The Quadrant: At the Mother of Waters

By Kimberly Raikes

First in a 3-volume narrative journey set in 19th century New England and on the high seas. Against the backdrop of conflicting traditions and beliefs, this shared account traces the unveiling merger of three unlike mariners—a Maine sea captain, a ship’s doctor, and a Welsh gypsy seaman—whose journey ultimately unites their lives and cultures, even as it divides their families and communities. Taking place over many years, and over a wide range of locales— from the underground dance halls of Boston’s waterfront to the Romany campsites of North Wales, from the heights of Rio Janeiro to the beach heads of Anjier—this is a hard-fought victory of human wholeness over social convention, conflicting responsibilities, self-doubt, and separation at sea.

In its harsh and unyielding historical context—one which holds up a mirror to societies today—this story poses questions still critical to readers: Can persons of opposing backgrounds conquer the barriers which divide them? Can their transformations in turn transfigure the communities around them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kimberly Raikes
• Release date: Apr 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476176116

Kimberly Raikes

Kim Ridenour Raikes is a member of the faculty of Maine Maritime Academy in Castine, where she teaches writing and humanities. An important aspect of her teaching career, which began 37 years ago in Marjoyoun, Lebanon, is global education, and she has led numerous study abroad programs for American students in Ireland, Great Britain, and India. As an ordained minister and student of world religious traditions, she has long incorporated spiritual themes in her writing and academic researches. Beginning in Beirut in 1978 and continuing over the course of the next 30 years, Raikes worked on this novel daily, drawing not only from primary researches into historical records and sailing ship logs, but also from her personal experience of the working waterfront. Though these outer resources were important shaping influences, the key inspiration for this story came in the form of the three narrative voices which emerged from within, and the historical places which took shape though unseen.

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Quadrant at the Mother of Waters

Volume 1

Published by Kim Ridenour Raikes at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Kim Ridenour Raikes

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

For all who seek to navigate

the sea lanes of the mind and heart

I

James Robertson

Port of Boston, March 31, 1842

It was the last day in March: morning had opened a brilliant, deep blue sky, the first in weeks, and a brisk onshore breeze had sprung up from the southeast, churning all the harbor into a teeming mass of whitecaps. When I flung open the shutters and thrust up the window, light streamed into the room, followed by a wind such as I had never smelled before—vivid, tantalizing, cool and clean, flavored with the salt of the sea and the promise of spring. It blew in steady gusts, and with every breath I drew I felt my throat cleansed, my lungs refreshed.

For a while, braced against the window frame, I stood breathing deeply, greedy as a man wakening from some long illness with an unexpected appetite and vigor. Even my mind felt affected: with the sun on my face and the welcome wind about me, the strain and depression of that grim winter seemed to lift like a mist dispelled by the warmth. With surprised eyes I gazed out the window, suddenly aware of the horizon, the harbor, the dipping sails, the pleasing clutter of East Boston wharves and warehouses, as if I had never seen them before; as if I had only now arrived at the port, carted my trunk to these lodgings, and crossed the room to stand at this window.

The city I had found so dark and foreboding, so bound up with my own misfortune, seemed full of vivid motion now; the change of weather had transformed the stretch of dirty, grimy seafront, so that it now seemed the most desirable place on earth to me, full of the allure of a foreign port. Across my field of vision scores of gulls wheeled and dove, while occasional clouds ran swiftly before the wind; down below the churning harbor, the variety of wind-powered vessels incoming and outgoing, the chaotic wharves crowded with longshoremen busy stowing or working out cargo, all seemed to share the same exhilaration of motion.

Sounds drifted in to me, the same sounds that had filled me with such enchantment in all the ports of Wales—the ring of ships’ bells, the incessant clang of cable chains vibrating against the mastheads, the tumult of hoarse voices shouting orders, the commotion of cargo moving up and down the wharves. But it was not the lure of travel or adventure that quickened in my veins; I had had enough of life at sea to know that it was grim, whatever others might say. Instead it was the lure of motion, the liberation of action, the enticing rhythm of all that is new and strange, that I found suddenly beating in my veins. Each gust of wind seemed to sweep that rhythm deeper within me, until my beating pulse, the sweeping wind, the moving, roving flow of life, were all aflame with force, and athirst for one another.

As I gazed out over the rooftops to the harbor I felt an overmastering impulse to leave that room and walk the streets, to follow the eddies of wind here and there, discovering a bit of this or that, until finally I lost myself in the commotion that overflowed the quays and anchorages, the shipyards and customs houses. I imagined myself wandering in and out of shops stacked high with goods from Canton, Malaysia, Bombay or Madagascar, places I had never been before; saw myself idling along the wharves, drifting past the press of fishmongers, housewives, sailors and crimps—the great jostle of humanity that commerces on the waterfront. Above all, I longed to go alone, to steer myself in my own direction, in response only to some enigmatic helm within.

I might have gone directly for the door—was on the point of doing so—when at once some instinct of caution, well-sharpened by my winter with Lomond, warned me not to leave without him. I hesitated, while the old, inescapable weight settled over me again; but this time it was followed by an unexpected surge of anger and rebellion, clamoring for my freedom. How would it be, I asked myself, to go where I wished, in company only with myself; to visit or walk or investigate, to turn into this shop or examine that ship, without the burden of his presence? What a heady prospect! What a simple matter it would be, should be, to pull on a few clothes, to stuff some loose change into my trowser pockets, and quietly slip outside the door!

Why hadn’t I done so before; why couldn’t I do so now? Was there anywhere else in the city a man more unwilling to displease than I, a man more afraid to step out of his own door, leaving a short note of explanation, or calling out So long! I’m off for an hour or two? How had it happened that a man—once my friend!—had come to possess such a hold over me, that I bent my will in every instance to his; how had it happened that even fear of his reprisals could ever have held me back from going where I pleased? How much longer would I tolerate this state of affairs, all for the sake of a purpose I was bound to admit could never be achieved?

While I hesitated, pondering such questions as these in my mind, my eyes wandered restlessly about our dismal lodgings. The sudden square of sunlight on the floor set the place off to a strong disadvantage, so that the barren walls and broken rafters appeared more distasteful than ever. I found myself viewing the room with the eyes of a stranger just opening the door, and what struck me first was the coldness, the utter lack of welcome, given off by all the contents and belongings. It wasn’t their disorder that numbed me—I remembered with delight the warm disarray of my father’s wagon—but something about their carelessness made me shiver as if repulsed.

Everywhere I looked there was a feeling of disregard, not just for order alone, but for the objects themselves as well. I could almost sense the contempt which had scattered them across the floor. For an unexpected moment I actually felt pity for the things that had been cast about, stomped upon, thrown down into disuse, as if they were alive and able to feel the cynical hand that tossed them. As if unloosed by my reaction, all my recollections of abuse and shame came crowding in upon me, climbing like contrary waves upon each others’ backs and forming one great height. I felt it press upon me, as overtaken as a ship caught unawares by some looming wall of water. When it had passed, I felt the wind about me once again, and saw the sunlight plain upon the floor; and with that passing came my resolution.

Hardly realizing what I was doing, I began to tidy up the place, setting things to rights generally, tiptoeing here and there in an effort to be unheard. Each object I touched I seemed to be silently speaking to, as if by such unspoken gentleness I could repair its past abuse, and so, through it, my own. When I had finished I paused to survey the room: there was now an appearance of care and neatness, except for the rumpled bed, which I was forced to leave as it was. A lighter atmosphere already seemed to pervade the place—a lightness that I felt within me as well as without—for all the items in the room seemed at ease now in their repose, as if their strain had been lifted with mine. Satisfied, then, with the room, I hastily dressed, putting all the loose change I could find into my pocket; and pulling on my monkey jacket, I quietly opened the door and closed it behind me without a word.

Out in the hall there were the usual sounds of dispute: from the door across the way came Slater’s sodden, drunken voice, sharp with accusation, and Beckman’s plaintive, defensive replies. Their voices struck me with a sinking feeling, a final reminder of what was in store for me at the end of the day; but thrusting such thoughts to the back of my mind, I dashed down the wooden steps and out into the waving, tossing sunlight.

*****

As soon as I reached the street the wind rose up to gust about me, and the brisk activity of carriages and horses, wagons and pedestrians, assaulted me from every quarter. I wanted to run like a boy in all directions—to run as I had across the moors and meadows, when the world and I were young and fresh and full of enticement. Such a rush of liberation swept over me that I felt dazed, unable to choose a way from all the possibilities at hand.

After a moment of indecision I determined to strike inland first, to walk uphill toward the shops and businesses of the commercial district, a place where I had seldom been, as Lomond detested its luxuries, and the wealthy throng that frequented its streets. I was ablaze with curiosity about the area, all the more so because it was the center around which the city’s life revolved, and I felt keenly drawn to the foreign aspect of all the stores and dwellings. Having seen very little of this side of American life since my arrival months ago, I was anxious to know more about it. Consequently, then, I struck out for Singapore Street, which—originating in the quiet neighborhood above—ran steadily downhill through the business sector, then on toward the shipyards and crowded boarding houses, issuing finally at the feet of the teeming wharves.

When I reached the hilltop I found Singapore Street just coming to life and the wind sweeping up it at full force, fresh from the sea and unhindered by anything in the broad, open way. The crest of the hill commanded as far-reaching a view as anyplace else in the city, and from where I stood I could take in everything from the shop-lined street to the mighty expanse of harbor and sky. Looking down I saw the road curve below me in one smooth sloping stretch to the seafront; and where it stopped the quays began, extending its reach into the harbor. Vessels of every size and description, from fishing yawls to coastwise schooners to magnificent full-rigged ships, were moored alongside or dipping at anchorages in the middle of the basin, their tall bare spars swaying with the rhythm of the swell.

Farther out to sea the rippling harbor was alive with pleasure craft, assorted catboats and sandbaggers luffing into the wind, while at the edge of the horizon deepwater ships were struggling to make an offing, or sweeping inshore beneath a press of sail. Against the blue backdrop of the water occasional cloud shadows came scurrying inland, and I could see a thousand triangular white sails distended with the breeze, blowing and swaying, as if bent upon engaging the shadows in a race to the shore. It was a sight worth waiting many months for, a grand harmony of wind and water with the craftsmanship of man, and I felt exhilarated by it, as if a part of me were out there on some slender deck, bargaining with every air for speed and versatility.

Further down the street from me I could see that the shops, with their broad bay windows full of merchandise, were just opening their shutters and lowering their awnings, while in all the houses about me I saw similar signs of early morning—sashes flying up and windows lifting, with here and there the face of a woman framed for an instant before moving away; and out in the yards the figures of men going to and fro with buckets or horses or deliveries of ice. These were the homes of successful ship owners or builders, wooden dwellings with simple forms that pleased me—mostly square and painted white, topped by cupolas or the rails of widows’ walks, and graced occasionally with fan-shaped attic windows, or colored glass around the doorways.

As I walked leisurely along, surveying first one side of the street and then the other, I felt a swift curiosity about the people who dwelt here, about their lives behind those wooden fences, behind those windows and doors. I found myself wondering what the houses might look like inside, what lay beyond the darkened panes and filmy curtains, or the paneled doors standing slightly ajar. I wondered too what kinds of families lived in each place—whether the tall, stately grey house contained a retired shipbuilder and his aging wife, or a pair of spinster sisters; whether the rambling white structure with the dormer windows housed a number of growing children.

To my delight, a pair of youngsters emerged from that place and indulged in a dash or two across the lawn, before scampering off to the well to tend to the business of drawing some water. They were the first children I had seen in some time; and I looked on with admiration as they chased one another, heedless of me or the rest of the world. The wind caught the girl’s long apron and skirts and set them rippling like flags in a freshening breeze, while her hair went flying about her shoulders; her brother, his cheeks flushing red and his hair equally tousled, took her by the arm and flung her around in circles.

Round and round she went whirling in that fashion, her feet scarcely touching the earth, while he, leaning back in the opposite direction, tried to keep them in balance. So intense was their enjoyment as they twirled one another that for the time being they even ceased shrieking and laughing. Their silent circling forms, streaked blue and white, yellow and brown with the colors of clothing and hair, suddenly brought to my mind the glad recollection of a toy that my father had once made for me—a wooden top painted in many colorful stripes which, when spinning, gave much the same impression as these turning, blurring children. The unexpected memory of this painted toy, together with their bright faces and brisk, eager voices cheered me— buoyed me with the same surge of anticipation that they seemed to feel on greeting this unblemished day. I almost felt myself one of them—sensing in their playful dash, in my random walk, our common affirmation of the promise to be found in the unfilled hours, in the opening day.

At last the pair of them collapsed in a heap, laughing and gasping for breath, pausing only a moment before they were up and off again at a run; and more renewed by their gambol than by many a night’s sleep, I moved on, bent on investigating the stores further down the street. I found myself surrounded now by shoppers and pedestrians, laborers and teams of clattering horses drawing all manner of carriages and broughams, wagons and carts. The level of noise had been steadily growing, and suddenly I was aware of it breaking upon me, then ebbing and rising and falling upon me again. All around there was evidence of construction, and the sounds of hammering and sawing and banging of lumber vied with the swelling clamor of traffic in the street—the clanging of bells on the horsedrawn streetcar ahead, the clattering of hooves on cobbles and bricks, the rattling of handcarts loaded with goods, and not least the surging roar of conversation.

With such sounds in my ears and the fresh, keen salt wind all about me, I felt a new vigor in my step, a new sense of well-being in all my limbs. I could almost feel the paving-stones give way beneath my feet, as if they were receiving each step and then pressing back up to propel me along my way.

*****

The street by now had taken on a markedly businesslike appearance: on both sides stood shops of two or three stories, some wooden and white, some shingled and grey, with colorful signboards suspended from doorways and blue or green awnings jutting over the walkways. In the shadowy coves beneath all those awnings the sheen of broad windows could be readily glimpsed, almost as tempting to me as the gleams of silver in the recesses of caves. Along both the walkways, beneath the awnings and in the midst of the street, shoppers were milling in every direction, their patterns of motion about as confusing as the cross-swell set up by contrary winds. Some were plowing by steamer-like with determined expressions, in a hurry to reach their destinations; others were meandering more like pleasure craft, crossing and re-crossing the street at a leisurely pace; and others still, like myself, were more or less becalmed, loafing before one window after another to enjoy the varied displays.

As they jostled about me, trying to make headway up street or down, their children went weaving this way and that, some diving just under my elbows or rubbing against me, waving wet peppermints or sugarplums like so many flags held aloft in the air. With the tails of my eyes I caught the restless swirl of long ruffled skirts, of black varnished shoes and the folds of mantillas cast about shoulders; the brisk energy of beaver hats nodding, of gloved hands shaking, of driving coats and lightweight capes bumping and brushing and elbowing each other.

With what exultation did I find myself, alone yet surrounded, in the heart of this carnival throng! I felt suddenly transported to days long ago, when at a meeting of ways my people all gathered together for one great reunion, and I, overlooked, unimportant, ran rejoicing in their midst! Now, as then, the same festive spirit seemed to be gripping us all, and the folk young and old that nudged me or bumped me or went scurrying on by all wore on their faces the same shining look that I felt on my own. Even the goods in the windows, the buckets and barrels, the spices and candlesticks seemed to glow, as if lighted within by the same burst of elation that went racing in currents of warmth through my veins.

Now as I walked I felt I was sharing myself, the force of my life, with all that I saw about me, while all things responded by brightening, by growing more vivid and clear by degrees, and so elating me more. The deeper the exultation I felt, the greater their lively response—as if they and I were a loving pair, giving and taking from one another, or were, like the powers of nature, shaping each other in a constant round of exchange. This continuous correspondence not only lifted my spirits but sharpened my vision as well, for suddenly colors and smells, faces and carts, storefronts and roofs, all appeared a dozen times keener and closer than they ever had before.

Never had blue looked so blue, or the coats of horses so glossy; never had the faces of women or the hands of men, their cloaks and parcels and patterned attire, blazed forth with such an inviting fullness of form! My eyes seemed to be touching, lifting, examining all that they saw, as if they had hands of their own; smells became visions and visions, smells. As I went wandering past open doorways the scents of jasmine and cinnamon, palm oil and coffee, came drifting out to envelop me with their sweet and pungent odors; and straightaway the coasts of Arabia, North Africa, Brazil rose before me in contours of shimmering green. Even the simplest of things moved me with their unexpected beauty and form: as I gazed at an ordinary barrel of flour, what I saw was the curve of white grain within the curve of brown staves, and some hunger within was stilled.

Above all, nothing appeared as habit had accustomed me to expect. Pausing before bakeries I saw, not the usual stacks of breadsticks and rolls, fresh loaves and pies, but the gently sloping oblongs and curves, wheat-colored below, touched brown on top, and the twisted shapes roven like ropes with their glazes, their ooze of red jellied fruits. In the windows of shops selling dry goods, the whole company of Indian cambric and muslin, together with brightly painted silks from Canton, began spinning and dancing in front of my eyes—the pale, cool muslin with trimmings of lace stirring at the throat, at the shoulders of a girl in the wind of a summer’s night; the red and indigo flowered silks flashing and twirling on the hips, at the knees of my kin at a wedding feast.

Even the eccentric clutter of the general stores, the collection of buttons and buckles, bedcords and sieves, tallow and whale oil and rum, which before had appeared about as ill-ordered as the deck of a ship outward bound, now struck me as being a pleasing arrangement of textures and shapes—a gathering of wares as lively and varied as the folk that were moving and handling and bargaining for them.

Flush up against a long pine counter the rough and bulky barrels and casks, with their spiggots and dippers and speckled beans, were squatting all in a row; their brown backs were humped like those of the farmers stooped over them with gnarled and slow-moving hands. Perching atop a line of display cases, whose glass sides were filled to the brim with spectacles and combs and false curls of hair, were nests of hats precariously balanced and crawling with flowers and feathers and plumes—hats whose kin even now were nodding in thanks to the clerk or out walking the streets in the sun.

And lining the shelves from ceiling to floor were crowds of cannisters and tins, their cylindrical forms lettered and painted with faces and scrolls, or with dream-like vistas of far-away mountains, of gardens and fountains and jeweled trees, of quiet canals banked with tall grey windmills slowly turning their arms. Everywhere I looked, on the street, in the stores, I felt aware of even the smallest details—of even the beads arranged in designs on the small cloth coin purse in the hand of the woman passing me.

*****

Out on the street, the people as well—the full-skirted women with young ones in tow, the fashionably dressed girls on the arms of young men, the clerks, lawyers, businessmen in tight-waisted dark suits—all these came flashing upon me in vivid succession, full of allure and mystery. I found myself walking downhill as before, studying the faces that, framed by the blue stretch of harbor below, came swirling towards and past me. With what keenness of interest did I finally give play to the desire that for months had driven me to seek out these Boston crowds—to discover for myself how their customs and manners differed from those of my own background! They looked, on the outside, like an odd enough lot: pale and constrained for the most part with their New England ways, dressed from the street to their teeth and then overshadowed with bonnets and hats, hoods and shawls; yet how interesting they were, how enticing their faces, even the plainest! I wondered which ones were visiting, driving in from the outlying villages and farms for the day, or staying the season with kinsmen in Boston; and I noted with interest the traces of French and Spanish descent to be seen in the darker skin, the straighter, finer features of some.

But what chiefly aroused me was that most of these folk wore expressions difficult to read—courteous, contained, with none of the display of feeling and mood to which I was accustomed. Far from putting me off, their careful, closed faces only served to tantalize me further—to draw me more deeply into my study of them. As I had earlier yearned to see into their houses, to catch glimpses of furnishings or stairwells or wandering children, now I longed to find in their gestures, their eyes, some hint or sign of that which they kept within. While I walked I felt myself searching the features of people with the same fascination I had known as a boy, scanning Welsh rivers for channels and shoals; or, with eyes drawn down to their clear, sunny beds, groping for fish, for colorful stones concealed in the shadows of rocks.

What a wealth of enigma seemed to be hidden in these old women with their stern, well-lined faces and trembling, finely-veined hands; in these seamen with their broad and swinging shoulders, their gray beards and distant eyes! As the women went by at varying paces, sometimes brisk, sometimes slow, their dark and somber dresses and shawls, their braids and coils of fading white hair, set me to wondering what events in the past could have led to this outward appearance of grimness, to the proud, remote look they all shared in common.

I wanted to see what lay behind their polite but set expressions—what peculiarities of temper and mood only their closest kin might know, after years of living with them; what long-guarded memories might, even now, be rising unbidden before their eyes as they went passing by me. Beyond the nods or cool appraisals which they sent in my direction, did they, as younger women, still tred the nearby beaches assailed by winter storms, searching the pieces of wreckage for the nameplates of missing ships; did children still lie dead in their cradles, or loved ones linger at sea; did young men still stride hopefully up to the door?

And the mariners with their short, curt greetings, their steady glances and weathered faces—while they were walking firmly past me, their eyes pinned to the crest of the hill before them or to some point in space, what were they seeing: those acres of frozen, tattered sail roaring out of control in a North Sea blizzard; that unexpected wall of water rising at the stern; or the soft, dark swells of the Indian Ocean, shimmering with phosphorescence beneath a star-strewn sky?

But what I saw myself, as I gazed in their faces, was something quite different: the places to which they retired in order to be alone—the secluded cabins at sea, or the curtained alcoves in darkened corners of quiet houses on land. I tried to imagine the moments they spent by themselves in these rooms with their notated charts, their pens and papers and well-worn books; with their folded hands in the candlelight, their shadows bowed on the flickering walls. When alone, I wondered, did they ever weep in these places, shoulders shaking in the dimness of a lowered lamp; were there times when, in fear or sorrow or tenderness, the disciplined lines fell away from their faces?

As I went on my way, still pondering these faces, an indescribable yeaning to wander swept over me and claimed me. I longed for the crowded wharves, the rise and fall of a ship’s bow at sea, the close and repeated contact with people as I had never done before, in my boyish days when setting out to sail was a convenient route of escape, or at most, a change of life and habit. What stirred me now was a strange new excitement, an anticipation of something to come, unknown but not unexpected—as if a part of me was reaching ahead in response to a force that remembered and lured.

As if to emphasize these reflections of mine, one face especially captured my eye: that of a woman wearing a scarf. As she hurried on by I caught a glimpse of her fine oval face, of her pale brown skin with its frame of light green silk. Her thoughtful glance meeting mine for a moment moved me with something more than admiration; for I was roused by that same, almost haunting feeling of recognition, as if I had known all along the adventures to be travelled in those folds of figured silk, in the dark and lowered crescents of her eyes.

*****

By now I had left the shops and offices of the commercial center behind me, and was wandering past the taverns and inns that marked the approaches to the wharves, and to the area of my own neighborhood. Here a flavor of life entirely different from the fashionable district further up the hill prevailed, and I found myself engulfed once again by the narrow and crowded streets that twisted their way along or toward the waterfront. The stores that surrounded me now were tall, brick affairs devoted almost exclusively to maritime concerns, their doorways bristling with the signs of ship chandleries, cooperages, counting houses, and local suppliers of hemp, rigging, caulking, nails and wooden pegs—all for the vessels taking shape on the ways or hauled up in dry dock for repair.

Scattered indiscriminately amongst these shops were the establishments set up to meet, and to profit from, the particular needs of the seamen and shipping agents who frequented the port. Besides the music halls, ordinaries and bars—some a good deal less savory than others—there were the boarding houses and inns, as well as the cheaper lodgings to be found in rooms above taverns or in garrets above shops selling coarse ready-made clothing, sheath knives and other gear. The taverns themselves were of every sort, ranging from the time-honored, gentlemanly resorts which had stood almost as long as the North End itself, to the rude, rowdy haunts of sailors and transits, to the dives of an even lower class which sprang up or disappeared overnight, and did not advertise.

This was familiar ground, this crowded stretch of waterfront from the market to the shipyards on the North Battery. The whole area was bursting with activities so well known to me that I could envision what went on behind and around me from the sounds I heard alone. The streets, many of them too narrow to support the traffic of horse-drawn vehicles, were alive with all manner of handcarts, barrows and wagons—each with its own distinctive clacking and clattering of wheels on the cobblestones, and each pushed by a peddler uttering his own peculiar call.

Cries of Lob, fresh lob! echoing from the slate roofs above competed with chants for oyster, smoked haddock and other fare, and at once brought to mind the red and blue wheelbarrows teeming with lobster, the squat, felt hats and genial faces that appeared on those streets as regularly as the lamplighters or the sweepers with their absurd rivalries. The persistent, throbbing clamor in the distance called up pictures of the marketplace, where buyers and vendors were thronging the arches and stalls, haggling about prices, pointing out orders, thrusting their way from table to table and trodding the refuse that littered the floors.

Other voices ringing about me, some strident, insistent, some easy-going, were swapping news of distant ports or trumped-up stories of happenings at sea—talk that straightaway led me to see groups of ordinary seamen with their coarse, woolen trowsers and varnished shoes, all gesturing emphatically while making their way to taverns for meetings and drink. Heated discussions of transfers, sales or insurance deals in progress I knew were carried on by the clerks and apprentices heading toward the waterfront, where the spars and prows of newly-arrived ships protruded across Ann Street, Fish Street, and Ship Street all the way to the Battery, adding themselves to the snarl of traffic always present there. And the loud, sodden monologues that fell on my ears belonged to the occasional drunks who, weaving their way in and out of that commotion, sporadically paused to address themselves to unresponsive passersby.

The area had, I was bound to admit, a kind of allure of its own, at least to one wandering, unknowing and unaware, into the district’s midst. Confirmation of that allure came from my own recollection of first impressions upon arrival here, which I seemed to see mirrored on the face of a lad standing alone on the corner just opposite me. The mixture of awe and delight so clearly expressed by all of his features harkened me back to earlier days on the dockside streets of Liverpool, where I too had stood, alert and unknowing, with that look upon my face. For a fleeting moment I envied that boy the good fortune of his ignorance, with the fervent wish that the knowledge I’d gained between then and now could somehow be erased; and as if unloosed by that bitter reflection, all my experience with the region’s backwaters, nearly eclipsed by the morning’s wanderings, came flooding over me in a swift succession of memories and images.

It was winter again: the fresh, invigorating winds died away, and a pall of smoke and snow-laden cloud pressed down upon the streets. In the dimness that followed there appeared, one by one, the winding alleys and lanes with their flights of unlighted stairs, the rows of ill-furnished garrets and gaming rooms beneath the sharply pitched roofs, the dreary lobbies of boarding houses and the shrill, crowded bars, the stark offices that characterized the district’s inner world. There appeared as well those who dwelt, by choice or otherwise, within the confines of that world, who served it and profited from it: the network of faces that ordered my days and pervaded even my dreams. And finally I saw myself in their midst, looking up in response to another introduction: heard the words, low-voiced and hesitant or careless and brusque, which routinely passed between us; and felt again the shrug of resignation which I knew only served to deepen my tie to the process that had snapped me up. Inevitably a wrath of rebellion arose to shake me to my senses; and with a start I found myself back on the street with the gusts of spring wind about me, overcome by the inclination to raise my collar and hurry on, lest someone call out my name or recognize me.

Instinctively I sought the wharves, to lose myself—as I had on other occasions—in the pandemonium reigning there from dawn till well after dusk; for I had found that the sheer volume of noise, the multitude of sights and sounds were unequalled by any other part of town, and a surer way for a man to drown unwelcome thoughts of himself than a liberal dose of local ale. Down a block, a hasty dash across Ann Street, and I was there, my boots thumping the dampened planks in an easy-going rhythm. Stretching before me was the band of quays which reached from old Long Wharf, projecting far into the bay on my right, all the way to the shipyards near the Battery, curving out toward my left. There must have been close onto a hundred within view, a few of great length and lined with shops and counting houses, weathered shanties for the smoking and selling of fish, or solid rows of warehouses providing additional space for rope walks and riggers’ lofts. I flung myself wholeheartedly into their midst, walking dock after dock with steadily rising spirits, surrounded by a commotion of merchants and laborers, horses and wains, and the lurching bows and broadsides of ships.

Criss-crossing the air space over my head was a jigsaw of rigging no less dense than the traffic on the wharves, the mastheads soaring to varying heights and transcribing arcs as they swayed, the yards bowing and dipping toward one another, and a chaos of lines climbing and diving from every angle and direction. In the midst of all this men were conducting their business in an ever-rising crescendo of voices: foremen bawling out orders from the waists or along the gangways; seamen coming and going with trunks thrown over their shoulders; peddlers and poor folk moving up and down the line selling fish or handmade wares; crimps and boarding house runners towing unsuspecting mariners toward paradise onshore; and laborers shoving and rolling, hauling and lifting an endless assortment of barrels and casks, hogheads and crates from one place to another. To me it appeared that the very wharves themselves were poised on the brink of motion, the grayish planks and piles with their twists of hemp and coils of chain, their precarious stacks of imported goods, heaving gently to and fro with the roll of the swell and the strain of the rocking, tossing vessels tugging at their moorings.

The ships that I passed or paused to examine were of varying types of construction: ocean-going brigs, barks and three-masters fresh from Rio, Canton or the Indies with kegs of coffee and tea, molasses and rum; Carolina coasters stowed with tobacco and fishing schooners with catches from Maine; windjammers and sloops, ferries and tugs packed stem to stern or beam to beam regardless of cargo or size or origin. As I wandered amongst them they jostled and swayed until they seemed to compose a regular tapestry of motion, a configuration of color and shape, odor and sound—a swaying, woven maze of detail through which I drifted, marveling.

Nodding above me in one great, tangled web were the yards and masts, the stays, sheets, halyards and shrouds of every type of rig yet devised; floating on the waterline was the armada of hulls which supported them—hulls which ranged in design from the slender constructions modeled for speed to the squat, rounded tubs better suited for carrying cargo. Set off by that fleet of sloping black hulls, by those traditional white rails and black and white masts were the pleasing, shifting bits of color which occasionally caught my eye: the reds, blues and greens of cabins and deckhouses gleaming out through the lattices of rigging studded with blocks and the meshes of fishnets strung out to dry. Smells oozed from the waters, from the cabins and holds or the stacks of cargo littering the decks, changing strength and direction as I ambled along. But overriding them all was the smell of the sea, the fresh, keen salt tang that rose on the wind, that swept in with every southeast burst in long and drawn-out, shuddering gusts—the very sources which set the shrouds to sighing, the bells to clanging, the lines to humming with a score of differing tensions and tones, and the whole company of ships, from great to small, swaying and pitching with one another in response to its mighty, irresistible touch.

*****

With that rushing, transfiguring wind there swept over me a swift, rippling moment of clarity—a sudden focusing of the whole panorama of vessels and wharves, as if an unseen dash of water had been thrown to rouse my sight. Looking toward town from the end of the pier I saw, not the chaos of activity from which I had just emerged, but a kind of grand flashing pattern of inter-working parts, of men and ships, vehicles and beasts, wind and waves, moving in unison with one another. Now what struck me was not the separate acts taking place on separate docks, but the interplay relating each act to its neighbor, and to the scene as a whole—so that a turning capstan, a stray gust of wind, even my own rambling walk, affected the entire company of wharves from one end to the other.

How had I failed to notice before that this swaying, roving mass before me was a single fabric of life, an association of details and events as bound up and inter-connected as the body of a man? It was so clearly all of one piece, from the felling of oak to the frame on the ways, from the launching at noon to maneuvers at sea, from the chartering of cargo in Lisbon or Rio to the crates that were cluttering the planks of these wharves; and uniting this chain of endeavors was an artistry which only now I understood.

At once I saw the inadequacy of all my old notions of shipping, the poverty of my former experience at sea—the shortness of vision which had limited me to the coarseness of hardship and labor which was a seaman’s common lot. By contrast here was displayed a craftsmanship which, till now, I never once had guessed or explored—a craftsmanship shown not only in man’s hand upon wood, in the tapering masts, the well-curved sterns, the strength and precision of rudders and keels, but in the functioning of the separate parts with men and nature as well.

Here, then was a purpose, a commitment worthy of the sacrifice men made in going to sea: to sail, not just as an executor of duties done to meet the moment’s need, but as a participant in the evolution of a craft; to merge with the whole scheme of those who had built, carved, and mastered their ships in every condition at sea; to grasp the chance to wrest from life a dignity, an integrity, a harmony of action amounting to beauty.

Looking up I saw, leaning out from the prows of a number of vessels, an archway of figureheads arranged in a row like the gallery of some old estate. In the quiet majesty of their pose I read the mark of men as keen to the beauty as to the use of wood, as alive to the art of seamanship as to the value of commerce and profit. Pacing along the aisle of the quay stretching beneath them, I studied their forms as my father would have done, attentively following the wandering paths of engravings and coils, or tracing the well-defined ridges of costumes and fans, the glossy contours of shoulders and brows, as moved as if I saw in them the lines of my father’s face. Never before had I so plainly observed the hand of the carver in the gilded, flowing script, in the fingers that clasped the folds of blue gowns; nor had I so clearly made out the faces of those who follow the sea in the stern or wistful stares, in the careful, well-wrought carpentry of scrolls.

As I gazed upon those worn, wooden faces I pondered the hands that had made them, that had shaped out their forms from odd blanks of wood and sent them out to weather the sea, or to nod and bow in idleness above these Boston wharves. The battery of expressions bent down upon me—benevolent, gracious, fierce, impassive—aroused in me first a silent awe, then a restless, searching curiosity; for, like the living faces on Singapore Street, they fired within me a mood of mystery, an eager desire to know for myself what history, what endurance had fashioned their existence.

Most enticing of all was the face of a a Turk, figurehead of a three-master hailing from Venice; for in the smooth, dusk-brown coloring of his features, in the creamy folds of his well-wrapped turban bound with an oval gem, in the scarlet sash ringing his hips, and above all in the suggestive smile offset by his full mustache, I saw the promise of adventure and change; while his dark eyes flashed out at me as crisply as if he spoke a challenge. Under the influence of those eyes my old need to wander was on me stronger than ever; and as he stared past my shoulder at something beyond me, I felt that he had held all along, locked like an image in the fixture of his gaze, the ripening of the urge that had led me here to his feet.

*****

Not far away, out near the end of one of the wharves, I came unexpectedly upon a ship whose beauty and simplicity made me catch my breath. Her name was the Charis Spooner, and before her was gathered a knot of admirers—and detractors as well—exclaiming upon or debating her lines. She was built uncommonly long and slender, with a strong, sharp prow, a low, sweeping sheer, an unusually narrow stern, and three soaring, square-rigged masts; and while there was no denying the smartness of her looks, there seemed to be a good deal of uncertainty about her seaworthiness.

As I edged into the crowd I caught any number of remarks to the effect that she was too long to maneuver properly, too steep to ride a choppy sea with a firm and steady seat, too