The Mover: The Travels of Charles Wilkins in 1838

By John Gardner Wilder

The Mover is fictional of history of Charles Wilkins, a young carpenter from the English Midlands, emigrating to the American Midwest in 1838. Securing passage on the merchant ship, Adam Fletcher, he is asked by the ship’s captain to take over the medical duties of the injured ship carpenter. Setting a broken leg of an injured sailor, Charles impresses fellow traveler Kate Hale, the captains niece, who is returning from a year with cousins were she has learned the etiquette and habits of an English lady. Their friendship becomes a voyage-long love affair. Fellow traveler, reverend Fishbourne, explores with Charles troubles facing lower English classes, especially alcoholism, while observing Fishbourne has a drinking a problem. The last of four passengers, Blanchard, a Wedgwood pottery salesman turns out to be someone other than what he represents, and a key figure in a crime affecting Kate, Charles and the ship’s captain. Atlantic winter storms, a knock down blow, dangerous ice, superstitious sailors, cold food and seasickness were encountered on the days at sea. Friendship of the first mate, Corey Bigelow allows Charles time at the helm. High above the deck in the crow’s nest, he learns ocean travel through the eyes of a sailor, not just a paying passenger.
Crossing the Allegheny Mountains in late winter, highway robbers, a wrecked stage, a frightening river crossing, and the voluptuous daughter of a U. S. senator were part of his travels to the American interior.
The vision of this novel came from an 1831 family diary. My interest in history developed early, before I received a B.A. in history at the University of Virginia. As a youth, cash earned from a paper route, funded the purchase of my first sail boat at age 15. In my summer college years, I was dock and harbor master, and sailing instructor at a Long Island yacht club near New London, Connecticut. Later I owned a 32’ sail boat, enjoying sailing beyond the sight of land.
Recent trips to the English Cotswold’s, Midlands and the coast of Ireland took me to areas covered in this book. I have traveled over the routes and visited the communities Charles saw in his travels from New York to the Midwest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669863526

John Gardner Wilder

John G. Wilder received a Bachelor of Arts in history at The University of Virginia. After college, he returned to Columbus, Ohio, where he was an Investment Management Consultant. As a youth of 15, he purchased his first sailboat. During a college summer break, he was a dock and harbor master and sailing instructor at yacht club near New London, Connecticut. Later he owned a 32’ sailboat, enjoying offshore sailing. Recent trips to the English Cotswold’s, Midlands, the coast of Ireland and the routes followed from New York to central Ohio by Charles Wilkins gave a historical perspective to The Mover. He spends winters in Naples, Florida and summers in upstate New York on the shores of Lake Champlain, a wonderful sailing lake.

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by John Gardner Wilder.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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 any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/18/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

849682

Contents

Author’s Note

Leaving Liverpool

First Day at Sea

Introductions and Dinner

An After Dinner Talk

Supper and Seasickness

Fresh Air

Kate’s Health Improves

Fishbourne’s Farmer

Leaving Home

The Road to Liverpool

Liverpool

The Irish Sea

Fixing a Broken Sailor

A Clear Day

An Interesting Dinner

Into the Atlantic

A Friendlier Atlantic

Dinner with the Reverend

Prayers and Song

A Hunting Tale and Shipboard Excitement

A Not so Quiet Evening

Snow and Loss

A Lesson for All

Bathing at Sea

Twentieth Day at Sea

Icebergs

Fog

The Crows Nest

The Reverend Remembers

Near Newfoundland

An Encounter with Sharks

At the Helm

Captain Palmer Speaks

Corey Bigelow’s Offer

Attending to Medical Matters

Flying Fish and Superstitions

Kate

The Last Day at Sea

Arrival at South Street Seaport

New York

Last Day in New York

Heading to Philadelphia

Detour

Another Boat Trip

Philadelphia

Heading West

The Second Day West

Gettysburg

Chambersburg

Mountains

A Rough Trip to McConnell’s Town

A Winter Storm

Bedford

Bath’s at Bedford Springs

Senator

The Trip to Ligonier

Pittsburgh and West

Last of the Eastern States

Into Ohio

Zanesville

Final Day of Travel

Arthur’s Farm

Tornado

Tornado’s Aftermath

Spring turns into summer

Mid-summer

Late summer

Nautical Terminology

About the Author

Dedicated to Miss Mary Emily Wilder

1881-1951

Historian and librarian, Circleville, Ohio

Whose records made this book possible

Author’s Note

The Mover is a work of fiction based on real events and places in the mid 19th century. The characters were created to share with the reader life as one would have experienced it, in the 1830’s. Lord Sherbourne resided near Northleach in Gloucestershire, England. Caleb Atwater was a real person writing about travel and ancient cultures. Collins worked and lived on a farm. The Davenport farm was located outside Circleville, Ohio. The inspiration for the book was a diary written by my ancestor, Charles Davenport who left the English Midlands in 1831 and traveled as one of four passengers aboard the merchant ship, Thomas Dickerson, sailing from Liverpool, England to New York City in route to Circleville.

I wish to thank those whose assistance made this book possible: My wife Sheila for her encouragement and for enduring the hours I spent in research and composition, Catherine H. Timmie, Jenson for her review of the original manuscript, Brian Power for spending long hours editing this manuscript, Tony Kohlrus for his Microsoft word tutorial, and Nick Wilder, Dan Mccaffrey, John and Shelly Mccaffrey for their aid, counsel, artistic and internet assistance. The Pickaway County, Ohio Historical and Genealogy Library’s generous use of their archives and records of Charles Davenport’s adventure, provided to them by the estate of my great aunt Mary Emily Wilder and Mr. Charles Will who ignited the spark many years ago that enabled this book to be created.

Leaving Liverpool

I awoke to sounds of church bells at 7:00 in the morning. A bright-sunny, January day greeted me. The air coming from the sea was crisp and cool, clear of the black smoke from chimney pots that often filled the Liverpool sky this time of year. Full of excitement in anticipation of my voyage, I grabbed my valise and left the Liverpool Arms.

Captain Palmer told me we would be leaving at about 8: 00 in the morning when the wind and tides were favorable. Since the walk was short, I had plenty of time to get to the Princess Dock where the merchant ship Adam Fletcher was berthed.

Approaching the quay, I was unable to recognize my ships masts among the forest of spars crowded in the space that lay ahead. A wave of anxiousness struck me. Quickening my pace, I hurried to the slip where my ship was berthed. As I arrived, I was horrified to see the slip empty. The ship was gone. Immediately, my stomach flipped with a gut wrenching feeling of panic. I missed the departure. I had forgotten Captain Palmer had emphasized, When the wind and tides are favorable. Where was the ship, how far had she gone? Could I find someone to take me out to her? Could I catch her? I raced back to the main dock. Approaching the first ships officer in sight, I blurted out in a breathless voice, Can you help me? I missed the sailing of my ship. He chuckled and said, "Well mate you have a problem, you missed the Fletcher. Look down river; she is sitting in the middle of the channel with her sails luffing. The wind has shifted. It is hitting her head on, strait over her bow. She is going to need a tow to get her out of the Mersey River into open water. Go to one of the steam launches tied-up just ahead. They will give you a lift to your ship".

Thanking him profusely, I hurried to a launch explaining my plight to its skipper. Hop aboard; we’ll go see if she needs a tow. How much will my ride cost? I inquired. Nothing if I get a tow. A crew member cast off our mooring lines. Using a gaff, he shoved our bow away from the dock toward the middle of the river. The skipper pulled a lever engaging the engine’s propeller causing the steam launch to surge ahead.

Huffing and puffing, we headed to mid river. Quickly we approached the Adam Fletcher now dead in the water. Coming alongside, the launch skipper hailed Captain Palmer asking, Do you need a tow? Palmer, seeing me smiled and replied, Sure do, I’ll send you a tow line, but first come alongside and discharge your passenger. The ship’s crew dropped a Jacob’s ladder over the side of the ship. We came up to the ladder; I grabbed a hold and climbed up to the ship’s deck. From up in the rigging came a chorus of catcalls and approval as my feet touched the ship’s deck.

The tide was starting to turn. A light wind was now coming straight up the river. The wind and tide created a danger for the ship. The wind was too light to overcome the strength of the incoming tide. We could be pushed backward on to the rocky shore. Our captain decided to add a second steam launch. We now had one launch on the starboard side of the boat and one on the larboard side to pull us down the river into the open water. Tow lines were securely fastened; lines were played out until the launches were the desired distance from our ship. Slack was taken up. The tow lines began to squeak and groan. They became tighter and tighter, straining as they started pulling their burden forward. Starting off slowly, the launches began to pick up speed. Puffing, belching black soot, expelling puffs of white steam, they struggled against the incoming tide.

Our clear day was marred by the cloud of black smoke belched from the smoke stack of each of the launches. It didn’t take much time for us to be moving at a good rate of speed. We left behind the incoming tide and vessels that were not under tow. Quickly we began to fly past the villages and the rolling, hilly countryside of rural England. From the deck of the ship, I saw cottages neat and trim with well tended landscaping. They looked sharp despite the dead of winter. Now and then a waft of smoke would climb from a chimney. Without much wind, it rose straight up to the sky making one think the houses were tethered to a light blue white cloud far above them. The scene was uniform and neat. An occasional church spire protruded above the mass of tile and thatch roofs. The serenity made me wonder how this would compare to the villages I would see in America.

We passed both the old fort and the light ship. Soon we were out of the channel, past the dangerous rocky shores of the Mersey River. We continued under tow, our sails flapping in the breeze created by the forward motion of the towboats. They reminded me of giant flags flapping against their poles in a wind storm. As we reached open water, the launches cut their power and signaled us to take in our tow lines.

I had been below to find my cabin and to inquire if my trunks were safely stowed in the ship’s hold. A quick inquiry and inspection found everything to be in order. As I returned to deck, the steward stopped me and asked me to write a letter for him. He did not know how to write and wanted to send a message to his girlfriend. Happily I agreed and wrote the following words for him:

My dearest Emily,

I will be away for a long time. I want you to know that the days we spent together were the best in my life. I wish you good health; you must know that I will constantly be thinking of you during the time that we are apart. I can hardly wait to return and be with you. Tell your father he makes the best ale in all of England.

I Remain,

George Browne

I addressed the letter to Emily Williams, Liverpool. Returning to deck; I give the letter to the ship’s pilot to post, for he was returning on one of the steam launches. Our captain paid the launch skippers twenty quid for their services. The skippers and the pilot climbed down the Jacob’s ladder making their departure for Liverpool.

First Day at Sea

Captain Palmer called out all hands. Suddenly the ship’s deck was full of activity. The crew raced to set the royal and top gallant sails, securing all lines. Our ship with her brilliant white canvas, sharp new running lines, fresh tar and paint was a sight to behold. Healing slightly under a full complement of sails, we breezed along toward the Irish Sea. Small waves broke into a spray, wetting the lee rail as we surged forward. Moving at a good clip, land looked smaller and smaller as we headed to open water.

I was standing next to the windward rail absorbing my first experience of sea travel when Katherine Hale, the captain’s niece, came up to me. A stunningly beautiful lady about my 21 years, she was wearing a long, gray coat, scarf and gloves to ward off the chill of the day. Looking in my direction, she spoke. I’m Kate, and you must be Charles. Yes, I am Charles Wilkins. In awe of her beauty, I suddenly became tongue-tied. Her hair was reddish blond, full of curls highlighting her high cheek bones. Her face was pinched pink by the chill of the day. Sparkling gray-green eyes and a warm smile helped to put me at ease. Speaking to me in a positive, confident manner she inquired, Is this your first sea voyage? Yes, I am traveling to the American interior to join my cousin. I must warn you this time of year the sea is cold and cruel. Its roughness will make you miserably ill, a condition that can last for days. I said, I’ve been warned about fierce winter storms in the North Atlantic. Turning away, we both gazed at the last view of the English countryside, receding on the horizon. I glanced at Kate. A look of sadness covered her face and her eyes had a glassy stare. The frown of apprehension on her forehead caused me concern. Seeing my reaction, she touched my arm, speaking in a soft warm voice, Don’t let my anxiousness bother you. I get terribly seasick in rough weather. My voyage becomes extremely long and uncomfortable. I smiled and replied, You know the captain will provide for your needs, I shall be pleased to assist you in whatever it takes to make you comfortable. Kate smiled, I appreciate your thoughtfulness.

Suddenly the scene was broken. The first mate cried out ready about, announcing the ship was going to tack. When the wind is blowing from the direction in which a ship is headed, she must sail at an angle [45 compass degrees] away from the wind, not into the wind. This means the ship must often tack, sailing a zig-zag course, to reach a desired compass point. The mate bellowed out stand by, followed by a command hard a lee. The helmsman spun the ships wheel turning the bow into the wind and causing the sails to spill air and flutter. The mate called harden up which told the men to haul in, tighten and secure the sheets [ropes] that were attached to the sails. The wind filled the sails on a new tack. Lastly he sang out full and by signaling we had successfully completed the maneuver. Not long after tacking the ships bell rang two times telling us it was 1:00 and dinner was to be served in the ship’s galley.

Kate and I left the deck to head below for our first meal of the trip. In the galley we discovered a long table with a bench attached on each side. We were joined by the two other passengers, the most Reverend Wilbur Fishbourne, an Anglican priest and Martin Blanchard, a representative of the Josiah Wedgwood pottery manufacturing company. Two of the ship’s officers joined us, Captain James Palmer and first mate Cornelius [Corey] Bigelow.

Introductions and Dinner

Captain Palmer was the first to speak. "Let me welcome you to the Adam Fletcher. She is a 450-ton merchant ship built seven years ago in Camden, Maine. Unlike the packets who carry mail and passengers, we carry freight and have cabin space for only four passengers. A safe passage is more important than speed, so we reduce our sail area at night. We will provide you with hot meals when the weather permits, and the cook can fire his stove. We have no doctor on board. The ship has a medical chest. Our ship’s carpenter is experienced in handling medical matters."

One was comforted by the manner and delivery of our captain’s welcoming talk. This short, powerfully built man with a crinkled smile and a weathered face is an experienced and knowledgeable sailor, knowing his ship and its limitations. His strong demeanor told us that this was a man who lived by rules and enforced discipline. Pity the sailor who did not do his own job or pull his own weight.

The first male, Corey Bigelow, hailed from Nantucket, Massachusetts. His family had produced several generations of sea captains. This was his last voyage with Captain Palmer. He had been sailing for ten years and would be getting his own ship when he returned from this crossing. Bigelow, a tall, blond, muscular man with a quick wit, spoke in a commanding voice full of authority and self assuredness. His sailing skills and knowledge of his trade were exceptional. No one would doubt his role as a leader; every sailor would want to stay on his good side.

Blanchard was a curious creature to me, short and stout in stature. Calculating, recessed, beady eyes framed a red bulbous nose. His face was pockmarked, red and puffy. Thin lips and a severely pointed chin gave him severe look. The man wore a morning coat with shiny elbows and ragged cuffs. He should have been wearing a frock coat, an indispensable item in a gentleman’s wardrobe. His checked trousers were commonplace. The shirt that he was wearing was old and no longer in fashion. He walked using a tall cane, topped with an elaborate, ivory carved head of a bear. I could not understand why the prestigious Wedgwood Company would hire such a slovenly fellow to represent their business interests in the foreign markets.

Wilbur Fishbourne, the third son of lesser nobility was smartly dressed. I found him to be a bit stiff in his personal presentation, very traditional and rigid. The first words from his mouth proclaimed he is an Anglican priest, received his Doctor of Divinity from Oxford, and left his parish in Northleach, Gloucestershire to work as a missionary among poor emigrants in New York. In his right hand, he was holding a never empty glass of claret.

Kate was last to join our table. Her father is a ship builder from Camden, Maine. Captain Palmer’s wife is her aunt. She was returning from a year with relatives at a country estate, learning French, Latin, piano and the social conduct of the English upper classes. Kate entered the galley wearing a light-blue, low-cut evening dress trimmed in lace. In each ear she wore a large pearl, each much grander than the largest pearl in the single strand around her neck. Her hair was highlighted with Belgian lace and pink ribbons. The fragrance of lavender filled the air. Her striking beauty, and sparkling eyes, astonished all in the room. She greeted us speaking softly; her manner of delivery was one of self assuredness making each and everyone in the room feel like he was an old friend.

Our steward served an aperitif, a pint of beer flavored with a dollop of brandy, nutmeg and lemon peel. The cook served the first course, an oxtail soup. It was welcomed by all, especially Blanchard, who’s slurping and sucking sounds were an embarrassment. Next arrived a beef dish, toad-in-the hole followed by davenport fowl, cabbage, and beetroot. Lastly we enjoyed a wonderful apple tart. During the course of the meal, our steward generously served us fine claret. The reverend was conspicuously happy with the wine. He alone consumed two bottles. All of the travelers enjoyed the cook’s meal. No one dined with more gusto than Blanchard. He did not just eat his meal; he attacked and devoured it with humorously obscene sounds, gestures and facial expressions. I couldn’t decide if I were in a theater looking at a parody on dining or at a farm watching the pigs being fed. Such was Blanchard’s gluttonous behavior.

It was very enjoyable to meet my fellow travelers, seeing how they carried themselves, how they spoke and related to one another. I knew we would get along well, except maybe for Blanchard, for he seemed different than all of the rest of the voyagers. What a great introduction to my next month or so of companionship. I sat quietly for a moment contemplating all that had happened since I left the dock in Liverpool. My thoughts returned to Kate. Her composure and maturity, slender figure, ample bust, small and well-balanced features with ringlets of hair falling softly on her dainty neck were fascinating. I could not turn my eyes away from her. She startled me, speaking with a warm smile, Charles, I think the men are going to enjoy a cigar. Would you accompany me to the deck for a breath of fresh air?

An After Dinner Talk

Leaving the galley, Kate reached for my hand saying, The passage way is a bit dark. Will you assist me climbing to the deck? With pleasure, I replied, not letting her know the thought of holding her hand caused butterflies to stir in my stomach. Arriving on deck we found the weather to be clear and cool. Our ship was making good speed as the breeze was fresh with some spray and white caps. The seas were running four to five feet high. The captain had ordered the sailors to take in royals, the flying jib, and to take a reef in the top sails. Heavy seas were an obvious concern to my companion. Sensing this, I put my hand on her arm and said, You will be fine on this voyage. I promised you that I will look out for you, and I mean it. You are such a dear, she answered. I asked, Tell me, why were you in England? "It’s a long story, but since you have inquired, I will be happy to share it with you.

Mother wants me to be a school teacher. At a young age I demonstrated compassion towards my siblings and an ability to take care of their needs. But then being the oldest child, care of the younger children was expected of me. Mother was chronically ill and not able to handle the job of rearing nine children. Even though we had a staff of servants, mother was overwhelmed by the challenges of raising a litter of little ones.

Father had other ideas. He views me as an ideal captain’s wife. My father is the patriarch of a family whose shipbuilding talents are respected not only in New England and the states, but throughout Europe. He is keenly aware of the importance of a sea captain having an understanding and patient wife. Some captains’ wives accompany their husbands at sea, but such an idea is terrifying to me, with my inclination toward sea sickness. Father appreciates these sentiments only to reply, Katherine, you are a perfect fit to manage a shipping business and to run a sea captain’s household. You understand trade and finance and love children. Few captains have ever found a wife with these skills.

Neither of these career paths interests me. I have told my parents that I do not have a shred of interest in their two options. I want more freedom. I love the piano and the theater. I want to be a concert pianist. When I discussed this, their dislike of my idea was one of the few things that I can remember upon which the both of them strongly agreed. Soon after I expressed my feelings to my parents, arrangements were completed for me to spend a year with my English cousins to learn to become a lady.

Life on a rural English estate is much more structured than life in Camden, Maine, or even life in New York City. The English social customs of female deportment initially were amusing, but soon became constricting, a real pain. I do not care for the stiffness and formality that is part of my cousin’s daily lives. The ladies must of thought of me as a country bumpkin for I was too much of a tomboy for their tastes. English gentlemen did not know how to talk with me. They can’t handle a sarcastic woman seeking to engage in topics of conversation that are normally left only to the men. My questions about law, business, and politics remained for the most part unanswered. My cousin’s live on an estate that has passed down to the eldest son since the 1500’s. My favorite room of the 26 room house is the ball room updated 35 years ago. It has a beautiful plaster relief ceiling and exquisite Venetian crystal chandeliers bringing light to the room during the evenings when my cousin’s were hosting a ball. On the walls hung tapestries of hunting scenes and large portraits of the family’s ancestors.

Life was never dull. During ‘the season,’ we visited country houses for a round of parties, dinners, hunt and country balls, often staying a week or longer. We were bathed, powdered coiffed and dressed in our finest. The amount of luggage needed for 4 to 5 changes of clothes per day was immense. Our needs were served by liverymen, footmen, butlers, and maids. We lived by a rigid schedule that gave us very limited time on our own. Formal dinners meant many courses served by footmen and butlers. I’m not much of a drinker, but it was considered impolite not to drink a glass of wine when offered by another guest or your host, so I’ve learned to enjoy a glass when necessary. The social season enabled the lords of the realm to show off their wealth. It was an opportunity for single ladies to meet eligible young bachelors. I met several, finding, their stiff, formal demeanor, lack of warmth and egotism a turnoff. One of the highlights of country visits was a chance to play the piano. The men would go off to hunt or shoot and the women would gather in the library or ball room for gossip, a game of cards or to hear one of the ladies sing or play the piano. Often I was asked to accompany a singer or to provide my own small piano recital. The evening balls I enjoyed. I learned to dance the quadrille, a