Sailing Home, page 1
Sailing Home
j. r. Barnes
Published by j. r. barnes, 2022.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SAILING HOME
First edition. June 17, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 j. r. Barnes.
ISBN: 979-8201394905
Written by j. r. Barnes.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
December 9, 1811
December 10, 1811
December 11, 1811
December 12, 1811
December 13, 1811
December 14, 1811
December 15, 1811
December 16, 1811
December 17, 1811
December 18, 1811
December 19, 1811
December 20, 1811
December 21, 1811
December 22, 1811
December 23, 1811
December 24, 1811
December 25, 1811
December 26, 1811
December 27, 1811
December 28, 1811
December 29th, 1811
December 30, 1811
December 31, 1811
January 1, 1812
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-To Kathi, for showing me the meaning of 'home'.
Cover design by Zach Kerns
December 9, 1811
Looking out over the bow of the Magister Maris and spotting his home harbor in Newport, Rhode Island for the first time in several months, Captain Marin Carpenter’s heart sank. The journey was complete. The forty tons of black pepper he had gathered from Sumatra would soon be unloaded, he would pay his crew and wait for word of the next voyage while nestled in the cramped but cozy confines of the Captain’s Quarters, where he has felt most at home these last ten years.
Amid the human silences left behind by the departed crew, he listened to the moans, groans, and creaking complaints of his aging wooden vessel and felt as if they were his own; both in need of much-neglected rest and repair. He poured himself a small tankard of rum and wrapped an old woolen quilt about his shoulders. The chilling winds of winter had already begun to blow that second week of December 1811, whistling through the masts and yardarms, and the incoming tide snuggled the ship against its mooring as if to tuck it in for the season.
As Marin was about to fall asleep he heard footsteps on the deck above. He eased himself off of his bunk and tiptoed up the steps to the main deck where he found his First Mate, Jude Prince, checking the mooring lines.
“I thought you’d be tucked in a tavern, out of the wind, negotiating the whiskey tides,” Marin said.
“Had a funny feeling ‘bout the moorin’ lines. Thought I’d give ‘em a once over.” Mister Prince replied.
“You’re a first-rate, First Mate, Mister Prince. Care to join me below for a nightcap?”
“I’m not one to turn down the Captain’s whiskey,” Jude said. Looking out toward land, a light burning in the window of Marin’s mother’s house caught his eye. “Always a lantern in the window for ya, ay?”
Marin gave a scoff of a laugh. “That’s not for me. That is for my father,” he said, leading Jude down the narrow passageway and into the Captain’s Quarters.
“For yer father, ya say? I thought he disappeared many-a-year ago.”
“Thirty years last fall, bound for Newfoundland on a ship called The Coriolis,” Marin said, handing Jude a cup of whiskey.
“Much oblige to ya, Captain,” Jude said, raising his cup first to Marin, then to his lips. “Seems I remember ya tellin’ me ya were ta sail along with ‘im, but the fates would have it otherwise.”
“My mother would have it otherwise. She wanted me to accompany my little brother Phillipe to Bible School and enter the church. Two weeks later when father failed to return, she began placing a lantern in the stair-well window every evening.”
Jude pondered a moment before muttering, “All this time ...still believin’ he might be a-sailin’ home.”
“No. I think it’s just a ritual now.”
“Musta been kinda hard on you, bein’ as you were just a lad.”
“At the time, I wondered if I weren’t to blame.”
Jude gave a quick tilt of his head. “Cause ya dint go with ‘im?”
“That was part of it.”
Jude eased himself into a chair and leaned forward as a child would in anticipation of a story.
“My father had given me a pocket compass on my seventh birthday,” Marin began. “Under the hinged cover he had a little poem engraved, it read, ‘As you sail, know thee well your destination, do not fail to keep detail of your location. Trust the stars, but should they hide, keep your compass by your side.’ I cherished that compass. It was like a good-luck piece. Years later, around the time my father disappeared, I lost it. In my child’s mind, I somehow imagined there was a connection.”
“Never found it, ay?”
“No. To this day I have dreams about being lost at sea and hearing my father’s voice shouting, ‘Trust your compass, boy!’”
There followed a long silence between the two men, allowing the solitary voices in each man’s head to have its say.
Mister Prince was the first to voice his thought. “Never knew me ol’ man.”
Marin wondered which was worse – losing your father, or never having known him.
“I suppose whoever he was, I take after ‘im,” Jude added.
“Did your mother tell you that?”
“Nah. Me mother was a mute, I hardly knew ‘er. I was but a waif schooled on the docks of London. Ya grow up quick without a family ta hold ya back. Twas the sea that took me in.”
“To the sea,” Marin said, hoisting his cup.
“Thank ya for the spirits, Captain,” Jude said, rising from the chair. “I’ll be back in the mornin’ ta see she gets unloaded proper.”
After Mister Prince left, Marin lay in bed with memories of his father sending him off to sleep.
December 10, 1811
The following morning, he is awakened by the sound of someone rapping at his cabin door, followed by a familiar voice.
“Marin, it’s Phillipe.”
“One moment,” Marin replied, rubbing a shard of a dream from his eyes.
“Welcome home. Did I wake you?” Phillipe asked, as his brother opened the cabin door.
“Yes. What time is it?”
“Half seven.”
“Well, don’t just stand there inviting the wind, step on in,” Marin said.
Phillipe stood fast in the doorway. “I’m afraid I’ve a bit of bad news, brother. It would be best if you dressed and accompanied me home.”
“Phillipe...” Marin began as a familiar protest, “I—”
“It’s MaMa. She is gravely ill. I fear for the worst.”
Marin surrendered a sigh, and said, “Let me dress, I’ll meet you ashore.”
Few words were shared between the two brothers on the short jaunt home. Marin languished a pace or two behind his brother, if only to delay the visit by a step or two.
Marin had never felt particularly close to his mother; his love for her was more out of obligation than admiration. He considered himself his father’s son, related to his mother by marriage. The mother-son relationship was Phillipe’s province. The two brothers were as different as land and sea. The one, planted firmly on the turf of mother earth, watched over by a loving God and guided by an inner faith; the other moving by the grace of the ever-shifting wind and sea, guided onward by the invisible force that governs the compass and a faith in the heavenly chart of the constellations.
Marin had set sail at the age of seventeen only returning home on occasion, rarely staying for more than a day or two. Still, he had fond memories of the blue and yellow two-story cottage. He spent many a childhood afternoon gazing out to sea from his second-story bedroom window, wondering if today was the day his father would return from one of his many voyages. He loved the sound of the waves and fresh sea air wafting through the window as he pretended the house was a sailing ship venturing off into the horizon.
As he and his brother entered the house, Marin’s nostrils narrowed in response to the stale aroma of the enclosed air.
“For the love of God, open a window,” he said.
“I do not think that is advisable,” Phillipe countered.
As they approached their mother’s bedroom, Marin stopped before the closed door.
“Does she know I’m coming?” he asked.
“I am not sure she is aware of anything,” Phillipe answered.
Entering the room, Marin felt a slight loss of equilibrium when he witnessed his mother with only her drawn-down face visible above the heavy covers. Her eyes lay softly closed. By the side of the bed sat an attractive woman Marin guessed to be in her late twenties. She was reading aloud from The Book of Psalms.
“The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.” She looked up as Marin spoke to his brother.
“What are the odds?” Marin said in jest.
“The Lord doesn’t gamble,” Phillipe replied.
Marin turned away from his brother, and asked the young woman, “How is she?”
“Not well,” she replied. “You must be Marin.”
Marin returned a single nod.
“I am Miss Downing. Your brother has employed me to assist in the care of your mother.”
“Are you a doctor,” Marin asked, with more than an ounce of impudence.
“No,” she said at once, “I am a midwife.”
“Surely mother is not pregnant,” Marin said, with the hint of a smile.
“Your mother is in the depths of what is commonly called, ‘Winter Fever’,” Miss Downing replied, sans smile, “and I am afraid not much more can be done for her. She is in God’s hands.”
“Then why are you here?”
“MARIN!” Phillipe scolded.
“To bring comfort, sir,” she answered, turning her attention back to Maria.
After the brothers had exited their mother’s room, Phillipe lectured Marin.
“What the Devil is wrong with you? Have you no couth? That young woman has been by mother’s side for the past two months, dedicated to her care. ‘Why is she here?’, you ask ...how rude. Why haven’t you been here?”
“I have been half-a-world away. I am a sailor, Phillipe, just like your father. Do you still not understand what that means?”
“She is your mother. Will you never understand what that means?” Phillipe said in disgust, as he grabbed his coat and exited the house.
Marin went up the stairs to his old room, and as he opened the door he noticed a certain breach of familiarity; things were not as he had left them on his last visit. His bed was covered with a light blue chiffon quilt and his sea chest had been moved to the foot of the bed and draped with a cream-colored comforter. A vanity topped with an array of feminine accoutrements sat where his old sea trunk had once been positioned. His desk, with a telescope, sea chart, wooden model schooner and a ship’s sexton still occupied the space by the window facing southeast, but off to one side lie a large book titled Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, a diary, writing pad, and a small batch of letters tied together with a string of light blue yarn addressed to a Miss Opaline Downing. In the upper left-hand corner was the single letter ‘J’, and below it an address in Philadelphia. Before his temptation could be tested, Miss Downing came into the room.
“I am sorry,” she said, drawing a breath.
As she turned to leave, Marin said, “Ma’am, I don’t know if I am in your bedroom, or you’re in mine ...but never mind. My brother believes I should apologize for my being brash with you, so,” and dropping his eyes, he said, “...please forgive me.”
She turned to face Marin, while inching her way back toward the door. With each small step back, Marin’s focus was pulled and sharpened upon her piercingly bright blue-green eyes. A long thick strand of her bright red hair fell across her left eye, and Marin followed her slightly freckled left hand as her curled fingers deftly tucked the wild lock behind her ear, where it remained for but the briefest of moments before falling again, draping itself across her left breast. He could not help but notice a hint of cleavage cresting just above the scooped neckline of her pale blue dress. His eyes were drawn again to the magnetic pull of her gaze. How could he have failed to take notice of her manifest beauty upon first sight?
His lingering attentive stare only made her feel even more uncomfortable, so she drifted a little more swiftly toward the door. Her speech sped up as well.
“There is no need to apologize. I am sure you are under quite a lot of stress at the moment. I will leave you to your thoughts,” she said, backing into the hallway.
“Not really,” he said.
She gave him a perplexing look, turned and walked away. Marin tucked himself in step behind her and followed her down the stairs. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him turn toward the front door and exit the house.
His brother sat on the front porch reading the Newport Mercury as Marin approached him.
“I apologized to Miss Downing,” Marin said, pulling a chair up beside his brother.
“Oh?” Phillipe muttered as he continued reading, and then remarked, “England’s stirring the pot again.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.” Marin replied, staring out to sea.
“Oh. Well, since you’ve been gone, Great Britain has been arming the American Indians, and a group of Shawnee Indians attacked General Harrison’s troops near the Wabash and Tippecanoe Rivers in Indiana. It seems the Indians were armed with British guns.” Phillipe quietly returned to his reading, and then added, “President Madison
is talking about invading Canada.”
“Canada?” Marin said under his breath.
“Evidently he believes the British are gathering forces there. He wants to build up our armed forces and, you’ll appreciate this, refit the Navy with merchant ships.”
Marin turned a vacant look toward his brother.
“Congress, as you can imagine, is divided on the issue. The Magister Maris as a war ship. What do you think of that?” Phillipe remarked, amusing himself. Marin sat deep in thought with a puzzled look about him, prompting Phillipe to ask, “What perplexes you, brother?”
Thinking aloud, Marin said, “to bring comfort...”
Miss Downing appeared at the front door and called out onto the porch,
“Breakfast is served,” and then addressing Marin, she asked, “Will you be staying for breakfast, Mister Carpenter?”
“Captain Carpenter,” he corrected her, “and no, I need to get back to the ship.”
“Very well,” she said, and retreated back into the house.
Both men stood up from their chairs, and Phillipe asked, “Would you consider coming for dinner tonight?”
“We will see,” Marin said, stepping off of the porch.
“I’m sure Opaline would like to know in advance. She has to—”
“We’ll see,” Marin repeated, staring straight ahead as he walked away.
“M-m-m, oatmeal and biscuits,” Phillipe said as he sat down at the table. “Will you join me, Opaline?”
“Maybe just a cup of tea,” she said, seating herself across the table from Phillipe. He gave her a curious look as she poured the tea into her cup and folded her hands around the cup as if to warm them. Staring into the amber liquid, she asked Phillipe, “Grace?”
“Yes, of course,” Phillipe replied. “Bless this food, Dear Lord, and make us worthy of your will. Please look over Dear MaMa and...” He paused, lifted his bowed head and looked at Opaline. She remained with her head bowed, but the prolonged silence brought her head up and her eyes opened full onto Phillipe. His eyes remained fixed on her as he continued his prayer, “...guide Opaline’s hand and assist her in MaMa’s recovery.” He bowed his head again and said, as if in confidence to God, “We ask in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” When he looked up at Opaline again, he realized her eyes had not left him. He turned his attention to his oatmeal and said, “I did not hear your, ‘Amen’.”
Opaline bowed her head and said, “If it be God’s Will,”, and turned her attention back to her tea.
When Marin arrived at the ship, he found a crew of longshoremen unloading the barrels of pepper from the ship’s holds. His First Mate, Jude Prince, was standing on the gangplank alongside a well-suited stranger. As Marin passed by, Jude addressed him.
“Captain.”
“Mister Prince,” Marin replied, tipping his cap and proceeding on.
Prince called out to the Captain, “Sir, Mister Reynolds here wishes to discuss a matter concernin’ the Magister Maris.”
“She’s not for hire at this time,” Marin called back, continuing on his way.
“Commission,” the stranger called out.
“Nor commission,” Marin said, disappearing below deck.
“You might advise your captain that the navy is not requesting his permission, although his co-operation would be appreciated. I’ll be back with the proper papers as they are prepared. Good Day, Sir,” Mister Reynolds said, descending down the gangplank. Mister Prince, sensing that Captain Carpenter wished not to be disturbed, went about the business of supervising the unloading of the cargo.
A few hours later Captain Carpenter came topside and told Mister Prince to prepare the Magister Maris for dry dock.
“Aye, Sir,” the First Mate said. “Mister Oberlin from the East Winds Tradin’ Company came by, he wishes for you to stop by his office this afternoon. The men will be aboard this evenin’ at eighteen hundred hours to receive their pay.”
