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Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Sven's Voyage with Commodore Stockton
The Battle for California 1846-47
by
Martha Stockton Alderson
- 1 -
Sven
Aboard the USS Congress
March 19, 1846
Strait of Magellan
Sven Johansson dabbed his quill pen in the ink well. A black drop hung from the tip. The ship swayed. The drop drifted the same way. Splat. Ink crawled across the page like a black widow spider.
“Dios mio!” Sven exclaimed at the ruined paper. His eyes grew wide. He ducked his head and cast an anxious glance at Commodore. The ink could be blotted, but he could not take back his Spanish curse.
He prayed his American commander-in-chief had not heard his words or he had just made the worst mistake of all his twelve years. Had he given away his secret?
Commodore Stockton strode across the day cabin toward Sven. Sven opened his mouth to explain. His voice froze in his throat.
Deep in his own thoughts, Commodore turned. He paced in the other direction.
With his secret safe, Sven slumped in relief.
“Last paragraph,” Commodore barked.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Sven spoke the words carefully, with no trace of an accent.
Commodore began his dictation.
With his hand still quivering, Sven turned the page and started again. He wrote quickly to keep up with Commodore’s report.
Commodore’s cabin was dim except for a lantern over the map table and one swinging over Sven’s small desk in the corner of the room. Melted wax from the late hour gutted both candles. Smoke hung in the air. Sven’s eyes watered. He bent his head closer to the page and squinted to see.
“The pompous old fool,” muttered Commodore. “Don’t write that down,” he bellowed.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Sven fired back.
In the month since Sven first boarded the USS Congress, he knew not to record Commodore’s true feelings. Commodore always scolded him not to include them in the reports.
Commodore swerved from his endless pacing. He stopped in front the map table with his legs a little more than shoulder-width apart, hands behind his back—the seaman’s pose. At six feet, two inches tall, Commodore had no trouble bracing a foot on either side of the table.
The sputtering candle cast a dizzying spell over Sven. Even after a month at sea, the water’s endless push and pull, the shifts and repositioning still made him sick. Tonight, the sea was even more restless than usual. The back of Sven’s throat burned. His stomach cramped.
Commodore loosened the tacks that held down the heavy cotton maps for their journey. He rolled up the top map of the pile and slipped it into a cubbyhole beneath the table. He turned back to the maps and sucked in a deep breath.
Worried by Commodore’s reaction, Sven craned his neck for a glimpse. The rocking lantern hurt his head.
Commodore shook his head. He jabbed the map hard four times.
“Finished, are you?” Commodore asked over his shoulder.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Sven.
Thanks to his Mexican mother’s English teaching and practice with his best friend Todd Paul, Sven spoke English well. Still, he was grateful that his job for Commodore required few words from him.
Commodore stretched out his hand, a sign that dictation was over.
Sven clambered off his stool. He held Commodore’s official journal open with one finger. The deck slanted. Sven wobbled. He braced his legs, hoping not to slip as usual. Proud of himself for not falling, Sven handed over the journal.
Commodore read the dictated report Sven had written. Sven welcomed the break. He stretched his back. While he waited, Sven compared himself to Commodore. Standing at chest level to the great man, Sven knew he was lucky to be here with Commodore rather than below deck with the other boys.
The ship tossed. Sven widened his stance to steady himself. He wondered if only big men were heroes. Commodore was tall with wavy, black hair and bushy, mutton-chop sideburns that ran the length of his jaw. He looked like a big, black bear Sven had spotted rise up on its hind legs back home on the shore of Rio Nueces.
Sven edged closer to the map table. He pushed his lower lip between his teeth, afraid of what he would see there.
“Well done, my boy,” said Commodore. “Your writing skills improve daily.”
Muddled by the new map, the smoky air and rough sea, Sven nearly missed Commodore’s first-ever praise. A warm feeling swept over his fears of revealing his secret mission and that Commodore was his enemy.
“Thank you, sir,” said Sven.
The ship lurched. Sven clutched the map table. The wooden nails that secured the table to the deck boards creaked.
“When we arrive at our destination…” Commodore paused. He gazed off into a darkened corner of the room as if imagining the moment of arrival. His face glowed in the candlelight.
Commodore had kept their destination a secret from the crew and his officers, too. Only Sven knew they were headed to Alta California. Mexican officials back home had at least told him that much, though they had neglected to mention the voyage would last so long. Sven doubted he could survive seasickness much longer.
Commodore tossed the journal on the desk.
“You will write it all.” Commodore slapped the heel of his fist against his opened palm. Sven jumped at the sound.
“Dates, places, number of men.” He emphasized each word by shaking his hand and his fist together.
Sven’s ears perked up. Dates, places and number of men were the information the Mexican officials back home wanted.
“I will make history for the United States." Commodore aimed a finger at Sven. "You will record it.”
Commodore grasped either side of the map table and leaned over the new map he had uncovered. In the candlelight, his eyes turned shadowed and sunken. A dark furrow dug into his forehead. He blew out the lantern over the table, a signal he was finished.
“Better get to mess before the last scrap of supper is gone,” Commodore said on his way out.
“Yes, sir,” said Sven, disappointed not to learn more about Commodore’s plans. “I will, sir.”
The door closed behind Commodore. Immediately, what little peace that had settled over Sven from Commodore’s praise switched to guilt and confusion. A sense of doom pressed in against Sven’s chest. Rather than give into his hopeless panic, he snatched up his pen. He began copying the dictation from Commodore’s official journal into the secret journal the Mexican government had entrusted to Sven just before he boarded Commodore’s flagship. Only one other person onboard knew Sven was a spy for the Mexican government—his best friend, Todd Paul.
- 2 -
Cape Horn
Sven wrote quickly in the secret journal. When he was sure Commodore was not coming back, he dragged his writing stool to the map table. The rotten weather made his heart pound. He had a creepy feeling that eyes were watching his back.
Sven scrambled onto the stool. Using the flint Commodore had left on the map table, he relit the lantern.
Commodore had switched the maps four times since Sven joined his command. The first map Sven had seen made no sense until Commodore pointed out to him the Rio Nueces and followed its curve with his finger. Sven still had trouble grasping that a speck on the Mexican shore represented the town where he had grown up. Even smaller was the spot where he had been standing when he caught sight of the USS Congress and the spy idea first came to him. Two days later, Mexican officials had smuggled Sven and his friend Todd Paul from the Mexican side of the river to the American side. Two days after that, Sven and Todd Paul were standing on the deck of the American frigate as they sailed from the Rio Nueces into the Gulf of Mexico.
From there, they had moved steadily southeast, following the line of South America until they cut in for a stop at Rio de Janeiro. For the past four days, Commodore had followed the Argentina coastline.
The map Commodore had left on top this time showed no sign of the solid landmass that had been sitting off to the west. In Argentina’s place floated a collection of rugged islands shaped like a horseshoe.
Sven blinked his eyes. Everything about this map was different. The Atlantic Ocean still bound the east side of the map. But, now, instead of land at the bottom, the Southern Ocean sat there. Instead of land to the west, the Pacific Ocean flowed – the Sea of Peace and the largest ocean in the world.
At the southern-most tip of the map stood big, bold, red lettering—Cape Horn. Beneath that was a line drawing of giant waves. Smack in the middle loomed a legless lizard. Sven gagged.
His mother had warned him of a slick serpentine being. This one had sharp and pointy teeth. Its neck was thick and muscular. Unable to wrench his eyes away from the drawing, Sven slapped a hand over his mouth. Its lips curled back. Teeth dripped red.
What little food that was left in his stomach filled Sven’s hand. Fear crawled down his back. He fled Commodore’s day cabin.
Outside, the sky was black. The sea was heavy and raised. Sven stumbled to the side railing. He retched over the side of the frigate. At least this time none of the older boys were around to force him to eat his own vomit.
Great, glassy islands that, just that morning, Commodore had called icebergs had more than tripled in size. Some were taller even than the ship. They surrounded the frigate, circling like sharks for blood. Sven shivered. He pulled his jacket closer around him. The deck turned his bare feet cold.
The ship plunged ahead. The sea opened its mouth, pointy teeth and all, and threatened to swallow everything, including Sven.
Terrified to be alone, Sven bumped his way down three decks. In the mess, the crew’s voices roared against the noise of the storm. The smell of tar nearly took Sven to his knees. The crew had taken to rubbing tar on their clothes to weaterproof the material. The more foul the weather turned, the more tar they used.
Sven had trouble holding onto his cup of grub and staying upright against the ship’s rise and fall. Tables and benches were lowered between the cannons. He slid onto the bench next to Todd Paul. Sven, at twelve years old, and Todd Paul, at fourteen, were two of the youngest on the ship.
“Hey, small fry.” Todd Paul slapped him on the back. “You’re green.”
Sven caught himself before falling in his food. He glared, both for the reference to his small size and to his seasickness. Todd Paul held up both hands and scrunched his face in protest against Sven’s look. Tonight, not even his friend’s crossed-eyed crazy expression could make Sven smile.
Sven turned to Charlie-the-Swabber, the oldest sailor on the ship. White hair stuck out from under his favorite dingy nightcap.
“A new map,” said Sven, his voice hoarse. “With a sea monster on it.”
Charlie-the-Swabber’s lined and leathery face turned grey.
“Cape Horn?” he breathed.
Sven nodded.
The old man leaned up against one of the cannons and patted the iron as if hoping to ward off the evil eye.
Sven turned rigid. For Charlie-the-Swabber to be afraid made Sven even more scared. Sven knew all about being afraid. He searched for clues how to be brave.
Todd Paul laughed at Charlie-the-Swabber’s reaction to Sven’s news. He kneaded Sven in the ribs.
Charlie-the-Swabber leaned over the table. He grabbed both Sven and Todd Paul by their shirts with his meaty hands.
“Just ye laddies wait.” He squeezed hard. “Cape Horn…” He shook his head. “Temperatures so frigid you’ll freeze your coconuts off. Waves like monsters. Gale force winds.” He released them and mopped his face.
“Ah, it can’t be that bad.” Todd Paul gave another elbow to Sven’s ribs.
“Ye’ll soon find out what Cape Horn is.” Charlie-the-Swabber pulled his cap down over his ears and cleared his throat. “Aye, and just who you are, too.”
Sailors around all the tables leaned in closer. Charlie-the-Swabber was famous for the predicaments he pointed out. He reminded Sven of his grandfather. He, too, had been a doomer and gloomer. Three months ago, on the day he died, he had predicted disaster. It was the same day their enemy from across the river—the Republic of Texas—became part of the United States. After her father’s funeral, Sven’s mother charged that the worsening threat to their way of life had killed him.
Sven leaned forward like the other sailors, but he needn’t have bothered. Charlie–the-Swabber spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear him, even over the noise of the storm outside.
“Ye want to stay alive? Nary a ship in the history of all sailing has made the Cape Horn passage without a gale flying down to the leeward.” Charlie-the-Swabber rolled his eyes at each of them to be sure everyone was listening. “You best be careful and look lively.”
Sven did not know what flying down the leeward meant. But he did know gale winds could blow up to 50 knots and threaten the ship. Gooseflesh rose thick on his arms and neck.
Charlie-the-Swabber shook his head and left to tend to the cannons on the lower gundeck.
Todd Paul leapt to his feet and imitated Charlie-the-Scrubber. Eyes bugged out, he clutched his hands together.
“Cape Horn. Ohhhhhh.” Todd Paul wailed like a ghost.
Todd Paul fell to the bench. He laughed and pounded his fist against his leg. Sailors all around raised their cups and joined in the laughter.
Sven laughed, too, but ended up sounding more like a croaking bullfrog. He wished he were more like his friend beside him. Big and strong and capable of defending himself even against the bullies back home, Todd Paul had always watched out for Sven.
Suddenly, Sven knew his friend could not defend him from the sea serpent. Sven would be on his own for the coming disaster.
A great wave of homesickness for his mother came over him.
- 3 -
Monster of the Sea
The next day, the sky was dark and the sea high. The crew held its own against the weather. Sven hoped they would beat the odds and survive the journey. He imagined laughing about how they had slipped from the great storm Charlie-the-Scrubber had foretold. Still, his stomach rolled uneasy.
In his nervous state, Sven went as usual to Commodore’s cabin. He was surprised to find Commodore absent.
The ship lurched. Sven lost his footing. He sailed across the room and banged up against the door to Commodore’s private chambers. He groaned and clutched his shoulder. The ship slammed to the other side. Sven flung up against the opposite wall. A clattering hit the deck. Squalls pelted against the bulkhead.
The pipes summoned all hands. A cry of “Here comes Cape Horn!” sounded. The main deck rang with the drumming of bare feet.
Sven ran outside. Freezing rain hit his face.
From around the ship, hundreds of sailors emerged from below deck. What felt like at least fifty mile-per-hour winds scratched his face.
“All hands reef topsails,” cried the order.
Half the men dashed to their stations on deck. The other half divided and scrambled up the three towering and swaying masts. Before Sven could brush the ice from his face, they had shinnied up the rigging. They folded and rolled and made fast the sails most exposed to the wind.
The wooden sailing ship creaked and moaned.
Rain turned to hail and caused Sven’s nose to run. He lifted a hand to wipe it, but found the snot had already frozen on his upper lip. He could only breathe in short, shallow breaths.
Todd Paul ran toward Sven. He smelled like tar. Todd Paul tugged on Sven’s arm.
“Let’s go,” he shouted over the sound of splintering wood. Waves crashed against the ship.
Sven put both his hands around his mouth to make his voice louder.
“We’ll be safer inside the cabin than out here,” he shouted. The outer rocky point of the Horn loomed. His knees shook at the sight.
“We ain’t supposed to be safe.” Todd Paul’s voice had a sneer to it.
Sven frowned at Todd Paul’s tone, but he was too preoccupied making his way to the railing for support to object.
“We’re Jack Tars,” said Todd Paul, or jacks, for short, for the tar they used to weatherproof their clothes.
Charlie-the-Swabber ran up behind them. Without his cap, his white hair blew wild in the wind.
“Come on, laddies,” Charlie-the-Swabber shouted. “’Tis a storm to be fought. It will prepare ye for the bigger battle to come.”
Todd Paul nodded as if he knew what Charlie-the-Swabber was talking about.
“What bigger battle?” Sven grasped the old man’s arm. His legs shook so hard he could barely stand. He cocked his head in question at Todd Paul, but his friend had already moved away. Sven worried he had missed something a spy should know.
Charlie-the-Swabber shook off Sven’s hand and hurried on his way.
Sven ducked his head and followed. If Todd Paul knew about an upcoming battle, he would have told Sven. Sven bent before the wind and dragged his feet. He wasn’t cut out to be a sailor or a spy. Still, his place was beside Commodore. Maybe there he would learn more of the mysterious battle Charlie-the-Swabber had mentioned.
The wind squalled so loud his ears hurt. Over the noise, Commodore Stockton’s voice roared.
“Just enough canvas to make the vessel mind her helm,” he bellowed.
Todd Paul and Charlie-the-Swabber raced to their stations. Sven gritted his teeth and joined Commodore.
As Commodore’s secretary, Sven had two jobs. First, he recorded all Commodore’s reports, meetings with his officers, and dispatches in Commodore’s official journal. This was the information the officials back home wanted. They had especially stressed that he find everything he could about the American’s plans once they reached their destination—Alta California, any British involvement there, and all correspondences to or from the American President Polk.
Sven’s other job for Commodore was like now, to watch and then later describe the encounters at sea in Commodore’s official journal. Sven had not expected this job. Nor had he expected that Commodore liked flowery writing. Fancy words did not come easily for Sven. Worse, the task cut into the time he could be copying Commodore’s reports and dispatches into the secret journal.
Commodore towered over the quarterdeck. His face took the full brunt of the wind. He shouted encouragement to his officers and men. He bellowed at the weather to calm. He roared to his God to intervene. Hail filled the deck and clung to his hat and greatcoat. His storm-beaten cheeks blazed scarlet. His eyes glowed like hot coals.
Next to Commodore, Reverend Colton made the sign of the cross and last rites.
The waves kept coming. The winds kept rising.
Commodore called for everything to be taken in but the reefed topsails. Sven knew enough to understand that if the men were pulling down all the sails and leaving the masts bare, conditions were at their worst.
Before the crew was even halfway up the rigging, the wind gusted. Canvas plastered the men up against the masts. Tangled in the lines and rigging, sailors dangled and held on for their lives.
Sven gagged. His head ached.
Snow turned to sleet.
“Look,” someone shouted.
Sven turned to where the men pointed. Wind had snatched away the jib boom. Todd Paul grabbed a replacement jib. He ran to the bowsprit. A sailor held the jib while Todd Paul climbed off the deck.
“No,” shouted Sven. The wind whipped his word away. “Stop, Todd Paul.”
He ran to help his friend. Snow and sleet turned the deck boards slick. Sven stuck his hands out on either side of himself to keep from falling.
Charlie-the-Swabber grabbed him by the collar.
“Ye’ll only be in the way, laddie,” he hollered.
Todd Paul dangled over the ocean. Glassy icebergs loomed from all sides. Sven squirmed to get out of Charlie-the-Swabber’s grasp.
With one hand holding the replacement, Todd Paul used the other to inch his way out onto the boom. He struggled with the jib. The ship rose on the peak of a wall of waves, teetered, and plunged into a trough. Todd Paul disappeared from sight.
“Todd Paul,” gasped Sven. Tears sprang into his eyes.
He jerked out of Charlie-the-Swabber’s grasp. His coat ripped. He slid on the ice and sat down hard.
Todd Paul emerged out of the spray. The men cheered.
Todd Paul crawled back to safety.
Charlie-the-Swabber reached down a hand to Sven, but Sven turned away. Angry that Todd Paul would take such a risk, he wanted to sock his friend in the face. Instead, he crawled to his feet. As everyone rushed to batten down the hatches and call out congratulations to Todd Paul, Sven took advantage of the excitement and snuck away.
As far as Sven knew, Commodore had not noticed when he arrived. Surely, he would not notice him gone. Once he squelched his seasickness, he would rejoin Commodore. Todd Paul wasn’t the only brave one on board.
The deck heeled steeply. Sven clutched the side railing. Splintered wood froze under his hand. Waves slammed against the ship.
In his dizzy-state, Sven thought he saw a long, snake-like being appear. Out of the black and frothy sea arose a giant head with deep-sunken eyes. Water poured off scales and ran down its neck. Two eyes burned into Sven. Fire from the serpent’s breath flamed against his face. Sven fell back. He screamed.
by
Martha Stockton Alderson
- 1 -
Sven
Aboard the USS Congress
March 19, 1846
Strait of Magellan
Sven Johansson dabbed his quill pen in the ink well. A black drop hung from the tip. The ship swayed. The drop drifted the same way. Splat. Ink crawled across the page like a black widow spider.
“Dios mio!” Sven exclaimed at the ruined paper. His eyes grew wide. He ducked his head and cast an anxious glance at Commodore. The ink could be blotted, but he could not take back his Spanish curse.
He prayed his American commander-in-chief had not heard his words or he had just made the worst mistake of all his twelve years. Had he given away his secret?
Commodore Stockton strode across the day cabin toward Sven. Sven opened his mouth to explain. His voice froze in his throat.
Deep in his own thoughts, Commodore turned. He paced in the other direction.
With his secret safe, Sven slumped in relief.
“Last paragraph,” Commodore barked.
“Aye, aye, sir.” Sven spoke the words carefully, with no trace of an accent.
Commodore began his dictation.
With his hand still quivering, Sven turned the page and started again. He wrote quickly to keep up with Commodore’s report.
Commodore’s cabin was dim except for a lantern over the map table and one swinging over Sven’s small desk in the corner of the room. Melted wax from the late hour gutted both candles. Smoke hung in the air. Sven’s eyes watered. He bent his head closer to the page and squinted to see.
“The pompous old fool,” muttered Commodore. “Don’t write that down,” he bellowed.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Sven fired back.
In the month since Sven first boarded the USS Congress, he knew not to record Commodore’s true feelings. Commodore always scolded him not to include them in the reports.
Commodore swerved from his endless pacing. He stopped in front the map table with his legs a little more than shoulder-width apart, hands behind his back—the seaman’s pose. At six feet, two inches tall, Commodore had no trouble bracing a foot on either side of the table.
The sputtering candle cast a dizzying spell over Sven. Even after a month at sea, the water’s endless push and pull, the shifts and repositioning still made him sick. Tonight, the sea was even more restless than usual. The back of Sven’s throat burned. His stomach cramped.
Commodore loosened the tacks that held down the heavy cotton maps for their journey. He rolled up the top map of the pile and slipped it into a cubbyhole beneath the table. He turned back to the maps and sucked in a deep breath.
Worried by Commodore’s reaction, Sven craned his neck for a glimpse. The rocking lantern hurt his head.
Commodore shook his head. He jabbed the map hard four times.
“Finished, are you?” Commodore asked over his shoulder.
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Sven.
Thanks to his Mexican mother’s English teaching and practice with his best friend Todd Paul, Sven spoke English well. Still, he was grateful that his job for Commodore required few words from him.
Commodore stretched out his hand, a sign that dictation was over.
Sven clambered off his stool. He held Commodore’s official journal open with one finger. The deck slanted. Sven wobbled. He braced his legs, hoping not to slip as usual. Proud of himself for not falling, Sven handed over the journal.
Commodore read the dictated report Sven had written. Sven welcomed the break. He stretched his back. While he waited, Sven compared himself to Commodore. Standing at chest level to the great man, Sven knew he was lucky to be here with Commodore rather than below deck with the other boys.
The ship tossed. Sven widened his stance to steady himself. He wondered if only big men were heroes. Commodore was tall with wavy, black hair and bushy, mutton-chop sideburns that ran the length of his jaw. He looked like a big, black bear Sven had spotted rise up on its hind legs back home on the shore of Rio Nueces.
Sven edged closer to the map table. He pushed his lower lip between his teeth, afraid of what he would see there.
“Well done, my boy,” said Commodore. “Your writing skills improve daily.”
Muddled by the new map, the smoky air and rough sea, Sven nearly missed Commodore’s first-ever praise. A warm feeling swept over his fears of revealing his secret mission and that Commodore was his enemy.
“Thank you, sir,” said Sven.
The ship lurched. Sven clutched the map table. The wooden nails that secured the table to the deck boards creaked.
“When we arrive at our destination…” Commodore paused. He gazed off into a darkened corner of the room as if imagining the moment of arrival. His face glowed in the candlelight.
Commodore had kept their destination a secret from the crew and his officers, too. Only Sven knew they were headed to Alta California. Mexican officials back home had at least told him that much, though they had neglected to mention the voyage would last so long. Sven doubted he could survive seasickness much longer.
Commodore tossed the journal on the desk.
“You will write it all.” Commodore slapped the heel of his fist against his opened palm. Sven jumped at the sound.
“Dates, places, number of men.” He emphasized each word by shaking his hand and his fist together.
Sven’s ears perked up. Dates, places and number of men were the information the Mexican officials back home wanted.
“I will make history for the United States." Commodore aimed a finger at Sven. "You will record it.”
Commodore grasped either side of the map table and leaned over the new map he had uncovered. In the candlelight, his eyes turned shadowed and sunken. A dark furrow dug into his forehead. He blew out the lantern over the table, a signal he was finished.
“Better get to mess before the last scrap of supper is gone,” Commodore said on his way out.
“Yes, sir,” said Sven, disappointed not to learn more about Commodore’s plans. “I will, sir.”
The door closed behind Commodore. Immediately, what little peace that had settled over Sven from Commodore’s praise switched to guilt and confusion. A sense of doom pressed in against Sven’s chest. Rather than give into his hopeless panic, he snatched up his pen. He began copying the dictation from Commodore’s official journal into the secret journal the Mexican government had entrusted to Sven just before he boarded Commodore’s flagship. Only one other person onboard knew Sven was a spy for the Mexican government—his best friend, Todd Paul.
- 2 -
Cape Horn
Sven wrote quickly in the secret journal. When he was sure Commodore was not coming back, he dragged his writing stool to the map table. The rotten weather made his heart pound. He had a creepy feeling that eyes were watching his back.
Sven scrambled onto the stool. Using the flint Commodore had left on the map table, he relit the lantern.
Commodore had switched the maps four times since Sven joined his command. The first map Sven had seen made no sense until Commodore pointed out to him the Rio Nueces and followed its curve with his finger. Sven still had trouble grasping that a speck on the Mexican shore represented the town where he had grown up. Even smaller was the spot where he had been standing when he caught sight of the USS Congress and the spy idea first came to him. Two days later, Mexican officials had smuggled Sven and his friend Todd Paul from the Mexican side of the river to the American side. Two days after that, Sven and Todd Paul were standing on the deck of the American frigate as they sailed from the Rio Nueces into the Gulf of Mexico.
From there, they had moved steadily southeast, following the line of South America until they cut in for a stop at Rio de Janeiro. For the past four days, Commodore had followed the Argentina coastline.
The map Commodore had left on top this time showed no sign of the solid landmass that had been sitting off to the west. In Argentina’s place floated a collection of rugged islands shaped like a horseshoe.
Sven blinked his eyes. Everything about this map was different. The Atlantic Ocean still bound the east side of the map. But, now, instead of land at the bottom, the Southern Ocean sat there. Instead of land to the west, the Pacific Ocean flowed – the Sea of Peace and the largest ocean in the world.
At the southern-most tip of the map stood big, bold, red lettering—Cape Horn. Beneath that was a line drawing of giant waves. Smack in the middle loomed a legless lizard. Sven gagged.
His mother had warned him of a slick serpentine being. This one had sharp and pointy teeth. Its neck was thick and muscular. Unable to wrench his eyes away from the drawing, Sven slapped a hand over his mouth. Its lips curled back. Teeth dripped red.
What little food that was left in his stomach filled Sven’s hand. Fear crawled down his back. He fled Commodore’s day cabin.
Outside, the sky was black. The sea was heavy and raised. Sven stumbled to the side railing. He retched over the side of the frigate. At least this time none of the older boys were around to force him to eat his own vomit.
Great, glassy islands that, just that morning, Commodore had called icebergs had more than tripled in size. Some were taller even than the ship. They surrounded the frigate, circling like sharks for blood. Sven shivered. He pulled his jacket closer around him. The deck turned his bare feet cold.
The ship plunged ahead. The sea opened its mouth, pointy teeth and all, and threatened to swallow everything, including Sven.
Terrified to be alone, Sven bumped his way down three decks. In the mess, the crew’s voices roared against the noise of the storm. The smell of tar nearly took Sven to his knees. The crew had taken to rubbing tar on their clothes to weaterproof the material. The more foul the weather turned, the more tar they used.
Sven had trouble holding onto his cup of grub and staying upright against the ship’s rise and fall. Tables and benches were lowered between the cannons. He slid onto the bench next to Todd Paul. Sven, at twelve years old, and Todd Paul, at fourteen, were two of the youngest on the ship.
“Hey, small fry.” Todd Paul slapped him on the back. “You’re green.”
Sven caught himself before falling in his food. He glared, both for the reference to his small size and to his seasickness. Todd Paul held up both hands and scrunched his face in protest against Sven’s look. Tonight, not even his friend’s crossed-eyed crazy expression could make Sven smile.
Sven turned to Charlie-the-Swabber, the oldest sailor on the ship. White hair stuck out from under his favorite dingy nightcap.
“A new map,” said Sven, his voice hoarse. “With a sea monster on it.”
Charlie-the-Swabber’s lined and leathery face turned grey.
“Cape Horn?” he breathed.
Sven nodded.
The old man leaned up against one of the cannons and patted the iron as if hoping to ward off the evil eye.
Sven turned rigid. For Charlie-the-Swabber to be afraid made Sven even more scared. Sven knew all about being afraid. He searched for clues how to be brave.
Todd Paul laughed at Charlie-the-Swabber’s reaction to Sven’s news. He kneaded Sven in the ribs.
Charlie-the-Swabber leaned over the table. He grabbed both Sven and Todd Paul by their shirts with his meaty hands.
“Just ye laddies wait.” He squeezed hard. “Cape Horn…” He shook his head. “Temperatures so frigid you’ll freeze your coconuts off. Waves like monsters. Gale force winds.” He released them and mopped his face.
“Ah, it can’t be that bad.” Todd Paul gave another elbow to Sven’s ribs.
“Ye’ll soon find out what Cape Horn is.” Charlie-the-Swabber pulled his cap down over his ears and cleared his throat. “Aye, and just who you are, too.”
Sailors around all the tables leaned in closer. Charlie-the-Swabber was famous for the predicaments he pointed out. He reminded Sven of his grandfather. He, too, had been a doomer and gloomer. Three months ago, on the day he died, he had predicted disaster. It was the same day their enemy from across the river—the Republic of Texas—became part of the United States. After her father’s funeral, Sven’s mother charged that the worsening threat to their way of life had killed him.
Sven leaned forward like the other sailors, but he needn’t have bothered. Charlie–the-Swabber spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear him, even over the noise of the storm outside.
“Ye want to stay alive? Nary a ship in the history of all sailing has made the Cape Horn passage without a gale flying down to the leeward.” Charlie-the-Swabber rolled his eyes at each of them to be sure everyone was listening. “You best be careful and look lively.”
Sven did not know what flying down the leeward meant. But he did know gale winds could blow up to 50 knots and threaten the ship. Gooseflesh rose thick on his arms and neck.
Charlie-the-Swabber shook his head and left to tend to the cannons on the lower gundeck.
Todd Paul leapt to his feet and imitated Charlie-the-Scrubber. Eyes bugged out, he clutched his hands together.
“Cape Horn. Ohhhhhh.” Todd Paul wailed like a ghost.
Todd Paul fell to the bench. He laughed and pounded his fist against his leg. Sailors all around raised their cups and joined in the laughter.
Sven laughed, too, but ended up sounding more like a croaking bullfrog. He wished he were more like his friend beside him. Big and strong and capable of defending himself even against the bullies back home, Todd Paul had always watched out for Sven.
Suddenly, Sven knew his friend could not defend him from the sea serpent. Sven would be on his own for the coming disaster.
A great wave of homesickness for his mother came over him.
- 3 -
Monster of the Sea
The next day, the sky was dark and the sea high. The crew held its own against the weather. Sven hoped they would beat the odds and survive the journey. He imagined laughing about how they had slipped from the great storm Charlie-the-Scrubber had foretold. Still, his stomach rolled uneasy.
In his nervous state, Sven went as usual to Commodore’s cabin. He was surprised to find Commodore absent.
The ship lurched. Sven lost his footing. He sailed across the room and banged up against the door to Commodore’s private chambers. He groaned and clutched his shoulder. The ship slammed to the other side. Sven flung up against the opposite wall. A clattering hit the deck. Squalls pelted against the bulkhead.
The pipes summoned all hands. A cry of “Here comes Cape Horn!” sounded. The main deck rang with the drumming of bare feet.
Sven ran outside. Freezing rain hit his face.
From around the ship, hundreds of sailors emerged from below deck. What felt like at least fifty mile-per-hour winds scratched his face.
“All hands reef topsails,” cried the order.
Half the men dashed to their stations on deck. The other half divided and scrambled up the three towering and swaying masts. Before Sven could brush the ice from his face, they had shinnied up the rigging. They folded and rolled and made fast the sails most exposed to the wind.
The wooden sailing ship creaked and moaned.
Rain turned to hail and caused Sven’s nose to run. He lifted a hand to wipe it, but found the snot had already frozen on his upper lip. He could only breathe in short, shallow breaths.
Todd Paul ran toward Sven. He smelled like tar. Todd Paul tugged on Sven’s arm.
“Let’s go,” he shouted over the sound of splintering wood. Waves crashed against the ship.
Sven put both his hands around his mouth to make his voice louder.
“We’ll be safer inside the cabin than out here,” he shouted. The outer rocky point of the Horn loomed. His knees shook at the sight.
“We ain’t supposed to be safe.” Todd Paul’s voice had a sneer to it.
Sven frowned at Todd Paul’s tone, but he was too preoccupied making his way to the railing for support to object.
“We’re Jack Tars,” said Todd Paul, or jacks, for short, for the tar they used to weatherproof their clothes.
Charlie-the-Swabber ran up behind them. Without his cap, his white hair blew wild in the wind.
“Come on, laddies,” Charlie-the-Swabber shouted. “’Tis a storm to be fought. It will prepare ye for the bigger battle to come.”
Todd Paul nodded as if he knew what Charlie-the-Swabber was talking about.
“What bigger battle?” Sven grasped the old man’s arm. His legs shook so hard he could barely stand. He cocked his head in question at Todd Paul, but his friend had already moved away. Sven worried he had missed something a spy should know.
Charlie-the-Swabber shook off Sven’s hand and hurried on his way.
Sven ducked his head and followed. If Todd Paul knew about an upcoming battle, he would have told Sven. Sven bent before the wind and dragged his feet. He wasn’t cut out to be a sailor or a spy. Still, his place was beside Commodore. Maybe there he would learn more of the mysterious battle Charlie-the-Swabber had mentioned.
The wind squalled so loud his ears hurt. Over the noise, Commodore Stockton’s voice roared.
“Just enough canvas to make the vessel mind her helm,” he bellowed.
Todd Paul and Charlie-the-Swabber raced to their stations. Sven gritted his teeth and joined Commodore.
As Commodore’s secretary, Sven had two jobs. First, he recorded all Commodore’s reports, meetings with his officers, and dispatches in Commodore’s official journal. This was the information the officials back home wanted. They had especially stressed that he find everything he could about the American’s plans once they reached their destination—Alta California, any British involvement there, and all correspondences to or from the American President Polk.
Sven’s other job for Commodore was like now, to watch and then later describe the encounters at sea in Commodore’s official journal. Sven had not expected this job. Nor had he expected that Commodore liked flowery writing. Fancy words did not come easily for Sven. Worse, the task cut into the time he could be copying Commodore’s reports and dispatches into the secret journal.
Commodore towered over the quarterdeck. His face took the full brunt of the wind. He shouted encouragement to his officers and men. He bellowed at the weather to calm. He roared to his God to intervene. Hail filled the deck and clung to his hat and greatcoat. His storm-beaten cheeks blazed scarlet. His eyes glowed like hot coals.
Next to Commodore, Reverend Colton made the sign of the cross and last rites.
The waves kept coming. The winds kept rising.
Commodore called for everything to be taken in but the reefed topsails. Sven knew enough to understand that if the men were pulling down all the sails and leaving the masts bare, conditions were at their worst.
Before the crew was even halfway up the rigging, the wind gusted. Canvas plastered the men up against the masts. Tangled in the lines and rigging, sailors dangled and held on for their lives.
Sven gagged. His head ached.
Snow turned to sleet.
“Look,” someone shouted.
Sven turned to where the men pointed. Wind had snatched away the jib boom. Todd Paul grabbed a replacement jib. He ran to the bowsprit. A sailor held the jib while Todd Paul climbed off the deck.
“No,” shouted Sven. The wind whipped his word away. “Stop, Todd Paul.”
He ran to help his friend. Snow and sleet turned the deck boards slick. Sven stuck his hands out on either side of himself to keep from falling.
Charlie-the-Swabber grabbed him by the collar.
“Ye’ll only be in the way, laddie,” he hollered.
Todd Paul dangled over the ocean. Glassy icebergs loomed from all sides. Sven squirmed to get out of Charlie-the-Swabber’s grasp.
With one hand holding the replacement, Todd Paul used the other to inch his way out onto the boom. He struggled with the jib. The ship rose on the peak of a wall of waves, teetered, and plunged into a trough. Todd Paul disappeared from sight.
“Todd Paul,” gasped Sven. Tears sprang into his eyes.
He jerked out of Charlie-the-Swabber’s grasp. His coat ripped. He slid on the ice and sat down hard.
Todd Paul emerged out of the spray. The men cheered.
Todd Paul crawled back to safety.
Charlie-the-Swabber reached down a hand to Sven, but Sven turned away. Angry that Todd Paul would take such a risk, he wanted to sock his friend in the face. Instead, he crawled to his feet. As everyone rushed to batten down the hatches and call out congratulations to Todd Paul, Sven took advantage of the excitement and snuck away.
As far as Sven knew, Commodore had not noticed when he arrived. Surely, he would not notice him gone. Once he squelched his seasickness, he would rejoin Commodore. Todd Paul wasn’t the only brave one on board.
The deck heeled steeply. Sven clutched the side railing. Splintered wood froze under his hand. Waves slammed against the ship.
In his dizzy-state, Sven thought he saw a long, snake-like being appear. Out of the black and frothy sea arose a giant head with deep-sunken eyes. Water poured off scales and ran down its neck. Two eyes burned into Sven. Fire from the serpent’s breath flamed against his face. Sven fell back. He screamed.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Back to the Drawing Board
The story about Commodore Robert Field Stockton needs more work.
Close, but not there yet...
Need to get closer to the protagonist -- Sven.
Sven is twelve years old when the story takes place.
He is a great-grandfather by the time he tells his son,
who years later tells his daughter,
who tells my mother
the part our ancestor played in
the 1846 conquest of Norte California.
My father’s family passes down
a similar story
for equally as long.
Commodore Robert Field Stockton
tells his nephew, who tells his son, who tells his son,
who tells my father
the part our ancestor played in the conquest of California.
Following are both
Sven’s and the Commodore’s accounts of
the takeover of California in 1846
as told to me by
my mother and my father.
Close, but not there yet...
Need to get closer to the protagonist -- Sven.
Sven is twelve years old when the story takes place.
He is a great-grandfather by the time he tells his son,
who years later tells his daughter,
who tells my mother
the part our ancestor played in
the 1846 conquest of Norte California.
My father’s family passes down
a similar story
for equally as long.
Commodore Robert Field Stockton
tells his nephew, who tells his son, who tells his son,
who tells my father
the part our ancestor played in the conquest of California.
Following are both
Sven’s and the Commodore’s accounts of
the takeover of California in 1846
as told to me by
my mother and my father.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Stockton Story -- California Campaign 1846
This is the story of what happened after the Bear Flag revolt in California in 1846. I started the story about Commodore Robert Stockton more than fifteen years ago. On the second draft, a secondary character shanghaied the story. I put Robert's project in an overcrowded file drawer. The clutter scared me every time I opened the drawer. I kept the drawer closed.
A year or so ago, I purged my entire office. Yup. The drawer, too.
After that, the story wouldn't leave me alone. I soon realized that the only way I was going to get any peace was to tell the story. I messed around with who should tell the story.
Finally, I've settled on telling the story from a cabin boy's point of view.
The protagonist's name is Sven. He and his mother and six brothers and sisters moved from Sweden to Texas a year ago. Sven is always in trouble for fighting kids who laugh at his Swedish accent. Two days after the USS sails into the Galveston Bay, his mom takes him to the harbor. They board a skiff that takes them out to the ship where his mother presents him to Commodore Robert Field Stockton.
When the USS Congress sails to California, Sven is onboard as the Commodore's personal scribe. The Commodore wants the voyage documented. Sven is to record everything the Commodore says. Thanks to his mother, Sven can write English much better than he speaks the language. His penmanship is perfect. Plus, he is quick and knows how to fend for himself.
At first Sven loves life at sea. The air is always fresh. The crew is friendly. He has a box of beautiful quill pens and five bottles of ink. However, after they round Cape Horn, Sven becomes determined to escape the ship and find a way back home. The treacherous water and wind and storms and ghosts terrified all the joy of the sea right out of him.
A year or so ago, I purged my entire office. Yup. The drawer, too.
After that, the story wouldn't leave me alone. I soon realized that the only way I was going to get any peace was to tell the story. I messed around with who should tell the story.
Finally, I've settled on telling the story from a cabin boy's point of view.
The protagonist's name is Sven. He and his mother and six brothers and sisters moved from Sweden to Texas a year ago. Sven is always in trouble for fighting kids who laugh at his Swedish accent. Two days after the USS sails into the Galveston Bay, his mom takes him to the harbor. They board a skiff that takes them out to the ship where his mother presents him to Commodore Robert Field Stockton.
When the USS Congress sails to California, Sven is onboard as the Commodore's personal scribe. The Commodore wants the voyage documented. Sven is to record everything the Commodore says. Thanks to his mother, Sven can write English much better than he speaks the language. His penmanship is perfect. Plus, he is quick and knows how to fend for himself.
At first Sven loves life at sea. The air is always fresh. The crew is friendly. He has a box of beautiful quill pens and five bottles of ink. However, after they round Cape Horn, Sven becomes determined to escape the ship and find a way back home. The treacherous water and wind and storms and ghosts terrified all the joy of the sea right out of him.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
LONG TERM GOAL
My long-term goal with this blog and the school visits is to expand students understanding of California History. My desire is to bring Commodore Stockton's name recognition to the same level as John C. Fremont.
Stockton took part in nearly every major historical event during his lifetime = War of 1812, Algerian War, founding of Liberia, Raritan and Camden Canal, the first screw-propelled battleship for the US Navy, the Conquest of California, The Peace Conference. For California students, he provides the most exciting part of the California Conquest.
I love any opportunity to share my passion about this great American patriot.
Stockton took part in nearly every major historical event during his lifetime = War of 1812, Algerian War, founding of Liberia, Raritan and Camden Canal, the first screw-propelled battleship for the US Navy, the Conquest of California, The Peace Conference. For California students, he provides the most exciting part of the California Conquest.
I love any opportunity to share my passion about this great American patriot.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Chapter One
- 1 -
Commodore Robert Field Stockton
California
USS Congress
July 14, 1846
Off the north coast
Three years before the Gold Rush, a fierce storm blew off the northern coast of California. Officers and the crew of the USS Congress fought gale winds and a soaking rain to keep in sight of land. A tumultuous Northwestern had driven them 235 miles in 24 hours. The old frigate, weighted down with sixty thirty-two-pounder long guns, tossed in the Pacific Ocean as if the boat were a mere toothpick.
Commodore Robert Field Stockton gripped the railing on the poopdeck, pummeled by the rain and slammed by waves.
Conditions are as severe as they had found at Cape Horn with no sign of letting up. The longer it took to reach land, the more Commodorer considered the lads’ rumors true; California was protected by a ring of treachery. Considering the jagged mountains to the north and east, parched desert to the south and deadly storms to the west, Commodore reminded himself again why, at his age, he was halfway around the world, facing war. Commodore paced back and forth on the splintered and worn down deck. He had come too far to be swallowed up by the sea or by his self-doubt.
As old as a grandfather, great grandfather really, his elbows moved stiffly and his knees ached. He should be in bed at home in Princeton, New Jersey. Instead, after more than eight months at sea, he faced the very real possibility that the ship would sink before reaching land. Or worse, they would arrive too late.
Commodore peered out the darkened window. The north coast of California disappeared into fog as thick as rice pudding. If that weren’t bad enough, aft a British frigate in pursuit gained on them. The urgency that had gripped him last night at the first sighting of the British ship twisted even tighter now.
A charge like a spark flicked against fog as grey as flint.
Commodore Robert Field Stockton
California
USS Congress
July 14, 1846
Off the north coast
Three years before the Gold Rush, a fierce storm blew off the northern coast of California. Officers and the crew of the USS Congress fought gale winds and a soaking rain to keep in sight of land. A tumultuous Northwestern had driven them 235 miles in 24 hours. The old frigate, weighted down with sixty thirty-two-pounder long guns, tossed in the Pacific Ocean as if the boat were a mere toothpick.
Commodore Robert Field Stockton gripped the railing on the poopdeck, pummeled by the rain and slammed by waves.
Conditions are as severe as they had found at Cape Horn with no sign of letting up. The longer it took to reach land, the more Commodorer considered the lads’ rumors true; California was protected by a ring of treachery. Considering the jagged mountains to the north and east, parched desert to the south and deadly storms to the west, Commodore reminded himself again why, at his age, he was halfway around the world, facing war. Commodore paced back and forth on the splintered and worn down deck. He had come too far to be swallowed up by the sea or by his self-doubt.
As old as a grandfather, great grandfather really, his elbows moved stiffly and his knees ached. He should be in bed at home in Princeton, New Jersey. Instead, after more than eight months at sea, he faced the very real possibility that the ship would sink before reaching land. Or worse, they would arrive too late.
Commodore peered out the darkened window. The north coast of California disappeared into fog as thick as rice pudding. If that weren’t bad enough, aft a British frigate in pursuit gained on them. The urgency that had gripped him last night at the first sighting of the British ship twisted even tighter now.
A charge like a spark flicked against fog as grey as flint.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Getting Started
Until the blog is fully functional, please feel free to visit
http://www.blockbusterplots.com/teachers.html
for information about me and my school visits offerings.
http://www.blockbusterplots.com/teachers.html
for information about me and my school visits offerings.
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