Into the Wind: The Odyssey of Ben O'Neal

  I stood there a long time, wondering exactly what he meant when he said, "More things than one have been lost at sea." I've come to believe he was talking about all the John O'Neals. They'd canceled many a debt in fifteen-foot surf.

  In fact, just about four-thirty the next morning, when the coffee was beginning to bubble, I talked to the Bravaman about the captain's change of attitude toward me. Eddie said that all sailors had a warm spot in their hearts for surfmen. He further said that sailors who had to pass the Hatteras Banks in the dead of winter were especially sympathetic just because they were scared witless.

  Therefore, my position was more favorable now that it was known who I was.

  18

  REUBEN LONG AGO said he was about to blow up and burst on his first sight of foreign soil, Cuba in '88, and it was the same with me that warm April morning when the Barbadoes island loomed over our port bow, with a few green mountains reaching up to touch drifting cotton clouds. Tee had me awaken her early, and now we stood in the fresh, moist, pink tropic light as the Conyers, full-sailed and heeling slightly, swept on toward the Atlantic coast of this easternmost of the fair Caribbees. On the lee side, out of the Atlantic Ocean rollers and wind, was the lapping Caribbean Sea and the ports of Bridgetown and Speightstown.

  Any good geography published around 1900 will tell you that the island, twenty-one miles long and fourteen wide, shaped like a shoe with toe to the north, is a slice of "rolling old England" and that one of Eddie Cartaxo's Portuguese ancestors first landed on it, when only the Arawak Indians were there, living in thick forests. The Carib Indians killed off all the Arawaks and then abandoned the island, because it didn't have too much freshwater. The British took it over about the time that a man from Brazil brought up a single sugarcane plant. Then the British hauled in black slaves and white slaves to clear the forests and work the plantations. Now and then the French and the Dutch tried to grab it.

  Coconut trees ring the beaches, and there are such things as purple moonflower plants and jasmine and mamey apple and lime and pawpaw and sweetsop, along with a few monkeys. There are over five hundred stone-house windmills, nothing like our stilt-house corn mills on the Banks, and such things as yellow-breasted mustache birds and poisonous manchineel trees. The island got its name of Los Barbados (which means hairy) from the Portuguese because of the bearded fig trees that grow on inland cliffs. But I knew none of these things when I stood agog on the wet deck as Cap'n Reddy piloted the bark down on Bridgetown, tacking back and forth.

  I had one advantage, though: the castaway girl. Pointing far off, she said, "That's Mount Hillaby, and all the valleys around it are filled with breadfruit and banana trees. And we can't see it yet, but Point Kitridge is over there." Last time she'd been to this place, her parents were alive, and I think she was having a mixture of memories, happy and sad, face holding a hint of shadow. Her finger went northwest. "And way around there is Bathsheba. This time every day, the Bajan flying-fish fleet goes to sea from Bathsheba, through the coral reefs." The finger went southwest. "And down that way, in Christ Church Parish, was our plantation..."

  She faltered and I said quickly, "Tell me about the flying-fish fleet."

  There wasn't much to tell: Each dawn, the boats went out to shoals far offshore, hung bags of spoiled, mashed crabs and bottom sprats into the water to make drifting oil, which attracted the flying fish into nets. It was said they were delicious broiled and topped with Creole sauce or baked in fish pie. That island was world famous for its meals of flying fish.

  Tee got over her memory tugs, but unfortunately I did not have long to stand out there and jabber and sightsee. After serving up breakfast, my usual drudge chores were demanded, no matter that the land grew larger every hour. Imagine being bent over the captain's bathtub, scrub rag in hand, when Sam Lord's castle appeared on shore about ten o'clock. Oh, I stole looks topside now and then, but there is no more grievous sentence, as any sailor can testify, than to be at work belowdecks when the four corners of the earth are unfolding not a crow's flight from the mainmast.

  ***

  Running on in, we passed Foul Bay and Long Bay, and then rounded South Point on our steady way to old Bridgetown, founded somewhere around 1630; picked up Needham Point Lighthouse, a stubby beacon, and then went smartly into Carlisle Bay, outside the harbor and Careenage, dropping anchor and sails in early afternoon, a joyous moment. Officially, our voyage was logged in as completed at 1340 hours, April 4, 1899.

  No sooner had the Conyers settled down on her chain than the Barbadian boatmen, six or eight of them, rowed up around the stern in their skiffs, shouting to the captain.

  "Hey, Cap n, you hire me, eh?"

  "Oh, his boat will sink," said another. "You will drown. You must hire me."

  "I'ave the finest boat in this bay, an' I do thank you for just hiring me," yelled another.

  Cap'n Reddy laughingly shouted back to them, "You're all a pack of rascals." He'd been to Bridgetown many times.

  One boatman then yelled, "But, Cap'n, we are noble rascals."

  "Aye," said Reddy, and there was more laughter. The boatmen would be used to go back and forth ashore, and visit other ships if necessary.

  Bridgetown: I had made it safely. Had my sea legs. Salt was in my brow and I felt fine. The air was hot and smelled of sweet flowers. Despite some minor troubles, it had all worked out. We were together. Tee was beside me, with big Boo stationed at her feet, likely wondering what this was all about. I do doubt that any Banks hound had ever ventured so far, even by accident. To be sure, he would be the first dog from Heron Shoal ever to set paw on this particular slice of the British Empire, upon which the sun never sets. He gazed around, sniffing. The smells were new to him, too.

  And had my own light and airy head been on a swivel, it would have rotated three hundred and sixty degrees. Over there, around a jetty, were the buildings of Bridgetown, and the busy inner port, with schooner masts sticking up. In the blue bay itself, fringed with wind-bent coconut palms, were eight or ten large ships, both sail and coal-burning, and I was quite surprised to see the Britisher Cashamara, a white-hulled steamer, swinging at hook not far from us. She'd left Norfolk a full three days after the Conyers and was already here, taking on bagged sugar brought out in small barges sculled by a long sweep. Not knowing where to look next, I had only one thing in mind: stepping foot on that warm Barbadoes earth. The Bravaman said that would be possible once we got health clearance.

  So we waited.

  19

  IN TIME, a boat rowed our way containing three officials of Her Majesty's government. I had never seen sailors such as the two bending at oars in the boat plainly marked HARBOUR POLICE. Flat straw hats were perched on their heads; queer uniforms from there down.

  Tee knew, of course. "They're wearing the Jack Tars of Lord Nelson. Middie blouses and bell-bottoms. But they don't wear pigtails anymore."

  "I'd hope not," I said, thinking that no man on the Banks would be caught dead in pigtails.

  As we all watched, the three officials clambered up the accommodation ladder, wearing other clothes I'd never seen on any person. White short pants and white stockings. White helmets.

  "Tropic dress, with pith helmets," said Tee. "Introduced from India regiments." There is nothing so educational as going to sea.

  So far, it was a most unusual place, I thought, as the officials were greeted by Cap'n Reddy and disappeared into the afterhouse to do their business. Everyone on the Conyers was in good health, so the quarantine doctor had no problem clearing us and got back into the boat, which was replaced immediately with another police boat.

  A few minutes later, I was looking forward to a skiff ride to the Queen's Dock when the bosun came trodding up to say, "You two, follow me. Das Hund stays here."

  We did so, having no idea what was in store, down through the forward cabin behind Gebbert's lurching back, and directly into the captains stateroom, where stood the two officials, cool as ice cream in their tropics; and Josiah Reddy, th
e latter frowning at us. About this time, I had a sinking feeling. Tee's quick glance toward me was nervous. The bosun departed and the door was closed.

  "Good afternoon," said the shortest of the two, knobby-kneed and rawboned and small-eyed. "I am Basil Collymore, Solicitor-General, Queen's Counsel, and this is Sergeant Marion Watkins, of Her Majesty's police. You are Miss Wendy Appleton, eh?" He peered at Tee with not much friendliness. Basil Collymore was white, and Sergeant Watkins was black.

  I'd never heard Tee's voice so thin as when she answered, "Yes."

  His eyes shifted, perch spotting the worm. "And you are Benjamin O'Neal, U.S. citizen, member of this ship's crew."

  I nodded.

  "I have here papers ordering that Miss Appleton be returned to the port of Norfolk, at the request of the British consul general, aboard any vessel bearing the Empire flag."

  Breath out of us, we just stood there.

  Basil Collymore went on, "And there's not to be any interference from you, young man."

  Feeling puny and swallowing, I looked over and saw Tee's chin quivering. Her eyes had begun to well and her face was as white as Collymore's spotless shirt.

  He passed the letter to her, saying, "You should read this, Miss Appleton, so you will clearly understand the seriousness of what you've done."

  With shaking hands, she took it, and I looked over her shoulder:

  Honourable Basil Collymore, Q.C., O.B.E., M.A.

  Government House

  Bridgetown,

  Barbados

  B.W.I.

  In a low voice I asked Tee, "What is a solicitor-general?"

  "Just below the attorney-general," she answered in an equally low voice.

  "What are all those letters behind his name?"

  "Queen's Counsel, Order of the British Empire, Master of Arts."

  He sounded important. We read the letter:

  My Dear Solicitor Collymore:

  I pray that this unpleasant request that I make will not interfere with far more important duties. However, I ask your able assistance in apprehending a young girl named Wendy Lynn Appleton, British subject and resident of London, whom I believe was foolishly persuaded to take passage on the American bark Christine Conyers, due to arrive shortly in Bridgetown.

  For almost six months, I have attempted to return this thirteen-year-old child to England and have been thwarted continuously by ignorant people residing in a desolate village on the North Carolina Outer Banks, principally one Benjamin O'Neal, known to have signed on as a crew member of the Conyers.

  Briefly, I had Miss Appleton in my personal custody last month and had made arrangements for her return passage. An incorrigible child, she refused to abide by certain normal procedures and ran away, along with a dog. Within a few days, the O'Neal boy visited my office and I had suspicion he was involved. With whereabouts of the girl still unknown, I spent two days checking crew lists of departing vessels and discovered that young O'Neal had indeed joined the Conyers. Logic guided me to the belief that he had somehow stowed her away on that vessel.

  I respectfully request that you meet the Conyers and investigate. Should the Appleton girl be aboard, I would deeply appreciate it if you would return her here to me in Norfolk on the first available British-flag ship. Further, the O'Neal boy should be informed that any untoward steps that he takes will result in immediate arrest for interference with legal proceedings of a sovereign nation.

  Insofar as the dog is concerned, should it be accompanying the girl, I would suggest you shoot it and toss it on a refuse pile, where it belongs.

  I trust and hope that you are in good health and enjoying your office on that beautiful island with our fellow countrymen. I envy you.

  Most sincerely,

  Henry Calderham

  Her Majesty's Consul-General

  Norfolk, Virginia

  USA

  Never in my life had I read such a mean letter. I would have given anything for Cousin Filene to be standing in that cabin with us as Tee passed it back, shaking and helpless. Had I been able to get in touch with Heron Head station, every Banker over twelve would be packing his kit for the Barbadoes.

  Cap'n Reddy broke the awful silence by saying to Tee, "I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do. I did inform Mr. Collymore that you were not a stowaway."

  Tee swallowed and nodded, seeming to shrink.

  It had been kind of a lark for her to come aboard the Conyers, but she'd meant well. Now, send her back under arrest? Shoot Boo? Not by a ton of snakes, I thought, getting mad. What I couldn't figure out was how Calderham's short arm had reached so far in so short a time.

  I asked Queen's Counsel Collymore. "How did that letter get here so fast?"

  "Not that it's any of your business, the Cashamara brought it in a week ago," he said, and in almost the same breath, "Now, young lady, gather your things."

  The coal-burning, steam-spouting Cashamara. Modern conveniences.

  Tee got enough possession of herself to ask, "Is Lord Footman on the island?"

  Collymore answered, "His Excellency is on holiday in England. Now, please gather your things."

  Tee's face dropped again.

  I had a scant moment with the victim of the Empire's officials while she was packing her kit: the clothes Mama had made or bought for her, several dresses and a pair of shoes that she'd acquired in Norfolk on that shopping trip with Calderham.

  "Why did you want to know about that Lord Footman? Who is he?" I asked.

  "The Governor-General. He knew my father, and also likes dogs. He has a fine basset hound named King Pellinore."

  She was throwing her things around. The shock had worn off, and Tee was riled now, I could see. From past experience, I knew she could get riled as well as stubborn. Little lines of fiery red were around her lips.

  "Ben," she said, "I am not going to England without Boo. That's very definite, no matter all the police on earth."

  I tried to calm her down. "There's nothing we can do now," I said in a fatherly tone. "Best you go on, and I'll try to find a way to get him over there. As soon as I get back to Norfolk. I'll try to find a ship that will take him. I promise."

  Tee shook her head defiantly. "Where I go, Boo goes."

  I said, "Don't worry about anyone shooting him. I don't think there's a man on this ship, even the bosun, who'd let that happen."

  Tee finished stuffing her things into the cardboard case and whirled around. "I know this island better than that silly solicitor. Ben, tomorrow you meet me at Cole's Cave, in St. Thomas Parish, and bring Boo with you."

  Not that! "Tee, you can't run away again," I pleaded.

  "I certainly can, and will," she said flatly. "You meet me, Ben. Don't you fail. Go up the beach road to Holetown, this side of Six Men's Bay and Speightstown, then go inland. The cave's on a plantation, not too far from Dunscombe and Welchman Hall. Ask anybody."

  I was about to ask, And then what do we do? when Sergeant Watkins poked his ebony head into the cabin. "I say, are you ready?"

  Tee replied, "Quite, officer."

  Along with Boo, I followed them up the companionway and out onto deck, where Cap'n Reddy and the solicitor awaited. Dry-eyed and grim, Tee said good-bye to the captain, to me, and to Boo, and then turned to Collymore. "I'll do what's right, sir," she said.

  Now, that had a very familiar ring, straight from the Widow O'Neal, and I thought to myself, Well, here we go again. Everybody would be wise to hang on to their straps.

  Tee waved farewell as the Lord Nelson oarsmen shoved off and headed for the Queen's Dock.

  Boo let out a moan, though he had no idea what was going on. Simply, Calderham had succeeded in splitting the Rock of Gibraltar, after all.

  Cap'n Reddy observed, "She's quite a girl."

  Few could deny that, one way or another.

  20

  "VELL, VAS ISS DIS all about now?" the bosun was asking in his usual frightening roar as the Harbour Police skiff rounded the jetty and disappeared into the busy basin. H
e hadn't heard.

  With heavy heart, I told him.

  He eyed Bridgetown with alarm and said, as if personally insulted, "Dey can't do dat." Like practically everyone, except officials like Calderham and Collymore, the bosun had grown fond of the castaway girl. "If de Fráulein vants her Hund, den she should have her Hund." He reached down and gave Boo a flat-hand pat on the head, surprising both the dog and myself.

  "I think so, too," I said, seeing a sudden, unexpected ray of hope.

  "Vell, vas iss she goin' to do?" he asked.

  Truth was wisest, so I said, "She's going to run away and hide in a cave. She knows how, all right. I'm supposed to meet her tomorrow with Boo."

  The bosun, frowning toward the port, said, "Ach, das iss no way to do it. She'll never get off de land, much less mitt das Hund."

  "What's more," I warned, "they may shoot Boo if he goes ashore."

  "Nein," Gebbert growled. No, it meant, I had learned from less pleasant experiences.

  "That's what the letter said."

  "Den he stays safe here," said Gebbert, looking thoughtfully around at other ships in the anchorage, as if he had an idea.

  I could now see much more than a ray of hope. With the bosun on our side, the whole late-afternoon sky was filled with it. Gebbert alone was equal to about twenty Collymores, fifty Calderhams, and a few of the West Indies Regiment. I only wished there was some way to get word to Tee to sit tight.

  Finally the bosun said, "Tell you vas; after supper I'll take a Boot und make some of dese ships. Ve'll get her back mitt das Hund."

  "What will the cap'n say?" I asked, now worried about him. "He told her he couldn't help."

  The bosun said, "De cap'n will help. He don't like officials, but he likes de Fräulein."

  In about an hour, word was all over the Conyers about Teetoncey's latest plight, and no less than six sailors, including Nils and Barney and the Bravaman, offered assistance. I said the bosun was taking care of it for the time being, and they decided to let well enough alone. Eddie Cartaxo was right: In time of trouble, Gebbert was the one.