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.