Bill Jamison's Escape

As the moon cast long slivers of silver on the dark waves, a bell rang three times from the forecastle. Three bells of the first watch is the same as 9:30 at night on land. Billy Jamison knew this but he never mentioned that to his shipmates - after all, an educated man (here meaning one who could tell time) masquerading as an able seaman on a whaling vessel would be eyed with great suspicion at best and derision to the point of violence at worst. To be awakened by a scrimshaw blade or cargo hook would be unpleasant and certainly fatal at sea, and so Billy kept quiet and to the degree possible on a ship, to himself.

The night watch afforded some calm and quiet; the bells ring out each half hour. The bells and the occasional calling out of sail trim changes or observations of weather are the only punctuation to the creaking of the lines, the wind, and the water against the hull. No rain today, again. Eight bells sound - after eight bells the watch ends and first watch yields to midnight watch. A clear, calm night means sleeping on deck to escape the underdeck life – sleep was difficult amidst the gambling and violence. Billy would have the morning, afternoon and second dog watch tomorrow, and then midnight. And, of course, the possibility of the whaleboat. He yawned and looked around the deck. A coiled hawser offered protection from pitching or yawing while asleep and, since it was unoccupied, Billy rested there waiting for the next sound of one bell that signaled the morning watch. It was a simpler life than the one he left behind a mere three weeks before.

Sleep brings dreams; dreams reverse his life and the past three weeks become fantasy and his reality reverts to the life he once knew: a small and dreary office on a side street; a sternly jawed employer with beady eyes and greedy, clawlike hands; a bright-eyed girl who fancied him not for his prospects, nor his looks or so she claimed. She could never tell him what she saw and he could never understand how she could be so charmed or seemingly happy in his company. “Billy, I love you for you” she would say and her words would vanish into his mind, unintelligible and unfathomable, but somehow believable, like the mysteries of Christianity. Billy lacked faith in both.

Tonight’s dream, like so many, returned him to the small cold office. The hard bench; the desk; the accounts forever updated; money in, money out; the marks that he made with ink on paper that represented lives, some ruined, some gilded. His life never really changed from day to day; the marks meant little to him and everything to one Mr. Schill, his employer. Schill’s dour countenance and menacing presence seemed to take the life and the air out of the room. “Bill, these people know nothing of the meaning of money,” he would say, “And all the better for me!” His laugh had a sickly snarl attached to it.

Bill hated the snarl but he had no feelings for the man. His life then was a succession of days on the hard bench, evenings swallowing hard food with cheap ale, and sleep in a small room he rented over a shop a few doors down. His life was confined to a few steps, a few coins, a few changes of clothes and one girl who always smiled for him and always seemed happy to see him. The dream continued to include her; a smile; a kiss; a confession of love he could not understand.

The first bell of the Morning watch rang through the salty night air. The sky was just beginning show orange and pink in the deep purplish black. Four-thirty, he knew and the beginning of his next watch. Bill rose from the hawser and walked to the foredeck for orders. The mate there sent him amidships to tighten lines, check knots and then go below to check for water in the hull. Belowdecks it was too dark to see without a lamp. He found one and took the steep steps down. With a purposeless stride and no feelings at all, Bill went about his business. The forenoon watch started with the first bell as he completed his walk the length of the ship, along the beam. He went above for a morning meal; hardtack, some salted meat, watered down rum. There were apples left. As he left the mess tossing the apple in one hand a voice called out to him – a voice he had heard only once, the day he came on board the ship.

“Mr. Jamison” said the Captain. “A word with you in the Chart Room”. Billy stood transfixed for a moment. Being noticed was certainly something he wanted to avoid; being noticed by the Captain unthinkable. “Aye, Sir” he responded, and followed the tall figure into the room normally only occupied by the officers of the ship. The Captain paused for a moment and turned to Billy. He had a letter in his hand. “I was handed this letter by a magistrate just before we sailed. I believe he gave them to all the ships sailing. I wanted to talk to you about this because the letter seems to indicate that you are a fugitive from the law.”

Billy blinked and felt the palms of his hands begin to go cold and moist. Not sure how to respond, and given no action to take that would not end in flogging or worse, he stood silently before the Captain. “We get these letters of warrant fairly frequently because many sought men seek refuge on the ships, and, frankly, we generally keep them unless they cause further trouble here. For the most part, you have been exemplary. Quiet, and business like. And you seemed to know your way around a ship, which truly makes what’s stated here all the more puzzling. Can you read?”

Billy’s mind raced again. If the Captain were dealing with anyone else on board, he was sure this question would not have crossed his mind. He looked up and said “Aye, sir, I can read”. The Captain nodded and handed him the letter. At the top it said “Warranted for arrest by order of the Constable General, Bell Harbor”. “Shipping Concerns and Captains be aware that employ or harboring a fugitive criminal is a criminal act subject to prosecution”. A list followed. He scanned the list to find his entry:

Jamison, William. Sought for the theft of $100 by graft from one Jonathon Schill, Banker and Lender.

Billy looked up and handed the letter back to the Captain. The Captain regarded him for a moment before speaking. “Murderers we usually place in the brig until we return. Some others we allow work until we return and turn them over to the constable. Some we never turn in. You’d have to say your piece in court no matter what, but you may get a fairer hearing here. Do you want to tell your story?”

Billy swallowed again. His hope of disappearing were fading but the temperament of the man before him, a man as surely a judge at this moment as any in a courtroom on land, told him his chances were probably as good here as there. Probably better. “Perhaps you would like to sit down,” said the Captain, and so Billy did.

“I adjusted his accounts to benefit a family in his debt. I never saw any money. He’s very rich, you know.” Billy related this in a monotone. He felt at this moment, much like he felt when he made the adjustments. He didn’t feel good or bad about it. It just seemed like the right thing to do. “They had so little and they needed so much”. The Captain weighed this information before speaking. “And you benefited not at all?” He asked. Billy nodded. “Why did you do it?” Billy looked down. At that moment, from the deck a loud report sounded while the bell rang over and over. The boatswain shouted for harpooners to the rails. The Captain rose quickly. “We’ll finish this talk when the whale is killed”.

Billy rose and moved quickly to the starboard rail. The main harpoon gun had hit the whale; harpoon line trailed from the surface of the water and some blood was still visible on the water. The whale had just sounded and the boats were being lowered. Billy got into the second boat and grabbed the oars. The boats followed the line waiting for the whale to surface for breath. Each man had a smaller harpoon or a long pick near his feet and a set of oars in his hands. Open ocean swells caused the boat to rise and fall, sometimes as far as 8 feet. The lead boat held the line and four boats in total chased the huge creature, purposing its death. The ship followed behind with the harpoon gun on the foredeck now reloaded.

Billy pulled his oars. There were men shouting and pointing but that didn’t matter to him. Although the whaleboat seemed large on the ship, even with 16 men on board it seemed tiny in the open ocean. His thoughts returned to the Captain and the deed he was wondering if he could ever leave behind. He remembered again the dreams he had, every night. The office, the bench, the books. The sneering Schill. Rose. That was her name, he reflected, and a good one. She was pink, and delicate and beautiful That was a new thought for him and as he pulled oars he considered that thought, rolling it around in his mind just as he might roll a hard candy around in his mouth.

The huge gray form surfaced right in front of the whaleboat, and the wave from the breach shot the prow of the whaleboat up and traveled under the boat. The furrow the wave created was easily twelve feet deep and the boat dropped rear end first into it. The whale had harpoons and lines hanging from it; it bled in many places. A huge, lidless eye stared into Billy’s for a moment and for some reason he felt like the whale – trapped; with no choices; at some kind of understanding with a fate he didn’t choose or want.
The whale continued his death throes as the boats circled, hurling weapons and lines with floats intended to prevent his sounding again. The blood tinged the sea; the life oozing from the great beast turned the water a sickly shade of green as it weakened. As the boats turned in for another pass with pikes and harpoons, the great beast turned, defiantly and slapped the water with it’s great gray flukes, causing a wave followed by a canyon of water that Billy’s boat once again jumped and subsequently fell into. The whale, dying, rolled into the trough and shattered the boat.

Under the water, Billy swam away from the great thrashing whale and up to the surface. He bobbed and watched the beast, rolling and thrashing. The ship began to come around throwing lines to the 16 men in the water. His attention was drawn back to the whale’s lidless eye, dimming and becoming lifeless and Billy began to wonder what it felt. The ship approached and his thoughts returned to his talk with the Captain. He knew in his heart that the Captain was a straightforward man. He was probably a Christian, too, a man who understood and truly believed the mysteries of faith Billy never truly fathomed. Perhaps he knew about love, too.

The shadow of the bowsprit came over Billy in the water and lines from the ship hung down for him to climb. The nameplate of the ship hung over him as he looked up. It said “Elizabeth Rose”. As the ship moved alongside him, he thought about her words; the love she professed for him; the words he never said back. The mystery of her soft skin; the gentle kisses and smiles. He never understood why she felt the way she did although he was sure she meant it. He never understood why he changed her father’s accounts and he never told her. Returning to her meant prison. He was sure the Captain, being who he was, would return him to justice.

The crewmen shouted for him to take the line. The ship kept moving and passed him, turning. It seemed to be coming back and Billy could not understand why. His die was cast, he felt, before even being born. But, oddly, he didn’t feel strongly one way or the other. And he dove, down, into the blue, down until he felt burning in his chest, and behind his eyes. He looked up as the shadow of the ship passed over, distantly and went on. He knew it would not turn again.

And The Rest...

AND THE REST…

I had already checked out and had my bags loaded into the cab when the desk clerk came running out of the hotel lobby. “Dr. Hinckley! A courier just delivered this for you,” she said and handed me a manila envelope. I thanked her, got into the cab and read the dock number from the charter boat brochure my travel agent had included with my itinerary.
I hadn’t been expecting the news quite this soon, but this message was expected. Confirmation that on my return I would be named the T.M. Howell Professor of Applied Bio-physical Chemistry – a final validation of the past 15 years spent toiling in the groves of academe. I wasn’t keen on leaving the day after my interview by the selection panel, but the Provost had assured me that I had it “in the bag” and my selection was a foregone conclusion. My travel arrangements had been made months in advance; changing the dates for my trip would be prohibitively expensive.
So off I went on my first vacation since I was a child – first two days on the beach in Hawaii, then a short boat ride to the tiny isolated resort island of Mi’illwaw Kea for some botanizing (perhaps even an encounter with the rare Mantis Khani). A week of rare tropical plants, birds and insects!
I had caught my jacket pocket on the door handle as I entered the cab, ripping it and spilling the contents over the back seat. By the time I had gathered my things and rearranged them in other pockets we had reached the dock. So was unable to find an opportunity to open the Provost’s envelope until all my things had been loaded on the boat. Once my dunnage had been stowed and I had been given a tour of the vessel and met my fellow passengers I was finally able to sit near the stern and read the letter – almost half an hour later. I was barely conscious of the harbor slipping away so pre-occupied was I with my long-anticipated professional triumph.
At first I thought there must have been a mistake – a one paragraph letter from the university “Thank you for your interest, but unfortunately…” How could they possibly have turned me down? My credentials are impeccable – no one has my background, my publications, my accolades. They didn’t even interview anyone else. It was just to be a formality! How on earth… Then I noticed the handwritten note from the Provost.

Roy,

I am so terribly sorry this has happened. I’ve tried to telephone and hope I will reach you before this is delivered. Just after you left we had a call from one of the U.’s most important donors. He was livid that you were even being considered for the chair that he had funded and would never give the U another cent if you weren’t dismissed immediately. I think we were able to dissuade him from the latter, but the Chair is quite out of the question at this point. Apparently a paper you wrote caused the Federal government to amend a regulation which cost his company a great deal of money. In any case, I am so very sorry about this. We will do all we can to salvage the situation and find a suitable spot for you when you return. If we haven’t spoken, please call when you receive this.

Fred

I sank back into the deck chair, utterly stunned. Everything I had worked for since I was an undergraduate. Every hour in the library. Every day in the laboratory. All the papers read and written. Almost twenty years of my life devoted to a single goal – All gone. All snatched away by some businessman. And what did “find a suitable spot for you” mean?
A wave of despair swept over me such as I’d never felt before. I cannot describe the sense of utter futility, frustration and hopelessness that crushed me, other than to say that I hope that I never experience it again. For a short while I understood on a visceral level as I never had before why suicide might be an attractive option.
I suppose my distress must have been obvious. Someone laid a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?” It was one of my fellow passengers.
“Oh. Yes. Or, rather not really. It’s Miss Summers, isn’t it?” I stammered. Flirtatious banter has never been a strength, much less at a time like this.
“That’s right,” she said and smiled. “I saw you read your letter and you just went white. Then you were sitting so still that I knew something had to be wrong. Is there anything I can do?”
“Oh no. I’ll be fine. Just a little, er, setback,” I tried to give her a confident smile, but I could tell from her reaction that it was feeble at best and closer to sickly. She smiled again. Or rather she SMILED. Her smile was unique in my experience. It was a thing of radiance, purity and joy. Things could not be all bad if that smile was in the world.
“Would you like to talk about it?” she asked and SMILED.
“Oh no, I couldn’t burden you…” and I really didn’t intend to, as I am really a very reticent person. But somehow I found myself unburdening myself to her – my personal and professional history, how I had utterly devoted myself to my research, how my hopes had crystallized into a single goal and how that goal had been denied me just minutes before.
“Dr. Hinckley, you mustn’t despair. This must be the first time you’ve ever faced disappointment. I’m sure it’s bad now, but it gets better,” she said, while patting my arm in a touchingly encouraging manner. “And just consider all the good you’ve done so far. And you’ll still get to do the work you love – sounds exciting to me. Maybe you won’t get the prestige or recognition you deserve. But that’s just what other people think. You’re really a very lucky man.” And she SMILED at me again.
She had really made me feel much better and I told her so. I was looking forward to spending the next few days getting to know this wonderful creature better. I stood and we walked to the rail to watch the early evening shadows form over the waves. “I’m terribly sorry to bore you like this. Very inconsiderate of me. Please tell me about yourself.” I asked.
“About me? There’s not much to tell,” she said and went on to describe her life on a Kansas corn farm. Her days were divided between caring for her parents, working in the local feed mill and endless farm chores. The nearest town, a thriving metropolis of 4,000 was 20 minutes away. Topeka was two hours away. She had won this trip in a contest by submitting the best coconut cream pie recipe to the Coco-Pure Coconut Company. “This is a once in lifetime thing for me. I can’t imagine I’ll ever get to take a trip like this again.”
I was struck by the self-imposed limitation on her world and was preparing to encourage her to raise her aspirations. I was interrupted by a strikingly beautiful sight – two Megaptera novaeangliae leapt from the sea. They faced each other and their trajectories met at the peak of their arc. They were no more than 50 meters from the boat. Truly an astounding exhibition of cetacean behavior. But I was even more touched by Miss Summers’ reaction. When I turned to her after the two humpbacks had submerged back to the depths I noticed that tears were running down her cheeks. I felt an extreme affection for the young lady at that moment. Perhaps it was the sea air – more likely the clash of strong emotions I’d experienced in such a short time. But I overcame my normal reserve and placed my hand on top of hers on the rail.
We had stood like that for only a short while when were interrupted by the ship’s First (and only) Mate. A tall, awkward young man named Willy; he seemed highly good-natured and likely. “I just wanted to warn you folks that we might see a little rough weather,” he said and pointed over the opposite site of the boat. We could see a dark line of clouds in the distance. “Captain says nothing to worry about. We’ll be going around the bad part of the storm. But we might get some rain and a few waves,” with that he gave us a sheepish grin and ambled back toward the bow.
We crossed to the other side to look at the storm. Even from several miles away it was obvious that it was quite severe, with impressive bouts of lightning and cresting waves. The boat was beginning to pitch more noticeably as the waves reached us and we moved along the length of the well defined storm. As I watched I noticed some distinctively shaped clouds along the leading edge of the storm front – pale green in a distinct chevron shape.
“Why those are Schwartz-Sherwood cirro-nimbus clouds,” I said. “And look at the ratio of cloud height to the length of the storm!” I made a few quick mental calculations. “That must be a Scotti-Wells osmotic anti-cyclone. I read a paper about it just last month!”
“What does that mean?” Miss Summers asked.
“We’re doing exactly the wrong thing. That storm is only about a quarter-mile wide. But the most violent winds and turbulence are directly in front of it. We could be blown miles out of way.”
“Goodness!” she said, “You have to tell the captain.”
“I will,” I said, and left her there at the rail. I wasn’t sure how I would convince him. He seemed an amiable enough fellow, but had no reason to accept advice from me. The Scotti-Wells was a newly observed phenomenon and it was unlikely he would have heard of it. I took a second to compose my thoughts. As I leaned over the starboard rail, the two Megaptera repeated their unlikely performance. As the closer of the two leapt into the sky, meeting his companion at their mutual apogee, his eye met mine. In hindsight I am sure I had only fallen victim to the anthropomorphic fallacy, but at the time I was certain that I had had a split-second’s shared understanding with the cetacean.
I do not know how long I stood there transfixed. It may have been as long as five minutes. I do not know, but I was awakened from my reverie by the increased violence of the sea – the ship had acquired a pronounced lateral roll. I scanned the waves for the whales one last time. It began to rain.
I may never fully understand exactly why I did what I did next. At the time I was convinced it was the right thing to do. While the ensuing events and the difficulties of the past few years have engendered some doubts, I have never regretted my decision.
I turned and walked carefully back to the stern and Miss Summers. “Did you tell him?” she asked. She was still smiling, but I was able to detect an overtone of concern in her voice. It was raining hard now and the wind was blowing the drops into painful little pellets.
“I did,” I lied, “but it may have been too late.” I took her hand and led her below decks.

A Whale Story

I kicked the valve one last time. Finally salt water started to pour into the half-full tank.

"This place is really going down the tubes. I've been trying to get this valve replaced for months."

"Don't hold your breath. I heard the last plumber resigned this morning."

"Another one? What is taking them so long to – oh, what's the use. I'm going to get coffee while this fills," I nodded at the tank.

Rick pulled the siphon out of the tank he was cleaning. "I'll come. This can wait."

It was against the rules to leave the area while a tank was filling. Even if you knew, from years of experience, exactly how long it would take before it overflowed. But it had gotten hard to worry about being fired for breaking the rules when we were so busy worrying about getting fired due to budget cuts.

We headed down the corridor in a glum silence. "Let's go out," Rick said as I veered toward the break room.

I shrugged, and we continued down the hall. We probably shouldn't be spending money on Starbucks with the aquarium in the state it was in. We'd need the savings if we ended up having to go and work in a pet shop for minimum wage. But I followed him toward the exit.


I sat down next to Rick at the window table. I tried not to salivate at the sight of his huge mocha frappuccino topped with a mountain of whipped cream. I'd ordered a regular coffee and doctored it up with cream and sugar. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that different from a cappuccino. That steamed milk always made them too hot to drink at first, and we didn't have that long a break, right? So it saved time as well as being cheaper. But it might be worth asking what they'd charge for some whipped cream.

"So take a look at what I just got." He took a folded-up envelope out of his back pocket and handed it to me.

I unfolded it. It was a letter from our director, Andy, on official aquarium stationery. I started to read.

"What the – you're kidding," I said. "This can't be serious."

He nodded. "Twenty percent cut in pay."

The letter said that Rick was being demoted from senior aquarist, as a result of budget cuts.

"But you – "

He just nodded, cutting me off. We were old friends. I didn't have to spell it out, how he'd uprooted his family, took on a huge mortgage to be in a decent school district, on the strength of this job offer a year ago.

"No change in your responsibilities, I see," I said, shaking my head.

"Of course not. When I talked to him, he made it sound like that was a good thing. Cutting my pay made it possible not to fire anyone else, which would have meant more work for fewer staff. Good deal, right?" He sucked fiercely at his straw.

"Oh, man. This is so bogus," I said as I continued reading to the end, where they put the lame apologies, full of corporate doublespeak. "I am so sorry." I folded the letter back up and handed it to him. "It just hasn't been the same since they appointed Andy."

I waited nervously for his response. I'd encouraged him to take this job, and lately I'd been feeling vaguely guilty about it. Of course, there was no way I could have known about the changes that were coming. But that didn't necessarily mean he wouldn't blame me, illogical as it might be.

But he just shook his head. "It's OK. I've got a plan."

I didn't press him. He'd sometimes talked about getting out of the business – the pay was lousy, the schedules sucked, never being home with your friends and family for a whole weekend – but he did it without enthusiasm. I knew he'd busted his ass in worse jobs for a long time and had moved halfway across the country to get the position here. At the time, this place had been the jewel of the city's tourist attractions, with a national reputation as the best. It had seemed like a good idea.

"Yeah, well, let me know if I can help." I had no idea how. But maybe a sincere letter of reference from a trusted colleague would be of more use than the boilerplate nonsense that the director would no doubt produce. Or maybe he could use some of my techniques for gussying up ramen noodles.

"We better get back," he said, slurping up the last of his drink.

"Yeah." I tossed my cup in the trash and we headed out the door.


I looked up and down the hall quickly before opening the door to the service area. I didn't want anyone to see me coming back – clear evidence that I'd left while a tank was filling.

"Don't worry, the coast is clear," Rick said.

"Thanks, cap'n," I saluted.

I hurried to my tank and watched it slowly fill the last few inches while Rick worked on his. I could probably be doing something else at the same time, but if they thought that filling tanks needed to be watched so badly, I'd better keep an undistracted eye on it, right?

I leaned on the crumbling, salt-encrusted concrete that enclosed the exhibit. Rick scrubbed at the empty holding tank behind me. Normally we'd make conversation, but right now, I wasn't sure what to say. Twenty percent salary cut. I remembered that Rick and his wife had been talking about trying to have a second child. I didn't know if they'd made any progress, and it seemed like a bad time to ask.

I decided that the tank was full enough given the uncomfortable situation and started to turn the valve. Of course, closing it was no easier than opening it. And in the almost-closed position it sprayed a trickle of water onto the service area floor.

"Shit," I whined, looking at the puddle that was accumulating as I kicked at the valve. "This leaks right through the wall to the aqua theater if I can't get it shut all the way."

Rick glanced at his watch. "Hey, do me a favor," he said. "Just leave that."

"Uh, sure." I didn't ask why, but the question was obvious from my tone.

"I want to show Andy exactly what the problem is."

"Right," I shrugged. It seemed like Andy knew exactly what the problems were, and just had a vastly different idea of how to address them than we did. But Rick had said he had a plan. I figured he knew what he was doing. He always did – that was why he was paid so well. Or had been. There was no need for me to butt in.


It was after closing time. I crossed the soaring glass-enclosed lobby on the way back to my locker. They'd had enough money to build a place like this, once. The summer sun, low to the horizon, hit me right in the eyes. This time of year, I knew that meant I was here much later than they really paid me for. But there weren't really enough of us to get everything done in a day, anymore.

But finally I was ready to head home. Or so I thought. Just as I unclipped my radio from my belt to put it away, it crackled with static. I hesitated, about to decide to put it away anyway – and then a voice said "I need assistance in the aqua theater. I've got a man down. In the pool."

I started to run, out the door of the locker room, back across the lobby. I wasn't sure what help I could be. I didn't work with the marine mammals, the dolphins and killer whales that performed in the theater. And if someone was drowning and there were still animals in the pool... There'd be nothing I could do. But I ran anyway.

Rick had beaten me there. He was standing at the entrance. By the pool, everything was as under control as it could be. Two of the trainers were shifting a killer whale out of the pool into a holding area. Three other staff were pulling a limp body out of the water.

"You probably don't want to look," Rick said.

I could see enough blood from here to imagine what he might mean. It's politically correct to call them orcas now, but they don't call them killer whales for nothing. Like elephants, they were fine most of the time, but they only had to get a bit cross with their trainer for it to be big trouble.

"Who is it?" I said, although I thought I knew. "Is he –"

"It's Andy. He's pretty definitely dead. He – never mind. You don't want to know."

"How... what would he be doing in the pool?" I trailed off, watching the puddle of blood grow larger on the floor next to the theater pool.

Rick looked at me. "It must have been an accident. The floor's slippery there, from that leaky valve."

He held my gaze. I noticed that he seemed to be speaking very carefully.

"Yeah, I guess that's it," I said, hesitantly.

"He did go on about how bad he felt about the budget situation, but I doubt that he was sincere enough about it that he jumped."

"Right," I said.

"I mean, it's not like anyone would have pushed him."

I nodded. "I better get back and close that valve then."

"Maybe we'll get some plumbers hired soon," Rick said. "You know, when we get a new director."

I nodded again as the sound of sirens approached, then turned and walked quickly away.

This is where stories will be posted

Later this week.