The Captain and the Lady

By Cecilia Johansen

The Captain and the Lady is set in the pre–Revolutionary War province of New Jersey. Sally Waitt, a young girl, wishes to be a sailor in her father’s fleet of ships. But with her mother’s death, Sally’s life changes as she becomes the mistress of the plantation and their homes in the city of Boston and the coastal town of Marblehead. Through her father’s contacts, she meets a handsome captain and will be surprised by the turn of events in her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662462948

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The Captain and the Lady

Cecilia Johansen

Copyright © 2022 Cecilia Johansen

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-6293-1 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-6294-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

1750

Marblehead

Tuesday, November 18, 17551

1756

Winter 1756–1757

Summer 1757

New York

Chestnut Neck, New Jersey

Marblehead, Massachusetts

1759

Spring 1760

1761

1750

I had long desired to set my foot on one of Father’s ships, but being female, I was not allowed. It was considered bad luck. Rebel was my middle name, Father said, so he was not surprised when I begged him repeatedly. A vehement No! was all he said—no discussions, no reasons—he just knew I understood.

Mother, on the other hand, did not understand at all. Why would I disdain wearing societies’ silk and satin fashions of the day for young girls as a mark of femininity in order to do a distasteful thing like being a sailor. I was pretty and blond but desired to wear a sailor’s uniform and perform shipboard tasks, not cinch in my waist over shift, petticoat, and gown. I’d rather wear shirt and breeches with my lower legs free of constraints. Often I helped myself to one of my brothers’ beaver-felt cocked hats preferring it to the imported English straw with ribbons, covering one of Mother’s fancy caps on my head. When caught, I got a stern lecture. As an only daughter with four brothers, she made sure my attire was presentably beautiful, manners fitting any occasion, and my ribbons tied. Being only ten years old, I gave in after a curt conversation with Father. Get your education first, he admonished, placating my mother and putting me off, or so he thought. I vowed to read and learn all I could—especially about the sea!

Accidentally, I came across this strong urge at my birthday party two years before at Chestnut Neck, watching the boys racing bark boats with stick masts and pieces of linen for sails. The green lawns of our plantation stretched down to the shore of the Mullica River in the colony of New Jersey. We often had lovely picnics by the water’s edge, and on that day, while with my friends, wishing I had a bark boat to race, I tumbled down the embankment and came up half-sitting in the water. Mother was screaming wildly, her skirts billowing in the summer breezes and Father running close on her heels. Both thought I was going to drown. The most remarkable thing was, when I stopped in that upright position, an exquisite brig with two square-rigged masts presented itself floating easily toward the wharf. Sitting in the water up to my thighs, I had no recollection of which parent plucked me from an assured drowning. All I could think of was that beautiful ship.

Instead of chiding me, my dear father bundled me in his arms and kissed my face and head over and over with no thought of my skirts wetting his elegant brocaded coat.

Taking me to the end of the wooden wharf, he asked, "Sally, would you like to see the Truelove?"

"Why do you call it Truelove, Father?"

My delight overpowered me, but I was suddenly taken with a bout of shyness and buried my face in the safety of the cravat’s ruffles surrounding his neck. It did not deter me, however, as I eagerly heard the cries of gulls and sailors combined with slapping sails and ropes whipped by gusty breezes, causing a noisy excitement and a lusty spirit of the open sea. I was hooked.

It’s named for your mother, my true love, Sally.

Father bellowed up to the quarterdeck, Captain Daniels! Welcome back. How was the trip?

Successful, sir. Very successful, he cried back to my father with only the seagulls outdoing him in their boisterous pleasure.

Good! Good… You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you back until next week.

The captain swung on a rope off a shroud, landing at Father’s feet. Desire overcame me, and I peeked from behind my safe haven to see the ruddy gent, wearing a wool knit cap and a full-sleeved soiled white shirt covered by a similarly dirty yellow waistcoat. His tall, brown, leather boots clad his legs to the buckles of tan breeches.

Father was trying to peel my choking arms from around his neck, wanting very much to put me down, but I would have none of it, squeezing even harder. Suddenly, Father’s sons were swirling around him, clamoring for the attention of the ship’s master I so desired as well. Mother arrived, out of breath, while Father tried valiantly to introduce his brood to the captain, who sported a delighted smile.

I believe you haven’t met the family yet. This is my wife, Mariah, and this is Sally. Mother curtsied and was finally able to pry me from Father’s chest and began shooing my brothers back to shore.

I stared over Mother’s shoulder at that ship, the men who sailed her, and the man who captained her and vowed that someday I would taste the salt air from the wide ocean. Another view from her arms caught my attention—the long line of our slaves on alert, running from all parts of the plantation to discharge the Truelove, one of Father’s many merchant ships.

Mother scolded, I should punish you, Sally Waitt, for disobeying me. I told you not to go down to the water’s edge! It’s very unladylike, never mind you could have drowned!

Her gruff voice cut me to the core, and, for the first time in my life, I was silent.

Sally, did you hear me?

Yes, Mother. I was dejected. Hurting my mother was not an option ever, even if I wanted to have fun. Being ashamed of wetting both of my parents’ fine clothing, I began to pout. She put me down and grabbed my hand tight, which led to my whimpering. Annoyed, she pulled faster, and I became inconsolable crying my eyes out. This was the worst birthday ever!

We walked up the long flight of steps and through the portico of our plantation. My nurse, Amanda, met us at the door and swooped me up and listened to her mistress’ directions. Clean her up and make sure she wears a fresh frock for the tutor, she commanded. As soon as Mandy put me down in my bedroom, I flung my wet self upon the expensive counterpane and cried into the plush-downy pillows.

I was spoiled. My brothers told me so. What did they expect as I was the only daughter and thoroughly pampered.

* * *

Get your education first, Father had admonished. So dressed in a cloud of white French lace and pink China silk, my dress was tied with satin ribbons by Mandy, and I could barely breathe. It would not deter me, however, as my coveted books sat in orderly stacks on a solid oak inlaid table in Father’s study. From the time I was very young and discovered his library, the sweet-smelling leather-bound books whet my appetite for discovery. Later when a tutor was hired and I began my studies, the pungent odor of iron gall ink and a sheaf of precious papers caressed my fantasy.

Sitting across from each other, I disrupted the tutor’s lesson plans of literature and proper etiquette with questions of mathematics and navigation. I could tell he was getting exhausted, but I could not stop talking and taking notes furiously with my quill pen.

Realizing that my lessons had gone far over the required time, Mother descended the staircase and flew into the room only to see him sweating profusely and downing the last of his fortification, a fine wine imported from Valdepeñas, Spain. She gave excuses for her daughter’s terrible manners and escorted him from the room.

I shrugged and then promptly engaged in my favorite pastime—reading about my best-loved explorer, Christopher Columbus, who went to sea at age ten. I was just the right age.

The dinner bell rang, and my brothers made a mad dash from all parts of the house. They were a rowdy bunch, but I beat them to table every time. Mother’s facial expression tried in vain to corral us, but it was Father’s throat clearing who commanded the table like the crew of one of his ships.

Pewter and silver graced the table, and delicate chinaware sparkling in the glow of candles smiled up at me. Every meal was a sumptuous affair, especially dinner. Our servants stood by in the frames of the kitchen doors awaiting the conclusion of the thanksgiving prayer and a verse from the Bible. It was a great massive book with all our names, birth dates, christenings, and deaths written there, including the babies who died. With the formalities accomplished, tureens were brought in, and the serving girls ladled thick white cream soup with small tiny clams peeking from beneath hearty chunks of potatoes into our bowls. Great fat loaves of bread, browned and crusty, were torn in pieces and slathered with butter. As soon as the chowder was finished, pink slices of roasted beef with blackened edges and