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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.”
“Mister Prince, I am considering harboring the Magister Maris until spring. Would you consider a reduced salary to stay in my employ until we set sail again? I would hate to lose you as my First Mate.”
“Captain, the man on the gangplank this mornin’ was a Mister Stacey Reynolds from the Department of the United States Navy. He asked me to advise ya that he would be returnin’ with the proper paper work ta commission the Magister Maris.”
“Oh. I see. In that case, Mister Prince, hold off on any plans to dry dock the ship. Let the Navy pay for the ship’s repair. If commissioned, are you aboard with me?”
“Aye, sir.”.
After Marin collected the money from the East Winds Trading Company he returned to the ship to pay his crew. The price of pepper had increased almost twofold since his last journey and he was able to give everyone a bonus and still have a healthy bounty for himself. The men asked the captain to come with them to a local tavern to celebrate, but he begged off. He asked Jude Prince if he would like to come back to his mother’s house and have dinner with his brother and him. Mister Prince replied that he should stay with the crew and celebrate.
“I am, after all, crew, sir,” he told the captain. Marin nodded and returned to his mother’s house.
Upon his arrival, he found Phillipe standing inside the door bundled up in a coat, preparing to leave.
“I take it I have missed dinner,” Marin said.
“Yes, we eat at five,” Phillipe said, “and you missed a wonderful oyster stew. I’m sure it has long gone cold by now.”
“And you are off to...?”
“Church.”
“Of course,” Marin said.
“Opaline is tending to mother, so you’ll have to fend for yourself,” Phillipe said, as he exited.
Marin went to the kitchen and ladled some cold oyster stew into a small bowl and cut himself a large piece of cornbread.
He took his scant meal into the library and sat in front of a cold, ash gray fireplace as the setting sun drained the room of what little light remained. He ate the last bite of corn bread in near total darkness, and setting the tray aside, he sifted through the deep silence for the faintest sound: a rustle or stir, the creak of a floorboard or a breath not his own, but he heard nothing but an empty and unfamiliar quiet. There was no such stillness at sea; the wind through the sails, the waves against the hull, the creaking of the masts, the songs of the gulls, and the rumbling and the mumbling and the humming of the sailors; these were all parts of a Symphonie De La Mer.
With just enough light provided by the moon peering through the window, Marin brought the room to life by building a crackling fire in the fireplace. An array of orange tones filled the room, bringing out the radiant richness of the dark tones of mahogany that lined the walls and shelves full of books - hundreds of books with their leather spines glowing, and the embossed golden titles shining like a little beacons, calling out an invitation to enter into worlds not yet explored. Oh, how Marin loved this room. How many a voyage his imagination had sailed while nestled on the divan reading by the waves of light flowing from the fireplace.
Marin leaned back into his chair and watched as a few flakes of snow attached themselves to the window, giving him just enough time to smile before they melted. As he watched each fragile, intricate, and unique design of nature transform into a clear drop of water before disappearing from the windowpane, he remembered a line of Shakespeare’s: “...and nature must obey necessity.” His thoughts turned to his mother lying in her bed, withering away. He went to her room and tapped on the door.
Opaline’s soft voice filtered through
“Yes?” she asked.
He cracked open the door and saw her wringing out a wet cloth and applying it to his mother’s forehead.
“Is she asleep?” he asked.
“I believe the word is comatose, Captain Carpenter.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is an enormous difference,” she replied.
“To mother?” he returned.
“That, I could not tell you,” she said, turning away.
Advancing to Miss Downing’s side, he asked, “Exactly what can you tell me?”
She turned to him, dropped her eyes to gather a moment, and then, looking directly into his eyes, she said, “I can tell you that your mother is dying.” She pursed her lips inward as if to hold back further comment, but the truth will out. “I can tell you there is little to no hope for a recovery. I can tell you ...” and she softened her tone that the words might flow a little more compassionately, “I do not expect her to live for more than a couple of days.”
Marin dipped his head, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge on his nose with thumb and forefinger.
“I am sorry, Captain Carpenter. Would you like to sit with her for a while?”
“And watch her to die?” Marin replied dismissively.
“Lend a son’s comfort,” Miss Downing was quick to respond. She glared at Marin and drew a deep breath to calm herself. He lowered his eyes, and his posture slackened like a child scolded. She silently offered him her chair and handed him the damp cloth.
As she started to leave the room, Marin whispered, “Please don’t go.” She paused for a moment, unsure if he was speaking to her or to his mother. She took another step toward the door, and Marin said aloud, “Opaline?” She paused again, but didn’t respond. “Would you stay?” he asked her.
“Miss Downing,” she corrected him. “And I think it best I leave,” she added, as she eased the door closed behind her.
Sitting beside his unconscious mother, Marin began to feel as if the walls were closing in on him. The feeling was not foreign. He had often felt this way when he was in the company of his mother.
Alyce Maria Lawrence Carpenter was a tight-laced and pious lady, well wrapped in chapter and verse. She was taciturn by nature and rarely spoke first, which left young Marin bound in a queasy silence. His thoughts would turn inward; words were hard to come by and whole sentences refused to form. He always felt as if he should say something one would expect a son to say ...but what? His brother could casually prattle on at length in her presence, confident that she was hanging onto his every word. But try as Marin would, nothing ever came. He felt much more like a son when his father was around, but those rare moments were of a past long ago.
At present, his mother lay in silence before him, as if waiting for Marin to speak. He opened his mouth, drew in a breath, but then his lips sealed shut and he exhaled whatever it was he was about to say. He cleared his throat just to make a sound. Why was this so hard? After all, she couldn’t even hear him ...could she? He laid the damp cloth on the table beside him and crossed his arms tight across his chest as he leaned back in the chair.
“Mother...” he began. He looked down at his own posture and chuckled, unbound his arms and folded his hands across his midriff. “Feel free to interrupt me at any time,” he quipped. He placed his hands upon his knees and began rubbing his legs, back and forth. Closing his eyes, he said, “We were never that close, you and I.” He folded his hands between his knees, bent forward as if in prayer, and added, “I was my father’s son. It was always, ‘You and Phillipe; Father and I’. And yet, you kept me from my father. I understand you did not want me going to sea, but mother, I was bound to go, sooner or later, like my father before me. I have always resented your not letting me go with him - even on that fateful voyage to Newfoundland. You believe it was God’s will that kept me from going ...but I don’t believe that. It was your will, Mother. I regret my not being by his side when he died ...and he did die, mother.”
Marin reached out and took his mother’s fragile glass-like hand. “Father drowned at sea. I know you can’t accept that and will forever await his return,” and pausing, as if his words had to first climb from his throat, he added, “but he’s not coming back to you, Maria. Erik belongs to the sea, and all your prayers and faithful patience will not bring him home.” He leaned down and kissed his mother’s hand. “And now Phillipe and I are about to lose you. Poor, poor Phillipe. He is his mother’s son. He worships you. He prays to God, but he worships you. Just as I became a man when father died, I believe Phillipe will become a man at your passing. You have done a fine job of raising him, mother. I know how proud you are of ...him.”
Marin stood, leaned over and kissed his mother on the forehead. “I hope you are right about your heavenly hereafter. It would be nice to know that you are continuing to look down on me.” He paused in thought for a moment. “That was poorly phrased. What I am trying to say is, while I was rarely comfortable in your presence, I was always comforted by your presence.” He bowed his head, but not to pray.
When Marin exited his mother’s room he noticed Opaline in the library curled up on the divan reading Susanna Rowson’s, Charlotte Temple. He paused for a moment, watching the yellow light from the oil lamp and the amber glow of the fireplace dance across her soft white cheeks, casting a golden halo around her bountiful cardinal tinted tresses. He stood awhile, hoping she would acknowledge him. She didn’t. A soft tapping on the front door broke the stalemate.
“I’ll get it,” Marin said. Opaline looked up from her book, briefly wondered about his presence before returning to her reading.
“Captain,” Mister Prince said, as Marin opened the door. “The men and I would like for ya ta join us down at the tavern.” Marin didn’t reply. “Rumors abound,” Mister Prince added.
Marin grabbed his coat, hat, and scarf, and leaving no word with Miss Downing, accompanied Mister Prince to the Red Boar Tavern.
“So, what have you told them, Jude?” Marin asked, quickening his pace to keep up with his First Mate.
“The truth. The Navy come by ta commission the Magister Maris. The men aren’t stupid, sir. They know there’s war in the offin’.”
“Then they know all there is to know.”
“With respect, sir, they remain curious. Are ya bound ta resist the commission? Does the Navy intend ta put their sailors on the Magister Maris, or are we ta be conscripted? Will ya serve as Captain? What is it they got planned for the Magister Maris?”
“You know I haven’t the answer to those questions, Jude.”
“I told ‘em as much, sir. They want ta hear it from yer lips.”
The two men were met with a loud cheer as they entered the smoky tavern. The ship’s boatswain, Mick McHenry, handed Captain Carpenter a tankard of beer and led him to a long table where several of his crewmen were seated.
“Thank you, gents,” Marin said. “The First Mate tells me you have some concerns about the Magister Maris.” They all looked at one another waiting for someone to be the first to respond. “Well come on mates, speak up.”
“We’re in the dark as to our future, Captain,” Second Mate Patrick Ryan braved.
“And you thought perhaps your captain could shed some light upon it, did you?” Marin said, breaking a smile. “Well, sorry to disappoint you lads, but I can’t see any farther over the horizon than you can. I’ll promise you this, as soon as I know, you’ll know.”
“There are rumors of a war with Canada. Does this have anything to do with our mission?” one of the men asked.
“The Magister Maris is a merchant ship. She hasn’t any guns, so I doubt the Navy will have us do any of their fighting.”
“Why in the world would we be going to war with Canada?” another crewmember pondered aloud.
“Because it’s there,” came Mister Prince’s immediate response. “President Madison won’t be satisfied ‘til we own the whole damn continent. This is all about a land grab, gents, and ye better get used ta it.”
“Will ya be a challengin’ the order, Captain?” someone asked.
“I don’t know. But if I want to hold onto the Magister Maris, I may not have a choice.”
“We’re with ya, Captain, whatever you decide,” Second Mate Ryan exhorted, hoisting his glass.
“Aye, Aye,” everyone shouted.
Marin and Jude sat down at a table off to the side and the Captain confided to his First Mate that he was painfully ignorant of the present situation. Mister Prince wasn’t the least bit shy in giving his interpretation of current events.
“Presidents Madison and Jefferson along with a load a loud-mouthed Congressmen are hell-bent on grabbin’ as much land as they can, and not only reachin’ to the west, they want the whole bloody continent. They believe the Brits are comin’ ta defend the Indian tribes, supplyin’ ‘em with weapons and support, mainly by way of Canada. So, why not take Canada while we’re at it, ‘ay? Jefferson believes ‘tis ours for the takin’, morality and sovereignty be damned.”
“And you, sir,” came a voice over Jude’s left shoulder. “You are perfectly happy to ignore the kidnapping of American sailors at sea their and impressments into the service of the Royal Navy?”
Without turning to face the man, Mister Prince replied, “That’s a bloated ruse at best. Hardly a reason for war.”
“My brother is a prisoner of that, ‘bloated ruse’, sir, and I can think of no better reason for war,” the man said, standing his ground behind Mister Prince.
“Gentlemen,” Marin interjected.
A few of Mister Prince’s shipmates gathered round the table. A tense silence took hold.
“I meant no insult, mate,” Jude said, staring across the table at Marin while addressing the voice behind him. “Not ta you, nor yer brother.”
“Mind your words then,” the man muttered, as he turned and walked away.
Marin smiled at Mister Prince and said, “If you didn’t sit as tall as that man stood, I believe, bold as he was, there would have been a different outcome.”
Jude looked over his shoulder; his eyes level with the back of the dwarfed man’s head as he walked away. Turning back to Marin, he shrugged and said, “A bulldog, that one is.”
“I’m told Great Britain is blockin’ our trade with France,” a crewmember said, addressing no one in particular.
“And France our trade with England,” Jude replied, adding, “The two are at war. What better time to invade Canada, ay? Read the headlines with yer brows furled, gents.”
Marin drank the last of his pint and said to Jude,
“How do you know all this?”
Jude tapped his index finger to the side of his right eye.
Marin’s already present smile widened, and he said, “Well ...we’ll soon know more.”
“We’re beside ya Captain,” spoke Second Mate Patrick Ryan.
“That’s...” and Marin paused for the right word,
“...a comfort, Mister Rya.”
Captain Carpenter tipped his hat as he left the tavern and walked back through the chilly night to his small quarters on the Magister Maris.
***
Nine thin steps lead down the narrow passageway to a small landing in front of Captain Carpenter’s quarters. Once at the bottom, one barely has enough room to turn to the left and face the solid, plain shaven oak door of the entrance. The cramped twelve-foot by twelve-foot room was never designed to accommodate visitors. Nothing about its interior invites someone to stay longer than necessary, making it a perfect sanctuary for Captain Marin Carpenter.
Upon entering one would find: a small mahogany lift-top desk and matching chair sitting below a porthole on the starboard side of the ship, a small trundle bed with a thick quilt and feather pillow, hugging the adjacent wall to the left of the desk, a bookcase running half the length of the port side wall, and a Victorian chair sitting at its side. Walking from that chair to Captain Carpenter’s desk, one would take exactly four steps. A small dresser against the rear wall, stopping short of the door, completes the furnishings.
As Marin lay snug in his bed, gathering warmth under the thick quilt his mother had made for him many years ago, he could hear the wind gaining force and he felt a draft seeping in through the porthole, carrying with it the out of doors aroma of salted air as it mixed with the Mahogany scent of the cabin’s interior. The swaying movement of the ship became increasingly erratic as the swirling wind bent even more forcefully around the masts and yardarms. In the deep darkness of the cabin, Marin began to feel an eerie sense of desolation, a hollowness of being. His breath became shallow and he began to shiver. He gathered the quilt around him, got up from the bed and felt his way to the desk. Lighting a small oil lamp, he opened his journal and began to write:
‘I have yet to catch a glimpse of my destiny. I would have thought by now that a sailor of my years would know his ultimate destination, but I am as wayward as the first day I set sail. My dear brother, Phillipe, knows of his final destination, and so too, his life’s purpose, even as it requires his final breath to fulfill it. What must it be like to know one’s constant bearing; to truly trust one’s compass; to know the comfort of one’s final fate? What must one surrender in order to obtain this state of being? What curiosity must one forsake, what questions left unaddressed, unanswered? What private God left forever mute? Too grand a gamble, I must have concluded. What must these ghosts that I forswear, think of me?’
Marin sat at his desk swaying to the rhythms of the storm outside until both he and the oil lamp went dark.