He is a fine artist of the tall ships of yesterday.
My story editor, Judith Myers, has helped me with all three of my novels. She has a magic touch with our language and is a joy to work with. One way or another, her changes and suggestions always made the read much better. Judy is one of my biggest fans and has given me new insights into the power of the written word.
My appreciation also goes to Gary Adams, an award winning writer and author of the new book, Felicity. As a friend and fellow writer, his input and insight was invaluable.
To Commander Rick Jacobson, who keeps me ‘real,’ and his brave wife, Gayle, and to all my other family and friends for their kindness, support and good wishes… I thank you all.
Tess has always been the first to read my story before it goes to edit. Over the months-turned-to years of my writing, we’ve had long and spirited conversations about my storyline, the characters and the pace of the plot. Her constructive feedback kept me focused, and her heartfelt enthusiasm kept me hopeful. As always, I am grateful for her non-stop encouragement and unwavering support.
Having expressed my gratitude to all those who helped me with this project, it is still my name on the title page, and I am responsible and accountable for every word.
Many Thanks to the Staff, Volunteers and Historians at:
Alsea Bay Interpretive Center
Burrows House Museum
Cape Mears State Park, Octopus Tree
Columbia River Maritime Museum
Clatsop County Historical Society
Fort Stevens State Park and Museum
Garibaldi Maritime Museum
Lewis & Clark National Historical Park at Fort Clatsop
Oregon Coast History Center
Seaside Library
Seaside Historical Society Museum
Siuslaw Pioneer Museum
Tillamook County Library
Tillamook County Pioneer Museum
Umpqua Discovery Center
Chapter One: The Winds of Change
THE EAGLE’S LOUD CRY WAS DEFIANT as it swooped down with outstretched talons to begin the struggle of the American Revolution. But the first clamors of the Great War were not cannon or musket balls: they were words. Stirring words, like those from Patrick Henry in 1775, who denounced the British rule by saying, "Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God. I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death."
With these words, and thousands more like them, the dark shroud of war draped over the colonies. When the dove of peace next reappeared, some six years later, colonial America was no more. With the English royal yoke removed, the colonies rose from the ashes as the thirteen independent States of America. These States were as different and uncommon as the nearly three million people who inhabited the land. Each State, each region, each person looked to the future with optimistic determination. It was now time for prosperity, exploration and expansion. There would be no seas too vast, no mountains too high, or rivers too deep to stop this march forward. The sleeping giant of the United States was awakening to its future and all that it might hold.
This promise of a better life was made by ordinary people who had bold visions, courageous convictions and faith of purpose. These God-fearing individuals had survived the crown and the costly years of the war of independence, and now they were determined to thrive and rise. This belief in a divine destiny was found in every hamlet, every town, every state, but nowhere more so than in Massachusetts and her bustling seaport of Boston in 1787.
WHARF RATS
MY BOOTS MADE A MUFFLED CLOPPING NOISE on the damp cobblestones as I walked towards my father’s home. The February day had been dark, cold, and foggy, and I was chilled to my bone. My mood was as miserable as the weather, for I had spent eleven hours hunched over my clerk’s desk, and now I relished the hope of a hot meal and a warm fire. But it was more than just the day and weather, as I had not been joyful since my mother’s death, almost four years before. A Puritan woman in both heart and soul, she had been the center of my universe; she had taught me the joy of reading and writing, how to use my numbers, the rhythm of good music and the fine lines of great art. She had been my spiritual beacon in an otherwise dreary childhood. Now, at eighteen, I still couldn’t envision a future without her.
Turning the corner at Fulton, I looked down the long, deserted street. Only the oil lamps from a few public houses lit the dark way. The light fog that hung low over the stones made for a ghostly and shadowy journey. At nearly eight o’clock, most folks were cozy at home, enjoying fire and food.
My father had been a drunk during my mother’s life and had worsened after her passing. Now his wrath was pointed only at me and my younger brother, Frederic. At least Momma was spared those indignities…the only good thing about her passing. After her funeral, I thought about running away and going to sea, but I feared for Frederic’s well-being. No, I would stay and become the foil between father and brother. It was a job that I hated, but it had to be done until Frederic could find the courage to stand up to our father.
After Momma’s death, I was obliged to work for my father in his blacksmith shop. As his apprentice, I was taught what he called “real skills, not fancies from books.” With his massive, filthy hands, he showed me how to work the forge, and to cut, bend and shape the iron and bronze. As always, I was a quick study, and I soon learned the blacksmith’s dance in the molten sparks of the spitting forge and hammer. It was heavy, hot, and dirty work. The days were long and the rewards few. But my tall, lean body soon grew strong, with muscular limbs and powerful hands—hands that I washed three times a day so as not to have them look like the grimy paws of my father.
Over the sounds from my boots, I heard eight bells ring out from one of the ships moored at the piers, only blocks away. The high-pitched sounds bounced off the brick buildings that lined my way, producing an echoing effect.
Two years had passed since I’d left my father’s blacksmith shop to clerk for the merchant Joseph Barrel… and what did I have to show for it? Nothing! My father confiscated my wages for rum, and my back ached from the long hours I spent hunched over my desk. Soon I would look like Mr. Crumwell, the old, rawboned chief clerk, who could no longer stand erect. He was a wretched man with a deplorable job.
My thoughts were interrupted by sounds of gaiety coming from the opening door of a public house, a half block down. By the light spilling into the street, I could just make out the tavern’s carved sign: Sea Witch. The figure of a man, dressed in a heavy coat and tricorne hat,
