though it were his father, here in the flesh. In the man’s long absences, he sometimes found himself whispering pleas for advice at the painting.

“What is it, William?” his mother asked, having turned back to her breakfast in the wake of his hesitation. Ella Johnson was a pale and drawn woman, at least these days. Illness came and went as frequently as the rain, and he worried that his decision might further weaken her, but he couldn’t simply disappear without an explanation.

“I am joining the crew of the Vance Thurgood as their cooper for the next trip out.” Silence met his proclamation, growing heavier with each passing second. The clock in the corner behind him ticked and tocked, and he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. Catherine was the first to voice her disapproval.

“No, you cannot. You cannot leave us for so long, William. And not on that ship.” She pushed her chestnut-colored hair over one shoulder. Typically she wore it in a loose bun but today it was braided. William traced the contours of the plait with his eyes; it was easier to do that than to look at her eyes, which were usually a soft blue but this morning, following his announcement, had cooled until they were like shards of ice.

His mother, Ella, said nothing, though her eyes filled with tears. “We need the money,” William stated quietly and evenly. “And I need work.”

Catherine stood so quickly that her water glass tipped, spilling a miniature ocean across the table. She hastened to mop up the spill with her napkin, glaring up at him. “Go to Stonington for work, if you must.”

“There’s no work for me in Stonington. Besides which, work is not my only compelling reason to go.” William sat back down. Catherine is getting too agitated about this, he worried. He needed her to calm down, for the sake of their mother at least.

Ella finally spoke. “What other reason can there be? First I lose your father aboard that ship—will you be next? I say to you, William, if you board that vessel I will not speak to you again.” Threatening a lifetime of not speaking had always been Ella’s last resort tactic to encourage her children into compliance. This method always worked in the past.

Not today, William decided. “Father was murdered aboard that ship and I intend to find out who was responsible. Thomas came here yesterday and we both plan to sail on that ship—”

“No!” Catherine’s interruption stopped her brother. “I will not permit both you and he to go aboard that ship. Years, William, years. He and I intend to marry in June. Besides, this is ridiculous. Wherever did you get the notion that Father was murdered? And why wouldn’t Thomas not come to see me? Tell me himself?”

“Thomas overheard it. He didn’t tell you because I asked him not to.”

“William Johnson, you had no right!” she threw the wet napkin down at his feet.
He frowned. “Look, I am going; you don’t have to believe me but you won’t change my mind. Thomas went to sign up this morning—I expect he’ll be calling soon to tell you.” He turned toward Ella. “Mother, I am certain you will speak to me again. I will be gone long enough for you to forgive me.” He tried to catch her eye, but Ella looked away.

“Father died long ago, William. Let him rest.” Catherine pushed away from the table and strode out of the dining room. Ella left more quietly and soon William sat alone with his plate. He did the only thing he could think to do, which was to eat; it might be a long while before so sumptuous a meal was laid before him. The Vance Thurgood was to sail on the following morning’s tide. After he finished eating breakfast, William picked up Catherine’s chair and the napkin before he went to sit in his father’s old chair.

The leather was smooth under his fingers; he couldn’t even feel the cracks he could see. “How you must have longed to sit here again,” he murmured. “How you must have thought you someday would. I will find out how you died, and if you were murdered, I will find your killer, Father. I swear it.”