The Sailing Master: Book One: Coming of Age by Lee Henschel

Author:Lee Henschel [Henschel, Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rocket Science Press
Published: 2015-12-13T05:00:00+00:00

Back in Portsmouth Admiral Christchurch had described Gottlieb as a passenger with undeclared diplomatic status, and his business in Otra Nova as clandestine. The admiral requested and required Captain Cedric to avoid all contact with ships or shore after Cadiz. In order to still remain unseen Eleanor would need to lay well off Nagua, hull down if not completely below the horizon. To make contact with his agent, Gottlieb and I would be rowed ashore under the cover of darkness. A risky business though, to row a boat on open water, and even more so at night. A boat might easily lose its way.

Soon after the middle watch Eleanor wore ship, hauling her wind five miles off Nagua. The night went starry moonless. Gottlieb prepared us careful for the mission—dark clothing, faces and hands smudged with a stub of burnt cork and coal grease.

“What is this for, Gottlieb?”

“To become the night, young Harriet. Come now. We shall wait on deck.”

Captain Cedric ordered the jolly boat into the water. Eleanor’s jolly was a bit larger than the gig and rowed by six men. It required a coxswain to command it, either a midshipmen or an officer. Our coxswain was Hoyer. He served in gunnery under Towerlight. I barely knew him.

We unhooked from Eleanor. Hoyer checked his compass and we wore away, due east. At Nagua two lanterns burned. The one to starboard was large and bright. It served the public dock. Hoyer checked his compass then made for that light, bearing slightly to port where there was a sand beach. The second lantern was farther to port—the fish market. Just west of the fish market was the estuary of Bosc Creek. It was a salt bog, and to be avoided, as it was a most ruinous place to land a boat. It took an hour before Nagua took shape, its sparse waterfront rising dim in the night. A land breeze blew soft and the ebb tide ran as well.

I whispered to Gottlieb, “They’ve pulled four hundred strokes already, sir.”

“You are counting them, young Harriet?”

“No, sir. I just know.”

The crew wore down. Hoyer referred to his compass then ordered rest for sets of oars, one pair at a time, keeping four oars working at all times. We made our way slow. But steady on, for the Eleanors were willing lads, and with hearts of oak.

Soon we closed on the beach and shipped oars. There was no surf so the bow men slipped quiet into the water, waist deep, and dragged our prow onto a narrow shelf. We disembarked and carried the jolly boat ashore and hid it in a stand of cypress. That final effort, heaving the jolly boat and concealing it, tapped the men’s reserve. Hoyer ordered all to rest while he took first watch.

The night slept . . . all shadows and silence. Gottlieb and I slipped away, moving through the cypress most slow. After a hundred yards we reached the coastal road and paused, watching and listening for travelers. But it was very late and the road was abandoned.

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