Island on the Bay
by Grover C. Cooper

         A pervasive sense of gloom and ominousness hung over the Baltimore Inner Harbor area, accentuated by the lateness of the hour, the new moon, which meant no moon, and the cloud cover that had blown in since nightfall. Perhaps all large city harbor areas have this oppressive feeling of danger due in large part to the transient nature of the ships that lay berthed, packed side by side against the quay, ships with crews from all over the world and of questionable character; crews that are here today and who disappear with their ships in the middle of the night, or whenever the tide serves, bound for distant and often, exotic sounding ports. Crimes, including robbery and murder, are common amongst the transient inhabitants of this world, and since the sailing ships are always short of able bodied crew members, it is a foolish youth who dares to frequent the area late at night. The shanghaiing of young men is not uncommon, either though potions slipped into their drinks at the numerous bars that line the waterfront, or though outright manhandling the passerby onto the departing boat, the unlucky passenger not awaking to realize his fate until they are far out on the Chesapeake Bay, or into the ocean beyond. It would be a long time wait, indeed if ever, for his return to family and friends who have long since given him up for dead.

         But the Baltimore harbor in the mid 1800s was especially dreary, the low two and three storied row houses close up to and overlooking the bulkheading where the ships were all tied, and then behind them and stretching out for miles, an endless sea of similar, red bricked houses, small and jammed together cheek by jowl. The scrubbed white entrance steps which the poor residents of this inner city area had affected to show their pride had the reverse effect of adding almost an institutional depressiveness to the area. Running right in front of the packed houses that bordered the harbor was first a narrow, concrete sidewalk, and then a reasonably wide cobblestone street which precisely paralleled the edge of the harbor. The street abutted on a wooden wharf or walkway which went right up to the creosoted and tarred bulkheading that formed the harbor quay. In summer, with the scorching sun, the bulkhead boards and large pilings that held them in, reeked of creosote and as it leeched into the harbor water, gave the harbor an artificial glassy sheen.

         But it was November now, with the summer shipping activity showing signs of tailing off for the winter so the tar and creosote receded into an almost pleasant, waterfront aroma. The Almanac had promised a severe and cold winter and other well recognized signs supported the prognosis, things like the narrowing band of yellow on the woolly worm, and other wisdoms known to the men who lived by pitting their wits against nature. The weather tonight also supported the cold winter theory, the wind having picked up from the northwest since day ended and by 1 or 2 AM was blowing hard, not a gale wind, but approaching one. With it came a lower level of dark clouds, scudding swiftly over the town, and under an already solid, higher level cloud cover. These low level clouds brought small, intermittent, squalls of cold rain, some even accompanied with a few flakes of snow and sleet.

         The sailing ships themselves were berthed right at the bulkheading, tied next to each other with their sterns against the bulkhead permitting the crews to get on and off the boats. So the impression was of a forest of masts lining the harbor as far as you could see in either direction. There was no boat movement out on the harbor at this time and other than the occasional dark and skulking cat, no other sign of life. The few oil lamp posts that lined the cobblestone street gave just enough light to allow one to see where the street was, but not much else. The irregular stone of the street glistened in its wetness. The houses that lined the street were mostly bars and shops that served the special needs of the sailors, ranging in everything from shops that sold cordage and oakum to those whose interiors were filled with the hot smell of booze and perfume and willing hostesses, an absolute necessity for the ship crews. But by this time most of the noise was gone and only a few lights remained on, mostly in the upper floors of the houses, these serving as the living quarters for the numerous bar and shop owners.   

         This quiet scene was violated by the sudden opening of a bar door, with a pool of bright light streaming out onto the narrow sidewalk. Then, with much yelling and cursing, a man was thrust through the opened door, in the grips of two large and husky bar tenders, each wearing dirty white aprons over their otherwise plain clothing. One was a little older looking than the other and seemed to be the owner, or in charge. Standing with his hands on his hips he yelled at the man who had been ejected. "Get out and stay out, you drunk and if I ever catch you near my daughter or wife again, I'll cut you into small enough pieces to use for crab bait". With that both bar tenders reentered the bar and the one addressed by these rude remarks stood in the street, insolently staring back at them. Though the light was dim you could easily see that this was no ordinary sailor or resident of the area. He had on a fashionable top coat, and as he wiped off his top hat, and adjusted his expensive looking cravat, he looked the part of the young Baltimore society member - which was exactly what he was.

         Looking confidently about him he reached into his inner coat breast pocket and pulled out a large, but thin, silver flask, and deftly removing the top with one hand, raised it to his mouth and took a long drink. As he reinserted the flask into his coat he wiped his lips with the opposite coat sleeve, and then pulled the soft coat collar up tightly around his neck. Reaching into his side pocket he pulled out a large, specially made for him, crooked Virginia cigar. He lit a wooden match against a dry place on one of the light poles and then turned and slowly looked the area over, an area very familiar to him. At that moment it was not raining but the wind was increasing in its intensity and, other than the dull roar of the wind over head, the only other sounds were those of the clang and banging of the ships metal rigging against the masts, and the high whine of the wind though the taut rigging. Having surveyed the scene he started walking down toward the warehouse section of the waterfront. Every few moments he would stop and rather carefully examine a boat, the rake of its masts, the intricacy of the roping and blocking and the like. Finally he stopped at one boat that sat a little lower in the water than the others around it, and he thought it was cut of a different cloth. It was clearly a Chesapeake built boat, but was neither one of the later to be developed bugeyes nor skipjacks, but something resembling both. But it was wider and appeared to be built for sailing in shallow waters and carrying a heavy load for a long way. He admired the lines and was in the process of moving about to get a better view of her in the dim light available. But then a cold rain squall hit. 

         He was not the kind of man to suffer when any sort of solution was available, whether it was his to use or someone else's - somewhat of a royal prerogative in his own mind. Almost all of the other boat sterns had netting or some other obstruction erected to keep strangers off their boats, but the one in particular that he had been admiring, rather than having a boarding impediment, had a convenient, wide open boarding ramp, in place. So without another thought, he went on board, stamping his foot and yelling to raise up anyone who might be there, but receiving no immediate response, went to the stern hatch. It was securely locked, as was one farther forward. He was getting annoyed now with the rain increasing in intensity and starting to run down his neck. There was one more hatch, the farthest forward, and as he approached it, he could see that it was slid back slightly and was open. He quickly pushed it all the way open, turned and as he descended into the darkness, slid the lid closed. It was warm and moist inside but absolutely pitch black. Fumbling into his coat and pants pockets he finally came up with a match, and striking it against the ladder he had descended, looked about. The small room, or cabin, was jam packed with large and small barrels, coils of rope of different dimensions, a variety of large bolts of plain and flowered cloth, folded sails and other dry goods store supplies. Right up forward, where the keelson rose to the prow of the boat there was a mass of sail canvas, not folded, but loosely spread out like it had been put there to dry out, and rather than being folded neatly where the moisture would be retained, it was spread all across the inter bow area of the boat. With the match showing his way he went over to this comfortable looking place and blowing the match out, sat down and made himself snug. He pulled enough of the canvas up under him to give some cushion, and then backing up against the bulkhead, he carefully wrapped his feet in the sail.

         This was the most comfortable he had been since he left the fireside of the bar a bit ago. He loosened his coat collar, his cravat, and took another long drink from his flask. He had consumed enough drink that evening to put two ordinary men unconscious on the floor, but long practice and exposure to liquor had given him notable stamina in this regard. Not that he was an old drunk, in sorry physical condition. Indeed he was only 25 years old, and was in surprisingly good physical shape, considering the abuse he slammed at his body. But he was drunk and sleepy now, even though he didn't particularly show it. He extracted another of his Virginia crooks from his pocket, and after lighting it, carefully extinguished the match. Then he lay there, luxuriating in his warm comfort and listening to the gale wind and driving rain against the deck over his head. Soon though, the sounds of the storm and the gentle movement of the boat in its berth, had him nodding, and finally, soundly asleep, the cigar still clutched tightly in his hand.