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Authors: Katherine Govier
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revenue cutter. The good reverend’s hospitality did not fail. The boy assistant had to be let go, as he quarreled with Maria. She was Audubon’s companion throughout the day, his confidant, his pet.
This much had happened before.
But another part was new, and unfamiliar. There were three of them. The third was the Reverend Bachman, who rapidly became Audubon’s dear friend. The reverend called Maria his sweetheart. Audubon followed his lead, daringly. The three of them were always laughing. I am not your sweetheart nor yours either, she would say to the men. But then she would be alone with Audubon, and they wouldlaugh and tease and kiss close against the back of her brother-in-law’s house, where they could not be seen from the window. He prayed that the revenue cutter would be delayed.
One day a caller came to Rutledge Avenue, a man by the name of Martin. Audubon did not connect the caller with his sweetheart; he was hardly aware of Maria as having another name. A servant announced him. The women scattered. Harriet shut her door and could not be roused. Maria for once lost her composure. She came to Audubon in the study. “Jean Jacques” — she spoke to him in French — “you must tell him to go away. Tell him there is no one at home who can see him. The Reverend Bachman is out on calls.”
Audubon went to the parlour, where the man waited. He was small, with a waistcoat that fairly bulged with entitlement. He wanted to see Maria. “You may not,” said Audubon. “The Reverend Bachman is out on calls.”
“It is not the Reverend Bachman I have come to see.” The man Martin laid his hand on his belly, over his watch chain.
Audubon was forced to insist that the man leave. When Martin said he would come back with a letter, Audubon determined that this letter would not make its way into Maria’s hands.
The next morning at dawn they walked in the garden. She told him that the man was her father. He had left his family when he fell in love with another woman. He had moved a hundred miles away and had a bastard child, perhaps more than one. Her mother had died of the shame and Maria was left dependent on Reverend Bachman’s kindness.
“You could have married?” breathed Audubon.
“It set me against marriage,” said Maria.
“Did you have a suitor?”
“I never met a man I could love,” she said. “I have my work. I will paint. I will learn with your help. If you do not think me too bold, I will come with you into the wild.”
The revenue cutter arrived, and Audubon had to go.
FOGBOUND
The fogs which accompany Easterly Gales extend high up into the atmosphere and cannot be looked over from any part of the rigging of a ship. They, however, are not so thick as those which occur in calms after a strong wind. These are frequently so dense as to conceal a vessel within hail. The former often, but not always, admit the land, or other objects, to be distinguished at the distance of half a mile, or more, in the day time. The Dense Fogs, which occur in calms, often extend only to small elevations above the sea. It sometimes happens that when objects are hidden at the distance of 50 yards from the deck they can be plainly seen by a person 50 or 60 feet up the rigging.
— Sailing Directions for the Gulf and River of St. Lawrence , Henry Wolsey Bayfield, Captain, Royal Navy
T he Gulnare is trapped in fog. Captain Bayfield can do nothing else and therefore he tries to take the dimension, the measure of this fog.
The sea is perfectly calm. Captain Bayfield, or Henry, as he thinks sometimes thinks of himself (someone has to), has climbed to the very top of the Gulnare ’s rigging. He loves to scale her heights, to top her, even now, when she is listless, her sails loose against the mast. In her “dishabills,” as the Irish seamen say.
Fog has its comforts; it affords a little privacy in the constricted quarters of a schooner. From here, he cannot see her deck below. Which means, of course, that no
This much had happened before.
But another part was new, and unfamiliar. There were three of them. The third was the Reverend Bachman, who rapidly became Audubon’s dear friend. The reverend called Maria his sweetheart. Audubon followed his lead, daringly. The three of them were always laughing. I am not your sweetheart nor yours either, she would say to the men. But then she would be alone with Audubon, and they wouldlaugh and tease and kiss close against the back of her brother-in-law’s house, where they could not be seen from the window. He prayed that the revenue cutter would be delayed.
One day a caller came to Rutledge Avenue, a man by the name of Martin. Audubon did not connect the caller with his sweetheart; he was hardly aware of Maria as having another name. A servant announced him. The women scattered. Harriet shut her door and could not be roused. Maria for once lost her composure. She came to Audubon in the study. “Jean Jacques” — she spoke to him in French — “you must tell him to go away. Tell him there is no one at home who can see him. The Reverend Bachman is out on calls.”
Audubon went to the parlour, where the man waited. He was small, with a waistcoat that fairly bulged with entitlement. He wanted to see Maria. “You may not,” said Audubon. “The Reverend Bachman is out on calls.”
“It is not the Reverend Bachman I have come to see.” The man Martin laid his hand on his belly, over his watch chain.
Audubon was forced to insist that the man leave. When Martin said he would come back with a letter, Audubon determined that this letter would not make its way into Maria’s hands.
The next morning at dawn they walked in the garden. She told him that the man was her father. He had left his family when he fell in love with another woman. He had moved a hundred miles away and had a bastard child, perhaps more than one. Her mother had died of the shame and Maria was left dependent on Reverend Bachman’s kindness.
“You could have married?” breathed Audubon.
“It set me against marriage,” said Maria.
“Did you have a suitor?”
“I never met a man I could love,” she said. “I have my work. I will paint. I will learn with your help. If you do not think me too bold, I will come with you into the wild.”
The revenue cutter arrived, and Audubon had to go.
FOGBOUND
The fogs which accompany Easterly Gales extend high up into the atmosphere and cannot be looked over from any part of the rigging of a ship. They, however, are not so thick as those which occur in calms after a strong wind. These are frequently so dense as to conceal a vessel within hail. The former often, but not always, admit the land, or other objects, to be distinguished at the distance of half a mile, or more, in the day time. The Dense Fogs, which occur in calms, often extend only to small elevations above the sea. It sometimes happens that when objects are hidden at the distance of 50 yards from the deck they can be plainly seen by a person 50 or 60 feet up the rigging.
— Sailing Directions for the Gulf and River of St. Lawrence , Henry Wolsey Bayfield, Captain, Royal Navy
T he Gulnare is trapped in fog. Captain Bayfield can do nothing else and therefore he tries to take the dimension, the measure of this fog.
The sea is perfectly calm. Captain Bayfield, or Henry, as he thinks sometimes thinks of himself (someone has to), has climbed to the very top of the Gulnare ’s rigging. He loves to scale her heights, to top her, even now, when she is listless, her sails loose against the mast. In her “dishabills,” as the Irish seamen say.
Fog has its comforts; it affords a little privacy in the constricted quarters of a schooner. From here, he cannot see her deck below. Which means, of course, that no
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