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Marin woke to the sound of the wind whistling down through the library chimney. It was five a.m. Christmas morning. In days past, his mother and brother were usually off to church before morning light, spending the majority of the day and early evening involved in various religious rituals. Marin would spend the day alone at home, not to be confused with lonely; he loved those occasions when he had the house to himself.
There was no gift giving, decorations or special treatments about the day, although Maria would usually make a large late-night dinner consisting of roast partridge, boiled yams, sugared fruit and plum pudding, after which the boys would be sent off to bed, each with a tankard of hot spice tea.
This Christmas morning, Marin noticed light spilling out from the kitchen into the foyer, so he arose from the chair he had slept in, wrapped the blanket around him and went to the kitchen to investigate. He found Mrs. Robertson standing over the hearth, cooking oatmeal and frittata.
“Cup of spice tea?” she asked him.
“You know how to make spice tea?” Marin asked.
“Taught your mother,” she replied.
“Oh? And I am only now thanking you?”
“Sit and be served. List of long days before you.”
“Yes. Is Phillipe up and about?”
“In the Parlor, praying,” Mrs. Robertson said.
Marin nodded. “And Mister Prince?”
“Up and gone.”
“Of course,” Marin said plainly.
“No word from the girl yet,” she volunteered.
“By ‘the girl’, you mean, Phoebe?”
“Yes.”
“I doubt you will hear from her until the sun has warmed her room. Did you sleep well?”
“Strange bed, cold room.”
“M-m-m. Sorry. You can have Phillipe’s room tonight. It has a fireplace.”
“Sugar?” she asked, holding out a cup of spice tea.
Marin nodded and broke a wide smile. He found Mrs. Robertson’s verbal economy mildly entertaining. It certainly matched her Spartan dress and rigid posture, and yet there was a youthful softness in her eyes, as if her view of the world transcended her ocular vision. She had been a comforting friend to Maria through the years, and no doubt was witness to Maria’s pains and complaints as concerned Marin.
“Compliments on your spice tea,” Marin offered her.
She returned a craftsman’s nod and prepared a bowl of oats and a plate of frittata for him.
“Phillipe,” she called out, to no reply, and turning to Marin, she voiced her concern, saying, “You will watch over the boy, will you not?” Marin’s head tilted forward as if to confirm.
After making quick work of his breakfast, he leaned back from the table and said, “Missus Robertson, I cannot thank you enough for staying here in our absence. I have left cash in the desk drawer in the library, and have secured permissions from the grocer, the butcher and the hardware stores to extend credit. We should be back within two weeks, and Opaline may arrive before us.
“Please be patient with Phoebe. She has a tendency to take the long way round and stop short. And while she may never, in the eyes of a lady, become, ‘a proper lady’-still, with a little work, she may become a tidy and presentable woman.
“There will be a carpenter coming over to fix the porch, and I have entrusted Phoebe to instruct him. Further, I have asked her to show you some drawings of clothing she has designed. Perhaps you could assist her in bringing them to fruition. I believe she is truly talented. So, thank you again, Missus Robertson. I will see to it you are rewarded for your generosity. But right now, I must be off.”
“And Phillipe?” she asked, dropping her brow.
“He knows we leave at first light. He is either aboard, or he stays ashore.”
Marin went into the foyer and bundled up. As he was grabbing his sea bag, Phillipe came out of the parlor.
“Marin, come share in a Christmas prayer with me.”
“I haven’t time, Phillipe ...and neither do you. Eat your breakfast quickly and scurry down to the dock if you wish to sail.”
“Just a quick prayer, Marin.”
“Perhaps on board. You are bringing the Lord with you, correct?”
Phillipe looked over at Mrs. Robertson, who stood mute, wishing only to observe.
“See what MaMa had to contend with, rest her soul,” Phillipe said.
Marin opened the door to the cold howling wind, tucked his head forward, and was gone.
Slanted forward into the strong northern wind, he kept his eyes a footstep ahead of him all the way down to the Magister Maris. A guard and Mister Prince met him as he stepped onto the gangplank.
“State your name and business aboard the Magister Maris,” the guard demanded.
“Yes. Who are you and what the devil do you want?” asked Mister Prince, in a fake, gruff roar.
Marin managed a morning laugh, and said to the guard, “It would please me no end, sir, for you to refuse me permission to board. But alas, every ship needs a captain, and I, my good man, am he.”
Jude nodded to the guard, and added, “Tis our misfortune to be so.”
“Ahoy, Captain Carpenter,” Captain Fairchild called out from the Quarter Deck.
“Is he coming with us, then?” Marin asked Jude.
“If the Navy had a belly for this venture, we wouldn’t be aboard,” Jude returned,.“And where might your brother be?”
“He will be along, I fear,” Marin said, as Captain Fairchild approached the two of them.
“We’ve a strong gusting northerly wind, and a rough, ill-tempered sea, Captain,” Mister Fairchild said. “The mercury is at ten degrees and falling, and she bites much colder than that. I am sure the Navy would not mind if we postpone the launch for another day, maybe two ...perhaps until the winds shift in our favor.”
Marin thought he perceived a quick wink coming from the Captain’s left eye, but then it may have been but a twitch. “I am not privy to the Navy’s conditions of launch, Mister Fairchild,” he said, “but if the Magister Maris is scheduled to set sail against a strong northern wind in freezing conditions on Christmas Day, then sail away we shall.” He then called out to Mister Murel, “Mister Murel ...how long before first light?”
“Twenty-Two minutes Captain,” Murel called back.
“Mister Prince, prepare the ship for launch, clear the deck of all souls not sailing, and pull the gangplank in ten minutes. All aboard will be, all aboard.” Marin ordered.
“Aye, Captain,” Mister Prince said, saluting Marin but looking at Captain Fairchild. He wailed out a series of orders to Boatswain Collier. A strong wind blew across the deck, sending Captain Fairchild back a few steps from Marin.
“Captain, let me say again, I do not believe it advisable to set sail in these conditions.”
“Mister Fairchild,” Marin spoke out over the wind, “I do not believe this entire mission advisable, under any conditions. But this is my ship, and we will sail at first light.”
Captain Fairchild left the ship and climbed into his Brougham carriage, watching as the crew scurried about the deck preparing to launch. Just as they prepared to pull the gangplank, Phillip came running up, dragging his sea bag behind him. Mister Prince ran to assist him. After he was safely up the plank, he ran to his brother’s side.
“Would you have left me, then?” he whined.
Marin’s answer was tucked in behind a stern look. “Go down into my cabin and wait for me, Phillipe.”
Dawn drew a thin red line out across the horizon, and the Captain called out, “Take her out, Mister Prince.”
“Aye, Captain,” Mister Prince called back. “Let go the lines, hoist the Main Sail. Lighten up the rigging aloft.’” Jude commanded. Turning a stern stare toward Mister Fairchild, who was looking out from the safe and cozy confines of his closed in carriage, Jude yelled out, “Show the Navy how it’s done, lads.”
The Main Sail caught a gust of wind, folding out full, with an audible, ‘WHAP’, and the Magister Maris threw forth before the wind.
As she reached west out of Newport harbor, Marin called out to Mister Prince, “Send her southward toward the eastern banks of New Shoreham, Mister Prince.”
“Aye. And then, sir?”
“And then pilot her southwest, hugging the shore.”
“Southwest, hugging the shore, sir?” Jude asked, sounding a little confused.
“Yes, Mister Prince. Southwest, hugging the shore ...all the way to Philadelphia.”
***
Opaline awoke at 6 a.m. on Christmas Day in a cold, damp and dark roadside inn on the outskirts of New London, Connecticut. She lay on her back reflecting on birthdays’ past. She could recall Mister and Mrs. Downing doing their best to make the occasion a pleasant one by giving her both a Christmas and a birthday present; the largest one always marked ‘Happy Birthday’. The night before her thirteenth birthday, she snuck out of the house and got drunk with an older boy with whom she had been forbidden to keep company. Upon her arriving home Christmas morning, still quite inebriated, the Downings sat Opaline down, and in a misguided attempt to get her to understand her recent delinquent behavior, turned to the Bible, quoting Ezekiel 16:44:
Behold, everyone that useth proverbs will quote this proverb against thee, saying, ‘As is the mother, so is her daughter’.
Then Emma Downing spoke to her, saying, “Opaline, Evin and I would have you as our own daughter, but perhaps it is time to tell you of your true heritage that you may not follow suit.”
Every birthday since her thirteenth, this was the memory that greeted her upon waking. Some people may experience the annual arrival of their birthday as a returning to anchor in their home port, and Opaline may have felt that early on, but from her thirteenth birthday forward, it was more a feeling of unmooring, being set adrift; her surroundings familiar, but not familial.
Jonathan brought this particular birthday into the present with a knock on the door of her room and a call out to her, saying, “Happy Birthday, my Dear Opaline. Rise and shine, our carriage awaits.”
Opaline silently moaned at the thought of spending yet another ten hours bouncing about in the confines of an uncomfortable carriage. She told herself, ‘Philadelphia may be a ways-to-go from here, but there is enough time for a quick breakfast, and a piece of birthday Ginger Cake for the ride’.
After her Christmas/Birthday treat, their coach pulled away from New London as the sun was rising, and it reminded Opaline that the Magister Maris was just now setting sail from Newport. Immersed in meditations of Marin, she tucked her eyes into the pages of a book, pretending to read, hoping to avoid conversation with Jonathan.
Jonathan sat across from her, waiting for her eyes to lift. He shifted about in his seat, and cleared his throat a few times in an attempt to distract her. As he grew increasing annoyed at her obvious avoidance of him, he could no longer contain himself.
“It occurs to me, Opaline, that you never really loved me. Enamored, perhaps, but not love.”
She closed her book, laid it on her lap, and thought for a moment. She raised her eyes to Jonathan and said, “I loved the idea of you, Jonathan. I loved what you were, but I cannot say that I knew then, nor can I say, I know now, who you are.”
“If you would only let me show you—”
“Why are you doing this, Jonathan?”
“Because I still—”
“Stop!” she insisted. “It is far too late to stir those ashes. We have a long journey in tight quarters, and it is best we keep a brave distance between us.”
***
The northern winds blew hard against the Main and Fore Course Sails of the Magister Maris, and Mister Prince was apprehensive about putting her under full sail. He was hesitant about using the Mizzenmast in particular, what with the unrepaired crack now running most of its length.
Once out into the open ocean, he reported to Captain Carpenter, who was busy assisting a young man at the helm.
“Twelve knots before the wind, sir. I can give her more, but she would have to go under full sail and I fear to test her in such a wind.”
“As you see fit, Mister Prince,” Marin said. “Where might my Second Mate be?”
“Standing before the bowsprit, gazing through his talisman.”
“Third eye, Mister Prince,” Marin corrected with a wink. “Ask him to report to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marin then instructed the helmsman, “Steady on the helm, lad. Slight and tight holds the course, port or starboard standard rudder no more than seventeen degrees. Sharp?”
“Aye, sir,” the young man returned.
Marin watched as the man feathered the wheel, holding course.
Mister Murel approached and asked, “You wanted to see me, Captain?”
“Yes. I anxiously await your first report.”
“A storm awaits us, sir.”
“Not that I doubt you, Mister Murel, but I would like to know the details of how you arrived at that conclusion.”
Mister Murel’s momentary silence held back his contempt. His answer came through tightened jaws.
“The winds tend counter-clockwise, sir, and low pressure follows, signaling a change in the weather for the worse. Swells tightening and reflecting light, portend the storms’ mother is approaching. Clouds descending and shading brown, is more than an unwelcome sight, it is a clear warning. Notice, sir, we are but a mile from shore, and the birds are all to our starboard. Shall I continue?”
“And when do you expect—”
“Again, sir, I am not a magician; I am merely, au courant. You would be well advised to brace for the certitude of inclement weather.” Marin stared at Dorian as if the man were keeping something from him. “Is that all, sir?” Mister Murel, all but demanded.
“Yes ...for now. But we must have a discussion about this ‘third eye’ of yours, sooner than later.”
Dorian excused himself with a light bow and returned to the ship’s bow.
Marin informed Mister Prince of his discussion with Mister Murel, and then withdrew to his cabin where he found Phillipe lying on Marin’s bed, folded over in the fetal position and moaning like a wounded animal each time the ship heaved or dropped in the rippling sea. Marin retrieved a bucket and placed it beside the bed.
“Marin, you must take me back. I fear I am dying,” Phillipe moaned.
“You should be so lucky. You are seasick, and the bad news is, it will not kill you.”
“Marin, p-l-e-a-s-e,” he begged, and followed with a swallow, “...there must be something that can relieve this agony.”
Marin went to his strong box and pulled out a bottle of opium laced licorice troches. He spilled one out and delivered it to Phillipe, saying, “Here, place this under your tongue.”
“What is it?”
“Never mind, just do as I say.”
***
Within three hours of launch the Magister Maris was sailing past the eastern shore of Block Island, not that Phillipe would have known. He was adrift in the placid stream of an opium dream. Marin secured him to the bunk with the leather straps riveted to one side of the bed.
Returning topside, he ordered his boatswain, Mister Collier, to remove the Spanker sail and take it to Mister Wayne for inspection and repair. He then took the helm and held her steady as she goes, due south from the curving westward coastline, out into the deep blue Atlantic. He let her run with the wind for another hour before Mister Prince approached him.
“Sir, Mister Murel reports that the wind is showing signs of shifting north by northwest. If we’re to hug shore, we had better broad reach to the starboard. Without the Mizzenmast, we shouldn’t dare a beam reach across the wind.”
“How is Mister Wayne’s progress with the sail?”
“The little he’s done, he’s done surprisingly well.”
“Take the wheel, Mister Prince,” Marin ordered. He then turned to the young man who had been at his side and asked, “What is your name, lad?”
“Sheets, sir. Ryan Sheets.”
“Mister Sheets, I want you to pay close attention to how my First Mate courts the Magister to his will. You are to become my Helmsman, and be advised, the Magister Maris is a fickle ship, particular about who pilots her.”
“Yes, sir,” Mister Sheets replied, with a smile.
True to Mister Murel calculation, the winds grew stronger, gusting to thirty-five knots, blowing mostly from the north by northwest, although they tended to swirl and shift rapidly. The temperature had dropped to a scant four degrees, and the heavy sea mist cut visibility short of the length of the ship. The Magister Maris was forty miles from shore, out south of Long Island and coursing gradually in toward land, but the shifting winds wanted to push her southeast further away from shore. Without a Spanker sail helping to angle the Magister Maris at an acute angle to the wind, maneuvering was difficult at best. Marin knew that the rudder was weak and could not be relied upon in sharp angles against the current. The ship was heaving even stronger now, and the bow was slapping harder against the ocean with each successful crossing of a wave. Marin ordered the Foremast Course sail to be ‘taken in’ as much as possible, a task which required every able-bodied man aboard to complete.
Dorian came to Marin’s side and advised him, saying,
“The current will guide her toward the shore, give your Main Sail a little slack and turn her broad reach into the wind.”
Marin gave Mister Prince a quick and doubtful eye, and Jude said, “The rudder won’t hold her, sir, and the wind’s a fickle bitch. Without a Spanker, we’ve no other option than to trust Mister Murel’s talisman.”
“It is not a talisman, Mister Prince,” Dorian yelled through the wind.
“Save it, Mister Murel,” Marin screamed back, and then gave the order, “Slacken the Mail sail, Mister Prince. Steady as she goes, Mister Sheets.”
After the Mainsail slacked in the wind and the ship settled into the current, she picked up a little speed, causing Mister Murel to note, “We need to find safe harbor, sir. She’ll not sail the coming storm.”
“We’ll never make the cut to New York, Captain,” Mister Prince offered. “Current course will take us to Perth Amboy, if she holds to.”
As the Magister Maris eased closer to land, the winds lightened, and the swells, closer together, were less threatening. As darkness came over the ocean and the waters turned a deeper blue, the ship glided into Raritan Bay, and by eleven o’clock Christmas night, the Magister Maris was dockside at Perth Amboy.
***
Opaline’s voyage with Jonathan from New London to Bridgeport had been a harrowing experience. The same storm that had threatened the Magister Maris had lashed against their carriage, tossing it from side to side, while inside the coach another storm raged.
The two were arguing, at least on the surface, about the nature and cause of various diseases. Doctor Berry took the position of defending the current medical view that the cause of disease was miasma, a ‘vapor’ comprising tiny particles of rotting organic matter floating in the air and present mostly in certain locals, such as slums. Opaline thought the idea ridiculous.
“So, you believe that because disease is more prevalent in the slums, therefore, the slums cause disease?” she asked. “Why does this not surprise me?”
“My belief is not a result of my upbringing, Miss Downing, but rather the result of considerable medical experience, and supported by widely held peer professional opinion.”
“Opinion being the operative word,” Opaline retorted.
“Opinion based facts as we know them; the science of medicine. We know, for example, that when organic matter decays, it creates these disease-causing organisms; we have viewed them under a microscope. We know further that they rise into the air and foul it with harmful vapors and that these virulent vapors are more prevalent, in fact they are commonplace, in the slums.”
“Has it not occurred to you and your brethren that perhaps these organisms are not the result, but rather the cause of decay? And they are spread, not so much by the mere breathing of air, but from person to person via unhygienic contact.”
“Nonsense. Then why are these diseases rampant in the ghetto but rarely found in ...shall we say, cleaner air?”
“Because of the unhygienic conditions in which these people are forced to live; five, ten, fifteen people huddled together in a squalid tenement house, barely surviving on only God knows what kind of diet. They are, each of them, ambulatory vessels of disease and pestilence. And what about syphilis and leprosy? Can you breathe in a lungful of these diseases? No, they require human contact. Your miasma theory does not account for these maladies. And yes, these too are found more often in the poorer quarters of town, but the cause is not the environs, as much as you would like to believe that to be true. These diseases, like all diseases, can be found in any local where people are in contact with other people. They are carried by, and transmitted via, people. And until doctors understand this and practice basic hygiene, the simple act of washing one’s hands before tending to your patients for example, and further, to educate and promote hygienic behavior among their patients, until then, these ailments will continue to flourish.”
“I see no evidence that the washing of hands prevents disease. The occasional flushing of the slums may have some temporary benefit to its inhabitants, but the idea of these people simply washing their filthy little hands as a preventative measure against disease is absurd on the face of it. No, steer clear of the slums and stay free of disease.”
Opaline drew back from Jonathan in astonishment. “So, you will not attend to those who are sick in the poorer sections of town?” she asked.
“Bring them to me, and I will attend to them,” Jonathan kindly spoke. “I am not above caring for the poor,” he added.
“And what if they are not able to come to you?” Opaline countered.
“Then there is little I can do for them,” he concluded.
“You know, do you not, Jonathan, that the Lord walked among them?” she said.
“His father protected him. My father offers no such protection.”
“Oh, but he does,” Opaline corrected him. “His money has kept you from those unfavorable environs you so easily dismiss. You comfort the comfortable, Jonathan.” Jonathan’s face wore the insult poorly.
“Some doctor you turned out to be,” Opaline added, intending to scar.
Few words passed between the two of them during the remainder of their trek to Bridgeport.
Arriving late in the evening and attempting to book separate rooms, they were advised that only one room was vacant, and it had but one bed.
“I will sleep in the carriage, in the stable,” Opaline declared.
“You will do no such thing,” Jonathan said, and turning to the night attendant he said, “My sister will take the one bed, and I request a cot be moved into the room for me.”
The room faced the ocean, and the sounds of wind, wave and gulls leaked through the drafty window. They each stayed wrapped in their coats as Jonathan gave the room an awkward once over, as if there were something more to the confines beyond the obvious nothing. A young man came through the open door, delivering the requested cot. After he left, Jonathan closed the door and took off his overcoat, laying it on the cot. As he unbuttoned his waistcoat, Opaline’s thunderstruck expression was enough to pause his efforts, two buttons down. He pulled the sides of the material forward as if he had intended merely to straighten it, and refastened the two buttons.
“I think a birthday drink and a hearty meal are in order before we retire,” Jonathan suggested.
“I am much too tired to eat, and entirely too weary to imbibe,” Opaline replied. “I simply wish to crawl under the covers and bid the day, ‘adieu’.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Jonathan said, shifting from one foot to another.
Opaline dipped her head to one side and gave Jonathan a wide-eyed look that clearly expressed her desire for privacy. Jonathan left the room and went to the adjoining tavern.
Opaline lay in bed, struggling to fall asleep. Her mind, racing back and forth between the events of the past few weeks in Newport and the upcoming visit to Philadelphia, simply could not surrender to her travel worn and overly tired body. She wondered where, in the stormy North Atlantic, Marin might be, and how he was fairing. She worried that she may not reach Emma in time to say - she knew not what - but she held her faith the words would come.
She tossed and turned for over an hour before she heard Jonathan come back into the room. He stumbled through the darkness for a while before finally coming to rest on the cot. There was a moment of perfect stillness ... and then, a loud, dull, THUD. Followed by a stifled, but none-the-less audible,
“O-O-U-F-F!”
Opaline turned on her side, and searching into the darkness hiding Jonathan from her view, she asked,
“Are you alright?”
“The cot collapsed,” Jonathan explained.
“Come to bed, Jonathan,” she said, giving in to the circumstance.
“Are you quite sure?” he asked.
“Quite,” she said, rolling over to face the window, leaving room for Jonathan at her back.
After Jonathan had settled alongside her and the night sounds were all that filled the air, Opaline said softly,
“I am sorry for my caustic and quarrelsome comments this afternoon, Jonathan.” Waiting for, but not receiving, a reply, she added, “I hope you will forgive me.” Again, there was no response. As she prepared to turn and face him, he finally responded in the only way he could ...by snoring.
The following morning, the weather would continue to blow cold and rainy as they set out on the day’s journey to New York.