This is the first chapter of my current WIP

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ONE

1795 and the passing of a hero

“Getting married? At your age, Tom?” My uncle Thomas looked up from the drafting board in surprise.

“Well, I am twenty-one, and Elizabeth is twenty in November,” I said with a smile.

“Twenty-one? I still think of you as a young lad! How long have your worked at the boatyard?”

“I started sweeping floors at Culmer White’s when I was nine. I’ve been working here full-time since I left school, five years ago, sir.”

“My, doesn’t time fly?” Thomas put down his pencil and wiped his brow. “I can’t believe you’ve been at the boatyard all these years. You’ve made a fine boat-builder, that’s for sure, and a good designer. And your brother, too, though I sometimes think his mind is elsewhere. How old be he, pray?”

“John’s twenty-three, sir. There’s two years between us.” Thomas shook his head and smiled at me.

“How’s that father of yours? What does Johntee say about you marrying so young?”

“His only concern is how much it will cost him. Ma and my sisters Sarah and Ann are in a complete tizz about what to wear.”

“Hmm, that’s women for you. And as for my brother, he’s always been a mean fellow. Rich as Croesus, lazy as a sloth, and hates to part with a penny,” my uncle chuckled.

Thomas climbed to his feet and shuffled over to some ancient boat designs, pinned to the wall. He appeared to study them with interest, even though they’d been there for as long as I can remember. “So who is this Elizabeth you will wed? What is her family?”

“She’s a Peake, from St Lawrence. She and her sister Susannah are their only surviving daughters after the plague.”

“A Ramsgate girl, eh? My sister Mary will know of her family. Thomas paused and turned to face me. “Of course you can take the day off on the ninth, lad. In fact, we’ll close the yard. No doubt your brother will be going, as well as your Uncle Skinner. Sarah and I will want to be there, too. Is the marriage at St Peter’s?’

“No, sir. Elizabeth wants to be married in the church at St Lawrence, her home village.”

Thomas reached for his spectacles and carefully wrapped the wire arms around his ears. He moved closer to the design and peered at it, his old face practically touching it. “This ‘ere was a grand design, Tom. The first real racing yacht that came out of this yard. My father John and my sister Mary drew her up. Ah, La Sirène. She was build for that scoundrel Henry Massey, my sister’s first husband. She was a fine yacht, way ahead of her time.”

“La Sirène? The mermaid? She was indeed a beautiful yacht.” I said. “There was something significant in the name, wasn’t there?”

Thomas chuckled. “Aye, there was. Your Aunt Mary helped with the rescue of some sixty men from a wrecked ship at Margate one night. I seem to remember she was no more than fifteen at the time. The town named her the Margate Mermaid.” I laughed. “Not so funny at the time, lad. Girls weren’t meant to be involved in sea rescues. She’s a brave lass, that sister of mine.”

“And La Sirène has kept this yard busy ever since,” I finished. “We may have modified the design a bit, but the racing yachts we make are still based on Grandpapa John and Aunt Mary’s drawings, aren’t they?”

My uncle reached for his cap and settled it on his head. “Aye, that’s right. But things are changing. Steam-powered vessels are the way ahead and we must keep up with the times. Trouble is, I don’t have the men any more. Our Stevie still ails and my brother Skinner has no interest in boat-building. He’s only happy when he’s up there at St Peter’s, working on the farm. Our regular chaps are finding work on the farms more profitable, too; they’re paid more than I can afford. And that brother of yours seems to have his head in the clouds. You are my only hope, Tom.”

“John has pipe dreams to set up on his own in Dover. They’re just dreams, sir, he won’t do it.” I put a friendly arm around my old uncle. “We’re doing fine, sir, now we have that new commission from the Dover Yacht Club. You and I can work on it together. John and Uncle Skinner can see to the Dory repairs. And Cousin Stevie will soon be well again, I’m sure.”

“I wish I could agree with you, lad. Stevie’s only fifty-two, but he looks like an old man. Some days, he can’t get out of bed. Doctor can’t work out what the problem is.” My uncle shook his head, took our a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “There’s no consoling my Sarah. Stevie’s always been her favourite.”

“Come,” I said, “it’s getting late. She will be worrying about you. Let’s close up for the night and start afresh tomorrow.”

The wedding was a simple affair after Matins at the little church in St Lawrence. My Aunt Mary did indeed know of Elizabeth’s family and when she heard of our engagement, she offered the use of Sands House for the wedding breakfast. The Peakes were gentlefolk, living in a cottage on a smallholding outside the village. They grew vegetables and fruit and just scraped by. They were proud their youngest daughter was marrying into ‘gentry’, but were in awe of Mary’s magnificent mansion.

Aunt Mary soon put them at ease. As usual, she dressed casually in trousers and a silk shirt. Her daughter Libby was similarly attired. Mr and Mrs Peake were wearing their ‘Sunday Best’.

“Don’t mind me,” laughed Mary, looking down at her attire. “Can’t remember when I last wore a gown. Probably at my own wedding! Now, I want you to meet my good friends, Mr and Mrs Banks. If there’s anything you need, don’t be afraid to ask Alfred and Winnie. They know this house better than I!”

“The Banks are Mrs Pierce’s servants, aren’t they?” Elizabeth whispered in my ear. She looked beautiful, dressed in a simple white gown, and my heart swelled with pride.

“Alfred and Winnie have been at Sands House for as long as I can remember,” I replied. “They’re more like family to Mary than servants.” I watched Alfred offer my parents-in-law glasses of champagne and then Winnie took them off to meet some of the guests. I grabbed the opportunity to introduce Elizabeth to my aunt.

“What a lovely child you are, my dear. Skin like porcelain. You remind me of my sister Lydia when she was your age.” Mary waved a hand in the direction of my other aunt. “Of course, she’s sixty now, but still a beauty, don’t you think?” We both looked over at Lydia and at the same moment, she turned towards us, laughing at something someone had said. Elizabeth blushed and dropped a curtsy. “Oh, don’t go bobbing to her,” laughed Mary, “Lydia’s head is big enough as it is!”

“Uncle Thomas was telling me you were involved in the rescue of a ship wrecked at Margate when you were still a girl,” I said, attempting to cover Elizabeth’s embarrassment.

“Ah, The Providence. Yes, I remember it well. I was fifteen at the time and it was my first rescue. We saved the lives of sixty men. I earned the dubious reputation of being named ‘The Margate Mermaid’.” Mary laughed again and shook her head. “My mother never forgave me, although I think my dear Papa was secretly proud of me.”

“I believe you’ve been involved in many such rescues, ma’am? You’ve become a legend in the village of St Lawrence.” I looked down in surprise at my new wife. I had no idea she knew of my aunt.

“Ah, yes, quite a few.” Alfred came towards us carrying a silver silver laden with glasses of champagne. “Alfred here helped me build a fine rescue boat.”

“I did indeed, ma’am. Along with young Annie and Jim. We was very proud of The Mary White. That boat rescued more drowning men than I can remember.” Alfred nodded, smiled and moved on with his tray.

“My husband Stephen loved the sea, too. He was in the Navy, you know. We made many rescue attempts together.” Mary sniffed and threw back her head, blinking hard. “Kicked the bucket eighteen months ago, poor chap. Still, he was sixty-eight and we’d been married for forty-three years. He had a good innings.”

“Do you still go to sea, ma’am?” Elizabeth said, blushing again. She had a fine pink and white complexion which coloured easily. My heart thumped again, this time with desire. Her question amused my aunt, who unashamedly spluttered with mirth.

“Good Lord, no, my dear. I’m an old woman, sixty-six last January. But my youngest, Libby, shares my passion for the sea. She’s been going out with the rescue boats since she was sixteen.” Mary leant forward as if to get a better look at Elizabeth. “What about you, my dear? Do you like to sail?”

“I… I don’t know. I’ve never been in a boat.”

“Never been in a boat? And you live by the sea? Whatever next! Thomas, make sure you teach this girl how to sail. We can’t have a White in the family who can’t sail.”

It was the last conversation I ever had with my aunt. She died three months later.

I did try to teach Elizabeth to sail. The first time we went out she was very afraid and sea-sick. On my next attempt to teach her to sail, she was sick again, but this time it was because she was with child. We’d been married for less than a year when Thomas was born. Nine months later, she was pregnant with Eliza. The baby was born in the spring of 1798, which proved to be a terrible year.

First to go was my Uncle Thomas. He was seventy-nine. No-one was sure if he died of smallpox but the plague that year certainly finished off his son Stevie.

With Thomas and Stevie dead and Uncle Skinner working full time on his farm up at Stone House, my brother and I were left to run the boatyard alone. Culmer-White Boatbuilders was struggling. It was December. Uncle Thomas had just let our two remaining men go for the winter months, which were traditionally a slow time at the boatyard. New commissions for boat builds were unlikely to come till the spring. The storms in November brought in a flurry of repair work and John and I were working long hours to keep the fishing fleet at sea.

We were fixing an old Dory which had suffered a blow to its starboard side. It was cold and blustery in the yard and a strong smell of fish prevailed from the boat's copious belly. Its helm, which was slimy and slippery, had been dashed against the rocks when the owner tried to bring his catch to shore.

John threw down his tool as he suffered a bout of coughing. Recovering, he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and looked at me over the boat’s bows. “There’s no future in these repairs, Tom,” he rasped. “We’ve got to move into steam. That’s where the money is.”

“What do we know about steam?” I replied. “We don’t know the first thing about steam.” I stood and stretched to ease my aching back. John started to cough again, and I looked up in alarm. “That cough of yours ain’t getting any better. Have you seen the doctor?”

“It’s nothing, just a bit of a cold,” he spluttered, and recovering, he continued: “We could learn. You were quite the scientist at school.”

It was true. I’d always had an interest in science and I knew a little about steam engines. But how to apply that knowledge to driving a boat was beyond me.

“Your head’s in the clouds as usual,” I said with a smile. “Let’s call it a day shall we? Look, it’s getting dark and we’ve been at it all day. Elizabeth’s struggling with young Thomas who’s gone from a toddler to a sprinter in one week.”

“How’s that babe of yours coming along?”

“Eliza’s well enough, but she keeps us awake most of the night. A fine pair of lungs she has!”

When I arrived home at our little cottage in St Peter’s, Eliza was wailing and Thomas having a temper tantrum. Elizabeth looked done in as she tried to nurse the baby. “I just don’t know what to do with the boy,” she cried. “Somehow he managed to get your hunting gun down from the wall and when I took it away from him, he screamed. Oh, Tom, I’m at my wit’s end. Do something please!”

I went down on all fours and grinned at a grizzly Thomas. “Want to go for a ride?” He observed me silently for a moment or two, rubbing his eyes with his fists. And then he giggled and jumped on to my back. He kicked my sides with his heels and bounced up and down with delight, the tantrum forgotten.

“Giddy up, horsy, giddy up!” he yelled and I crawled around the room, bouncing him up and down.

“Shall we jump a few fences?” I laughed, making for the stairs. I clambered up the steps two at a time, pretending to jump each time. He grabbed hold of me, shrieking with delight. On the landing I shuffled into his room and tossed him onto the bed. “Oh dear, fallen off, have you?”

Ten minutes later he was asleep, and I went down to the parlour. Elizabeth had finished nursing Eliza and the baby was sleeping peacefully. She was rocking the cot, half-asleep herself.

“Come, dearest one, come and sit down. They’re both asleep now and it looks as though I need to put you to bed, too.” She smiled gratefully, took my hand and allowed me to lead her to the sofa. We sat down together and she rested her head on my shoulder. She sighed and closed her eyes.

“I’ve fallen pregnant again,” she whispered. “I can’t manage the two I’ve got, and now there’s another on the way.” I looked down at her sweet face. She was deathly pale and her fine hair was listless and unkempt. She’d always been a slim girl, but now her arms looked like flax spindles and her wrists were pitifully thin. What has happened to the beauty I married three years ago? Is this what motherhood does to a woman? I thought about my mother, Susannah. She’d had eleven children including me, and in my eyes, she’d always looked beautiful. She’d had her troubles; her last-born son, Stephen, had only lived for a year. But at sixty-four she still looked fit and well.

Our daughter Caroline was born six months later. Elizabeth was in labour all day and all night, even though the wee bairn weighed only a few pounds when she eventually took her first breath. The child lived for less than a year. My brother John passed the same week; it was consumption, the doctor said.. He was just twenty-eight-old.

We buried them on the same day, little Caroline’s tiny coffin alongside her uncle’s. It was a sad day for the White family but I remember Elizabeth didn’t shed a tear. She held four-year-old Thomas and two-year-old Eliza firmly by the hand and watched her youngest daughter lowered into a shallow grave. She was dry-eyed. Was she too spent to grieve? I remembered the words she’d said when she knew she was pregnant the third time: ‘I can’t manage the two I’ve got’, and I think I understood.

On the first day of the year 1800, I opened the portals of the Culmer White boatyard and looked around in dismay. There were three Dorys in a state of disrepair, a new fishing boat half-built and the sketches of a racing yacht on the drafting table. I had no brother and no staff. What was I to do?

“We’ll soon have them done, Tom. You get on with the plans for the yacht.” It was my Uncle Skinner at the yard gates and behind him stood Jim and Harry, the two men Uncle Thomas had let go the year he died. They’d never returned to the boatyard and John and I’d struggled through the last year on our own. I strode over to Skinner, clapped him on the back, and shook hands with the men.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” I laughed. “I can’t thank you enough.” I turned to the men and after a brief discussion, I promised to match the wages they were paid on the farms.

“I’d prefer to build boats any day,” said Jim. “But in these hard times, I take the best-paid work I could find.”

“Aye,” agreed Harry. “Building boats is what I like, but the missus nags me to bring in more money. She’ll be happy enough with this wage.” He grinned, picked up some tools, examined a gaping hole in the side of a Dory, and set to.

My Uncle Skinner saved my life. He was a competent boat-builder, having worked at the yard since he left school. But his heart was in the land, and so I was especially indebted to him for helping me out in my time of need. He was lean and strong from working long hours on the farm, but he coughed incessantly. He was only forty-six but he had hollows under his eyes and was wan beneath his tanned face. He reminded me of my dead brother, and I feared for his health.

The good news, though, was Elizabeth’s health was returning. Our lad Thomas was altogether better behaved and little Eliza was the apple of her mother’s eye. She began to relax and blossom, recovering her pretty complexion. With the extra help at the boatyard, I spent more time with my family. I fell in love all over again. Six months later, my wife was with child.

Joseph was born in March 1801 and he was a strong healthy baby. Elizabeth’s labour was short and easy. She recovered quickly and nursed Joseph until the day she died, in September that same year. She was twenty-six. We’d been married just seven years. I was broken-hearted and wracked with guilt.

By Gillie Bowen

From: United Kingdom

Website: http://gilliebowen.simplesite.com

Twitter: AmuseBoucheCook

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