Chapter Three

Captain Amos Foster heaved an enormous sigh of relief when the Betty Bright signaled and was allowed to proceed toward the newer London Docklands. He reminded himself where the West Indies Dock was located. It was one of the first enclosed wharves built in this still-new century, designed to protect cargo from thievery, which his father called “port piracy.”

There it was. Captain Foster eased the Betty Bright to a safe anchorage, the merchant vessel’s first crossing of the Atlantic in five years, brought about by the ratifying of a treaty signed in Ghent with the British, and then the end of Napoleon’s romp through Europe at Waterloo. Peace at last.

Amos looked at his lieutenant, cousin Mark Mason. He was a good luff and a joker who rolled his eyes when they anchored. He collapsed into a fake faint on the deck and lay there laughing. “By God, we did it, Captain!” Mark declared finally, then stood up and brushed himself off.

What a relief, indeed. Papa was gone now, but Amos hoped, in some maritime/mercantile theology, that Daniel Foster knew they still had one ship left out of the four in their little fleet. The first sank in a hurricane in the West Indies. The other two were sold for scrap because war had wounded American shipping to the death…. almost. Betty alone remained, and she had made an excellent crossing with a hold full of New World cargo that he knew England wanted, and soon: beaver pelts a-plenty, lumber from his country’s inexhaustible forests, naval stores of tar and resins, and kegs and kegs of rum, which hopefully hadn’t been tapped too often by the crew on the voyage. A little he always overlooked, but not a lot, and the men who sailed with him knew it. He also knew they were as grateful as he was to be in business again.

The next matter of business was as important as this entry into the enclosed dock that had welcome Foster vessels before war ended commerce. Was Pa’s London agent willing to be his, as well? Adam scanned the row of houses of business lining the wharf. There it was: Godbe and Sons, Maritime Procurers.

“Tie her up and lower the plank, Mark,” he told his cousin. “Let’s see if we still have friends willing to trade.”

Mark Mason bellowed out orders and the men sprang to their duties. Amos wished he could practice walking up and down the non-moving deck to remind his sea legs to retire now. He remembered the awkward sight of whalers in New Bedford after a three years’ voyage, with their curious rolling gait on land. True, this voyage had taken only six weeks, with fair winds.

As it was, he took his papers from his cabin and descended the plank. He took a few cautious steps. It wasn’t so far to the door, but his sea legs still moved in that seamen’s swagger when he knocked out of politeness, because the sign read, “Do come in.”

He did come in, recognizing Gilbert Godbe at his untidy desk – how did the man keep everything in order? – and felt a pang when Mr. Godbe looked over his shoulder, as if waiting for Daniel Foster to appear.

“Mr. Godbe, I wish he were here, too,” he said simply.

He recalled Mr. Godbe’s inclination toward philosophy, so the maritime procurer’s comment comforted him. “Time and tide,” was his equally simple comment. A New England minister might have said something about “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” but this wasn’t New England and Godbe was no Puritan.

“Aye, sir. The Betty Bright is mine now,” Amos said. “Pa taught me everything he knew, howsomever.”

“So he did. You are here as proof, eh?”

“Aye again, and ready to bargain, if you and I are no longer enemies.”

“We never were, lad,” Mr. Godbe said with that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “We’ll leave that nonsense to governments. Would you like some tea and biscuits that haven’t been in a keg for a month or two?”

“Or two years and then some,” Amos said, and felt a weight leave his shoulders. He preferred coffee but this was England, after all. “We just sealed the kegs and hoped for the best!”

The business went quickly. Adam gave the manifest to Mr. Godbe, who read, and nodded, and wasted not a moment in stating his price. The haggling that followed seemed more of a tradition, because the prices offered were evidence that England still needed upstart, raw America and her goods. Done and done.

Now came the next important part, the one that might include a future. To Amos’s continued relief, Mr. Godbe wasted not a moment. “Give me ten days and I know I can fill your hold with goods bound at last for America. Are you interested?”

Oh, why hem and haw and hunt around for better bargains, as Pa liked to do? “Aye, sir. Let’s fill that hold for a return voyage.”

They finished bare minutes later. Godbe wasted not a moment in another signature from Amos, then added his own, as bona fide agent.

“Beyond filling your hold, are you staying long?” Mr. Godbe asked, after handshakes and signing.

He never liked to talk about it, but Adam told his Docklands agent the fate of the other three Foster ships. “War took its toll and I need to keep moving,” he said. “I’ve told the crew we could hope for a week or two here.”

“You know where I would house them,” his agent said. “What say you?”

“Aye, again.”

Mr. Godbe walked him to the door, congenial to the end. No wonder Pa would work with no other. Amos had his own question. “Sir, how are those sons of yours? I want Godbe and Sons to be around forever.”

Mr. Godbe’s expression changed and Amos wished he had no spoken so jovially. “I mean…”

Godbe’s hand on his arm told Amos the measure of his courtesy and perhaps his need to lean for a moment. “War took its toll, as you said. My namesake gone in a battle with France, but his brother still lives. He’s lighter a leg from another battle, but game to sit behind this deck someday.”

“I’m sorry,” Amos said. Time and tides.

Mr. Godbe opened the door, then closed it. He snapped his fingers. “A moment, Amos. I have a letter specifically for you. It’s three years old but…wait here.”

The agent rummaged, returned, and held out the letter, pointing to the return address. “I always tremble a bit when I see something from a solicitor, but maybe your heart is purer than mine!”

Adam laughed and opened the letter, which bore a Hampshire address. Ashfield. “If you don’t mind, sir, let me read this in your presence. I might not know the ins and outs of…we mainly just call them attorneys.”

Amos read it twice, then handed it to Mr. Godbe, who did the same. He handed it back. “Lad, it appears that you have some property in Ashfield and a deceased grandfather with you in mind when he made a will. You corresponded with him?”

“I did, at my father’s insistence,” Amos said. “Walter Ince was my stepmother’s father.”

“Wasn’t there also a Foster Fleet ship named Cathy Foster ?” Godbe asked. “Just curious.”

“Aye, sir. Pa was married first to Betty Mason, my mother. She died too young and he married Catherine Ince. She’s your Cathy Foster .”

“Then the Betty Bright is named after your birth mother?”

“Aye. That was Pa’s pet name for her. She was a bonny lady, from all reports. I was too young to remember her, more’s the pity.”

“I recall Cathy Foster. She sailed with your father now and then didn’t she?”

“Briefly, and so did I, before my stepbrother and sister came along. Mama – I’ve always called her that – is still alive and lives in Connecticut. A great and jolly soul.”

“I had a stepmother.” Godbe shuddered elaborately. “Oof! You were lucky.”

“I know. She treats me like her own. Regarding my stepmother, it seems there was a falling out with her sister, who married into a proper family and didn’t approve of American seamen. The sister married Peter Tifton, a man as snobby as she is, apparently.”

“When did you begin your correspondence with your grandfather?” Mr. Godbe asked.

“I was eleven, I think, and curious to know about my stepmother’s family.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Mr. Godbe joked.

Amos tapped the solicitor’s letter. “I never met my Grandpa Ince. I know we weren’t actually related, but he liked my letters and insisted I call him Grandpa. Letters stopped with the war, of course, and I had wondered if he still lived.” He looked at the man whom he knew was already adept at guiding him through English maritime business. “What would you do, if you were I?”

“Go to Ashfield and surprise a solicitor,” Mr. Godbe said immediately. He glanced at the letter. “I’ve heard that Tifton name. Heard some rumors. They’re rich, but… Maybe you’d best avoid them!”

“I wish I could.” Amos smiled. “I intend to be an impeccable ambassador for my upstart country! See you in two weeks, sir, and ready to sail home.”

“It’ll be Christmas.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open for the Wise Men, now that shipping lines are open.”

“That’s a tad flippant, Captain, if I may say so.”

“Sir, I have one ship remaining of a four-fleet enterprise,” Amos replied, stating his case as firmly as he could without seeming rude. He wanted to add that he didn’t have time this Christmas to admire holly and berries, drink wassail and sing carols. He just wanted to get home with a cargo.

Oh, Lord, he said precisely that. Mr. Godbe listened, shook his head, then waggled his finger. “Could be the Almighty will give you something to think about besides commerce.”

“Maybe next Christmas, sir,” he said. “Aye, next Christmas.”

Mr. Godbe shrugged. His eyes were kind, though. “We’ll see what the season has in store for you.”