The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage by Paul Thomas Fuhrman

Author:Paul Thomas Fuhrman [Fuhrman, Paul Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Fireship Press, LLC
Published: 2016-01-18T05:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Five

Justice before the Bar

They hurled upon an army

The bellowing heart of hell,

We saw but the meadows

Torn with their shot and shell.

—Henry Sidgwick

Thursday, June 20, 1872

Lat 05º38′45˝S, Long 31º22′15˝W

The South Atlantic

Port watch had eaten first, and then relieved the starboard watch, who were now seated on their sea chests in the forecastle, ready to eat their supper following a day of heavy squalls, gales, and rain. The air inside the forward deck cabin smelled of sweat and wet oilskins. Sam Duder grinned from ear to ear. John Stedwin closed his eyes briefly, shook his head, and announced, “Sam feels like telling us one.”

Amidst the groans and “not agains,” Sam began his tale.

“Did I ever tell you boys about the time I spent in Hawaii? Well, you remember that they did things like the English, King Kamehameha and all. Now, I’m talking about the Old Bailey in London; that’s how the king wanted his courts to be. Seems they got themselves a wicked good nor’easter of a trial going, a murder trial.”

Sam paused enough to see that three men were listening to him and the rest were somewhere between annoyance and complete boredom. Some men contented themselves with simply doing nothing, legs sprawled, heads lowered, and eyes nearly shut. Others could not sit still, talking with one another, comparing knives, a piece of scrimshaw, or simply enjoying the plug tobacco from the slop chest, and completely ignoring Sam. But Sam did not care.

“Now, the judge sets up on high throne-like affair, decked out in a scarlet robe and wearing a long, curly wig. His bare legs and feet were poking from beneath that robe. The mace of justice hung on the wall in back of him. The lawyers—barristers, they call them—had black robes and short wigs; they were all regal too. The accused was brought in and set in a box below the judge. He was a big man, almost wider than tall, and tattooed from head to toe. Copied one of his tattoos, see?”

Mention of tattoos always worked. Sam saw two heads turn his way.

“The jury, twelve Hawaii men, set on one side of the court, and on the other side sat the bailiff, the lawyers, and a bare-breasted maiden with perky rosebuds as pretty as any man could dream of.”

Sam could not show his joy; he must remain calm, emotionless, but he knew he had them with the word “rosebud.” Yes, getting a man’s imagination was the secret of a good story.

“Now, lads,” John Stedwin spoke. “Old Sam ain’t one to stretch things a little, is he?” They all laughed, including Samuel Craig, who sat alone on his sea chest away from the others.

Sam winked at his friend John Stedwin. “Soon the trial started with the bailiff reading the charges, all proper legal words too. At this point, the bare-breasted maiden rose up, grabbed a short-handled broom-like thing covered in scarlet baize and all made up with bird feathers secured at one end by a Turk’s head knot. The maiden

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