“Samson comes for into the open air, into a place nigh, therefor to bemoan his condition.”
-Samson Agonistes, Milton
…
Men of the Sea called and hauled, wrangled blocks and tackles, reefed sails and in many smaller ways engendered the quayside ruckus inimical to their wayward kind.
Young Peter, at the cusp of the 18th year upon this earth, soon to share that number of birthdays with that of The Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, felt that chill that ever accompanied the realization that bishops and patriarchs of old long ago had determined a date for the birth of Jesus that would mark also Peter’s small coming into this cold, cruel world. Peter sat next to Father, Peter-Grim, Lord of Ravensport, a man who towered still above him in his young life, despite their equal height. The Grims ruled below Snoqualamie Pass, within sight, behind them, if one were a gull, a mere 40 English miles distant if one were a crow set on a frosty perch among those Misty Mountain to his back, mountains that sent their chill just now.
The wagon, drawn by four mules, followed by two good mountain ponies, was trailed by Esch the Cossack convict, Anton the Spanish Overseer, Brule the half-breed Muckleshoot-Scotsman Bondman, and Farve the French-Asinibone runaway bondman, was handled by Father. The reigns, whip and brake worked in unison, signaling a full halt before the Grand Pier. This 20 foot wide, 160 foot long structure of hewn cedar, held by piles of trunks five feet thick, accommodated at full bustle a half dozen pinnaces, snows, sloops and ketches, even Chinook whaling canoes, or two ships.
At this moment of morning, for they had driven through the night, a Spanish sloop, a tea trader with but four guns and as many lateen sail, stood moored on the south side. On the north side, was moored an Italian Sloop of War of 16 guns, flying the Vatican Flag of Popery! Both rivers of Peter’s ancestral blood vied in religious war, for Granny Svet was of Russian Minor Royalty out of Siberia, of the Orthodox Faith, and Pappy Grim was of English blood on one side, and heathen Estonian lineage on the other, Catholic with a taint of warpaint from Great Granny. Hence, Peter Grim, their son, married to a fine Spanish Bride taken fair and square at sword point on a raid on Acapulco, 19 years gone, was, in many ways the perfectly suited Lord of Far Dastardy, as Pappy had called it, Nether Alaska as Granny had named it.
The Lords of the Sound, Erlik, Ivan and Gustavus, nodded in recognition to Peter Grim from where they stood at the landward end of the pier, tilting their fur caps, each attended by two strong sons and as many men at arms, burly with mail, sword and pistol.
Lord Tuck of Enumclaw was nearer, back to the depot shed, standing with ought but his two fair daughters, orange of hair, a little son of four, his weeping wife, and two servants. A wagon, likewise drawn by four mules and trailing 2 mountain ponies was parked, attended by, Mister Plank their Goodman. The company stood off by the south shacks. [1] Lord Tuck, a merchant really, seemed beaten and pale, doffed his cap to Peter Grim, chief of the three Lords of the Misty Mountains.
The third, Jon Ball of Ball Station was there, attended by his two grown sons, his fragile Irish wife, along the side of the muddy street occupied by the trading post of Cod Gee, the Scot pirate turned fur monger. Jon had no goods, had traded all, his bondmen secured in shackles and scoured by tears, set to board the Spanish tea trader. Jon, Pure English proxy of the Back Tier, barely recognized by the Manchuko Russian Lords of the Sound, doffed his hat to Father as well. Peter Grim, Lord of the Back Tier, merely tilted his black, bearskin hat, dismounting the steering board to greet them in surly temper, for he and his keen son read the situation on the instant!
“What is this, Tuck, Ball—tucking balls on me I see, off wit’ ye to sea!”
Lord Tuck wept, “Strong Peter, I have lost my sons to the heathen, nay, to monsters out of Canady! My wife can take no more—nor I, aye.”
Peter Grim patted the broken wretch on the back with his left hand and turned to the stronger man, Ball, standing taller than Peter’s wide frame of six clean feet, with pointed finger, “You, Ball, ye are no trade post man like Tuck, but a veteran of war, a man of the sea! You leave me alone on the Back Tier with but one young son?”
Ball walked towards him, a bit on the simmer, “Dear Peter, if you knew what were good for you—”
“Cooorack,” sounded Jon Ball’s jaw as it broke under the impact of Peter Grim’s heavy fist.
The Lords of the Sound, higher up types than the men of the Back Tier, turned in astonishment as the wind from the Misty Mountains bit colder and blew sleet. A host of Indians, Chinooks, Coltz, Snoqualamie, Tacoma, who had been camping behind the sheds, the women having dragged all their goods down from the Back Tier under shelter of the guns of Fort Ivanstar, appeared to gawk.
Peter Grim called to the Two Sons of Ball, “Here, gaff swords! Bear your father onboard, and I shall permit ye to keep yer swords only so as to protect your fair mother’s honor at sea!”
Cowed, the men did so, with bowed heads, raising their father, lolling, his sword belt dragging as he was borne off.
Peter swelled with pride and leapt down by Father’s side, “And, Father?”
Peter Grim, no taller than his son, but twice as broad and covered like a Sasquatch in thick face fur to his son’s downy fuzz, grinned, “Son, free those bondmen of their shackles and wrangle them here to hand.”
They both approached the line of six men of various races, Peter growling, “I am payin’ ye price. Ye know me to be hard and fair. I need fellers and carpenters to wall Ravensport. Ye men up fer it, under the Misty Gale, or would ye prefer be buggered in a slant-eyed jail in trade of tea?”
“We’re your men, Lord Grim,” called the lead bondman, who had yesterday enjoyed near free status as the boss of the others, a tall bald fellow with long yellow beard and a threadbare canvas cap on his head.
Peter doffed his fur hat, placed it on that cold pate, drew the shackle key from where it hung on Cod Gee’s door post. There the Vile Scot loomed gigantic among men, chewing his tobacky cud and waited to be returned the irons. Peter Grim’s thick hair was ruffled in the breeze as Overseer Ball led the others over to Young Peter, who handed the Overseer the lead, and asked too nicely, he knew, “If you please, tend to the team and haul down the furs so that our footmen may refresh at Gee’s bar.”
“Yes, Young Sir,” said Overseer Ball as the tasks were fallen to with eager hands.
To Anton he turned and spoke, never above the level, not having Father’s boom of a voice, “Good Anton, warm your crew at the Bar, hot whiskey coffee, I suggest, as we turn right back around once the trades have been made. And, when Overseer Ball, your assistant now, and his men are done here, invite them as well, on Father’s account—no drunkeness, but only good cheer.”
The Ball Crew cheered and bustled the harder as the three Grim Footmen fairly skipped to Gee’s tavern, adjoining his trade house. Anton paced there with his stayed Spanish dignity.
Peter joined Father, who patiently glared at Gee, in this game of theirs in which they pretended to be enemies until a third party joined the conversation, then both turned on Young Peter as he hoped they would:
Father: “And you, Squirt what mean ye interrupting our terrible affray—we be bastard bothers upon ye!”
Young Peter grinned at Father who glowered like some storybook Wendigo, keeping up good show. Peter then looked up to Gee, a really big brawn of a man, who guffawed, “Why, Young Peter, ye are not half so ugly as my bastard dastard brother from another mother! If I had a daughter, ye could betroth her and make half-wit babies!”
Young Peter extended his hand for the crushing clasp. Taking it gently in his great claw, Gee snarled, “Ye are handy wit the sword and mights needs it this day. The Three Lords Sound, all at this once loose from their dog pounds, mean mischief, en something queer here is tied up from Grande Popery by the Great Pier. I would not joke such a deft sword hand who would by me stand.”
With that, Cod Gee, once the terror of at least one southerly sea, patted his enormous knife that ever slung from his hip, some wicked blade out of a hell called Nippon where swordsmen ply such steel on wooden sandals.
The big pirate winked and father nodded, so Peter begged the obvious, that being his role among such knowing men, “Uncle Gee, what is the business of such swarthy, gay-clad men up from the sea, from Popery?”
…
Notes
-1. A Goodman was a volunteer servant, a bondman for life, brought into the family as a beloved uncle, who, tradition has it, is ever the most honest and thrifty of any house, who at once keeps the Master and Lady’s mutual secrets and sees to the goods, servants and children’s moral needs. These sometimes serve also as overseers, but are poor at it as a rule, being not half so cruel as required.
