Chapter Two

 

Mercy stole guiltily down the back stairs to the kitchen. She knew someone should tell Mr. Morgan what was going on behind closed doors upstairs, but her position as a new servant in the house made her hesitate. Wondering how to broach the subject with Mrs. Cookson, finally she couldn’t hold back any longer. “Oh, Mrs. Cookson,” she blurted out, “it breaks my heart to see Mistress Rosalyn so unhappy.”

“Her father is a hard man. ’Tis best not to interfere.”

The housekeeper turned away to hide her own heartache. With any luck, by this time tomorrow things would be back on a more even keel. And high time, too. Between Rosalyn and her fiery tempered father, they had kept the entire household in an uproar for weeks.

“’Tis shameful,” Mrs Cookson muttered. “I’ve seen enough fireworks to last me a lifetime.” Why, it almost made a sober Puritan like herself shove in an oar where it wasn’t wanted!

Handing Mercy a platter of smoked eel, she made a final inspection of the dining room. Aye, the silver had been polished, the gleaming white linens were pressed to a crisp edge; all the crystal sparkling, and the Morgans’ best English plate, with its blue-and-white herring pattern, was neatly stacked on the sideboard.

The tables groaned beneath the weight of a vast assortment of cakes and pastries, plus cookies for the younger children, who would be in attendance with their parents. Tiny meat pies, cheeses and breads, almonds and walnuts were all temptingly arranged on silver and pewter trays.

On a separate table, the wedding cake stood in solitary splendor, lavishly frosted with nuts and sweet candied fruits. Aye, 'twas perfection, though the occasion brought her no pleasure.

“We’re done a proper job, we have,” she said, approving the hearty spread. “Is our bride nearly ready?” She glanced around at Mercy, but the young servant girl only shrugged and wrung her hands nervously. “Well? What say you, girl? You looked in on her not a quarter-hour ago, did you not?”

“I fear she may do away with herself.” Mercy gulped, thinking that if alcohol didn’t finish off her young mistress, it would be a bloody miracle.

“Don’t you believe it!” Mrs. Cookson rearranged the seafood delicacies in puffed pastries shells. “Mistress Rosalyn has too much spirit.”

“That’s just it, ma’am.” Had she sufficient courage, Mercy would have confessed, “Too much of the household spirits.” But the words stuck in her throat. She couldn’t risk it without getting in too deep herself.

Mrs. Cookson wiped her hands on her apron and nodded to her helper. “You’re much too tenderhearted for your own good,” she observed. “I’ve known Mistress Rosalyn all my life, and mark my words, this is but the calm before the storm.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Braced by a few discreet nips and the cold bite of ocean breezes, Nathaniel Watermann set out for the Morgan residence. In truth, he was feeling quite chipper by the time he strode up to his bride’s front door. His ship had been completely re-outfitted with new sails and rigging, compliments of his future father-in-law. Except for a bit of twaddling drool he'd committed to paper at the lawyer’s office, he wasn’t out a single farthing.

Indeed, he was quite pleased with himself. Plans for building a shipyard next spring were coming right along. And although he’d paid a considerable sum out of his personal war chest to acquire a parcel of land on the south bank of the Charles River, he didn’t begrudge the expense. He and his men had risked their all for those hard-won Spanish pieces-of-eight, but a little bloodshed was a small price to pay, when a share in the spoils of war could set a man up for life.

The crafty old sea dog was intentionally early for his own nuptials. He still lacked Morgan’s signature on a couple of contracts, and he wasn’t about to let slip through his fingers either the sail loft or any of Morgan’s other assets, including the man’s willowy daughter.

“Good day to you, Abner Morgan,” Nathaniel called out cheerfully, as he stepped across the Morgans’ threshhold.

He paused in the parlor entrance, where Abner Morgan paced, his rumpled salt-and-pepper locks wildly disordered, in sharp contrast to his elegant frockcoat, fawn breeches, and pale yellow brocaded waistcoat. “Ah, you're early, Captain Watermann!” Morgan looked relieved to see his partner in fine fettle for the afternoon’s event.

“Aye, rarin’ to go.” Nathaniel shook hands, then scanned the parlor, pleased by its simple good taste. “Abner, I just came from the sail loft. Your men are nearly finished with the sails I ordered. Fine attention to detail,” he added approvingly.

Morgan nodded. “I promised them for today, and you shall have them. I use the best canvas to be found anywhere in the colonies, Captain. I think you'll be well pleased.”

“Good, good. I plan to sail with the mornin’ tide.” He lifted the tail of his coat to warm his backside at the parlor fire. “’Tis right glad I am we’re joinin’ forces. This voyage should net us both a fine profit.” He helped himself as Mrs. Cookson carried a tray of sweetmeats past him. “Delicious! By the way, I saw my lawyers this morning.’”

“I thank you, Captain. God forbid anything should happen to either of us. Still, ‘tis good of you to take care of Rosalyn’s future.”

Nathaniel nodded, his blood already racing with eager anticipation of the nuptials. He felt almost young again, when many a sweet lass had ventured her innocence, all for a rascally smile. Aye, he chuckled to himself; he was more than capable of taking on a sweet partridge like Morgan’s daughter. And what he had in mind was better done between sheets and comforter on a cold winter’s eve than by making out a Codicil to his will.

But he only bowed and said, “Happy to accommodate you, sir.”

“The marriage will benefit us both greatly,” continued Morgan, “but I ne’er thought my daughter would prove so stubborn.”

“She’s young and no doubt a bit high-strung,” Nathaniel sympathized.

“I ne’er expected such ingratitude!” Abner said, bitterness creeping into his voice.

Watermann rubbed his hands together, as he listened to Morgan’s outpouring of parental indignation. He couldn’t rightly blame the man for spoiling her. After all, of Morgan’s nine offspring, the saucy baggage was the only one to survive childhood.

“I fear I’ve been too lenient, else I would've curbed that rebellious spirit of hers long ago,” Morgan was saying. “She has been so difficult, I’m almost tempted to call the whole thing off.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Abner, my good fellow! She’ll be as sweet as a stuffed roast duckling on Christmas morn, once the judge pronounces us man an’ wife. You wait an’ see,” he predicted with a wink. “It’s only natural for a young maiden to kick o’er the traces a bit.” He could hardly wait to get his hands slippery wet on such a fresh young trout as Rosalyn. “I’ll be gentle with her, you can be certain of that,” he added, seeing how worked up Morgan was.

Abner sighed, knowing full well he deserved the hand of divine judgment, for all this defiance was undoubtedly the result of his overindulging and pampering his daughter. “Aye, now I’m reaping the whirlwind!” he said grimly.

“A lass with a bit of spirit,” the bridegroom mused. “Aye, she’s well worth the challenge.”

Abner shook his head in morose introspection. “There must be bad blood somewhere,” he said, more to himself than to the old salt standing before him. “I can’t understand it! My wife was a tractable woman. Sometimes Rosalyn makes me worry that she takes after that renegade uncle of mine, Henry Morgan,” he confessed gloomily.

“Sir Henry Morgan?” Nathaniel’s ears perked up, for the old buccaneer had been one of his sailing cronies several years back. ’Twas a friendship he sorely missed, following the ’92 earthquake that hit Port Royal, when a great many of his comrades vanished or were scattered throughout the Caribbean. “So the Morgans of Boston are kin to that gallant soul?” he said with considerable warmth.

“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but—yes,” said Abner.

“In that case,” Nathaniel grinned, “I’m certain your fair daughter and I will get along famously.”

Watermann’s easy acceptance of the possibility of tainted blood surprised Abner. Most people would have been scandalized, had they known. Once again he saw that he had cause to be thankful. Not every prospective husband would have received the news with such equanimity. Thank God, he hadn’t delayed applying to Parson Mather to announce the banns. The sooner he got Rosalyn married off the better. He could only pray she learned to curb her abusive tongue and unrepentant ways.

Abner heaved a sigh of relief, as he looked into the Captain’s craggy but friendly face. “Watermann, you’re a man well suited to taming my daughter’s strong will, I think.”

“'Twill be my honor, sir.” Nathaniel’s deeply etched crows-feet crinkled around his twinkling brown eyes. “Now, shall we finish signing these papers? I fear I’m growin’ a mite impatient to claim your pretty daughter as me blushing bride!”

“Step into my study,” Abner invited. “We can take care of it before our guests arrive.”

As Morgan led the Captain into his office at the rear of the house, it occurred to him that his own dear wife Miriam, had she lived, would have kissed his feet to have the advantages that would soon be Rosalyn’s. Aye, someday his darlin' daughter would thank him!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When Grant Watermann walked in Morgan’s front door at two-thirty, he was relaxed and refreshed following his bath and a friendly toss of the innkeeper’s comely daughter’s skirts. In truth, a most enjoyable two hours. He also felt more tolerant of his father’s weakness for the ladies after his own brief digression from business.

Although early, he saw that Morgan house was already packed with wedding guests. Bringing Morgan into their enterprise was a smart move. Men from the Fair Winds, wearing their best garb, mingled with some of Boston’s wealthiest merchants and tradesmen, he observed. Making his way through the enthusiastic throng of brightly clad Puritans and English seamen, Grant spotted the Old Man, talking animatedly with a group of men, and walked over.

“Father,” he acknowledged with a friendly nod. “The prospect of marriage has had a transforming effect. You don’t look a day over forty.”

Peter Danover’s flushed face broke into a broad smile. “I expect you’ll be followin’ your father’s example e’er long.”

“Not I!” Grant shook his head emphatically.

Within minutes every henpecked man in the room was gathered around Grant, either to accuse him jokingly of cowardice for not joining their ranks, or because they secretly admired his independent spirit. After some good-natured banter, the conversation returned to a common theme: how the merchants of Boston could best compete against English-built ships.

“Your father tells me you plan to start building ships in Boston Harbor,” said Joseph Areth.

“Aye,” Grant said. “Perhaps you gentlemen would like to become a part of our new venture?”

“I’d like to, but it’s hard keepin’ bread on the table these days,” broke in Jeremiah Griffin, a ruddy-faced clerk with more of a knack for adding columns of figures than raw pluck.

Grant smiled sympathetically. Selling some of the younger men on taking necessary risks might prove a challenge. “We’ll never get ahead, as long as we jump to the tune of wealthy investors and ship builders located back in England,” he reminded them. “By working together, we shall all prosper.”

“All I have are these two hands,” spoke up Samuel Brock, who made his living making barrels and shipping containers.

“That’s all any of us has: our hands, our brains, and our skills. Let’s stop apologizing for what we lack. The power to succeed resides within each of us.” Grant gazed intently at the men clustered around him. “Without our labor, where would those fancy English lords be, eh? Answer me that!”

Seth Danover let out a low whistle. “Brave talk, Watermann. You ain’t married with mouths to feed, like some of us.”

Grant looked into their work-worn faces. They all knew his plan. “At this very moment, my father has contracts from good King William. He is ready now to sail goods from the colonies,” he told them. “What we need are men like yourselves to help fill those orders.”

Grant knew the way to turn the tide was to help these craftsmen see themselves as more than hired laborers. They were sailmakers, riggers, coopers, carpenters, smiths and wholesalers. The potential was there. But it would take commitment to build ships and establish a prosperous trade route between the New World and England.

“We barely make ends meet on the beggarly wages we make,” said Bert Farnsworth, a rigger. “And you expect us to throw in our lot with you?”

“What about your wives and children?” Grant asked, shrewd enough to know the way to their hearts. “Don’t your wives deserve better? I know the uncertainty and drudgery they face every day of their lives.” Grant decided to press hard. “Think on this: Two-thirds of your wee babes go below ground before their second birthdays! And all the while, those fancy lords an’ ladies sleep in their beds, as warm and snug as you please, back in England. Your sweat is making them rich! God’s teeth, men! How long can you afford to break your backs for a pittance?”

He saw at once that his remark had found its mark among this tight circle of men. Their faces reflected the hardship and longing, the hopes and fears of hard lessons from the past. His voice softened to a more congenial tone. “I wouldn’t ask it of you, if I weren’t convinced we can and shall succeed!”

Abner Morgan signaled for his servants to pass among them with cups of good cheer. “Well said, lad! Couldn’t have said it better myself. Gentlemen, I’ve invited you here today, hopin’ you’ll agree to join with us. Today we celebrate not only the wedding of my daughter, but an exciting new venture!”

Nathaniel’s voice boomed. “Waitin’ for ships to make the round trip from London is hurtin’ us all in the pocketbook, lads.”

Helping himself to another glass of rum punch, second mate Bill Garrison from the Fair Winds raised his glass. “Trade will double, once the colony owns its own fleet of ships.”

Grant nodded. “You’re just the men we need to build, outfit, and sail those ships, too. What do you say, men?”

“I’d like to discuss it with my wife,” Griffin hedged cautiously.

“Good idea. I’ll wager most of the wives will surprise you, how willing they are for you to throw in with us.” Grant made a mental note to call on the men individually, as soon as he got back from Jamaica. Leaving his father and Morgan to apply more grease to the wheel, he drifted across the room to speak to a couple of investors in the corner.

Nathaniel Watermann lit a Cuban cigar and set it between slightly yellowed teeth. A stocky, weather beaten veteran of many crossings of the Atlantic, he knew men. His eyes narrowed shrewdly, as he watched Grant circulate around the room, shaking hands and answering questions. Grant was as fine a seaman as any he’d been privileged to command. The third generation of Watermanns to go to sea, in fact.

His lips curled in a thin, hard smile around his cigar. It pleased him to know this brave son of his loins could take over when the time came. Not that he felt like stepping down just yet. He shook his head in grudging admiration. The lad knows how to handle himself, and he’s a lot smarter than his Old Man, too, Nathaniel had to admit. He’d spent his entire life staking everything on one ship and one cargo at a time, pitting his skills against unpredictable weather, treacherous seas, and the seaworthiness—or lack thereof—of the vessel beneath his feet.

It had taken Grant’s bullheaded tenacity to convince him there were better ways to make a living without giving up his love of the sea! He credited Grant’s bold vision and powers of persuasion for getting him back on track while the English were still willing to overlook his career as a buccaneer.

Aye, the lad was right! he chuckled. ’Tis better to die in a warm bed beside a sweet smellin’ lass than at the end of a noose, or run through by a rusty sword out at sea!

Nathaniel took another puff on his cigar, squinting his eyes against the acrid smoke. He reveled in the prospect of surrounding himself with men with enough guts, pride in themselves, and the skills to build for the future. Men like Abner’s friends, who wanted more out of life.

Taking Morgan aside, he thanked him for inviting so many key men of the community to the wedding. “These men will make our dream happen,” he predicted.

“’Tis but a beginning,” Morgan said, rubbing his hands together. “I suppose it’s time I went upstairs and fetched your bride.”

Nathaniel nodded, and the pair moved off, one in search of Rosalyn, the other to alert Judge Sewall, who had agreed to officiate.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Watermann! Grant Watermann, isn’t it?”

Grant turned and found himself smack up against Joel Bromfield, a young mate from the Mercury. They had hoisted a few before Grant sailed for warmer climes a month ago.

“Bromfield! A pleasure seeing you again.” Grant shook the man’s hand. “So you’re acquainted with the Morgans? It appears that nearly everyone in Boston is.”

“My wife Caroline is a close friend of the bride.”

“I didn’t know you were married.” Grant moved to one side to avoid a plump lady with two children in tow.

“We’re newlyweds,” Joel shouted above the din. “Married two weeks ago. Of necessity, if you get my drift,” he added with a wink.

“Got caught, eh?” Grant grinned. “Congratulations.”

“We’d have married sooner, but her parents were holding out for someone better set up financially, so we took matters into our own hands,” Joel confided. “Finally when we couldn’t hide Caroline’s condition any longer—she’s become quite a plump little pigeon—we were permitted to marry.”

“You’re off to a flying start, it seems.” Grant glanced around for other familiar faces, hoping to escape all this effusive sharing. “And where is your little—uh, wife?” he asked absently.

“Upstairs, helping the bride get dressed. Mistress Rosalyn is getting married in Caroline’s dress.”

Hm! thought Grant. So the bride would be wearing the same gown that Bromfield’s pregnant wife wore to exchange her vows. He surmised that his father must have sacrificed his own pleasures in order to latch onto Morgan’s business connections. Visions of a stuffed sausage waddling into the parlor sent an involuntary shiver down Grant’s spine.

Of course, it was entirely possible his father’s sexual appetites were waning. Perhaps he wasn’t as eager as he'd intimated that morning about wedding his “juicy little baggage”—or was it “sausage?” Oh, well, Grant thought. If the Old Man wasn’t fussy about who he bedded, it was none of his damned business.

Having access to an inside source, Grant decided to find out just what his father was getting himself into. “Tell me about Mistress Morgan,” he said casually, hoping Bromfield would spill his guts.

Joel Bromfield scratched his head and gave him a blank look. “Strike me blue, Grant. All I know is that she and Caroline went to school together. Though I hear this marriage isn’t much to her liking.”

“More her father’s idea, would you say?”

“From what I hear, Morgan and your father are shrewd traders, each swapping for something the other wanted.”

My God! In spite of all my hard work, Father’s finally stuck his neck in a noose. Grant shuddered. Morgan’s daughter might be as dull as a galley skillet, but he had to give the Old Man credit for getting a valuable business alliance started.

Excusing himself, he began to work his way around the parlor, renewing acquaintances made weeks ago, when he and his father first formulated plans for the shipyard. He might as well make his father’s sacrifice count for something.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

While guests jockeyed for the best seats from which to watch the exchange of vows, Grant leaned against the parlor wall and surveyed the crowd of well-wishers thoughtfully. Several pretty young Puritan maidens sat with demurely downcast eyes, under their parents’ watchful care. He saw at once that he wasn’t the only man from the Fair Winds to stake out the more promising damsels for later jollification. Despite his leaning toward “business before pleasure,” he had to admit the assortment presented some fascinating possibilities for after sundown.

From what he could see, the Morgans lived in moderate comfort. The furniture was good quality and well cared for. A simple altar had been set up between two large windows at the front of the parlor. Bayberry candles and an open King James Bible sat upon a small table between a tall standing clock and a small cherrywood scriptoire.

Someone jostled his elbow with a light twinkling laugh, and Grant glanced down into a pair of saucy blue eyes. Holding a tray of hors d’oeuvres, the young woman bobbed a small curtsy. “Would you care for some refreshments, sir?”

“No, thank you,” he murmured, returning her bold stare. She was openly flirting with him, and he decided to test his dimples on her, just for the hell of it.

Mercy flushed deeply under his frankly admiring gaze. “Do you not think weddings are romantic, sir?” She sighed, reluctant to leave the handsome stranger’s side.

Grant shrugged. “I suppose—for those who are ready for marriage.”

Through her eyelashes, she studied the young gentleman’s face. He was clean shaven, and she liked his strong chin, and his perfect teeth flashed white against a deep tan. His tawny eyes exuded a sensual energy that fair took her breath away! Even so, his eyes were constantly on the prowl around the room for other game. A man like him might be exciting, she concluded, but he would always be jumping the fence, looking for more tempting pastures to roam.

Mercy sighed, for she was on the lookout for a steady gent. This one was a handsome rogue, but not for her. She saw his sudden frown, and it crossed her mind that he might be one of Rosalyn’s disappointed suitors. Hesitantly she asked, “Are you acquainted with the bride, sir?”

“No, never met the lady. I’m here at the invitation of Captain Watermann.”

“Ah, then you must be a seaman!” She brightened, relieved that he wasn’t there to create trouble for her young mistress or Mr. Morgan. She didn’t know why such a thought even occurred to her, but there was something almost feral, and undeniably compelling, about the way he carried himself.

He smiled. “I sailed into Boston this morning. The wedding came as a total surprise to me.”

At that moment, every head turned, and a hush fell over the crowd. Grant turned toward the parlor entrance and saw Abner Morgan coming through with his father and a stately middle-aged man, whom he knew to be Judge Sewall.

“Please find your seats,” Morgan announced. “The wedding is about to commence.”

A low twitter of excitement arose among the ladies, as Captain Nathaniel Watermann and the Judge positioned themselves in front of the simple altar, and Morgan disappeared to escort the bride. The guests seemed to be holding their breath during the ensuing delay. Curious to see the Old Man’s new bride, Grant only hoped his father hadn’t taken complete leave of his senses.

The sound of light footsteps on the stairs suddenly gave way to a series of heavy thumps, as if someone had taken a severe tumble down the stairs.

“Aaaawk-k-kk!”

This loud shriek made many of the guests exchange looks of shock and dismay.

Then a silly, high-pitched giggle trickled through the open parlor door from the hallway.

“Rosalyn, stand up!” came next in the father of the bride’s sternest voice. “Control yourself!”

The fleeting image of a small barge navigating through the Morgan’s narrow hallway sailed through Grant’s mind.

Abruptly the housekeeper appeared, a trifle out of breath. She closed the parlor doors, thus blocking any irregularities of conduct from the startled eyes of the wedding guests.

My God! Grant thought. Is the bride so obese that the stairs have collapsed?