Tunnell's Boys

TUNNELL’S BOYS 

A Novel

Tony Junker 

iUniverse Star 

New York Lincoln Shanghai 

Praise for Tunnell’s Boys  

"Reading Tunnell’s Boys, I was on a ship’s bridge for the first time again; only the persons’ names had changed. The story catches the true spirit of piloting, picturing life aboard sailing pilot boats, incredible feats of seamanship, and vivid descriptions of the vessels themselves. Tony Junker captures the essence of a much overlooked part of our nation’s maritime life and heritage." 

—Captain Michael J. Linton, President

Pilots’ Association for the Bay & River Delaware 

"For one who loves both sailing and the history of Quaker Philadelphia, Tunnell’s Boys brings alive a time, a place, and a culture which I have lived in through my imagination. An exciting and absorbing human drama which kept me turning the pages." 

—Margaret Hope Bacon 

Author of The Quiet Rebels: The Story of the Quakers in America

With pro-war hysteria rising around him, a young pacifist man with a history of brawling embodies the yearnings and contradictions of those around him. Like Tony Junker’s adventurous protagonist, I found myself challenged anew: when to fight and by what means? When to question cynically my government’s posture and when to join my neighbor’s true hopes for democracy? How to express my passion and still listen for the inner voice? This book is for anyone who loves peace and finds integrity as much a verb as a noun. 

—George Lakey 

Author of Powerful Peacemaking 

"Brutal storms, fair winds, tyrannical captains, mutinous crew, ample danger and suspense. All of these classic elements of a seafaring tale are found in Tunnell’s Boys by Tony Junker. Also to be found are love and friendship, soul-searching discourses on the Spanish-American War, insight into Philadelphia Quaker life- 

styles and beliefs, elaborate accounts of the lives of pilots on the Delaware Bay and River, and even a hurricane—all combined into one engaging sailing yarn." 

—Good Old Boat Newsletter, February, 2006 

"Junker provides a vibrant picture of seafaring life, and his knowledge of ships and sailing fills the book with the language of the sea. His enthusiasm is contagious… Equally vibrant is his representation of Quaker life and society, and he does not fail to reveal both good and bad of the fascinating Quaker life and philosophy. Tunnell’s Boys will appeal to fans of seafaring fiction and to all who are interested in the … conflicted world of Philadelphia in the late nineteenth century. A love of the beauty and respect for the power of the sea and the human soul will be felt by all readers." 

—Catherine A. Perkins 

Historical Novel Society

Tunnell’s Boys 

Copyright © 2005, 2007 by Tony Junker 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. 

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. 

ISBN: 978-1-58348-024-3 (pbk) 

ISBN: 978-0-595-86332-7 (cloth) 

ISBN: 978-0-595-86330-3 (ebk) 

Printed in the United States of America  

Contents

Philadelphia

May 24, 1898

Aboard schooner Hannah

Delaware River, south for the Capes

Aboard schooner Hannah

Approaching the Delaware Capes

Aboard schooner Hannah

Mouth of Delaware Bay

Schooner Hannah

Southeast of the Virginia Capes

Schooner Hannah

Somewhere west of Bermuda

Schooner Hannah

Approaching Bermuda

Schooner Hannah

Somewhere off Bermuda

Schooner Hannah

Somewhere North of the Caribbean Sea

Schooner Hannah

Nearing the Caribbean Sea

Schooner Hannah

Approaching the Caribbean Sea

Schooner Hannah

Somewhere west of the Island of Cuba

Schooner Hannah

Somewhere Southwest of Cuba

Schooner Hannah

Headed for Panama

Schooner Hannah

Closing with Panama

Schooner Hannah

Windward Islands

Philadelphia

July, 1898

Lewes, Delaware

May, 1900

Acknowledgements

To Lee

For her patience, support and discerning spirit

… Lo, soul, seest thou not God’s purpose from the first?

The earth to be spann’d, connected by network,

The races, neighbors, to marry and be given in marriage,

The oceans to be cross’d, the distant brought near,

The lands to be welded together. 

—Walt Whitman Passage to India 

Philadelphia

May 24, 1898

Bone weary from the long night’s run, I left the ocean going packet I’d brought upriver at a wharf in the port, and with my coat collar turned up against the dawn chill, penetrated the city, which scented of rain. As I walked, glimpsing those early-hour trudgers wending the sidewalks at normal pace, headed for their daily toils, I felt in dream. Somehow life went on. Only the gray sky overhead and the wind whipping dusty cyclones in the alleys gave hint how, on the island of Cuba far away, our war with the Spaniards finally had begun. Aye, those starry-eyed nay-sayers who’d protested so loudly against the venture finally were shouted down. Every manjack in the streets was itching to change into uniform and go down and teach those Dons a lesson. We pilots, though—ours was a critical craft they said, necessary for support of the war. So there I was, stuck still in routine duties, guiding craft up and down the river. Others would win the glory.

I reached the Association, and without checking the roster in the entrance hall, dragged myself toward the bunkroom. I’d barely crossed the parlor, though, when a voice hailed me from abaft—

Ahoy, Long, there’s a message for you. Some sort of change. Special assignment. We’re to swap places. That is, if you agree.

—Special assignment?

I asked the name of the ship and its master. My brethren captain checked the slip.

Strange—with all the confusion down at dispatch, it doesn’t say. But, she’s a coasting schooner, that much is clear.

My attention perked. Since earning my senior branch, all I seemed to be assigned were modern steamer types, my old master Samuel Knight’s tea kettles. A chance to return downriver under sail, on a heroic rig whose days were passing, landed as appealing.

When does she leave?

My partner captain grimaced. On the ebb.

I glanced at the tidal clock over the mantle. Good God—only two hours off?

He shrugged. If you like, we can leave things as they are. I’ll take her down.

No—It’s all right, I said. I’ll go.

I found an empty bed in the bunkroom. No sooner had I slipped into slumber, though, than the alarm’s infernal clapper racketed in my ear. It took me several minutes to surface, as always, but I managed to rouse, wash, shave, and dress. As I repacked my handbag, there on the bottom lay my ever patient journal, abandoned once again. I’d not had time to jot a line in it for days. I stuffed some loose clothes and other gear on top of it, closed the clasp, and hurried out, making my way down to the launch shack on Lombard Street wharf. There, while I searched the official listing on the posting board, the fill-in dispatcher, Ranstead, handed a cup of coffee across the counter. Ranstead was a cheerful, portly type who, having lost his lifelong clerk’s job in a bank that failed, grasped now at whatever hours of work he could find to help support his family. The eyeshade and sleeve garters he persisted in wearing made me feel we conversed through one of those brass bank grilles.

She’s anchored over by the coal piers, hidden beyond those barges, he said. One of Pingree’s fleet. Queer—Why that penny-pinching old Quaker wants a pilot, I don’t figure.

Mention of Pingree perked my ears. I scanned farther down the column. Aye—there it was: Hannah P, a three-masted coasting schooner, 748 tons, bound for Barbados with a crew of twenty carrying farm implements. Her captain: Ebenezer Soule.

A wave of uneasiness swept through me. I’d managed not to think about the man for some while, and here he was after all these years, arranging a rendezvous. What could have prompted him? He’d found what he sought by now, I imagined, including, I hoped, some peace in his transformed ways. With Soule, though, there had to be a reason. Well, what does it matter?—I thought, collecting myself. Our days of rivalry were long gone. The ten hour or so trip downriver would work out just fine—a relaxed sail, with time for yarning. Aye, what more can a pilot hope for than a quiet, routine journey free of incident? Contrary to what the uninitiated may think, we pilots thrive on boredom. Give me a dull fee any time. That’s my meat.

Braced with my mug of coffee, and the morning paper under my arm, I descended the wharf ladder to the float and climbed into the steam launch.

Instead of dropping into my usual seat within chatting range of the helmsman, however, I went to a bench in the stern, where I could be alone. So many thoughts flooded my brain. My mind went back some ten years to a time when I was living down the Neck, the neighborhood where I’d grown up, one of Philadelphia’s less fashionable quarters. I was holed up in a sixpenny boarding house back then, a listing wooden hovel squeezed between a blacksmith shop and a poultry market. With all the noise and stench, I tried to stay away as much as possible. Nor was I the only sufferer. The entire nation was wallowing in hard times in those years. Since the panic of’73, the waves of mighty industry that had swept our blustering era forward—fire-belching iron mills, rattlebox factories, sprawling railway lines—all seemed tumbled in mire. Jobless folk hung about, seething on every street corner. My situation was no different. Despite my good fortune in having some grounding in letters, I’d not been able to find employment in the writing or publishing trades, so I suffered through whatever jobs came my way, from chop-house dishwasher to slaughterhouse hand. Aye, my dream of authoring a book one day, of following in the steps of Dana and Melville and writing a stirring sea tale, seemed futile. I had to agree with others. In terms of pulling the nation’s spirit together, that war with Spain seemed our best hope. We hadn’t had a good fight to stretch our muscles since the great conflagration between the states, and with the end of the century approaching, we had to leave our mark.

Finally, though, I escaped those slavish posts, landed a respectable job—a little cleaner at least—as a tailor’s helper in a fancy downtown establishment. The owner found my manners adequate and my appearance sufficiently nondescript to risk exposing me to his lofty clientele. Only my modest physical stature gave him pause. I was to be a delivery drudge, you see, carrying heavy bundles of garments about the city on foot. He wasn’t sure I was up to the task. As I say, though—I secured the job.

So it happened that, returning along the streets late one afternoon, I ran into one of our customers, a young woman in whom I’d taken considerable interest. She was the daughter of a prosperous Quaker ship owner, well beyond my station, but still—I had my dreams. The first time I’d delivered garments to her house, I’d found her quill in hand and a furrow in her high, polished forehead, struggling over an accounting problem. She helped out with cargo and provisions records for her father’s business. I still retained some proficiency in mathematics from earlier years, so I seized the opening and offered assistance. After that, whenever I came around with deliveries—which was as often as I could con-trive—we chatted a few moments. Slender and trim she was, with keen brown eyes and dark brows somewhat heavily overdrawn, reminding of a child’s doll. She wore reading spectacles when she worked, which lent her a certain sternness, but a tender vulnerability as well, in my eyes at least. When she spoke, I enjoyed her Quaker thee’s.

As I say, she was hurrying down Market Street that day, accompanied by a maid servant, heading for one of her father’s ships with a packet of papers tucked in her slender arms. I was expected back at the shop for an important delivery, I knew, still, I went out of my way for the chance to walk with her. A mild summer evening it was, the shop-owners securing their shutters, the lamplighters going about their rounds. Here was my chance, I thought. I scoured my brain for meaningful conversation, some course of exchange that would allow her to glimpse the real me, let our spirits touch for a moment. As we reached the docks, though, her attention was drawn to a loud troublemaker type perched on a barrel in front of a public house. The man harangued the crowd that spilled out onto the cobblestones, jobless down-and-outers, most of whom had been drinking. This woman—Rachel Powell was her name—she seemed curious. She stretched her swanlike neck to see over the crowd.

What does thee think of this war they’re all calling for? she asked with a sideways glance.

Caught off guard, I struggled. Quakers were well known for their strong opposition to the war.

It seems a proper course to me, I muttered.

Her peer back held a slant of disdain. I cringed, decimated.

I’d like to hear what he has to say, she said, and to my chagrin, began working her way into the noisy rabble.

God, that crowd was unruly—a real tinder box. On my own, I wouldn’t have gone near it. She plowed ahead fearlessly, though, so what could I do? I swallowed hard, forced my way into the press of sour-scented bodies, struggling to stay in her wake.

The speaker, a red-faced, disheveled looking fellow with a gravel voice, railed against the government for dragging its heels in face of the Spaniards’ atrocities. Holding stumpy fingers aloft, he enumerated their outrages one by one, and with each accusation, a gang of sailors up front roared and shook their fists, shouting, Down with the Dons! and, to the South’ard! Less stirred by the speaker, they seemed, than bent on rousing mischief, their leader especially, a slender lad with dark-rimmed glasses and neatly parted hair, the look of an overgrown schoolboy. He grinned a devilish smile.

The way that crowd roiled, Miss Powell finally became alarmed. I hollered for her to follow, and began picking my way through the massed bodies. We’d barely managed a step, though, when the boyish tar up front pointed toward two men passing by in gray garb and yelled, Look—there go some of those cowards now—yellow-livered Quakers—it’s ones like them that’s holdin’ us back. Let’s make an example of ‘em!

Before the two men knew what was happening, some toughs at the edge of the mob laid hands on them, knocked off their wide-brimmed hats and tore away their gray waistcoats. Curses and fists flew, as the attackers shoved one another, fighting over the garments. Soon, others joined in. The crowd pushed and screamed. In seconds, the entire street burst to life. Some like us tried to flee, but more hooligans poured out from the public houses. They streamed from nearby alleys too, rushed to the fray, adding more chaos. I had one thought only—to lead the two of us to safety—but a goon pushing forward knocked me backwards onto the ground. I groveled, fighting off the storm of kicking legs and stomping boots. A heel came down on my ankle and another on my arm. Curled in a ball, all I could do was lie there, roiling in pain, struggling to protect myself. Finally I found an opening, was able to crawl off and grope my way to my feet, limp away on my injured ankle. I searched the crowd for Miss Powell, but all I saw were bloodied faces and flailing arms and fists. A blast sounded like a battering ram, then shattering glass. Some drunks had broken into a shop. I stood quaking as more windows smashed. The street was wild with running men and women, poorer types mostly—they raced every which way with bolts of cloth, chairs, sacks of flour—anything they could lay their hands on. At last, the police arrived. They began collaring people, but barely a soul took notice.

Finally I glimpsed Miss Powell. She’d taken refuge in a doorway, cowering like a child in terror. Hobbling on my twisted ankle, I fought my way toward her. I’d managed only a few steps, when this great boxer of a fellow runs at her, lifts her in his arms, and carries her off—just that simple. They disappeared around a corner. Seconds later, the fellow reappeared. As easy as if joining a polite social, he waded back into the center of the fracas, grabbed one of the troublemaker sailors, hammered him to the ground.

More whistles sounded. Shots split the air. The police arrived in force. I could still hear the screams and breaking glass, as I stumbled off down an alley. I circled back as best I could, searching for the winsome Miss Powell, but I’d lost her.

*     *     *     *

As Ranstead had said, Soule’s schooner was anchored out beyond the coal piers. With the frenzy of provisioning all around, the launch had to weave through a maze of ironplates before we could approach her. Aye, finally the war was underway. Talk about annexing the island of Cuba extended back some fifty years. Always there had been the complainers, ones who saw big business and ambitious politicians as provoking the move, but for most Americans it came down finally to a single point: chasing out those despot Spaniards who ruled the island with a brutal hand. The newspapers played a role. Their leading-page gravures blazoned with visions of blindfolded peasant Insurrectos falling in clouds of black gunsmoke in front of Spanish firing squads. One engraving was particularly rousing—an image of a young woman, stripped half-naked, being interrogated in lamplight shadows by sinister Spaniard types. No wonder so many of us felt as we did.

Still, the move toward war faltered for long years. Hearst, the newspaper magnate, finally helped matters along. He published a private letter from a Spanish minister in Washington to a friend in Cuba expressing contempt for President McKinley. The dam truly burst, though, when our battleship Maine exploded in Havana harbor, killing hundreds of our boys. The doubters still railed, claimed it could have been an accident, but for most of us the blame was clear: It was those devil Spaniards’ work. McKinley at last declared war. Dewey steamed off to Manila Bay, where he surprised and cornered the Spanish fleet. Without missing breakfast, he demolished their entire armada in seven hours—did not lose a single man.

Flags flew. Recruits mustered on street corners and village greens. Campaign hats, blue flannels, and yellow leggings appeared everywhere. In our home town of Lewes, politicians exhorted crowds from makeshift platforms on street corners, while soldiers marched to the music of martial bands. Women waved scarves and threw flowers. Cries of Remember the Maine filled the air. Anyone not caught up in the fever was branded a coward and traitor. A great army, hastily formed, began embarking for the Pearl of the Antilles. At last, our nation had assumed its rightful place in the world—the momentum needed to propel us into the new century had gathered way.

Unfortunately, we had no army or navy to speak of back then, so every iron-plate available was converted into a transport, with every scrap of deck crammed with stores and military materiel. We pilots had built ourselves a brand new flag-

ship, Philadelphia, our first since giving up our old schooners and banding together in association. Hardly had she been delivered from the shipyard, though, than she was purchased by the government, garnered for war. Double-clad and painted gray, she steamed off for the Caribbean with guns mounted on her decks, our own Putney Meers on her bridge, proud as ever in his spanking-white naval captain’s uniform. As she sailed past Breakwater Light, I stood watching. A thunderstorm approached at the time, I remember. Her smoke trailed a long, jagged arc southward, a wounded smear in the viscous yellow sky.

At last, our pilot launch escaped the shadows of those close-packed iron hulls, broke into sunlight. Almost immediately, we slipped beneath a graceful, overhanging stern. The carved golden letters on the nameboard stood out clearly: Hannah P, Philadelphia. She was a hefty three-master, long and sleek, rigged fore-and-aft for coastal work—a beautiful piece. Her weathered hull planks gleamed like pewter in the sun. As our helmsman back-screwed under her rope ladder, a call sounded from overhead—Pilot approachin’. The voice had a familiar ring. Sure enough, when I looked up, Tommy Barnes stood at the rail. He grinned down at me.

Good God— I shouted, grabbing the ladder and starting to climb, what are you doing here?

What’s the mate do on any vessel? he hollered. Whatever the captain can’t figure himself.

I reached the gate in the bulwark, and there Tommy waited, a calloused palm outstretched, his ruddy face beaming. If you’ll show me your certificate, Mr. Pilot Sir, I’ll take it to the captain.

I grabbed his fist and pulled him to me, releasing quickly, lest the crew stare. No longer the starry-eyed cabin boy of old—the Tommy who stood before me was broad and muscular, with an unruly, rusty thicket where rosy cheeks once had bloomed. That thicket matched his weave of tight-curled hair. About his nose and forehead, patches of pink, peeled-away tan added mischievousness to his Tom Sawyer grin. He gripped my shoulders, taking in my derby, tie, and vested suit, his round face bursting with comic incredulity.

Quite the Dan … professional lookin’, he barked from puffed jaws, jetting a glob of tobacco juice over the rail. It seems, though—Peter m’old school-mars’ter—y’still ain’t growed an inch.

I took the jibe in stride. This was an ancient rib between us, my stature being, as I’ve said, somewhat below average. From the day Tommy stepped aboard old Tunnell, and I was put in charge of his training, he kept outstripping me.

Still keepin’ that journal of yours? he asked.

I peered to catch his look, which was serious. Tommy was one of the few people who knew about my writing dreams. I felt flattered he remembered.

I shrugged. Who has the time?

He laid a rough fist on my shoulder. Don’t be discouraged, m’friend. You’ll find the stuff for a rousin’ yarn, yet.

My God— I whispered, recognizing another face. Isn’t that—

Tommy half turned, glancing where I nodded. His sun-browned forehead screwed. "Johnny Crafton, our Number Two…

That’s right … he said turning back, you was there, wasn’t you—the day old Eben gave’im the dunk on Queen Anne Pier. He’s been kickin’ aroun’ various rigs ever since, knocked up an’ down the ladder a few times. If y’ask me, he’s on his way down again. But, it’s Pingree who picks’em, not me. And, Eben seems willin’ enough to have him along. What—with all what’s goin’ on with this war, good officers are hard to find. He punched a fist in his hefty palm.

Just let’im step out of line, though—I’ll be there. ‘Hangin’ Johnny,’ the boys call’im. He don’t take to the name. He wants to be called ‘Jack,’ like he’s one ofem.

I glanced across at Crafton. With those dark-rimmed glasses of his, and plastered, side-parted hair, he still retained that schoolboy look. No longer was he a simple tar, though. He wore an impeccable dark blue suit, complete with collar and tie. We’d never come close enough to speak, but since the first day I’d spied him, some ten years back or so in that riot, we’d shared a mix of encounters. And, I’d heard snatches of rumor. He’d been born to money, well endowed with brains, they said, even had gone to some fancy ivy walled New England school, but had been asked to leave. Afterwards, he’d foundered in some shady deal or other. Following that, talk had it, his family cut him loose. What struck me always was that sly, superior smile of his, as if he were playing with you. But, maybe I was being hard on him. As the old saw goes—What do you really know of a man, until you’ve walked a ways in his boots?

So, the pilot’s aboard, a deep-chested voice sounded behind me. Finally we can be off.

I would recognize those stentorian Yankee tones anywhere. I turned, and there he stood: Soule himself. We perused each other a moment. Tallest in our circle, always, he peered down at me, square jaws clamped, betraying a trace of smile. I couldn’t help it—my eyes went to the gnarled hollow in his forehead, veiled somewhat by a flop of thick black hair. Why I’d forgotten that gaping disfigurement, I don’t know—perhaps to put behind me memory of the incident. The brain will do that sort of thing, to preserve its equanimity. At any rate, Soule caught my glance and adjusted his cap. I felt rattled. What a way to pick up on things! He’d changed a bit, I saw, like all of us. Strands of gray streaked his shaggy sideburns, and his features had leathered some, but he donned one of his pristine, ironed shirts—no change there. Still, with that red throat bandanna and those plank-like sailor’s hands, were it not for his black captain’s hat and characteristic, stiff-necked demeanor, I might have taken him for a common seaman.

Captain Soule … I said, handing over the traditional morning newspaper. Bound again for the Islands, I see, with sod busters’ gear.

His dark eyes narrowed at this innocuous comment, knocking me off balance again. The open tone to his voice disappeared.

We have a few minutes before the tide, he muttered, folding the newspaper under his arm. I’ve a pot of coffee brewing in the cabin. He motioned for Tommy and me to follow.

Just forward of the quarterdeck, a hatchway gave open. We went through, descended the ladder, and made our way aft. At the end of the passage lay a sizeable but modestly furnished stern cabin, lit by a handful of ports in the transom. As we entered, Soule sent me a wry smile.

"A bit more roomy and bright than old Tunnell’s fo’c’sle, eh Long."

I nodded, wandering about, perusing the accommodations. Perhaps this was why he’d lured me here, I thought—to laud over how he’d finally succeeded, wasn’t the failure the rest of us had pegged him for. I halted by the chart table, leaning casually on its edge. Next to my elbow lay some papers and ledgers. Soule stared their way for a moment. He angled over with casualness, arranged the papers and ledgers in a neat pile, dropped them into a drawer. With a minimum of motion, he closed and barred the cabinet with an iron strap and hasp.

Odd—I thought. With a stranger perhaps, but… with me?

We chatted a bit about old times. Finally, I found an opening to inquire about Rachel. He allowed that she and the children were fine, and as he would—indeed, he seemed his old self—he veered quickly to practical matters, namely, Hannah’s preparations for departure. Tommy expressed concerns about their Number Two, Crafton, and added some further history. While Crafton wasn’t known to be a brawler himself, he had a talent for inciting mischief. On his last ship, he’d been accused of sowing discord among seamen in the fo’c’sle. During one such amusement, he’d been stabbed, nearly died.

We’d best keep an eye on’im, Tommy warned.

Soule merely shrugged. The past is done. There is such a thing as redemption. Let’s think of it as a test—for all of us.

He glanced at Tommy.

Don’t worry. If it comes to it, I’ll take my fists to him.

Seeing my look, he emitted a thin smile. Aye, Long, my beliefs against violence still run the same. Unfortunately, though, there are some things that, when necessary, still must be done the old way. He nodded toward a strongbox in the corner. Just as long as I don’t have to open that.

I asked what was in it.

Soule shook his head tiredly. The last vestige of firearms on board: an ancient pistol. I didn’t want it, but Pingree insists it stays. ‘It’s not safe for a captain to be at sea without arms,’ he preaches—devout pacifist that he is. When I called him on it, he told me this story about an old Quaker farm lady who lived alone. Despite her strict beliefs against violence, she kept a rifle on the wall for comfort. Hearing noises downstairs one night, she took it down, lit a lantern, and went to the top of the stairs in her nightgown. Sure enough, a thief had broken in. The old woman leveled that blunderbuss of hers at him, and the poor man froze. ‘Friend,’ she said, ‘if I were thee, I would return the way thee came, for thee is standing where I am about to shoot.’ The man turned tail and disappeared.

Soule’s square-jawed grin pulled up short. So, Pingree will have his pistol on board. Hopefully it won’t cause trouble. Only the officers know about it.

A knock sounded, and the door opened. Standing in the archway was a slender, slightly bent man with a pock-marked face and nervous, evasive eyes. He peered from under a mop of gray unruly hair. I recognized him from around the port: one Gustave Yurman. He was said to have some sort of connection with those Quakers.

I didn’t know y’were in conference, Sir, he mumbled.

It’s all right Yurman, Soule said. He motioned toward me. This is our pilot, Peter Long. He’s taking us downriver, will be with us as far as the Capes.

Pilot?— the man said. Since when do we need a pilot?

Soule smiled my way. Besides being the ship’s steward, Yurman looks after me. Takes care of the accounting books as well. It’s all right, Gustave, he said to the man, we can afford the fee. I suppose you’ve come to call us on deck.

Yurman glanced my way, then shifted back to Soule. Actually … I just wanted to discuss a matter of stowage. It can wait, though. He backed out without taking his eyes from us, closed the door behind him.

Minutes later, we returned topsides. I took up my usual station by the helm, observing preparations for getting underway. Soule seemed in his element. While most captains remain aloof on the quarterdeck at such times, he moved about the rails, snugging this line and that, patting the poles and spars. Lean and sturdy that schooner was, much like Soule himself. I saw how he loved her. Aye, as restless always as he was, he’d reached his aim. A ship to captain, a steadfast wife, comfortable wealth—what more could a man ask for, outwardly at least?

With the tide turned a twelfth, we weighed anchor, set main and headsails to a brisk southeast breeze. Hannah came around handily, greeted the airs on a starboard tack. Below Mud Island, we hauled to a broad reach, the wind over the stern quarter, held her that way for most of the range. She clipped along beautifully. Tommy reported the barometer to be dropping, which was no surprise, the breeze having backed east and piped up several notches, so we reduced sail, cropped the jib and single-reefed the main. By Salem Cove, though, it howled a chorus, and by Liston Point, we were down to staysail, double-reefed main, and mizzen. Soule leaned hatless at the rail, his dark locks whipping in the wind. I turned to him in grin.

Reminds me of the old days.

He nodded. Aye, but if it gets much worse, Long, it won’t be easy finding that take-off boat. If you like, I can have you ferried ashore right here.

Both of us knew—that take-off boat stationed in the mouth of the bay was my only way back to land. If I missed it, I’d be out of luck. Perhaps it was the sport of blustery sailing, though, like in the old days, or the prospect of learning more about Rachel—I don’t know.

I’ll take my chances, I told him.

Aboard schooner Hannah

Delaware River, south for the Capes

With Hannah steady on her course, I lit my pipe at the rail, and leaning alone in quiet, watched the shoreline pass. Once more, my thoughts traveled back, revisiting the days ten years earlier, when Soule and I started out together. Little had I realized it back then, but my journey truly did commence with that riot in the port. The next morning, when I limped to work on a sore ankle, I was sacked from my job for the previous day’s dalliance. I remember going down to the river and sitting alone on a piling, staring out onto the Delaware’s broad waters. Most of the fellows I’d grown up with were well settled by then, living their lives to the full, yet there I was, lonely and out of work again. I wondered where to look next. And, that trampling under the mob’s boots had soured my tastes for city life once and for all. There had to be a way out of the filth and misery of the Neck.

Perhaps it was the water lapping at my feet as I sat there—who can say—but I still recall it with vividness: Suddenly a thought came to me. All that I knew of my origins was that I’d appeared on the steps of an orphanage one day, a newborn babe coddled in a bit of ship’s canvas, just as a coasting schooner from northern climes was passing through port. I thought to myself: If Fortune withheld her favors on land, why not reclaim my cloudy maritime beginnings, return to the sea? Sure, life on the water had its dangers, but at least the air was fresh and clean. Meeting one’s end there was as good a place as any. Still, I wasn’t about to rush and sign-on aboard some ocean-going packet for round-the-world roamings like some hero in a sea saga—that would be stretching ambition a bit too far. No, something a little less adventuresome would be about right, something like, well, river piloting. After all, hadn’t that been Twain’s calling? Ever since I was a greening sprout, I’d watched those daredevils out on the river’s waters, chasing mighty sailing vessels in their nipper little sloops, shaving so unbelievably close, then leaping onto flimsy threads of ladder, as the giant hulls charged along. An exciting life it seemed, taking command of grand hulking barks and brigs, then disappearing in mystery downriver to the bay, out even into the open sea. But, everyone knew—piloting was a closed fraternity, its secrets handed down from father to son. The chances of landing such a job seemed beyond imagining. Still, I decided to inquire, and when I did, I learned that positions as apprentices recently had opened, and they were looking for older, more mature fellows like me. With nothing to lose, I went down to the port wardens’ office, submitted my name. I mentioned nothing of my writing ambitions of course, stressed instead my strengths in mathematics and geography, subjects I’d handled reasonably well back in school. Next thing I knew, I got wind that inquiries were being