CHAPTER 4

 Sammy Jones - Brooks Harbor, summer 1871

With each crate I carry down this wreck of a dock, the sweat soaks through my shirt and the tightness in my back twinges a mite more. I’ve been at it all day. Haulin' this. Fetchin' that. Even bein' at the Harbor don’t make the heat any better. There's a bit of a breeze sweepin' across the water, but the sun is a mite stronger. It quickly burnt off the fog that had the harbor all steamed up this mornin'.

The little schooner Astoria has tied up alongside the wharf. What I haul down to the dock, they quickly load onto the vessel. With each crate, I wish I was bein' put onboard.

Some of the crew ain’t much older than me, but I feel like a 15-year old dockhand. I figger my time at sea will come soon enough, but for now, I watch the various boats come and go. Brooks Harbor ain’t exactly a major shippin’ port, but this little nook on the North side of the peninsula gets its share of boat traffic.

The town, which takes its name from the Harbor, is just a tiny coastal village most people never heard of. Its claim to fame might be the shipbuildin' and shippin', but that ain’t much different from any other Maine coastal town, where people live off the sea.

 We's tucked away along the Bigwakeag River, which empties into Penobscot Bay. Most people from away cain’t even pronounce it, let alone spell it. The Harbor serves as a pretty good port for vessels comin' or goin'.

My father's a shipbuilder and sea captain, Joshua Jones. But, just about everyone here has a relative linked to the shippin' trade. Around Brooks Harbor, if you don’t build the ships or sail ‘em, you produce the goods they transport. It’s no wonder the town takes its name from this little obscure Harbor. This is the lifeblood of just about everyone here. Everyone I know, anyway.

Summer is downright hectic here. I’ve lost count of the number of ships that have come in for somethin' or other today.

 I haul the last crate down to the Astoria and rest it on the gunwale on the starboard side. One of the crew, a kid not much older than me, takes the crate and passes it down below to another member of the crew.

Before I even have a chance to turn and leave the vessel, I hear the thud of heavy boots on the wooden planks behind me. I recognize that clompin’ sound immediately. Just about every captain wears heavy boots but none make ‘em rattle the docks like Captain Sedgewick.

Arthur was his first name, but nobody probably dares call him that. I know I don’t. He’s a veteran sea captain around town, a tall imposin' figure with a weather-worn face and personality to match. He’s been around as long as my dad, maybe even longer. He can be a gruff old goat, but he seems to like me. So, I don’t have no fear of him.

“Good day, Captain,” I greet him. Some around the docks wouldn’t even dare speak to him. “All loaded sir.”

He smiles.  Well, as much as he can flash a grin with that crevice-caked face of his. He pulls out a few bills and shoves them into my pocket.

“Sammy Jones,” he says. “I see the morning fog has scaled just a dite. When you going to be joining us?”

He steps aboard the vessel with one giant step over the gunwale. While many my age have already gone to sea, my father wants me to wait until I turn 16. I know he followed the sea at a younger age than me, but he says my time will come soon enough. I ain't quite sure what he means by that, but he's set me to work on the wharf for now. It pays some, and I'm around the ships, captains and crews.

“Soon, I hope,” I tells him. “Father says next time he sails.”

The Captain begins to walk forward of his vessel and turns to look back at me.

“Tell him, if he doesn’t use you, I will,” he says. "Can't have you getting all nash on us here on the docks."

 The Captain turns toward the companionway and disappears down below.

I dig the bills out of my pocket and flip through 'em quickly. Captain Sedgewick ain’t exactly the most generous of the fleet. A couple of bills is about all I ever expect from him. I stuff the money in the small pouch I have in my trouser pocket. It's the only pocket that ain't got no holes.

 I’ve been so busy with the Astoria, I ain’t even noticed another schooner come in and drop the hook in the harbor. Sometimes the splash and rattle of chains just blends in with all the other anchors hitting the Bigwakeag mud.  Its captain and crew is already comin' ashore in a pair of wooden dories.

The Astoria is at a dock to the far right. The landing is shaped like a couple of "L's", one right angle leading into another.  Usually three large vessels can be at the dock at one time. Right now, only the Astoria is ashore.

Being at the far right side of the wharf, the two dories are obscured now by the very end of the pier that extends from the left side of the landing.  There's a small float that extends off the side for those boats. There's another float just like it on this side near where the Astoria sits. Because the Harbor is so wide, some vessels anchor on the far left side while others tend to choose the far right. They'll typically row to the dock that is closest to their anchorage.

I race across the wharf to the pier that overlooks the dock. I scamper down its gangplank. By the time I set foot on the wooden slats of the float, the dories are close enough that I recognize faces. There's Edward Farner and Jasper Coldress. They’s locals that have been on ships with my father in the past. In the back of the other dory is obviously the Captain. He’s a dashin' figure with dark hair and an air of confidence about him. Dressed in a sharp shirt and vest, he’s quite the contrast to the rough and tumbled looks of Captain Sedgewick.

“Father!” I hear shouted from above me.

I look up toward the wharf. There’s Mrs. Sarah Dyer and three of her daughters. They all wave as the two tenders draw closer. It’s Captain Joseph Dyer and his crew, returning from a trip to Boston.

Dyer is probably one of the town’s wealthiest mariners. He owns or co-owns a number of schooners. His store, right up the road from the wharf, is the primary seller of goods in town. His ancestors, like my own, were early settlers in Brooks Harbor and were foundin' members of the local meetinghouse.

I’ve been promised by my father that I’ll sail on his next voyage. That’s always been my dream, to sail with my father. But, if I don't sail with him, Captain Dyer is the other person I’d want to go to sea with.

The two boats reach the dock, and I’m right there to grab the tie lines tossed to me by the deckhand in the bow. I quickly secure a knot around a small post and move to the second boat to do the same.

Captain Dyer hands me a hefty satchel. The crew, meanwhile, scurries out of the two dories, tossin' their own gear on the dock before them. I just step aside, get out of their way and hold onto Captain Dyer’s satchel. A few steady the one boat as Dyer stands up and steps onto the dock.

He reaches out and shakes my hand. He has a firm grip and looks me right in the eye. It’s almost intimidatin’ for me, because he such a dashin’ figure and successful man.

“Thank you Sammy,” he says. “Good afternoon.”

I barely know what to say to him. I just smile.  “Afternoon Captain,” I mutter sheepishly.

His attention is quickly lured away by his family watchin' down from above. He waves to them and smiles adoringly.

“I see the loveliest ladies in town have come to welcome us home,” he says.

Much of the crew has already begun scamperin' up the gangplank. It is just Captain Dyer and I standing on the float.

“You’re a lucky man, Captain,” I says. “Don’t forget your package, sir.”

Dyer turns and pats me on the arm. “Yes indeed,” he says, almost forgettin' the satchel he handed me. He tucks the satchel under his arm and reaches into his vest pocket. He pulls out a clump of bills and hands them to me.

I don’t even bother to count 'em. I can tell right away that it’s already more than Captain Sedgewick give me. I thank the Captain but figger he don’t even hear me. He’s already on his way up the plank. At the top of the wharf, he greets his wife and daughters with kisses and hugs.

He’s been gone for nearly a month. One of his daughters is out of town but Sarah, Clara and Lizzie are all here to welcome him home.  Sarah is the second youngest, same age as me, I think. The Dyers had one son and five daughters, but the boy and one girl died young.

He adores his daughters, and they seem to worship him. Quite often, if they know he’s returnin' from a journey, they’ll be here to welcome him home. They can see much of the Harbor from their store a few buildings up the public landing. They’s as gleeful upon his return as they is sorrowful when his ship departs.

As he huddles with them atop the wharf, Captain Sedgewick scuffles his way across the landing toward the other dock. He has just exited the Sail Loft, the building at the end of the pier owned by David Watson.

“Dyer”, he says as he turns to approach. “Boston, right?”

Dyer acts glad to see Captain Sedgwick, even though Sedgewick displays little emotion. Dyer offers up his hand to shake and greets the gruff veteran sailor.

“Made a quick run to Boston and took some goods up to Bangor,” Dyer says.

“Where you off to?”

Sedgwick smiles politely to Mrs. Dyer and the girls as he passes.

“Heading South, for Mexico City,” he says. "Should get a regular ole brush out there in the comin' week."

Sedgewick turns to continue across the landing toward the dock where his Astoria is tied, but, Dyer quickly tries to catch his attention.

“Speaking of Mexico City,” Dyer says walking toward Sedgewick. “I ran into Jasper Wallace down in Boston. He had news about the Augustus. I guess he ran into someone that saw them in Mexico.”

He has Sedgewick’s attention now, mine too. Sedgewick stops midstride and takes a step back toward Dyer.

“I thought that ship was lost,” says Sedgewick.

I know exactly what they’s talkin’ about. I step forward to be sure I’m close enough to hear the conversation. Nobody seems to notice, or care, that I’m listenin’.  The Augustus was a schooner that sailed out of Brooks Harbor more than a year ago. There’s been no word from the ship. Various sailors had been to the Rio De Janiero, where the ship was initially headed. They brought back news that it never arrived there. It’s been assumed the ship and crew foundered in a storm.

This was the first anyone heard about the ship in months.

Dyer explains the ship was indeed wrecked in the Gulf Stream in hurricane winds. The crew of 10 survived on the wreckage for two weeks, savin' rain water in the sails to drink and eatin' what goods were salvageable. When they ran out of food, it was decided one of the crew was to be sacrificed for the survival of the others. Just as they was set to kill him, a ship was spotted. They was all spared and given passage to Mexico City. They was apparently now on another ship, getting’ transported back home.

“Sounds like they got a story to tell when they get back,” grumbles Sedgewick as he turns, continues across the wharf toward the Astoria.

Dyer puts an arm around his wife, and the family strolls across the wharf. They climb into a waitin' carriage and ease their way up the road toward home.

CHAPTER 5

 Albert Miller - Miller’s Point

I’ve already gone through one handkerchief. It is so soaked from wiping off the sweat that’s poured down my face; I've had to find a fresh one. That doesn’t last long either. It is the second straight day of insufferable heat. It is a smothering wall that saps all your breath.

By this time of the afternoon, I’ve retreated to the barn. Sweat-soaked and weary, I cower from the heat, keeping busy by sweeping the barn floor, tidying up. I’m exhausted and exasperated, cooled only temporarily with a slight burst of a cool breeze that mistakenly finds its way into the barn, only to escape immediately. I walk outside in hopes of following it; only to meet the furnace blast of the hot sun and air that strangles with each attempted breath.

On one brief step outside, I spot Sammy Jones bounding his way down the driveway. Sam is a neighbor and one of my best friends. He is my age. I’ve known him since I was a kid.

He sees me in the doorway and waves. I signal for him to follow me into the barn. I resume my work sweeping as Sam shuffles over the wooden beams making up the hard floor.

“Did you hear?” he asks, barely able to get the words out of burdened breathing.

I stop sweeping and stand over a small collection of debris collected into a pile.

“Hear what?” I ask, giving the pile one steady push out the doorway.

Sam plops himself down on the floor, leaning against a support beam.

“The Augustus was wrecked down around Bermuda,” he reports excitedly.

Sam’s an impressionable type. He’s full of stories and exaggerated ideas. I’m not so sure we’d be friends if we'd not grown up living next to each other. We’re just so different, but I guess maybe that’s why I like him.

“We knew that ship was lost already,” I tell him. “They’ve been overdue for months. That’s what Captain George said.”

I’ve heard Captain George Fuller talk about it himself. His parents live nearby, on the other side of our property. He doesn’t stray over this way too often, not since Mary anyway. But I see him sometimes around town.

He’s still sailing, even after the death of his wife, my sister Mary. He returned with news the month before that the schooner Augustus never arrived in South America as expected. Following a furious hurricane down that way, he reported the Augustus was likely wrecked and lost.

“But they found it - and the crew,” says Sam. “They all survived. Captain Dyer returned yesterday. He said he heard they was all onboard another ship and headin’ home.”

With the floor swept, and not looking too much cleaner than when I started, I hang the broom on the wall on its designated hook. I sit down on a block of wood, set just inside the barn entrance, across the doorway from Sam.

“How’d they get found,” I ask, figuring he is dying to tell me.

When Sam talks, he uses his entire body. Limbs flailing, hands waving, head bobbing and weaving, he’s in constant motion. Here I am worn down from a long day of working the farm, and he’s still got plenty of energy, even though he’s been down on the docks working.

“I guess some ship passed by and discovered ‘em floatin' along,” he says, now propping himself up against the barn door. He slides down, landing on the floor facing me with one foot resting inside the barn and the other on the grass outside. "They picked ‘em up and took ‘em along as they sailed to Mexico City. I guess they was on the wreck for weeks. They nearly had to eat each other."

Normally, I’d be hesitant to believe him. Sam sometimes lets his excitement with a story carry it beyond the truth. His mind works at such a speed trying to process what information he hears, he might get the details a little jumbled. In this case, knowing the story comes from Captain Dyer, I figure Sam has it right.

 “And that’s the kind of life that you want?” I ask, thinking to myself that Sammy is too scrawny for a crew to want to kill for food.

I probably shouldn’t have said it. I knew it would prompt a response, and I wasn’t really seeking one. Sam has talked about following the sea for years. ‘When I go to sea …. “’ he’d say. He’s said it a thousand times. It isn’t like any of us doubt that he’ll do it, but we’ve been hearing about this dream of his for so long.

He just about leaps off the barn floor to his feet. He paces in and out of the doorway anxiously.

“I can’t wait,” he implores. “I was promised that when I’m 16, I can go. That’s not far off, just a few months. By next year, I’ll be settin' sail.”

Of course, I’m already aware of the ‘When I’m 16’ promise he has with his father. I just lean back and laugh at the spectacle of this friend of mine, so wound up by his drive to follow the sea. I’m almost jealous of his self assurance and sense of purpose. It hurts to admit that I lack any such conviction.

I've lived on this farm all my life. There are some days that I can't even see past the borders of Miller's Point. The tedium of working the land and tending the animals has worn my spirit. I feel as though I'm merely existing, following the same routine day after day.

“At least you know what you want,” I say, again wishing that maybe I hadn’t said it aloud.

I’m turning 16 in a week. Another year has passed, and I don't see myself any further along than I was a year ago. I've had my fill of this job and feel trapped by the borders of Miller's Point.

I envy my oldest brother, George. He went off to war and then left Brooks Harbor upon his return. He's farming now down in Waterford, three hours south of here.

My other brother, Edward, just two years older, seems content to stay on the Point and work the farm. He's got a fiancée, Lucy. He's developed a life here. His future is unfolding before him right here on Miller's Point.  I know I can’t settle for that. I have a need for something more, but I don’t know what it is.

“So what do you think you’re going to do Albert?” asks Sam, settling down again. This time he stays propped up against the door. “You don’t like farmin'. Why don’t you go to sea? I bet my father could use ya. Maybe Captain George would help.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my legs, rubbing my face in my hands, just spreading the mixture of dirt and sweat about my face and palms. I let out a sigh that was probably the strongest breeze the inside of the barn felt all day.

“You know my father wouldn’t like that,” I say. “He hardly talks to Captain George anymore. He wouldn’t want me at sea anyway. He wants me here.”

Captain George Fuller lost both his wife and daughter on that trip aboard the Darkwind. After Mary’s death, Fuller attempted to sail home, but Elizabeth died a month later.

My father never really blamed Captain George, but there’s been plenty of tension between the two ever since. Mary was the fourth daughter that died young. My father also lost my mother to tuberculosis, just two years after I was born. All he has left are three boys and two surviving daughters.

“I’m thinking I might go off to New York or Boston, somewhere like that,” I say, not really knowing if that’s what I’m going to do. “Maybe I’ll find some kind of work there.”

Sam answers that with a boisterous chuckle.

“I can imagine your father’s reaction to that,” he says.

I know he probably won’t like that idea. I’m hoping my stepmother Nancy might help me. My father married her when I was 10.  She is the daughter of David Watson. She helped revive the family after the emotional devastation resulting from the deaths of Mary and my sisters Alice, Susan and Lucy, all three of which also died of consumption, like our mother. She’s been a stabilizing presence and surrogate mother to me and my brother, Edward.

The deaths have been hard on my father. Much of the happiness we all had as a family during my early childhood has been shattered. Maybe that heartache is what I long to escape.

“She has a different view of things, I think,” I tell Sam.

The clatter of a carriage coming down the driveway interrupts our conversation. Sam leans out the doorway to see my father pulling up to the front of the house. He has a large burly horse pulling the small carriage. He climbs out, frees the horse and leads it toward the barn.

“Your father is home,” Sam announces, as if I hadn't determined that for myself.

I give up my seat on the block of wood to get outside to bring the horse into the barn. Father hands the horse off to me and gathers his bag from the carriage. He ascends the steps to the porch and enters the house with barely a word spoken.

As I secure the horse in its stable, Sam realizes it is getting late.

"I should be gettin' home," he says.

He waves goodbye and scuffles his way back down the driveway and across our field to a path that leads to Jones Point, his family’s property that borders our land.

CHAPTER 7

 Sarah Dyer - Miller’s Point

The table is full of kitchenware. Various pots are on display before us. Alongside the assortment of cookware are fabric, clothing and sewing accessories.

We’re all gathered in the dining room. My Aunt Nancy and my mother are discussing various goods that we've brought with us. My sisters Clara, Lizzie and I listen in. Nancy’s stepdaughters, Emily Miller and Lucy Brown, fiancée of Edward Miller, are there as well. When my father brings home new items from a voyage, Mother is sure to visit her sister and put them on display.

As the women chat and rave about various clothes, fabrics and household items, I hear the front door creak open. It opens slowly, and Albert Miller enters the house quietly, obviously trying not to be seen or heard.

Albert is my age. I've known him since we were going to school together as youngsters. When my Aunt Nancy married his father, our families began more interaction. That was when Albert and I were both 10 years old. All the children in my family are close in age to respective members of the Miller family. Clara is the same age as Dorothy, and Hattie and Edward are the same age. It is kind of like we're all cousins sometimes, even though we're not. My mother is a sister to their step-mother but that's as close as we get to being blood relatives.

 Usually when my sisters and I visit, Albert makes himself scarce. I always assume it is on purpose.

Mother spots him just as I do. She calls to him, welcoming him into the dining room. He enters reluctantly. He looks like he is trying to think of a reason to excuse himself. He always seems shy, but we always get along nicely. He is more reserved than most of the boys I know. He is a quiet but mature fellow. His father is like that, though more stern. I don't see him as often since being out of school. We live on different sides of the peninsula. We're right near the Harbor. He spends much of his time around the farm. It is only when our families gather or if we have a chance meeting in the village.

My sisters had Mary for a teacher at one time. She was very nice. I had looked forward to being her student. It was such a shame what happened to her. I imagine it hurt Albert deeply, but I don't know that he'd ever admit it. He keeps to himself quite a bit, rarely showing his true feelings.

Mother greets him warmly as he enters the room. I catch his eye and exchange a sly smile. He doesn’t look comfortable or happy. His face twitches nervously. His eyes dart about trying not to look at any of us for too long. He's probably not too interested in what a collection of women are doing.

The women encircle the table, some sitting and some standing. I stand behind my mother, who is seated at the head of the table next to her sister. They encourage Albert to come take a look. I don’t say a word but continue to offer a warm smile.

 He offers up a courteous excuse, saying he has to clean out the barn. He continues on past us and into the kitchen. He grabs an apple and quickly slips through the dining room on his way back out the front door, munching the apple on his way.

I regret not having the chance to talk to him, at least to say “Hello”. I know he’ll find work to do once he returns outside. We brought over sacks of feed and left them in the back of the carriage. He’ll certainly discover them soon enough.

With that in mind, I decide the conversation around the table is getting old. I have already seen everything on display here. While the women preoccupy themselves with a new collection of cooking pots, I excuse myself, slip out of the dining room and step outside.

As I approach the barn, Albert is emerging to fetch in another sack of feed. He quickly dusts himself off as he sees me approaching. He tries to be discreet with his spontaneous attempts to make himself presentable, but I certainly notice.

“I thought I’d come out and help you,” I say, even though I’m not sure if I can lift one of those hefty bags of feed on my own. “I knew you’d find these sacks here and would be putting them away.”

He reaches down and hoists another bag up into his arms and over his shoulder. He straightens with self-assurance and confidence, or at least tries to look so.

“Thanks, but I can handle them,” he says. “These aren’t much trouble.”

He bends down and grabs another sack with his right arm for good measure. He strides through the barn doors and carries them to a newly started pile at the back of the barn.

I follow him inside. The barn looks clean, but I don’t make mention of it. Albert unloads his cargo and dusts himself off again.

“I thought you’d want to be talking fabrics with the rest of the ladies,” he says with a smile. “Looks like a pretty good haul this time.”

I let out a little laugh. He always seems to be more comfortable around me when it is just the two of us. 

I haven't seen him since he stopped by the store one afternoon for supplies. That was more than a month ago.  That was just a quick encounter and brief conversation, but Albert is not one to stand and chat.

“They’re just talking now,” I say. “All the seamstress talk is done. I felt like coming outside. It’s such a nice day. I thought you could use some company.”

Albert goes back outdoors momentarily. He scoops up another armful of sacks and tosses them on the pile, quickly finishing the job.

“That’d be nice,” he says. “It is a nice day."
With the sacks of feed in their proper place, Albert stands there, with blank expression, as if wondering what to do next. There's a brief awkward silence before his face lights up with an idea.

"Want to walk down to the shore?" he asks.
I didn't expect such an invitation, but it seems like a nice suggestion. I have never been anywhere else on the Miller property.

“I’d like that,” I answer. “I don’t think I’ve ever been beyond the house here.”

As I walk out, he stays behind me to close the barn door and secure it.

“Oh, it’s a nice place,” he says. “I like the spot we have at the Point. I just came back from there. That’s a pretty long walk. We can just go down to the shore over here.”

He points to the small cove just down over the hill to the right of the house. The land descends through a field of dandelions to the shore. A small piece of land juts out and separates the Miller property from the Fuller land just beyond it. Fuller Cove is on the other side. There isn’t much of a beach on the Miller’s side of that strip, but there are some flat ledges and some marshy grass. It makes for a quiet little inlet.

We trudge through the high grass and weeds until we reach the shore. The banking is steep. It takes a lengthy step over a fallen log or two. Albert descends first and reaches out for my hand as I follow.

As I step securely on the ground, I thank him and offer him a warm smile. He looks back at me with his deep blue eyes but only for a moment before shyly turning away. He looks so kind and gentle. I’ve never seen that side of him before.

At school he'd show his sense of humor. He could be a bit of a jokester and make all the girls giggle. When he and his friends Sammy Jones or Austin Fuller would get teasing us or each other, we'd be laughing mightily. He has a loud boisterous laugh, much like his father's, yet it is only heard on occasion. Much of the time, he presents a serious facade. I've often wondered if he's unhappy or prefers to hide his emotions. I sometimes think it might be both.

“This is so picturesque,” I say, glancing over the scenery. “Because our home faces inland, we don’t have the shore like this to go to. I think Father sees so much of the sea when he’s sailing that he likes to be away from it at home.”

Our store is along the public landing at Brooks Harbor. It and other businesses are lined up side-by-side with the wharf at the end of the landing. The road from the public landing leads up the hill to the main road. Our house is right there around the corner. One side of it overlooks the store and public landing but the front of the house has a view of the front yard, driveway and main road.

He walks ahead of me and watches out for hazardous spots in the marshy grass. If he comes across a soft spot or a wet area to avoid, he stops and guides me past.

“You must be glad to have your father home,” he says as we stroll along the shore, stepping over ledges and wet areas in the grass.

"Oh, yes," I reply gleefully.

He wipes off a large slab of stone and offers me a seat that overlooks the water and the cove. He sits down next to me. He bends over and picks up a handful of pebbles. He tosses them into the water periodically as we talk.

 “The home seems so empty when he’s away," I add. "We miss him greatly when he’s off to sea. I look forward to the day when he doesn’t sail anymore and is home all the time.”

We get little time to spend on the shore. Above the stillness and the quiet air, I hear Mother’s voice calling my name from the house. They're probably wondering where we disappeared to. We quickly scamper back up the hill to the homestead. Albert leads the way and gets us both laughing as he trips and stumbles on a stone and nearly falls on his face.

"Look out for that rock," he suggests, breaking into an embarrassed laugh.

Mother eventually sees us approaching and stops calling for us. She climbs the steps on the porch and enters the house.

I rush inside to help my sisters round up the merchandise. Albert helps carry items out to the carriage. We all pile back aboard for the trip home. Albert stands by and watches as our mother’s converse for every last moment.  He occasionally looks at me and provides me a quaint smile and roll of the eyes. I wave back enthusiastically as Mother finishes her conversation. We finally pull away and begin our short journey home. Albert stays right there and watches us leave. He has never done that before.