Coolidge was tall and looked to be in his late twenties. He had a dark, ruddy face and broad, square shoulders. But his personality was as cold as the rain. He told us that two other crew members would soon come aboard, and that the four of us would begin to load the supplies. Preparing the Orphan to go to sea would be our task over the next few weeks. He stressed that we would load the ship backwards, putting the things we wouldn’t need for a good while into the holds first, and the things we would need frequently on top. He also added that the heaviest cargo items should be loaded first and deepest.
Turning to me, he concluded, “Mr. Blackwell, the Captain wants you to maintain a complete accounting of the supplies we’ve received and where you place them. I have other business in town, so you’re in charge.”
Then, while my mouth was still open in disbelief, he turned and walked off the ship.
As he disappeared into the sunshine, I said to Sandy, “What the thunder do I know about loading a ship? Why would he leave me in charge?”
Shaking his head, he answered, “It’s all about the numbers, boy. Most of the crew knows nothing about ciphering and such things. We know how to load the ship, but we need you to keep the accounts. And, Joe…” He hesitated. “Give Mr. Coolidge a wide berth. I’ve heard he’s mean-spirited.”
That afternoon, seamen Owens and Taylor came aboard, and we began the task of loading the ship. Working on the dock, I used shipping receipts to inspect and count all of the supplies already received. On the sloop, the three sailors set up a block-and-tackle rigging to lift the containers into the holds. As each item was hoisted, I marked it with chalk, giving it a number. Then I wrote the number and where it was placed on each receipt. It was a dirty, sweaty job, as both the dock and the ship baked in the hot September sun. But, ever so slowly, we made progress.
The items we hoisted were all different in size, shape and weight. Our trading goods included cloth, beads, blankets, axes, knives, saws and hundreds of iron chisels. We even loaded raw iron and brass for making more implements. Then there was firewood for the cook stove, and barrels of rum, wine, and brandy. Next came barrels of cheese, oil, flower, sugar, molasses, and animal feed. The endless list of dry goods and sailing provisions had been carefully crafted by Captain Gray, and I marveled at his foresight and attention to detail.
Each morning, the Captain or Mr. Coolidge would come aboard and check the work from the day before. Then they would give us instructions for the day ahead. I found Captain Gray to be friendly and direct, while Mr. Coolidge was cool and aloof. The crew was always pleased when the Mate left the ship for what he called “other business in town.”
Most redheaded people have fair skin that doesn’t take to the sun, but for some reason my skin took to it and I would easily color. I had thought about this before, because my father had olive skin and black hair while my mother had creamy skin with light auburn hair. Why did I have red hair and medium skin? With my mother dead, it was a question with no answer, so I shoved it from my mind.
That first week, I worked on the docks without my shirt, and my body soon browned. Late Friday morning, I looked up from counting blankets to find Miss Becky approaching the sloop. She held a parasol above her head, shading her face, and wore a light blue summer dress. At first, she didn’t notice me watching from my perch atop the bale. Then she did and turned my way. As she approached, I froze in place, my mouth dry and my heart racing.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwell,” she said, peering up at my bare-skinned torso.
Her strange look sank to my toes. Jumping off the bale, I quickly reached for my shirt and put it on. I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or proud. Mumbling, I answered, “Good morning, Miss Becky. Can I help you?”
“Is Captain Gray aboard? Father wants me to deliver some papers to him.”
“No, Miss. He’s ashore. But you could leave the papers in his stateroom, and I’ll tell him you came by.”
Standing face to face with me, she smiled and her green eyes twinkled. “Could you show me the way?”
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
After leaving the papers in the Captain’s compartment, Becky asked if I would give her a tour of the ship, which I was delighted to do. We walked from stern to stem, and I told her all I knew of the Orphan. With the crew watching our every step, she made comments and asked questions as we went along. I even introduced her to Sandy and the other boys, and she was warm and friendly to all. As we were finishing up, strolling towards the gangway, Mr. Coolidge came aboard.
Before I could present Miss Becky to him, he angrily asked, “What the hell goes on here, Mr. Blackwell? You’re not paid to lollygag.”
As I fumbled for a response, Becky quickly turned to Mr. Coolidge and said, “My father, Mr. Barrel, asked me to drop off some papers for Captain Gray, and I asked Mr. Blackwell for a tour. Is that a problem, sir?”
Mr. Coolidge had not previously met the owner’s daughter, and she had now put him in his place in front of the crew. He glared at me for a good long moment, then grunted, “No, ma’am,” and walked away, clasping his hands behind his back.
As we descended the gangway, Becky stopped and whispered, “Oh, Joseph, did I get you in trouble?”
“Not at all. It was my pleasure.”
“May I visit you again before you sail?”
She was smart and spirited, and I liked that. “Please do,” was my humbled response.
“But my visits will have to be our secret,” she continued, “as Father would not approve.”
“I understand. I’m currently a man with no fortune. But this voyage will change all of that.”
Twirling her parasol, she smiled and turned down the dock. With my heart in my mouth, I watched her leave. That’s when I realized that something special had just happened: our two lives were now intertwined.
A few days later, Miss Becky reappeared just before the noon meal. This time, she had used her influence to get the mate of the Columbia to give her a tour, and she wanted me to join them. I jumped at the chance to meet other crew members and see the Commodore’s flagship. We found Mr. Woodruff, the mate, aboard, and he walked us around. He seemed very friendly and full of information. At two hundred and twelve tons, the square rigged Columbia was much bigger than the Orphan. She had a deck eighty-three feet long, with a width of twenty-four feet and a depth of twelve feet. When I commented on her size, the Mate informed us that the Columbia was small for her class, as most similarly rigged ships ranged anywhere from three hundred to four hundred tons.
The ship was armed with four six pound cannons and four swivel guns, which made her firepower much greater than the Orphan’s. The total complement of her crew was forty, consisting of Captain Kendrick, five officers, an astronomer, a surgeon, a furrier, a clerk, and thirty seamen. The Captain had two of his sons sailing with him; one was the fifth mate, while the other was a seaman.
Finishing the tour, we thanked Mr. Woodruff and moved down the gangway. At the bottom, Miss Becky turned to me and asked, “Do you wish you were sailing on the Columbia?”
Looking up at the ship’s brownish color and square shape, I answered, “No… she’s too bleak and boxy. While the Orphan is as graceful and colorful as a mallard duck.”
A
