Deluded Your Sailors (28 page)

The dispute between Finn and Gosse began after Gosse insisted that his
Kittiwayke
must be considered the finest sloop ever to sail from Salem. Finn, inspecting
Kittiwayke
after a hurried voyage home from the West Indies when wintering over would have been more sensible, declared the sloop unfit for firewood.

Newman Head tallied cargo piled on the dock – sugar and molasses – while half-listening to Finn and wishing Gosse would hurry to the waterfront. Cold wind, biting with the promise of snow, tormented everyone.

Finn's strained voice screeched through the din. —A streel. A scow. That useless fool Gosse expects me to sail something that would sink in a puddle.

First mate Con Pilgrim spoke, his low voice rumbling, but Finn's voice cut through his words.

—Tell me not what shape she's in when I got my own eyes, Pilgrim. Lead bums be all fine and wonderful when the wood of the ship be strong enough. I still thank God we did not drown this voyage,
Kittiwayke
leaking like an old man's eyes. Barely a year in the water.

A sailor appeared on deck, limping; he'd injured his ankle on a weak rung of the companionway.

A dark red flush spread up Finn's neck and face. —Fuckery!

Rotten splinters now, tearing at his flesh, planting pus and inflammation. How was that rung hewn, with milk teeth? I'll ‘right well conceit' Jericho Gosse. Whose kiss decided this lot? Tis no hard deal to see William More had little hand in
Kittiwayke
. I'll not have my men injured for no good reason. I've paid enough out of mine own purse to keep
Kittiwayke
seaworthy. And she could be a lovely thing, graceful and quick. Now look on her. Precious lead peeling off, that lasted three hurricanes – luck, naught else. She needs a proper careening. Blocks are in good shape. I paid for those. Canvas, too. Think you I've seen a half-penny's recompense?

Newman Head looked up from his tally, embarrassed by this spectacle. —Captain Finn, I ask you to consider that you are hard on Gosse.

—No. Easy, now that I stand on dry land. I was hard on Gosse during that hurricane.

—Tis wear and tear and all speed for molasses, sir. Parliament will almost certainly pass the molasses tax next year.

—All speed for molasses? All speed for repairs, or ye'll have no molasses all of a cause of my patching leaks and tarring coats withal.

Sir.

Head stepped closer, lowered his voice. —Gosse may not possess the cash.

—I be not stupid. I know ye lot owe him money. And he owes his own creditors. Ye're merchants; all is owed. But Gosse? A majority owner delaying repairs on his one and only vessel? It don't tally. I apologize for drawing you into my anger, and for the profane language that bothers you so, but take comfort in what Pilgrim believes: the sin of cursing taints me, not you. Tell me, sir, may I get some of that clover balm your wife makes for that man's ankle. I need – hie!

A rotten line thumped Matt Finn in the head, falling from a spar above. Part of a footline, Finn saw, a splice of badly rotting rope probably discarded in Roger Conant's day. The topman's feet kicked like a hanging man's until he hauled his belly over the spar.

Bent over at the waist now, he grinned and called down. —Line's gone, Captain. Shall I splice it anew?

Finn sniffed the rope and then threw it in the water. —Get yourself down, and lock the hatches. We shall see neither splicing nor delivery nor departure nor even daylight to count by until this ship's dog-fucking majority owner hauls his arse down here!

—Captain Finn, surely you cannot blame Gosse for one bad splice. Your boatswain – —Then whom? Hey? Who else oversaw and approved rotting rope for
Kittiwayke
? Mr Head, that man could have fallen and brained himself as we discussed clover paste, all of a cause of Gosse's neglect. I am sorry to catch you in this, but your cargo will sit until Gosse gives
Kittiwayke
a proper going-over and full repairs.

Gosse did not come that day, nor the next. Finn walked to Morrow's and entered so quietly that none saw. Steady, land-legs back, Finn threw a hat down on Gosse's table – a hat that had been a gift from Gosse. The hat just missed the pitcher of flip. Gosse looked up slowly. There followed a conversation that even the discreet Goody Morrow described as
storming like the kettle
:

excuses and promises from Gosse, disgusted refusals from Finn.

Finally they agreed to meet again, at Gosse's home this time, better for privacy. Gosse would then present a detailed plan for repairs.

Finn, still too angry to wish Gosse as much as
Good day
, left Morrow's hatless, cutting through a children's game of ‘Marlow, Marlow, Marlow bright' in the street outside. Gosse then beckoned over one of the other customers in the public house, a tall and muscular shipbuilder, repeatedly fired for his unsteady temper, one Martin Sikes. Gosse bought him a drink.

The following night, after departing the decaying home of Jericho Gosse, Finn visited Newman Head, who often sat up late, and then set out for
Kittiwayke
. The sloop was tied up near Head's warehouse, and, on this tide, only her rigging would show over the dock. Smiling at this, Finn hesitated. Someone rattled a locked door to Head's warehouse. Finn slipped into the nearest shadow to check on the door – and could not breathe. Dazed: pain and tears after a stiff blow to the face. Vision focused: a large man, that mercenary lout, Martin Sikes, held Finn up against the warehouse wall by the throat, one hand just under her jaw. The other hand groped under her coat, fingers hard and rough across her chest and upper neck. Air hunger hit, and Finn struggled hard, aimed a kick. Sikes, dodging Finn's knee, let go her throat but slammed his other hand into her collarbone, forcing her back against the warehouse. Finn tried to reach the dagger she kept in her boot, but Sikes leaned on her, groping now at her shoulder. Finn gasped air.
Walked right into this. Pike would be ashamed.
Writhing, reaching into her left coat pocket for a rock, she screamed – a short scream, given that she couldn't take in much breath, and given that Sikes whipped his hand back round her throat. He stared.

Then he took up the strap of the cloth bag. Finn slammed the rock into Sikes's groin. His grasp weakened, and she slammed again.

Dagger in her right hand now, she cut him as he fell. She stumbled off a few steps, breathed in deep, and ran for
Kittiwayke
. Con Pilgrim's head appeared over the edge of the dock as he swiftly climbed the rigging, startled by the scream. Finn leapt to the high ratlines over him and hung on, looking like a youngster splayed out against a net.

Finn and Pilgrim scuttled down the lines, Finn coughing and retching. Pilgrim watched as Finn vomited over the side and then darted below.

A week after this incident, about which Captain Finn told any man who asked, and several who did not, pointing out bruises on face and throat and then asking loudly where Martin Sikes might be, Gosse visited Head at his home, greatly surprising Head. Dust had settled, and Rachel, twelve and tired, tended her to mother.

Mistress Head sat in front of the fire, scowling in pain and clearly too weak to stand. Unaware of Head's growing irritation, Gosse stared. He'd known nothing of this strain.

—Gosse. What is it you want?

Mistress Head vomited something black into the bowl Rachel held. Rachel stared into the bowl. Bottom lip wobbling, she stood up smartly and strode past Gosse to throw the mess outside.

Gosse licked his lips. —I've come to warn you away from Captain Finn.

A short dispute, Gosse's voice soft and wheedling, Head's barking louder with each sentence, until Head shouted: —I care not if you think Captain Finn is Satan himself! Here is truth for you: Captain Finn was the only thing keeping us to you. He came to me last week to advise he'd bought you out and become majority-owner of
Kittiwayke
.

Gosse took a step back; Head had never dared name the devil before.

—And as Matt Finn is now majority owner of
Kittiwayke
, it is with Matt Finn I shall book cargo, not Jericho Gosse. Coward and liar. All Salem knows what you tried to do to Matt Finn by way of Martin Sikes. And now all Salem will know what you tried to do here tonight! No, I owe you naught. My debts cleared when Finn took your ownership. Lend you? What? Money? With Parliament discussing more molasses tax to keep those bloody West Indies merchants happy at our expense? ‘Right well conceit' this: you are ruined, and it is of your own doing. For it is not only bankruptcy that haunts you now, but your blackmarked reputation. None trusts you. None will do business with you. Sully my house no more, Gosse. You'll give my child nightmares.

As new majority owner of
Kittiwayke
, Captain Finn directed repairs and re-payment plans for the merchants. Head uncovered irregularities in Gosse's arithmetic and reduced the other merchants' debts accordingly. He buried Gosse's financial records,

which also detailed precise amounts of molasses, in a spot behind his house where Rachel had once buried a dead fox.

Creditors seized Gosse's house, and he moved to the edge of the town. Some children told stories of seeing a wild man on his hands and knees in the woods, and their parents beat them for it.

Stories of strange business in the woods had already proven dangerous. It was Gosse. Goody Morrow took pity on him, permitting Gosse to supp on strong flip once a day in her kitchen, out of sight of the others. Tacitly ignored, Gosse sheltered in the hollow trunk of an ancient tree as he built a fragile shack for winter.

He often spent the first hour after dawn crawling on the ground, picking through mounds of earth.

—Do you ever curse those who harmed you?

Con Pilgrim had asked that question before; now he slurred it.

His breath helped heat the blankets he'd tugged up to his nose.

Feathers poked through the pillow and scratched Matt Finn's face. Not as drunk as Pilgrim, and in a considerably fouler mood, Finn wanted only to sleep. Pilgrim, when he got liquor in him, wanted only to talk and smoke, and they'd sat up late, Pilgrim sharing much of his past and his desire to do something good with his life. Winter cold had forced them ashore, them and half of New England. Finn had, with luck, obtained the usual room at Morrow's, but Pilgrim could find nothing better than Head's warehouse, Head himself being away on business. Finn invited Pilgrim to share the room. Any man would.

They'd slept in the same bed before, Pilgrim showing all courtesy and respect for his captain. This night, however, Pilgrim asked repeatedly about the Sikes attack, about the scream he'd heard. Finn kept changing the subject and finally just pretended to be asleep.

She listened to Pilgrim's breathing – settled now. Snoring.

Fully clothed, as was Pilgrim, she peeled back covers and stepped into the cold, rattling teeth preventing a good curse. She blew on an ember in the grate, but the ember quickly cooled to black.

Delicately, brown plait heavy down her back, Finn retrieved a chamber pot.

Pilgrim's snores stopped, and the mate turned over, patted the bed. —Wound paining, sir?

Finn said nothing.

—But do you ever curse those who did that to you? You must work to forgive them. Not the stories, I mean, can't curse stories.

The ones who did it.

Finn gently got back in the bed.—Pilgrim, tis late. And you be drunk.

—But do you hate them?

—I hate chatter when I want to sleep.

Pilgrim lay on his back, tears on his face. —I would protect you. In all your black moods and odd manner. Little Barbary sacrifice, that be what Jericho Gosse called you. He says you told him all. Would you tell me of it someday? Now, coward. Tell me why you squat to piss, hey ho?

Because it's too damn cold to fuss with the wooden pipe.
—Shut it.

—Gosse be not worth the breath. Tell me. Gosse weaving the promise of some great tale. I get none of it. Why am I the hungry cur?

—Pilgrim! Surfeit. Else, sleep on the floor.

Con Pilgrim lapsed into whispers. Snored.

Back to back then, like under the horse blanket. Just for warmth.

Finn turned over, cuddled into Pilgrim's warm body, wept.

Just for warmth.

Thoughts straying to buried books and fox bones as he worked late one evening in June 1733, Newman Head knew nothing of the arrival His Majesty's frigate
Dauntless
. He did, however, look up from his work as a Royal Navy lieutenant and some red-coated Marines swayed by the window of his warehouse. Curious but busy, Head returned to his accounting. Half an hour later, he upset his inkpot as he jumped in fear at the sight of Marines and the lieutenant dragging Jericho Gosse towards the waterfront. That this happened in fading sunlight disturbed Head even more:

uniforms at dusk, uniforms and bored faces – except Gosse's.

Held fast by a man on either arm as they pitched towards a boat, Gosse spat dirt and projected his voice like a minister. —Ye can't press me. I'm a colonist. Queen Anne's rule. Head! Newman Head! Get Newman Head and tell him I'm pressed. Sweet God, help me, I want to die on dry land. Head!

Newman Head stood by his warehouse, hands on his hips. The lieutenant ordered the jollyboat away.

The following morning, the lieutenant returned to shore.

Newman Head, coming back from a business meeting at Morrow's, found the lieutenant banging on his warehouse door.

He had fine bones and thick red hair, and his plait reached the small of his back.

Head stopped a few yards away and called out loudly enough that others might hear, though his voice did not carry as well as Gosse's.—Have you the courtesy to knock before pressing a man?

Who are you then? I can't hear you, sir, do speak louder. Lieutenant Kelly of His Majesty's frigate
Dauntless
? Am I Newman Head? Aye.

Know I Jericho Gosse? It pains me to say so, but aye. Accompany you back to
Dauntless
and help clear up a few difficult matters concerning Jericho Gosse? If I must. An order? Oh, you can't order a colonist, but you can request co-operation from an Englishman?