Unto the Breach

1. Whitehaven - February, 1761

Seven years. 

Younger's mouth hung open, his lips barely moved.

His voice emanated from somewhere behind the jowls, the wig and the ruffles.

You put your name to this paper, Mr. Paul, and the magistracy will see to it that I have my seven years out of your son.  If he deserts or attempts to ship with another captain we will find him and punish him to the fullest extent.  Younger swiveled his bulging eyes from father to son. 

If you try to run in the colonies, we will find you.  We will hunt you down and we will find you.  Have you ever seen the back of a man after he's been lashed, boy? 

The question spilled out, cold and heavy. 

The smells of old leather, wig powder and burnt coffee mixed together with the coal and tobacco smoke to drape their table with an almost palpable curtain.  The three English gentlemen, and the Scottish boy and his father hovered in their own enclosed cosmos in this wood paneled box in the corner of The George coffee house.

The boy, of average height and build for his thirteen years, was no indolent son of the lordly.  His accented English and Scottish turns of phrase placed him as a child of the provincial soils north of the line that had always protected the English from the barbarians.  But he was a child of the borderlands, trapped between the two cultures.  His father raised him to follow in his own steps, a softened and civilized servant of the powerful.  Both father and son had the quick eyes that took in all the hints of the physical surroundings and measured them for the deeper meanings of place and power.  They knew that an English coffee house in an important industrial seaport was a place of serious business.  The year was 1761, the war with France was still raging across the entire world, and there was a great deal of money to be made by merchants willing to risk the gauntlet of French privateers on the high seas.

John was already beginning to sweat into all four layers of his winter clothing.  His mother forced him to waste the entire morning in the tub by the stove, but he would swear now that he could feel something crawling around his right ankle.  He scraped his left boot against it and nudged the duffle next to him just to confirm again that it was still there.  Mother had warned him as much about Whitehaven cutpurses as she had about the godless ways of the English.

Younger looked back at Mr. Paul, searching for any challenge to his rights over his son. 

This is the last document you sign for him, Mr. Paul.  From this day hence he signs for hisself.  He earns his own keep.  He steps out of his Scots hovel - home that is - into the brave world now.  He is no longer yours.  He is mine.

Mr. Younger paused for effect.  John stared back at him.  He clamped his teeth shut against the anger that he felt seeping through his body.  He was determined.  Cowed by the smells, the finery, and the fine language, but determined.  He kept his gaze steady and fixed on Younger.  He would not cross back over the firth and show his face again at Arbigland without proving himself as a man and a sailor.  How could he?  He would be the object of gossip for the whole county.  How could he stand to go back to the Kirk?  How could he go back to Rev. Hogg or Mr. Craik?  It was the squire's letter and loan of 25 pounds which had opened the way for him with Mr. Younger.  A failure of will now might mean a waste of his best chance to get away from the life of a cottager or, worse, his father's life as gardener to Mr. Craik.  His father made no sound in reply to Younger's comments.

And boy, the 25 pounds sterling is lessened by any extraordinary expenses and not due back to Mr. Craik until the last day of our contract, seven years from today.  Not only is it forfeit should you fail to serve out your obligation, but all expenses are then to be charged against your person, and if necessary your family.  Younger smiled.  In this one way you remain tied to them.  You can ruin them.  Younger took a deep and lazy breath. 

And we shall have our pound of flesh from you - or your loved ones - should you prove to be a deserter or faithless in any way.  It will be up to Mr. Craik to prefer his own separate charges against you as regards your forfeiture of his moneys.  Is that absolutely clear?

Yes, sir, said John.  It was all too clear.  If you had nothing, they forced you to borrow money just to play in their game.  And if you slipped in any way they would pounce.  On you and your family.  And the whole time you were supposed to bow and say, Thank you, your worship.

He'll toe the line, Mr. Younger.  He's a wee bit small for his years, but a tougher lad has Galloway never reared.  His father pronounced the words almost as harshly as a highlander might have, rolling each final r.  In this room, in the presence of these Englishmen, it might well have been little more than a combination of gutturals, grunts and scrapings. 

And he would na’ leave us indebted to Mr. Craik.  He’s a good son and would na’ allow fer ruin to his kin.  Mr. Paul flashed a glance at John as he spoke.

Then put quill to paper, Mr. Paul.  His voice was full of the tones that John had learned to associate with power and control.  He nearly repeated them back to Mr. Younger, parroting the roll of the vowels, the crisp sound of the final consonants of each word.

Here.  And here.  Younger's clerk pointed to gaps in the text.  His father signed his name with a slow deliberation.

Jack?  Mr. Younger looked over at John Moore, Justice of the Peace.

Moore's eyes were lazily wandering through Craik's letter to Younger.

John Paul...  Born…  Sixth, July...  Year of our Lord, 1747...  He took a sip of the harsh dark brew he had been nursing.  He was taking his time, getting his penny's worth.  He set the wide coffee dish down, picked up the quill, dipped it and signed both halves of the document. 

Sentence is passed, boy.

Mr. Younger's clerk swept the paper up, flourished a stationer's knife, and sliced the contract in half in a long waving line just below the first signatures.  It felt like John's entire world had been cut in two as well.  Everything before belonged to his father.  For everything after, he would be on his own.

Mr. Percy will keep our copy and deliver yours to the parish registry.  Or you may keep it personally if you so choose, Mr. Paul, said Younger with a studied nonchalance.

I shall keep it, thank ye, said John's father, his eyes moving from clerk to Gentleman to Justice.  Percy handed him the half sheet.  The men looked at Mr. Paul.  Younger cleared his throat. 

Well, said Mr. Paul.  Then I'll take ma leave, gentlemen.  Thank ye for yer time, and this chance fer which ye give to ma son.  Ye'll not regret it.

He stood up.  John followed him into the vestibule and stood with him for a long moment.  He looked into his father's grey eyes.  The pause drew on, both waiting for something from the other. 

Thank you, father.  I’ll not disappoint you, John said, his voice just above a whisper.

Mr. Paul looked toward the door and then back at John.  His father’s strong, familiar breath brushed across John's face.

Stand to yer work, John.  To this work, now.  Don't be proud to learn from yer betters.  He paused and looked into his son’s hazel eyes.  Ye'll be a man now.  A man must know his duty.  And must do it when the time comes.  That's all that matters in this world.  His voice caught on the words as he spoke them.   He took a long breath.  His own eyes narrowed with intensity.  

And mark me well now.  The Reverend Hogg's word was for ye on Sunday:  'Lest he tear yer soul like a lion...'  Though ye'll be in with heathens and drunkards and fools, ye must keep the devil at the door.  At the door!   Or else he'll enter in and tear yer soul and yer honor.  And ye'll amount to nout more than any of these. 

These?  The English?

English??  What?  His father looked at him as if he were as slow-witted as Mr. Jeremiah's son.  He glanced back toward the door and shook his head.  Makes na difference what flag they carry.  English.  Scottish.  Papists.  In their hearts they're all wolves and beasts and locusts.  All against all, boy.  Ye must make yer stand.  Build yer walls.  Stand in the breach.  Else they'll break in, trample it all and ye'll amount to nout.

Anger punctuated his words.  Or was it something else?  Could it be regret?  John wanted very much to reach out to his father.  Just to touch his lapel, as if he might gain some of his strength.

To nout, he repeated.  The spell was broken.  And I'll not know ye.  Nor see ye cross my threshold again.  Ye'll be a stranger to us.  And yer mother will weep for ye.

John swallowed.  He could think of nothing to say.  All he could think of was the words of the Reverend's text from the seventh psalm, something about being torn to pieces in a place where there would be none to deliver.

God bless yer soul, boy, he said at last.  He looked him in the eyes, took his hand and shook it.  Then he turned toward the door, pulled on his wool cap, drew his collar across his neck, and disappeared into the blaze of light of the Whitehaven street.

The blast of cold from the door woke John out of the momentary vision of his Galloway home; of the times he had seen his father step into other mornings to sculpt Mr. Craik's estates.  He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and turned back into the murky smells of commerce and coffee.  He knew his mother would weep for him. He had never seen his father weep.

These are Ship's Articles, boy.  This is only formality.  But you might as well sign so that you know that to which you are bound by law and by all threat and penalty.  Mr. Percy spread out a piece of worn parchment with uneven edges and discolored corners. 

You may read it, if you choose.  I assume you can read?  Mr. Craik claims you can, the clerk said, pointing to the Gentleman’s letter.

John turned from the pinched English face and its flashing wire-rimmed glasses and looked at the broad paragraph of text at the head of the document.  Under the single word, in broad dark capitals, A R T I C L E S was a single long printed paragraph that began, Agreed upon by and between....  The printing was broken up by a number of spaces where a strong hand had filled in Captain Robert Benson, Brigg Friendship of Whitehaven Port, and bound for West Indies and from thence to the Towne of Fredericksburg of the Virginia Colonies.  When he had first heard of the Friendship and Virginia, John imagined grand things and great adventures.  Now he realized that no matter where he went, Younger, or his agents would be there before him.

Mr. Moore continued his conversation with Mr. Younger. 

Ah yes, Captain Benson.  Our Great Fabius of the Seven Seas! he said with a low chuckle.  Seems he is serving you well, though.

Very well, replied Younger.  A merchantman needs discretion as much as valor, Jack.  Far better that my ships return with a few holes in the stern than cut to pieces and full of glory.  For that, Benson fits our need.  He is no man’s fool. He has the sense to know when to run from a challenge.  Now, at any rate.

A lesson from Bristol, perhaps? Moore asked with a sniff.

At this, Younger's face flashed to life.  His glance stopped Moore's next comment.  Instead, the Justice coughed and cleared his throat. 

Yes.  Well.  Then here is to our loyal Fabius.  Long may he run from battle! said Moore, regaining his composure and raising his dish of coffee in mock salute.

The document continued with only an occasional break for a repetition of The Brigg Friendship between lines that agreed to penalties for leaving the ship or disobeying its officers.  It concluded with a line about some additional payment and the phrase, these being Drawn by an Act of Parliament for the Benefit of Greenwich Hospital, And Regulation between Masters and Seamen: As Witness our Hands.  After this the form was divided in eight or nine vertical columns with headings: Time of Entry, Men's Names, Quality, Advance Wages before Sailing, and others about payments and payments due.

Boy, said Percy, impatience straining his voice.  Sign the document.  These are important men.  They have wasted enough of their morning.

At the bottom of the list of more than a score of signatures, he appended his own with a flowing and even stroke.  Reverend Hogg had been careful about penmanship and John was pleased to see that his signature, the first legal signature of his life, compared favorably to the others; several were barely legible.  Two were simple X's, next to which another hand had printed in their names.  Next to one of these - Reginald Ferry -, in the Quality column was the word servant.  The other qualities included Master, Mate, carpenter, fore the mast, and Negrow boy.  He had no time to look at the Wages per Month or By the Run column. 

Percy took the paper, scribbled in servant next to John's name and wrote None under each of the wages and payments columns.  He drew a line through the middle of the Hospital payments column.  Percy folded the paper, placed it into a broad, waxed envelope and tucked it into his valise.

Younger gave him one last careful look, appraising the goods of which he had just taken possession. 

Seven lean years ahead for you boy.  And no promise of seven fat, either.  His eyes narrowed, perhaps waiting for a response.  Then, in a final dismissal, his eyes still on John, "Take him away, Percy.  To the Friendship, with him.  Turn him over to Benson.  And may God have mercy on his soul.  Eh, Jack?" 

Indeed, returned the Justice.  Moore raised his coffee dish again in salute to the happily concluded business.

John pulled his collar back up and buttoned it close around his scratchy woolen scarf as he followed Percy toward the door.  Younger looked tired and bored as he commended John's soul to God's mercy.  John remembered one more verse from Rev. Hogg's text: God judgeth the righteous, and God is angry with the wicked every day.  Could anyone ever be righteous enough for God?  Other than his mother?   

The morning wind blew cold and dank.  It stank of harbor waste as they emerged from the coffee house. John's eyes blinked at the contrast.  He quickened his step to keep up with Mr. Percy as he turned from King onto Quay Street.  Percy stopped at the corner, covering his mouth with his handkerchief against the dust from the wagons.  He coughed, hawked, turned his head and spat. 

Foul pits, he muttered.  He coughed again.  This time the cough lengthened into a long wracking spasm.  He hawked, spat again, and launched across the street, threading his way through the traffic.  Now he was moving slower and, John, his duffel not even half full, had no trouble shadowing him.

A dull rumble echoed from nowhere and everywhere.  There were lots of grey wisps scudding through the sky, but nothing that looked like a thunderhead.

Saltom Pit, said Percy, gesturing toward the north and up the coast.  The blasting powder loosens the coal, he said, through the handkerchief he now held over his mouth and nose. 

They are well below the level of the sea now.  Mr. Newcomen's great fire engines keep it dry.  They run the pumps and wheels and chains that would need dozens of men at work every day without the engines.  John heard the dull impact of another distant explosion echoing from somewhere to the north. 

Tutors and scholars used to come from Edinburgh just to see these machines and their fantastical mechanisms.  A marvel of industry, they would say.  Percy shook his head.  More a nuisance, I would say.

John peered up toward the opening where High Street met the distant fields.  Was it cloud or powder smoke he saw in the distance?  Then another sharp clatter surprised him from directly behind his back.

Look sharp, boy!  A whip cracked just behind and to his right and John bumped into Mr. Percy as he dodged away from a wagon that rattled by him, leaving an acrid fog of road and coal dust in its wake.   

Whitehaven?  Justice Moore had sneered at the city only a few moments before.  A village with some dirty holes in the ground and a few country lanes leading to the docks.  Nothing like the capital, Mr. Percy.  London!  There's a true city for you.

John couldn't imagine it.  Whitehaven's streets were nothing but chaos and motion and dust.  It was bewildering and exciting to be part of it all.

Percy gave him an angry shove forward to keep from stepping on his heels and then turned up Lyme Quay.  He was too annoyed to continue any lecture today.  John would have to learn his own lessons about life in a civilized city and on an English merchant ship in a time of war.  Like as not, he would learn them the hard way.

2.  The Friendship

As they walked out on the pier, John could see some smaller boats, sloops and several square-rigged ships at anchor.  He knew a little about the names of sails from the chatter he had overheard from sailors and fishermen around the dock at Carsethorn.  He had seen this one ship from Little John's fishing boat as they put into Whitehaven on the way over from Galloway.  For just a moment as they glided in to dock he had pictured himself standing high in the rigging, looking out over unknown shores and dark forests.

The ship had two great cream colored masts that climbed higher into the dirty heavens with every step he took toward them.  The sails were furled up close to the yards that crossed the masts.  The light cream color of the gunwales and railings and the touches of maroon that showed through the gun ports and decorated the lines of the jollyboat hanging on joists off the back of the quarterdeck did little to lighten the grey February day.  Instead, the black paint that covered everything below the railings down to the water line, and the bare branches of spars and masts intensified the wintry damp that reached through his four layers of clothing.  He shivered and pushed his free hand further into his coat pocket.

Percy walked straight to the wide wooden board that stretched from dock to deck.  The rising tide would change the way that board would angle, but for now it was nearly flat.  Mr. Percy made no special effort to ask for permission to board the vessel.  He walked across the plank as if he were striding into Mr. Younger's parlor. 

John followed as he made his way to the stern deck of the ship, stepping over ropes, around kegs and hogsheads and crates.  Some of the crates were broken open, some piled as if discarded.  There were cannon as well.  One was tilted forward, its muzzle pointed sideways as if it were intended to blow a hole in the high gunwale beside its proper gun port.

He could see other guns, their obvious lines muffled under tarpaulins that were spaced even with another dozen gun ports.

Percy was frustrated, perhaps by the general confusion on the deck.  You there! he chopped the air in the general direction of a sailor with a red kerchief that seemed to be stuck, possibly with something like tar, to his balding head.  Where's Benson?

The sailor touched his shining forehead with his thumb and gave a nod back toward the plank.  At that moment a white wigged, middle-aged gentleman could be seen striding across, his eyes on Percy and John.  Percy turned to meet him.  The two men might well have been the same age and perhaps even the same height, but Percy shifted uneasily in the captain’s presence.  Benson's trim frame seemed rugged, even heavy, with Percy beside him.   

Benson.  Your new boy.  I hope you will not lose this one.  He gestured toward John, then turned to him. 

Boy, this is Captain Benson.  You will obey him in all things.  Instantly.  No questions.  No sentimentality.  Remember, you have signed ship's articles and you are bound by all the force of law and magistrate.

John wasn't sure if he should bow or knuckle his forehead, but was stopped by the condescending tone in Percy's voice.  He could feel the heat on the back of his neck, as he fought to remain silent and to hide his anger.  He was tired of being treated like some little boy who might burst out into tears at any moment.  Younger himself made it clear that he was to be treated as an adult from the moment his father signed the contract.

Now, Captain.  Mr. Younger wants to know when you will sail.  And whether you can fit another half-load of the Birmingham muskets and one of linens.

The captain turned from Percy to John without any effort to answer his questions.  Your name?

Paul, sir.  John Paul, sir. 

A Scotsman, Mr. Paul?  And named for a pair of apostles, no less?  Who let you across the firth?  Benson's face, hardened and darkened by a hundred winter gales, was traced by a network of lines that showed him to be older than Percy.  His silver wig hid the true color of his hair, but his jaw was frosted with reddish and graying accents from at least one day without a shave.  A mirthless smile played around the corners of his mouth.

Sir?  Once again John's Scottish accent put him in his place.  And by the time he connected his own Christian and family names to the Bible stories, the whisper of a smile was gone and Percy and the captain were arguing about dates and tides and tonnage.

Mr. Macrae!  Benson called to the red kerchief.  Take the boy.  Find him a berth. Put him to work.

Aye aye, sir, Macrae answered.  Then, to John: Look lively, boy!  Bring yer dunnage.  John brought his duffel and followed Macrae to a dark hatchway.  Down we go.  Into the belly of the beast.

John followed him down a ladder, half slipping down the last rung into an overpowering mix of smells, a mix of the rotting stink of the quayside along with a heavy odor of sweat and human defecation.  It was just warm enough inside the cavern to give strength to the beast's foul breath.  Something surged up his gullet and he clenched his teeth, determined not to show any weakness in this first moment in the