Voyage of Midnight (4 page)

I said, “He’s off early next week on another voyage.”

“Is he now? Well, again, that’s wonderful.” Mrs. Gallagher laid her hand atop Mr. Gallagher’s. “Don’t you think that’s wonderful news, dear?”

Mr. Gallagher sighed deeply. “And?”

“He’s hired me as the surgeon’s mate. I’ve agreed. I start come morning.”

There followed a long silence. I stared at my plate again. At the corned beef, no longer steaming. The cabbage, beginning to dry at the edges. Outside a dog barked, small and yippy. From next door, I heard the clink of silverware and someone laughing.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Gallagher finally said.

“Never mind your supper, then,” said Mr. Gallagher. “You’d best hurry along and pack your things.”

I gladly escaped to my room, relieved that the hard part was over.

In the morning I stood by the door, canvas bag propped against my leg.

“Oh blessed Mother Mary, look after my little English boy,” whispered Mrs. Gallagher as she kissed both my cheeks. She smelled, as always, of rose water and talc.

“Come, Mrs. Gallagher, don’t cry,” I said, my throat tightening. “I’ll come back someday, I will.”

“But what do we know of him, this uncle of yours?” asked Mr. Gallagher, cleaning his spectacles with a handkerchief.

I shrugged, wishing I didn’t have to hurt them so, wishing I didn’t have to say goodbye, as goodbyes could be, I was learning, very hard indeed. But I’d done a lot of thinking during the night. My bags were packed and I’d a vessel to board and an important position as surgeon’s mate. “I don’t know. But he’s my uncle. He’s
family.”

“Why, dear, of course he is.”

Mr. Gallagher replaced his spectacles and looked serious. “You always have a home with us, you know that.”

Again my throat tightened. I clenched my jaw, refusing to cry.
Surgeon’s mates don’t cry
.

“Yes, of course you do, dear.” Mrs. Gallagher enfolded me in her ample arms until talc tickled my nose and I sneezed.

I pulled away. “Well, thank you. Both of you. You—you’ve been most kind to me. I’ll not forget.” My voice cracked. “I’ll bring you something from … from wherever I’m going. I’ll …”

Mrs. Gallagher tried to smile and failed. “Do you promise,
absolutely promise
, to come home and see us again, my little English boy?”

“I promise.”

Mr. Gallagher pressed five dollars into my hand. “Keep it. You’ve earned it, you have.”

I thanked them both again and picked up my canvas bag, filled with clothes, books, toothbrush, tooth powder, comb, and such. I opened the door to the shop. Bells jangled. The morning air was cool.

“Well, goodbye, then,” I said, looking back once more.

“Goodbye, dear. Mind your manners, now. Study your catechism.”

“Farewell, Philip.”

And off I went, my brogans clipping the banquette, off to my new life, my new adventure.

I
didn’t like the look of Uncle’s crew.

They appeared hard-eyed and shifty-looking. When I mentioned this to Uncle, he laughed and tousled my hair, saying there was no need to worry, that he knew what he was doing. He had sailed with some of these men before and knew them to be crack sailors. I still had my doubts but bit my tongue, not wanting to sound like a child.

The ship, however, was glorious. The
Formidable
was its name. Uncle said it was a Baltimore clipper and had been a privateer just a few years back, from 1812 to 1814, during America’s Second War of Independence. Even knowing little about ships, I could tell she was sleek and fast, her two green masts rakish and daring. The deck was flush and clean. Her hull was painted black, and she’d
two carronades plus twelve long guns, six on either side, each capable of throwing 9-pound shot, according to Uncle.

“But who will we be firing at?” I asked as I followed him about the brig. The sun was just peeping over the horizon, casting the sky in purple hues. A light breeze carried the scent of frying fish, brine, and damp timbers. “The war ended in 1814.”

“All in good time, my lad, I’ll answer your questions all in good time. For now we must attend to matters at hand.” Uncle made his way past one of the inboard boats, turned upside down; past sailors going about their business; and stopped midships, where a man was digging through a box filled with what appeared to be medicines. “Jonas?”

The man stood and turned abruptly. I stepped back. He was old—sixty, maybe—with protruding eyes. The whites of his eyes weren’t white at all, but yellow. Truth was, all of him seemed to be yellow. Pockmarks pitted his sallow skin. Yellowish gray hair hung in lank strings.

Uncle laughed and clasped the man’s hand in both his own, pumping it vigorously. “Jonas Drinkwater, my good friend, well met once again!”

“Captain Towne,” replied Jonas, fixing him with a yellow eye. “Good to see you.”

“Wasn’t sure if you were still alive, you looking like something that died in the gutter.” Uncle winked at Jonas, then at me, before pushing me forward. “Jonas, this is my nephew, Philip Higgins. It’s well you look surprised! Didn’t think a scoundrel like me had a family, eh? Ha! Not only is he family, he’s a sharp fellow. Been to school and everything. Proud to call him my own. And you’ll be happy to know he’ll be your assistant and charge during the voyage.” And with a thunderous clap on each of our backs and a hearty laugh, Uncle left me with Jonas.

I felt color flush my cheeks and dropped my gaze to the
deck, realizing I’d been staring.
This
man was a surgeon? I was to work under
this
man for the entire voyage? I felt a shiver of misgiving, but quickly dismissed it.
Uncle knows what he’s doing
, I told myself.

Jonas stepped about me, inspecting me from head to foot. “How old are you, boy?”

“Fourteen. And a half.”

“You look no more than eleven. Maybe twelve. And what do you know about medicine?”

“I—I can fill simple prescriptions, sir—”

“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ ”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. What I mean is, sir, I can mix compounds and—”

“How many grains make one scruple?”

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me. How many grains make one scruple?”

“Twenty.”

“How many scruples to one dram?”

“Three.”

He grunted. “What’s paregoric used for?”

“It quiets the cough and calms the nerves.”

“Dosage?”

“A tablespoon for adults.”

Again he grunted. “You’ll do. Now organize this medicine chest so I can find what I need.”

When he turned away, I took a deep breath and steadied myself. “Dr.—Dr. Drinkwater?”

“Name’s Jonas.”

“Please, Jonas, where are we off to? Where’s the ship headed?”

He turned back. A frown creased his yellow face. “Didn’t the captain tell you?”

“No.”

Then Jonas erupted with laughter, suddenly not looking so frightening or ugly anymore. He thumped me on the back as had Uncle, smiling a great, yellow-toothed smile, but said nothing.

Jonas and I shared a whitewashed cabin next to the captain’s quarters. There were two bunks—berths, in sailor’s language—stacked against one wall, with only three by seven feet square of walking space. Lodged between the bunks and the wall opposite was a desk piled with medical books. Across from the desk was a cupboard for our belongings. To my relief, Jonas agreed to allow me a candle at night, but only after I promised him my every share of grog for the entire voyage.

That first night, gazing at the candle flame, a solitary glow, I reviewed the events of the day, concluding,
My uncle’s the handsomest man and I’m the luckiest lad in all the world. I think we’ll get along pleasantly
. I then recited my prayers and fell asleep.

Once the ship was in a smart condition and watertight, her hatches fitted with sound and doubled tarpaulins, all things well secured and caulked, the
Formidable
left New Orleans on the eighth day of January, 1821, in fine weather, the wind at the southwest. Five days later we crossed the bar at the mouth of the Mississippi, with the wind from the north-northeast, and set a course to sea.

There were forty-six of us, including the captain. There were the gunner and his mates, who looked after the ammunition and the long guns. There was the cook, whose galley was on the forward deck, and who could be heard mumbling to himself even over a high wind. There were two mates; then there were the steward, the cabin boy, the bo’sun, the carpenter, the sailmaster, and the cooper, and all the other sailors.

Everyone had tasks to do. As for me, once the medicine chest
was organized, I didn’t have much in the way of regular tasks and wondered why Uncle felt he needed both a surgeon and a surgeon’s mate on a voyage where there wasn’t much of anything happening. I was so delighted, though, to finally be with Uncle after all these years that if he needed both a surgeon and a surgeon’s mate, that was jolly fine with me. It just meant Uncle wanted me near him.

As it was, I followed him about like a puppy, asking endless questions. After all, he was family. My only family.

“Uncle, weren’t you lonely for your family when you first left for sea?”

“Uncle, have you ever fallen overboard?”

“Uncle, have you ever been to India?”

“Uncle, will you ever get married, do you think?”

“Uncle, can you teach me navigation?”

“Uncle, where are we off to?”

“Uncle, have you ever gone to school?”

“Uncle, do you think I might make a good sea captain someday?”

Some questions he answered; some made him crack with laughter and clap me on the back (nearly jarring my teeth loose), repeating, “All in good time, my lad, all in good time.” Finally, perhaps in an effort to batten my hatches, he agreed to teach me navigation.

So, beginning on our fifth day at sea, each day at noon we stood on the quarterdeck and took the sighting with a sextant. Then we went below and consulted the almanac and studied the charts, plotting our course from one penciled
X
to the next.

“So we’re headed to Havana, on Spanish Cuba,” I said one day, tracing our route with my finger. I stood with my legs braced as the
Formidable
rolled and tossed through the ocean
swells. Above, it was a fine, vigorous day, and my hair smelled of wind. “If the weather holds true, we should arrive sometime tomorrow.”

Uncle’s blue eyes glinted. “Aye, you’re a sharp lad.”

“Then we’re returning home?”

Uncle gave me a hard look, seeming to weigh something in his mind, then shrugged. “I suppose it’s time you knew.” He produced another chart and unrolled it atop the first, leaning over the table and caressing the chart with his hand. I stood next to him, hearing the breath whistling through his nostrils, looking to where he pointed. “After Havana, we’re headed to Africa.”

Africa …
I peered at the African continent, my breath catching with the promise of adventure. “What’s in Africa besides jungles?”

At this, Uncle straightened and placed a strong, square hand on my shoulder. His expression was solemn. “Philip, lad, have you ever wanted to be rich?”

I remembered my vow to never be hungry again. And since arriving in New Orleans, I’d kept that vow. Money was the answer. Money and family. “Yes, I want to be rich.”
More than anything
, I realized.

Uncle’s lips curled up in a smile. “There’s black gold in Africa.”

“Black gold?”

“Slaves, lad.
Slaves,”
he hissed.

The word hung in the air. Visible, touchable, vibrating like a plucked string. My scalp prickled and I became aware of Uncle’s excitement. It flowed warmly from his hand, through my shoulder, into my being. As if he
wanted
my approval. Me, little Philip Arthur Higgins, onetime orphan and ward of the parish workhouse. And in that moment I’d have given my approval to anything—taking half the world, even.

Uncle’s eyes met mine.

I smiled. “Yes, Uncle. That would be quite nice, I think.”

The house was set among the palm trees, a wide veranda stretching across the front, shady and inviting. As we climbed the last step onto the varnished expanse, the door opened and a man emerged. “Ah! Captain Towne!” he said in a broad American accent. “At last you’ve arrived!” Dressed in loose white cotton pantaloons and a linen shirt, he was a red-faced fellow of enormous girth. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his clothing. He dabbed himself with a handkerchief.