10

Rumors on a Glassy Sea

In the Straits of Florida

Off the Florida Keys

Friday, 6 July 1888

Delilah was stout, as one would expect from an Abaconian built and manned vessel. Fifty-three feet on deck, she carried the normal rig for a two-master: mains’l, tops’l, fores’l, forestays’l, and jib. The two cargo holds were generous for her size. Her most useful feature was her draft. She had a full-length keel that required only six feet of water aft—a crucial factor in sailing the shallow Bahamian islands, where uncharted reefs and shoals were everywhere.

There were eight souls aboard. I served as captain; Dunbarton continued on as mate—a generous offer from Rork, who could’ve served that function easily, but decided to be ship’s bosun. Connerly Blackstone, a white Bahamian from Green Turtle Key, was the cook, who wasted no time in explaining to Cynda that she would stay out of the galley. Absalom Bowlegs was deck seaman and island guide. Dan Horloft and Corny Rathburn volunteered to work the deck.

Though they surely enjoyed her loveliness, Cynda’s presence was not appreciated by the regular crew, which didn’t surprise me. Females are regarded as trouble on a ship by many sailors—especially some of the more old-fashioned Bahamians. But aboard she was, and her role was expected to be that of a lady of leisure.

It was a bit crowded, for Delilah was built with accom-modations for only a captain and three crewmen. After I conducted a thorough cleaning out of rum bottles and other trash, I took the small master’s cabin at the very stern, for it had the chart table and necessary navigational accoutrements. Immediately forward of that on the port side was the mate’s cabin, which Dunbarton surrendered to Cynda. Across from her was the galley storeroom. Forward of Cynda and the galley provisions was the galley itself, with an adjoining mess table, barely big enough to seat six men. Then came a bulkhead and the main hold. Continuing forward was a ’tween decks stowage space around the mainmast, then the forward hold.

The fo’c’sle in the bow of the ship was separated by a theoretically watertight bulkhead at the forward end of the forward hold. The cook and one or two seamen normally lived in the fo’c’sle. Now, the cook, and the two older gentlemen, Corny and Dan, lived there. Dunbarton, Rork, and Absalom Bowlegs, rested upon the main deck when off watch. I thought that far better than the cramped fo’c’sle myself, especially when shared with the fat and rather malodorous cook, but my two Northern friends proclaimed themselves happy with the arrangements for their lodging.

My stateroom was diminutive but functionally adequate, with a pleasant stern window—rare in Abaco ships. Cynda, to my surprise, didn’t flinch at the cramped space of her cabin, the second largest aboard, but the size of an average house’s cupboard. Quite the contrary, she allowed the faintest smile to show when she learned our cabins were next to each other, with the other shipmates far away, up forward.

In an attempt to maintain the dignity of my office, and the fiction of our relationship, I showed no such glee in front of the others. Privately, however, I wondered how long the illusion could be publicly continued, particularly with the mate, cook, and deckhand. And in the back of my mind, I still harbored lingering doubts as to the wisdom of such an arrangement, as gratifying as it was to my libido. However, wisdom, as I well knew after twenty-five years of commanding men in the navy, is frequently in short supply among seafarers when decisions are required regarding females.

***

Dunbarton and Blackstone topped off the galley provisions—on my account at Pinder’s, which account had gained prodigious size—while Rork and I inspected the rig and the cargo. The stays and shrouds were taut, the running rigging undeteriorated, the blocks and spars strongly built, and her canvas as well as could be expected in the tropics. The cargo of canned goods was stowed tight and low. Dunbarton was obviously good at his job.

Once the supplies were aboard, we sailed with the ebb tide at four p.m. on Friday, the sixth of July, 1888, ignoring the traditional superstition of embarking on a long voyage on a Friday. Rork, as suspicious as they come at sea—he is Irish, as you know—reminded me of that violation later on, when things got distinctly uncomfortable.

The work of the ship quickly settled into the ordinary routines sailors know at sea. I scheduled three sets of watches of four hours each: Corny and I, Dunbarton and Dan, Rork and Bowlegs, with the cook, as is the norm, not standing deck duty. I took the first watch, the entirety of which was occupied in getting us out to sea, beyond the dangers of the deadly reefs surrounding Key West.

The wind was light as we slowly passed Fort Taylor under plain sail, then rounded Whitehead Spit, and close-hauled for Western Sambo Reef, eight miles distant to the southeast. Once there, we took our departure from the Florida Reefs into deep water and tried to point easterly toward the Bahamian banks and islands, but to no avail. As it was, the nearest we could steer into the fading wind was southeast, toward Cardenas in Cuba. But, fortunately, the mighty Gulf Stream was fair for our purposes and we slid east southeast over the bottom at a little over two nautical miles each hour.

That area was one I had close memories of from the war, so I knew the geography and weather patterns and was confident the summer trades would pick up after our dreary beginning. At the end of my watch, I went below to maintain the logbook and chart our position.

I was greeted in my cabin by the lady of the ship. She persuaded me, as only she could, that navigation and record keeping were matters secondary to an intimate celebration of her appreciation for my assistance thus to date. Succumbing gladly to the shirking of my duties, I promised myself not to do it again in daytime in the future, as such behavior compromised the privacy of our relationship. That, as will be no surprise to the reader by now, was a pledge I found impossible to keep.

Upon returning to the main deck several hours later to ascertain how things were progressing, it was plainly evident that I had deceived myself on two important accounts: that the wind would pick up, and that my personal affairs were not generally known among my new Bahamian acquaintances.

The former was obvious. The barometer remained high, with a calm sea and a sky veiled with high wispy clouds. The schooner’s reflection showed in the water, mocking our intentions and progress, and the only propulsion over the ground far below us was furnished by our present friend, the Stream.

The latter deduction was a bit more subtle and gleaned from the knowing glances and quickly ended conversation when I showed myself to Dunbarton and Corny. All being well with the ship’s equipment aft, I proceeded forward to inspect the sheet lines.

By the sampson post at the bow, I was taken aside by Rork, who whispered, “Ooh, ye’re not bein’ discreet, me friend. Nay—not when you’re dallyin’ in the middle o’ broad daylight. Peter, kindly save that till the night watches. Dan an’ Corny are your friends, but these others’re not. Especially that dark-souled villain o’ a cook.”

Hmm. Sound advice, thought I, but more than a bit incongruous coming from a rogue like Rork. Usually it was I providing that category of counsel to him. I thanked my friend and returned to my cabin, there to ponder where Delilah was heading on the sea, and where I was heading with a certain lady. Neither seemed easy to determine.

***

Delilah’s rate of advancement eastward remained tied to the current, a situation that became more anxious the longer it went on, particularly since we were in one of the primary steamer lanes of the world. We tacked ship, with considerable effort on the rudder, in the middle of the Straits of Florida and steered for Bahia Honda Key on the Florida reefs, still without much air to fill our sails.

The schooner slatted and banged about in the low swells, requiring constant attention to prevent damage from chafe. Maintaining sharp lookout against collision with the steamers and navigating with some semblance of accuracy under the incessantly blistering concentration of the sun’s rays, all conspired to irritate our nerves. Heated words were exchanged at the least annoyance. This friction went on for three long days, without even the excitement of an afternoon thunderstorm. Everyone was on edge—I most of all.

***

The rumors began on the second day. As one would expect, they were not promulgated in my presence, but the ship’s company heard them clear enough. Gloomy stuff at first, then sinister. Initially they centered on my navigational abilities, implying that had we stayed nearer the Florida reefs we would have had more wind from the coastal sea breeze effect. Then speculation turned to Cynda. By the third day, it shifted to our search for Luke and whether we really were taking the ship to Nassau.

Rork informed me the source of all this discontent was Connerly Blackstone, whom he’d despised from the start, labeling him a “snivelin’ sea-lawyer an’ a failure as a cook, who can nary even boil water.”

Then, a day later, Rork added that Dunbarton, whom I’d previously thought a squared-away professional, was agreeing with the cook as the scurrilous talk continued. Dan, Corny, and Ab were listening, I was told, but not participating.

“If ye wants me opinion, sir,” recommended Rork, “ ’tis time to put those two scalawags ashore at the first opportunity. O’ better yet, let me dump the bastards overboard now. Let ’em swim for Muertos Cay at Cay Sal Bank.”

Both options were tempting, but I knew my own behavior was probably the instigating factor and might be the subject of an inquiry should an official complaint be made against me. My defense was meager.

I had been spending a lot of time below decks with Cynda, and though we’d thought our trysts were more discreet, by then it was a moot point. I’d lost the moral high ground.

Blackstone and Dunbarton thought me as ethically bankrupt as their previous captain. They also had signed ship’s papers, a formal merchant marine contract, and had done nothing overt to negate them, thus the potential for an inquiry should I choose to end their contracts and set them ashore. Not to mention my own standing was a bit shaky, since I’d not had a formal contract myself. I resolved to watch them carefully and to remove my own behavior as a source of contention.

Therefore, over breakfast in my cabin on the morning of the fourth day, I broached it to Cynda, still clad in a peignoir. “We need to cease the amorous recreation, darling. This has gotten out of hand, and though I dearly love the affection, and fear I have become an addict, it has interfered with my command of the ship.”

“Oh, my goodness, we mustn’t let that happen now,” she quipped, while passing a playful hand over me. Between the peignoir’s charms and the skill of her hand, I was losing ground fast. Another thirty seconds and we would be back in the bunk.

“I’m serious. I’ve already told you what they’re saying.”

She laughed. “Two white-trash Bahamians gossiping like old ladies? That scares you?”

I didn’t care much for her tone. “You’re not listening, Cynda. I am in command and they need to respect me, not for my rank, but for my abilities and actions. Lately, my behavior hasn’t been worthy of inspiring respect.”

“You sounded so stilted just then, Peter.” She caressed my face. “This isn’t a navy ship. Let yourself enjoy life a little. Let us enjoy life. We both need and deserve it.”

I’d never faced this. A temptress at sea. “Cynda, please. You know the power you have over me. We need to slow down.”

Cynda’s face froze into stone, her eyes losing their softness. The change was quick and dramatic. And disconcerting. The temptress instantly turned tigress as she huskily said, “Ignore them, Peter. All they have to do is follow orders. And don’t worry about your friends. They’re probably happy for us.”

I wasn’t confident of that. At the start of our odyssey, Corny and Dan had expressed admiration for Cynda’s tenacity in finding her son and tactfully offered congratulations on my budding relationship, but lately praise for the lady had been missing. The tension I sensed aboard extended to them also.

“Cynda, this discussion has come to an end. From now on, we’ll concentrate all of our energy on the search.”

That did it. She said not a word, but studied me for several seconds, then rose and silently retired to her own cabin. Looking out the stern window at the glassy sea, I found myself wishing Reverend McClean had not delayed me that day at the church in St. Augustine.