The Sotweed Smuggler

By Barbara A. Andrews

The Sotweed Smuggler, the 2010 historical fiction winner of the Houston Writers Guild, tells a story of suspense. Will Sherewell, the son of a prosperous merchant marine captain, learns when his fathers will is read, that he has inherited his ship. Living with his pious mother, he has little knowledge of sailing and anticipates a majestic vessel. Instead, he finds The Emperors Dictum aka The Kings Dick, notorious for smuggling sotweed and whiskey between Devonshire and Scotland.

Will yearns to be like his father and sails the Dick, enduring ridicule, fierce storms, pirate attacks, and curses of legendary fairies and ghosts, while finding companionship with his runaway brother and discovering the woman he wishes to marry. In spite of his fathers spying, treachery, murder, and Scottish border intrigue, Will learns he served Scotland with honor defeating the outlaw MacGregor Clan. With the new knowledge, he believes his father is their captive.

He receives a Scottish certificate with a handwritten notation dead. Did he at last find the truth? Will must choose to accept the veracity of the document, or launch a futile one-man attack on a MacGregor stronghold. Reluctantly accepting his fathers death, he sails home to his new wife at Mothercombe Bay.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462062492

Barbara A. Andrews

Barbara Andrews, a graduate of the University of Nebraska, has extensive experience in adult education administration, sales management, and technical writing. She has an avid interest in telling the stories of courageous women who lived during the early years of American history. She and her husband live in Richmond, Texas.

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The Sotweed Smuggler

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Acknowledgements

The Sotweed Smuggler is a suspense story telling of a son following his father’s footsteps smuggling sotweed and whiskey from England to Scotland. Although inspired by historical events of the late Seventeenth Century preceding large scale immigration to the new colonies of America, it is a work of fiction depicting the author’s imagination of what may have happened to the William Sherewell family. Family records and folk lore credits William Sherewell as the progenitor of at least one branch of the large Sherrill family living in early America.

Special thanks go to the Houston Writers Guild whose faithful member critiques provided valuable suggestions in the development of this story. I am particularly indebted to Joe Lanza, Claudia Herring, Luke Chavain, and Marge Lelvis with a special thanks to Roger Paulding, President of the Guild.

The Sotweed Smuggler

I saw behind me those who had gone, and before me those who are to come. I looked back and saw my father and his father and all our fathers. And their eyes were my eyes. Then I was not afraid, for I was in a long line that had no beginning and no end. And the hand of his father grasped my father’s hand and his hand was in mine, and my unborn son took my right hand and all, up and down the line that stretched from Time That Was to Time That Is and Is Not Yet, raised their hands to show the link.

And we found that we were one.

How Green Was My Valley

Richard Llewellyn

1

My Papa, a wealthy sea captain, allowed himself three mistresses. He loved Mama, the mistress of his house; his ship, his mistress at sea; and if one were to believe the impolite rumors of which I could claim no direct knowledge, any mistress found in the bawdy houses that lined the coast from England to Scotland. Although his namesake and oldest son, I found little opportunity for us to share our lives.

I do not lay him blame—a man of the sea, he sailed from Devon Province to Scottish ports of call and left to Mama the care of myself and four brothers and sisters. At seventeen, I yearned to be like him—a dashing Englishman, full of good humor, generous, a teller of irreverent stories.

I remember his last visit. On a rare hot afternoon, he, Mama, and I sat in the parlor sipping tea when a story pricked his fancy.

Billy Boy, did you hear about the fool who swived the rector’s mistress?

Nay, Papa, tell me.

He started a holy war of—

Captain, dear. Mama clicked her teeth and raised her hands in dismay. Blasphemy, it is! Those stories aren’t for William’s ears. I thank you to keep them to yourself.

Contrary to my upbringing, which was strongly laced with Mama’s pious views, I thought myself a young man ready for the world. I begged to differ with Mama, but her stern glare made no allowance for views not her own.

Not so Papa. He knew I was a Chaucer aficionado, wise to the pursuits of men, and not beyond reading any dirty book I could find that told about babies, boys and girls playing with each other, and of late, adult pleasures. Of the latter, I mined a lode from Papa’s library of classical plays and tragic comedies.

To Mama’s chagrin, he laughed, Aye to her and then whispered to me. Can’t take life too seriously, Billy Boy. Got more stories for you later. Good ones.

I cringed. He hadn’t been home frequently enough to get in the habit of calling me by my grown name, but he said Billy Boy with such affection that I didn’t mind.

Mama took offense at many things, but particularly the sundry rumors of Captain William Sherewell voiced by the Rector and wags of questionable merit. He was a Sherewell—perhaps accurately described by his detractors as a renegade—from the elitist merchant Sherewells of Plymouth.

When rumors circulated in certain circles that Papa had contracted a social disease which often besets frequenters to residents of the oldest established profession, I was devastated. He wrote Mama that he thought his troubles were from the lack of proper food on the ship, and perhaps consumption had been the outcome. Within months he perished, presumably, Mama was told, at sea where he’d requested burial.

What I didn’t know was that my life would begin on the third day after Papa’s memorial service at St. Georges Church when Solicitor Durrand, assigned by the court, arrived wearing a black, crumpled frock coat, carrying a case full of papers, and spectacles dangling from his upper coat pocket.

My brothers and I were in Papa’s study next to the parlor when we heard Mama beg the solicitor to seat himself. She asked, Would you care for tea?

We hovered outside the door to listen, and seeing us, Mama invited us in.

Solicitor Durrand, may I present my sons, William, Adam, and Dewance. Boys, the solicitor is about to read your Papa’s will. God rest his soul. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, her thin lips trembling.

Solicitor Durrand spoke with a high-pitched voice, his dull white cravat wobbling up and down in concert with his shrill vocal chords.

Madam Sherewell, he squeaked, my condolences at the demise of your late husband. Pleases me to say he left you well endowed. Indeed, you are fortunate. A wealthy man he was. You and your children shall have no worries.

The solicitor balanced his spectacles precisely on his bony nose which dripped evidence of an early summer cold or perhaps an allergy to sea air. He fetched a handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and refolded it before placing it back in his pocket. Straightening his thin shoulders, which emphasized protruding bones not unlike the silhouette of his nose, he turned his attention to his carrying case where he dug hopelessly among its papers. After an embarrassing pause, he finally produced a blue-backed document.

He announced triumphantly, Aha. I have his will from which I shall read his wishes.

Mama rang a silver bell to remind the butler to serve tea and settled herself in a brocaded satin settee, fanned her porcelain-smooth face with a white lace handkerchief, and dabbed the perspiration coming from under her tightly curled periwig. Her heavy black moiré dress, with matching buttons and black knitted shawl, fitted the occasion for a grieving widow receiving such a distinguished caller.

I, assuming the role of oldest son, stood behind Mama, steadying her with my hand on her shoulder. The solicitor proceeded with the usual provisions and enumerated Papa’s holdings from an attached inventory. Upon reaching eighteen, my brothers and I would receive certain sums and share equally Papa’s land. He bequeathed Mama her dower, and my brothers and I were charged with the care of my two sisters until they married.

After retrieving from the floor a page he dropped, the solicitor paused and shifted through several pages before deciding on the one he had missed. He cleared his throat and finished the provisions distributing Papa’s artifacts, books, and possessions.

All was as expected until Durrand read, "And to my oldest son, William Adam Sherewell, I leave my ship, the Emperor’s Dictum."

A ship? Papa’s ship? What would I do with a ship? I expected it and his business to be sold to his brothers in Plymouth, not given to me. I had found no fault with my share of his fortune—horses, land, and particularly his library.

In my memory, Papa never mentioned in my presence his ship’s name or much about his travels. When I asked, he’d change the subject and tell another story. But I did remember when I was twelve, there occurred a period of time when I intensely wanted to be a seaman like Papa. Each night found me obsessed with dreams of mastering a full-sail, majestic vessel, flying the Kings colors. I saw myself in captain’s splendor peering at the high seas through my eyeglass and issuing sharp commands to scrambling seamen on the yardarms. I reveled when they responded, Aye, Captain.

When Mama caught me playing sailing games with Adam, she scolded, Stop! I forbid you to give Adam such ideas. I demand you cease immediately. You’ll feel my whip if I catch you again.

She made it plain she’d tolerate no part of any of her sons becoming seamen. As I grew older, I became increasingly trapped within Mama’s plans and had long since dismissed the idea of becoming a seaman. To please her, I’d mastered literature and letters, graduated cum laude from the Ermington school, and was on my way to bringing her wishes to fruition teaching at a parish elementary school.

I heard again the Solicitor’s unbelievable pronouncement. William Adam Sherewell … the Emperor’s Dictum. I didn’t know what to say. Mama eyes turned bitter, her words exploded.

William, not in my lifetime will you be a sea captain. You can put that notion right out of your head. Bad enough your Papa left us alone for months at a time, but look what happened to him? He’s dead, gone forever, and the sea took him from us. No, William, never.

As soon as the Solicitor departed on his way, I retreated to my room. Mama’s demands rubbed me raw. She didn’t ask what I wanted. She didn’t even consider if Papa’s decision had merit. Lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, I tried to wrestle in my mind the new implications a ship would bring. Clearly Papa wanted me to have his ship even though he never taught me seamanship nor given me hope that I might follow in his footsteps.

I pushed my pillow away and sat at the edge of my bed. New thoughts raced through my mind. A ship of my own where I could go wherever I wanted, when I wanted? A wave of freedom flooded me as if Papa knew my future better than I and provided me an escape to a new life. Mama’s orders not withstanding, I reasoned it wouldn’t hurt to at least see the Emperor’s Dictum. I vowed to go to the docks the next morning to find my ship.

2

With each hour of the night passing, my excitement grew overshadowing any hope of sleep. At first light, I slid out of bed, careful not to wake either Adam or Dewance.

To make a proper impression at the docks, I went to Papa’s bedroom, while Mama was in the kitchen steeping her tea, and selected a pair of close-fitting black velvet knee breeches, a cardinal red brocade waist, and a black outer frock coat trimmed with gold braid. I donned a shirt of the finest Holland frieze. Its embroidered cuffs, imitating King Charles’s royal leopards, emerged from the greatcoat’s turned-back folds. I added a striped silk cravat, with long pendants edged in lace, twisted rope-wise and fetched up to pass through the top unbuttoned hole of my open coat. Next came Papa’s claymore in its beribboned scabbard, slung low on my left leg from a well-tooled belt. I tilted one of Papa’s tricorn hats on my head. His ivory-tipped walking stick finished the appearance I thought suitable.

I smiled into Papa’s looking glass. Mirrored back was my image strikingly like Papa with a close resemblance to his tall stature, broad forehead, and unmistakable Sherewell red brows and hair. I looked lively and felt fit to have at it.

Descending the stairs, I slipped past Mama in the kitchen. As I eased the door closed, I heard her belated call, Who’s there?

Upon entering the stable, I haply called for a gentlemen’s cart and instructed Humphrey, resplendent in his driver’s uniform, to make haste.

Take me to the docks.

Aye, Sir.

The cart wound its way through Modbury’s narrow streets from Broad Street, through the rows of houses on Church Street, and finally onto Gallopin Street where the town crier stood near the circular brick guard house—this street being the last in the village before crossing the Erme and merging with the winding road to the docks at Mothercombe.

I imagined the Emperor’s Dictum to be a fine vessel, maybe an Indiaman, with broad decks, tall sails, and a multitude of seamen and husky stevedores busy off loading freight onto piers full of draymen readying their merchandise and goods for the next trip. I was certain she berthed prominently, and to find her would present no problem.

Selling such a ship on the market or to my uncles would bring wealth if one wanted to be landed gentry which Mama’s family preferred. I’d acquiesced to Mama to teach because I did not wish to raise sheep at Pulliblanke Hall, her ancestral estate. A ship of leisure? Sailing to France and beyond to the Mediterranean Sea? Exciting prospects for a scholar, but Papa wouldn’t be pleased if I didn’t put his ship to profitable use. My mind suddenly opened the door to an idea that exploded, filling me with anticipation and even more excitement. I blocked out Mama’s demands and put her fears aside, and instead, felt Papa’s presence one step ahead of me. I had to learn seamanship and sail the Emperor’s Dictum!

The road to the docks was wretched—a dusty route twisting around barren, rocky cliffs. Ragged outcroppings, which Humphrey cautiously avoided, made the road nearly impassable. I saw nothing but poor fishermen’s shacks, some not more than sailcloth shelters, with children scurrying while their mothers stirred large tubs and spread their wash on the few broken fences and surrounding briars.

Wherever breaks occurred between the rocky precipices, broad pastures provided nourishment for small enterprising gatherings of sheep. We halted for a goose to promenade her goslings across the road.

Finally approaching the top of the ridge, I saw below Mothercombe Bay with its choppy blue waters glistening profusely with white caps. Spread across the bay were rias of drowned valleys tipped by emerging hills looking like green cow mounds scattered in an expansive blue field. At a hazy distance, the bay merged into the breaking waves of the English Channel.

Hurry, Humphrey.

Almost there, Sir.

Humphrey cropped the horse’s flank, and we sped to the waterfront.

My eyes scanned a short, thin ribbon of land at the base of the granite-faced cliffs from which we descended. I was breathless with anticipation waiting to get the first glimpse of a majestic ship.

Are you sure these are the proper docks? I asked. Suspect the larger berths are further down near the mouth.

I expected to see docks like Plymouth which the Rector had described in school and thought the almost deserted cove before me would lead to a much grander and prosperous shipping portal.

Keep going, I instructed.

Sir, these are the docks. Ain’t none larger. Shall I wait?

Nay, I’ll make it on my own. A sea breeze crossed my face bringing the taste of salt to my lips. I jumped to the ground and bid Humphrey a hasty farewell. I thought Papa’s ship to be much too large to moor at these docks, but there should be someone I could ask for its anchor.

I looked about, disappointed and totally out of place in my fine clothes and sword. This place was a sham. Standing at water’s edge, I was struck that by all appearances, Mothercombe Bay was forgotten. There were no large ships, only an array of small fishing trawlers anchored in the bay and a few newly-docked coastal vessels scraping against the piers. My eyes saw no men, ropes, or pulleys loading or unloading cargo.

More gulls than ships populated the cove, although ten empty berths, all in disrepair, lined the edge of the wharf. Beyond the berths, a sandy shore fronted a single street with a few thatched, weather-worn buildings built closely together.

Two vagabonds sat where frayed ropes held a fishing vessel swishing back and forth against the incoming waves. They squinted against the sun and gawked at me before shrugging and turning back to their conversations. Evidently, I thought, they’d never seen a gentlemen stroll this boarded walkway.

I proceeded down the wharf peering from one ship to another, ferreting names from the few hulls bobbing in the near bay, but found none bearing Emperor’s Dictum. Clearly, I was a victim of a mistake.

I hailed an old seaman with uncertain footing hanging onto ropes ascending a rotted gangplank of a coastal shallop.

I called, "Can you tell me where the Emperor’s Dictum is docked?"

He spat, taking his time to respond. Never heard of her. He grunted, Best ask at the pub. If she docks here, they’ll know.

On the street set back from the beach, I found the Devon Sail Club which someone had scratched through Sail on a chipped wooden sign hanging over the door and scribbled Old Sots instead.

The pub stood as a narrow, two-storey mud-brick house with a thatched roof. Two oriel windows projected in front and a tiny cupola emerged from the roof. The upper storey, with bed linens airing from three tiny windows, suggested sleeping rooms. Hounded by noisy bees, a sprinkling of wind-blown yellow poppies, rising from hen and chicks succulents sunk in the sand, bordered the steps.

Old Sots teemed with men who did not appear to have better things to do than to drink ale. The long tables did not yield a seat, leaving me to wait until a seat on a bench presented itself. The odor of the establishment offended my sensitivities, and I blew my nose—never could stand the smell of stale ale, dead algae, and rotted fish.

Ale’s all I got. The pub’s keeper wiped the worn surface of the hand-hewn table with a stained cloth and set before me a tankard. No brandy. Fish ain’t ready till midday.

Ale will do. Fingering the tankard, I watched the foamy head reach the top. I took a first sip and found the brew rich and full as suggested by its tantalizing aroma. I quaffed half the tankard before I ventured, "Can you tell me where I will find the Emperor’s Dictum?"

The men at the tables guffawed. The table maid serving tankards giggled. A tall patron stood and pointed at me. "Do you hear him? Pretty boy is after the Emperor’s Dictum."

More laughter. The entire room erupted—all regretfully at my expense.

Beshit, I thought. Blood rushed to my face. I had no notion the humor in what I’d said. The keeper turned to roll ale casks forward from the storage room, leaving me completely at a loss.

I called after him. "I’m not understanding. Asking for the location of the Emperor’s Dictum. Certain she berths here."

"You shouldda’ asked for the King’s Dick—that’s the name she’s known by. Dick’s a tobacco runner and won’t dock until a week next. Gossip says she’s coming by way of the second mate—Captain’s reported dead."

My world caved. Here I sat, like a lone prince among commoners, with nothing redeeming to say. I quickly closed my gaping mouth, but my face remained hot as coals. Nothing I could think of overcame my embarrassment. I beat a hasty retreat, and to my good fortune, Humphrey stood waiting for me.

He grinned. Ain’t any way for you to get back without a long hike. Figured somebody would have to lift you home.

The streets were more crowded going home than coming. For the longest time, I sat with my head in my hands trying to understand. I mused that before today my life had been ordinary and, admittedly, dull. Hadn’t known anything different and assumed it would always be like it was—predictable as shit from a horse.

Each year beginning with the first heat in July, Mama moved our family from Ermington to a two-storied summer house, one of many rising like stair-steps on the hilly streets of Modbury. The clapboard exterior matched all the other houses, and each was set off by a tall slate roof with a red brick chimney and blue painted shutters. Mama chose Modbury because the village was located close to Papa’s port at Mothercombe Bay near the mouth of the River Erme opposite Kingston. It lay, like cupped in a hand, in a hollow surrounded by rolling hills and chalky, jagged ridges of the South Hams region. Papa’s ship was seldom in port, but Mama told us the sea breeze was healthier for us.

Now, after seeing Mothercombe for the first time, it seemed unreasonable that visiting the port itself had been off limits for so many years. Mama said our minds would be fouled by the likes of men who tended the wharves and forbade us ever to go near the docks. My younger brothers and I devised elaborate schemes to sneak off to see Papa’s ship, but Mama’s whip, nailed inside the larder door, and the purple welts on our buttocks, made her will our will.

Well, the Emperor’s Dictum was mine now, and no Sherewell walks away from a challenge. ’Tis ill only if it ends ill. As astounding and embarrassing as it had been at the bay, I jumped eagerly from the buggy. I called, Humphrey, be ready at ten o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Don’t wear your uniform. I’m going back to the docks.

Only a feckless knave would make the same mistake twice, I told myself when I awoke as puzzled as when I retired the evening before. Last night’s trepidations burned off with the blaze of the sun peering through the open tapestries. This time, I’d wear my own clothes and nothing fancy at that.

As Humphrey and I bumped along the now familiar cobbled streets, yesterday’s display at the pub passed through my mind. I started laughing aloud and blessed myself for getting out of there intact.

Humphrey slowed the cart and turned. Sir?

’Tis nothing, Humphrey. Remembering Papa.

Papa would have howled, as he and I shared a love of fools. Probably got most of his bawdy stories from the pub and yesterday was a dandy for him to have told. Even if he was rotting in hell, I pictured Papa watching my face when the pub’s keeper told me his ship was the King’s Dick, a sotweed runner no less.

This time, upon reaching the bay, I told Humphrey to wait. Comfort yourself at the pub. I’ll be a while.

Being a day smarter, I relaxed and took in the small hidden harbor and the docks with new eyes. Mothercombe was beautiful. At a far distance, a haze lingered with the line connecting the blue of the water with the horizon indistinguishable. Nearer dockside, the English sky gifted the beach with a perfectly clear aura, the morning ground fog having dissipated.

Above, common gulls clamored and perched on dock posts. Further out, the larger herring gulls swirled one after another over the sea and argued for seats on the channel buoys. On any other day, I would have pictured myself sitting on the jetty rocks writing poetry or reading something from Chaucer.

Voices caught my attention.

Huddled, four men mended nets by a trawler, smoked briar pipes, and conversed amongst themselves. Friendly enough, none gawked. I recognized the spokesman from yesterday’s pub who recognized me.

What ship you looking for today, boy? Daresay, Queen’s sloop doesn’t moor here. He laughed, his eyes enjoying every minute. "’Tis true, the Dick won’t come in for several days."

"Need more information. Captain of the Emperor’s Dictum was my father. Since I’m her new owner, I intend to board her when she arrives." I pronounced the words, Emperor’s Dictum, slowly attributing to her a proper dignity. Somehow, it seemed vulgar and beneath me, a classical scholar, to call any ship of mine the King’s Dick.

Fancy Boy, you may not want to do that, another voice chimed.

The keeper at the pub said the ship’s a runner so I’ve already assumed her cargo’s tobacco. Nothing wrong with that, aye?

The Captain, eh, your pa, didn’t have much use for Merrie Charlie’s meddling, particularly when it came to tithes and taxes. Ran his business, shall I say, submerged b’low the surface.

The first chap, looking for my reaction, stared at me closely, and the corner of his eye twitched with small spasms. His mouth showed more grin than teeth. I reasoned he noticed I was a spitting image of Papa, and I found it no surprise that he spent ample time gazing at my red hair. ’Tis beyond belief. I swear it is your Papa I’m speaking to. He spat tobacco at my feet, but formed a friendly countenance on his face.

You mean Papa was a smuggler? I asked as if it was a question of no particular consequence.

Aye, he chortled, and a good one at that.

I swallowed hard. Wasn’t he ever caught? Papa said that whoever ate the King’s goose should expect to choke on its feathers.

Aye, but friends in high places changed their minds when the Captain showed them his gold. You may be wealthier than y’know, boy. Rumor’s rampant, and we’re setting wagers on who’ll get your pa’s land on the Scottish border. Clans will thunder in the night mists. Will cause a hell of a fight.

This was an unexpected enlightenment. Scot holdings were not in the solicitor’s inventory. Didn’t know Papa owned land on the Borders.

Probably took land in payment instead of currency from the barons who bought his tobacco. Border Scots never required him to report it.

And the English?

"Oh, they’re after him, that they are. It’s their taxes he’s evaded. They’ve had bounties posted for him for years and won’t be disappointed when they find he’s gone. They’ll be after the Dick for the sterling they’re owed."

Ah, God! Won’t confiscate me. I ain’t guilty.

Everyone’s guilty here. We thought at the pub you were one of the inspectors after your pa. Bastards like you show without warning. The chap relit his pipe and admitted, Yesterday, we didn’t think you’d done much sailing.

Haven’t. Intend to learn. I’d be a liar if I told them I was a sailor. Yesterday ’twas my loss. I entreated, To make up for my bad manners, I’m buying around the house today. Hope you come along to tip a tankard in Papa’s memory.

Don’t mind if I do. I knew the Captain.

The other seamen nodded, dropped the nets they were mending, and followed me to the pub.

3

It had come down to this—I could not continue to live at home with Mama. Not that I wanted to hurt her, but I needed my space and my freedom. Sooner or later, she’d find out I was going to Mothercombe Bay and we’d have a fight saying things we shouldn’t to each other. Surely she should realize I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and it was proper for me to make my own way.

I found her in the parlor reading her vespers fingering Papa’s medal of valor, which she used as a bookmark, from his service in the Civil War. Preoccupied, she didn’t notice me until I pulled out a chair next to her. She raised the medal for me to see. He was so handsome. So brave.

Mama, we need to have a conversation. Never would I hurt you, but I need to go out on my own. I’m beholden to you and Papa. Never did I have wants, but it’s time. Adam is old enough to take over my responsibilities.

And what am I to suppose you will be doing? Seems selfish to me that you’d leave me all alone to take care of the house and your brothers and sisters. Haven’t I lost enough with Papa gone?

Aye, your loss has been my loss. I miss Papa every day, but both of us have to find our way past our grief. I’ve come of age and can’t stay here and become the man you and Papa would be proud of.

Nonsense, my plan is for you to live at home and teach at the parish. Don’t see going away will make you a man, just ungrateful for what I’ve done for you. She paused, a pout forming on her rigid mouth. Does this have something to do with your Papa’s ship?

I wouldn’t lie to you, Mama. I’ve been to the docks. Am unsettled as to what I want to do, and this summer I wish to live there to help me decide. By fall, when school opens at Ermington, I should be of a firm mind to either teach or sail.

Sail? No. Absolutely not, Mama screeched. Not the docks, not the ship, not the sea. If you go there, you needn’t ever come home again. Out of control, her body shook with rage, and the vesper book banged to the floor. She sobbed, And if you do, you’ll find me in my grave. You will have put me there.

My life would never be hers and hers, never mine. I picked up the vesper book and placed it in her lap, and without touching her, I muttered, Pray for me.

William, don’t leave ….

Mama, I don’t have anything further to say.

I needed obscurity. I had always boarded alone at school, and was convinced a room on my own at the bay made sense. I found a cheap walk-up next to the pub and paid my rents for two weeks to wait for the docking of my ship. I came and went in the dark—didn’t want the landlord or other tenants to recognize me.

Each morning before dawn, when the sea’s marine layer fogged the shore, I dressed and slipped out to the pub to break my fast in the cook’s kitchen for three pence. I walked the docks and found old seamen to tell me stories, mostly tales of bawdy women and contraband. Within a week, I dressed like a seaman, talked with a salty brogue, and knew enough to encourage the scuffy red beard growing on my chin.

Whenever the Dick—I now felt comfortable calling her that—docked, I was ready. Several mysteries needed my attention, and the second mate topped the list.

She’s docking as we speak in berth seven, the keep told me. Michael Arrenson is second mate. Know him by Big Mike though he hates to be called that. He’s a barbarian."

Strange, I thought. Would expect a Scot, not a Swede. My school-book image of the old Vikings caused me to ponder just how barbarian he might be. I put down my tankard, tipped my hat to the keep, and headed for berth seven. I knew by now not to expect a majestic ship.

At the near buoy in the bay, a shadow of a ship made a wide turn, its bulky front sails lowered. A figure stood on the bow swinging his arms wide to signal the ship to pass port side to the buoy.

Excitement gripped my chest, and I shaded my eyes against the sun to see every detail: Brown chipped hull with a faint visage of Emperor’s Dictum painted in green. Rusty fittings. Rolled sails brown with age and patched with coarse, twisted cordage. Barrels and empty crates strewn everywhere.

A tall seaman with his shirt bare to his navel heaved the anchor onto the dock, and another, a much shorter sailor, roped the tie down cleat, pulled the mooring rope taunt, bringing the ship to a halt. The Emperor’s Dictum had arrived. I tapped my finger on my time piece. Midday. Twelve o’clock sharp.

Mister Arrenson, I called. Have business with you.

A blond mammoth of a man disembarked. What’s your business?

Will Sherewell. I extended my hand which he conveniently ignored. Your new owner. My father was your captain.

Arrenson’s mouth dropped, his eyes bulged. He spoke after he took a moment to view his unexpected inquisitor. Never heard of you. His gaze stopped at my red hair. "Guess the Captain could of had a son. He’s dead, you know. I brought the Dick in. Storm’s raging fierce north of here, roughed the deck, but this old lady stayed the course." His pride blazed forth more prominently than his long, curly yellow hair. His Nordic blue eyes, clear as Mothercombe’s waters, were fierce and possessive as he looked back at the Dick.

Hell, he don’t own my ship, I thought, but I nodded my respect to the older seaman. "Need to see on board. Anxious to get to know the Dick."

I might not look like a captain, but I’d leave no doubt as to who was in command. I climbed the rope ladder the tall sailor lowered, and over my shoulder with only a tinge of naïve bravado, I issued my first order. Stay moored until I say different.

Arrenson grimaced, turned his back, and spat on the ground. I sensed I had turned his world upside down, and he didn’t like it.

The distant view of the Dick had been kind. Worse than its appearance was the god-awful smell—sheep dung and the excrement of fowl embedded in bits of moldy tobacco stuck to the surface of the deck. I choked on the rancid stench coming topside from the galley.

A weaker soul would have emptied his gut over the bow, I thought, as I toughened my stomach and swallowed hard.

Overcoming my dread as to what might be ahead, I commanded, Take me below.

Starboard, seven hammocks swayed slightly with no bed linen, and a few filthy shirts hung from adjacent pegs. Under the hammocks lay an assortment of empty whiskey bottles. Some sort of a small, wooden container with a powdery substance had spilled in the far corner. The seamen obviously used the rusty porthole, spare of paint, crusted with dried piss, and fogged with haze, as a pee hole. A torn, red-beaded curtain, maybe a trophy from a brothel, hung as a shield in front of the hammocks.

On the port side, empty barrels nestled against the hull’s edge like shore birds on a sandbar. Strange grooves were chipped haphazardly into the vessel’s interior sides; and pulling against one, I found a hollow compartment tall and wide enough for barrels or bales. From the count of the grooves, I discerned a number could ride undetected if empty barrels carefully concealed them.

The empties read: flouer, sugar, benes, pork, p. watr.

Now, Mister Arrenson, just exactly how do we do business?

Really quite simple, he lied. "We take sheep and ducks