part one

Ports were important for many towns in New England.  Whaling commerce in the 1800s was booming.  The whaling disaster, the Civil War, and the discovery of petroleum marked the end of a prosperous history for many of those towns. But before the end of the golden age, there lived people who depended on the ships sailing into port. Two to three storied wood shingled homes stood close together to accommodate the many immigrants that flocked to its shore in search of work.  The widow’s walk on the roof allowed them to look towards the harbor in anticipation of seeing the whaling ships on the horizon.  The faces were expectantly hopeful when the waves were a clear blue with white crests and a cloudless sky greeted them, but when the ocean had turned blue-grey and the seas rocked, the visages appeared ghostlike.  

There appeared a melted face in a window a few miles from the shore. Sarah’s reflection in the window startles her. She stands up, her hands smooth the black smock. The coin is what mattered, she reminded herself. She was anxious about the docking of the ship. The men would be half in their cups before her appearance was made in the saloon below. Applying powder and blush on her face made some of her burn scars less noticeable. She drank whiskey as well as the next man, swore, and cheated like the other hustlers working the shore.  

Immigrants were important for commerce. They worked hard for lower wages and assumed misfortune would be their constant companion, so they never complained. Immigrant women were subject to an indifference to their fate. Unmarried women found themselves working in factories with arthritic hands-on needlework while standing on swollen ankles and calloused feet while breathing in the mold and dust of the decaying wood floors. Sarah was the sole survivor of a factory fire that killed some of the immigrant population ten years ago. Her appearance made people flinch and feel better about the wretchedness of their own lives. Whaling communities were tolerant of most things, but women had a place according to use. She had but one. 

Jim’s Tavern welcomed the weary men from their long journey by offering drink and entertainment for a price. The whores waited for the men while the hustlers would take their money at cards. The bar’s patrons were all looking for something that could only be obtained at this time and in this place. Sex and the company of other fools while being cheated at cards and the ever-present cheap liquor kept them happy while ashore.  

A whaling ship approached the harbor. Whales had become scarce, and the trips became longer, and the danger increased. Two men stood on the deck of the whaler and shook hands. “Sure glad, I got to meet you. I forgot your name,” John said.  

The other man’s reply was drowned out by a cheer from the men on the boat as the ship began docking. The man was given many names. It was the Quaker captain of the Essex who took him under his apprenticeship after spotting him in a tavern filled with a bunch of lackluster recruits. He was a child then without a home and vocation, so Captain Jacob took him under his wing. He became close to the boy even when the boy never gave a hint of returning his affection. Captain Jacob called him Peter after his favorite apostle while the crew called him “boy.”   It was only last year the stranger came aboard as a regular crewman of the Mary Sou after the death of his surrogate father, but he soon made his name by spotting the first whale of the season. Some men referred to him as Lucky, but his real name was elusive.  

Stranger is a young man about nineteen and new to the crew, but they were sure they had seen him around on other ships…ports…maybe other voyages. “Let’s go the tavern for some cheap whiskey and cheaper women,” John said. “Come on, buddy, my treat,” John said and put his arm around the stranger’s shoulders and whistled a tune about a girl and a whale.  

“Okay.” the stranger said.  

Seagulls circled overhead as the clanging of the buoys rang and the lapping of the ocean beat a steady rhythm against the docks. The stranger stepped off the boat and moved briskly as John fell in step. There is a bustling of activity around him as the ship is unloaded to a haggling constant hum. His coat flaps in the breeze as his whale man’s sack is his only possession, the contents: a few coins, two shirts, a pair of pants, his latest artwork, a few knives, and a pair of dice.  

Life on the whaler is dangerous, and voyages took three years sometimes during the leaner times. Whales could sink boats and carry the men to the bottom of the ocean, for men became prey in the fury of the harpooned whale.  A few men had slipped on the blood and fell into the ocean and became shark bait on the last trip.  Shortage of food and comfort made men homesick and longing for the company of a woman. As for the stranger, he was a hustler too.  

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