I was a fool. That day I smiled at my father and thanked him and promised I would make the most of the opportunity that had been laid out for me. I regret now to say how much I gushed my gratitude and how I praised him for all he had done for me. I would like to think that, knowing what he did, he was embarrassed at my effusiveness. Embarrassed and ashamed.
But most likely not. Most likely he smiled to himself to think how well he had arranged things. But I wonder, even today, did he know? Could he have, even in his darkest self, known what might come of it? Or was he simply pleased to have this younger son—the one who looked so much like him—out of the way, taken care of? And the older son delivered to safety.
I still struggle to think of it, and I cannot say that it is possible now to harbor good thoughts of him. But then I remind myself that if I had turned my back on my father’s plans, my journey would have been entirely different, and while I might have found a satisfactory sort of life much sooner, I would never have found Jane.
Book Two
Chapter 1
The ship—the Badger Guinea, a barquentine—sailed more or less on time, rather a rarity as maritime schedules go. With my father, I had gotten used to wandering down to the docks and seeing the ships moored with their myriads of lines fastened to the stone walls of the quay, green with sea growth. The Badger Guinea’s masts stretched mightily toward the sky, her sails furled on her yards, her crew either busily loading or else off somewhere getting drunk. My father and I had stepped aboard a few times since it had come into port, and he strode about at will, as was his right as the ship’s owner. He called the captain by his last name in private, but within hearing of the crew used “Captain.” In return, the captain called him “sir.”
The vessel had a large hold for cargo but few cabins, and there were only a dozen or so passengers. Despite my father’s ownership, he had not instructed that I be given any special treatment, for which I was grateful; I did not care much to be the center of attention, and I was sure I would be most comfortable as it was. I shared a cabin with two other young men—Daniel Stafford and Geoffrey Osmon—who were both about my age, warm and outgoing fellows, all of us traveling to Jamaica for the first time. I fell in easily with them. Osmon was bearing letters of introduction, which I already knew would be a great advantage to him. Stafford did not have such a benefit, but he was pleasant and intelligent and would be quick to make friends. He talked of becoming a book-keeper on some plantation, which made me wonder if he knew what that entailed. Remembering my father’s description of a book-keeper’s work, I urged him to think of finding something in the city instead. Because I was fortunate enough to come with connections and my path already set, I na?vely imagined myself by far the luckiest of the three of us, for my father had provided me with my own trading company, with three sailing ships, a sugar plantation, and, as well, the education to make the best of all that. I was determined to take advantage of my opportunities, to show that I was ready to take on whatever came my way. In my musings everything seemed golden. I never once doubted that my father had planned it all with my own best interests in mind.
There was only one other young male passenger, Walter Whitledge, a Creole who made such a point of his recent graduation from Oxford—in an accent that dripped with pretension—that we did our best to avoid him, though on a ship of that size it is well-nigh impossible to evade any particular person. A ship is a world in miniature, sufficient unto itself: if one is to eat, one eats what is provided; if one is to be entertained, one must make one’s own diversion; if one is to have society, one is confined to those on board. Indeed, all the passengers developed at least a nodding acquaintance with one another, but Stafford, Osmon, and I noted with childish glee that we were not the only ones on board who studiously ignored Whitledge.
There is not much to say for a sea voyage: the days are quite the same, except for the weather. I was fascinated by the billow and clatter of the sails, by the creaks and groans of the ship as wood slid against wood, expanding and contracting and turning and wrenching, and by the assured manner of the captain and the skill and daring of the crew. From Liverpool we sailed southward along the west coast of France and Portugal and then of Africa, until we picked up the trade winds before turning westward. I reminded myself that this was the same route that Christopher Columbus had taken, and I could not imagine the uncertainty faced by the men in those three small ships; the admiration I felt for their courage was immense. Of course, I had no idea of the very different sort of maelstrom I myself was sailing into.
Two days after we turned westward, we experienced dead calm—no wind at all, the sea as smooth as a fishpond. And then, later, as we approached the western Atlantic we were caught up, as I had feared, in hurricane weather. I had told my bedmates at Black Hill of the devastation that hurricanes can wreak, but it is quite another thing to actually find oneself in the midst of such a storm. For three days winds tossed us about mightily and the sea poured over the rails, but the ship and its crew bent to their task of getting us safely through, and they succeeded admirably. Beyond that, the trip was mostly uneventful, which is just about the best that can be said for a sailing expedition from the North Atlantic to the Caribbean.