The Voyage
Deprived, on your very entrance into life, of an excellent Father, whose paternal care would have protected, and whose example would have enlightened you; there have doubtless been many times, when you have sighed to find yourself bereaved of that connexion enjoyed by your companions, and which it was impossible for any kindness or exertion on my part wholly to supply.
- Mrs. Barbara Hofland, The Son of a Genius
Faith was lost in a world of pure imagination.
In her mind she flew into a bonfire sunset that trailed to blue-purple dusk in her wake. Her body pulsed with the rhythmic beat of wings until they went still and soared effortlessly over deep, dark water. The sun drew Faith westward toward a strange new world that cast long, dark shadows before it.
The great bird on which Faith rode banked and circled lazily on a column of air. Tilting over the flat expanse of ocean far below, Faith tightened her grip on the smooth leather harness and flattened herself against the scarlet feathers. She urged the phoenix on with her knees and her thoughts. Faster. Higher. Ginger hair whipped across her face. She felt no fear of heights, only the sweet exhilaration of freedom and power.
Faith’s only fear was the ocean. This high up it was rendered a featureless plain, but she sensed something primal and uncontrollable in its depths. Something there hunted her. She could feel it tracking her arc across the sky, waiting for the moment she would dip too low. Then it would strike.
The phoenix cried out defiantly.
“Faith!”
Faith started at the sound of her name so loud and near to her ear. Reality greeted her with a jolt. She was not soaring through the sky on a majestic firebird. Instead, she rode the roll and pitch of the Illinois, perched atop a storage locker with her back against the quarterdeck wall. Instead of riding britches, she wore a high waisted dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt under a coat that pulled uncomfortably across her shoulders. Her hair was a tight knot beneath her bonnet, the only loose part of it the fugitive tendrils torn free by the wind. The only leather in her hands was the soft-covered sketchbook she had been drawing in.
Her step-father stood in front of her with an impatient expression.
“Yes, Colonel!” She said, quickly sitting upright.
“I’ve been calling you.” He scowled down at her.
It was hard to hear anything over the sound of the water, wind, creak of the ship, snapping sails, and calls of seabirds, but Faith knew he would not appreciate excuses.
“I’m sorry, Colonel,” Faith said, lowering her eyes. This drew the Colonel’s attention to the sketchbook on her lap and his scowl deepened. The corner of her drawing curled and danced as though clambering for attention. Too late, Faith snapped the book shut.
“What have you been sketching?” the Colonel asked, holding out his hand. Faith’s stomach knotted but she obediently handed the book to him. He held it open at arm’s length, closing and re-opening his left eye.
“A bird,” he pronounced when he had succeeded in focusing. “Nothing like any seabird I’ve seen. In fact, there could be no bird like this. The tail is far too long and elaborate to allow for flight under any conditions. Preposterous, really. And the lines here are weak,” he said, tapping his finger on an outstretched wing and smudging the graphite. “You must make a more careful study of reality. You will have better results than indulging wild flights of fancy.”
Faith looked away and bit the inside of her cheek. She knew she was not a master artist like he, but she had thought the drawing a good one. Shame heated her already wind-burned cheeks and she scolded herself for her vanity.
“Thank you, Colonel. I will try to do better.”
The Colonel nodded, his expression easing. “That is all we can do.”
He paged backward in her book, squinting at other drawings until he came to one that made him stop. His brows climbed and his thin lips compressed to almost nothing.
“Sirens? What is in your head, Faith Trumbull? Vulgar and disgraceful!”
Faith winced as he tore the offending page from her sketchbook as though he had torn it from her own body. He crumpled the paper in his fist and stepped to the railing to throw it over. The bent and creased sirens spiraled in an eddy of wind before dropping out of sight. For a heartbeat, Faith thought he might throw the whole sketchbook over. Her eyes pricked with tears but she bit down against the protest that rose in her throat.
When the Colonel turned back to her he still held her book in his hand but Faith would not breathe easier until it was back in hers.
“On a voyage of this length, it is unavoidable that you have been exposed to sailors’ stories, but an educated lady as yourself should recognize them for the ignorant superstitions that they are!”
A loud bang interrupted the Colonel. As he turned with a glare, Faith snuck a glance at the sailors near them on the deck. Eyes on their work, none gave obvious offense. Still, the Colonel continued more quietly, “They should be dismissed as one would the rantings of the fevered, not multiplied with graphic illustration!”
In truth, Faith was enthralled with the marvelous tales the sailors told of strange events and stranger creatures. Hearing about krakens and kelpies had certainly done nothing to alleviate her fear of the sea- she could hardly venture closer than two paces to the railing- but she had been spellbound nonetheless. Their world was one of adventure and mystery, danger and beauty, altogether unlike her ordered and predictable one. Even if their stories had been less thrilling, after more than a month on board, they were nearly the only distraction left to her. She was bored and wicked.
“Yes, Colonel,” she said, acknowledging his rebuke. Afraid to meet his eyes, she spoke to the buttons of his coat. “I admit that I have paid more heed than I should have but only for want of other occupations. I have read all of the books we brought, some of them more than twice. There is no more embroidery to be done without more thread. Besides, I didn’t think their stories so different from the Classics or the poets.” With morbid fascination, Faith had read the Rime of the Ancient Mariner at least a dozen times with hardly a cross look from the Colonel. “Why is the one acceptable to illustrate and the other not?”
“All art, indeed all thought, should be devoted to that which instructs in virtue and uplifts the spirit. Some myths and poetry are worthy to this task. Sordid and salacious tales of lustful waterborne demons, however, are not! Understanding this distinction is why these things are the province of men, particularly the masters among them. Ladies should confine themselves to fruits and flowers and the occasional modest portrait.”
“Yes, Colonel, I will remember that,” Faith answered, although where she would find fruits or flowers at sea was beyond her. She had traded a drawing to the Captain’s cook for the last mealy apple several days ago. As for portraits…she had drawn nearly every face on board, but she wondered how modest he would find some of the sailor’s countenances. To her they were pirates and explorers, star crossed lovers and tragic heroes, Byronic privateers and ancient mariners. She’d even drawn an albatross around the neck of a grizzled old sailor who looked the part. Faith eyed the sketchbook in the Colonel’s hand, the knot in her stomach tightening at the thought of him looking through it further.
“Good. I suppose it is to be expected. Idle hands were ever the devil’s tools,” he said in a consoling tone, apparently appeased. “Consequently, you will be especially glad to hear what I came to tell you. I have spoken with Captain Noyes and it seems we have reached Montauk. We should be in port within a day, overmorrow at the most.”
“That’s wonderful news!”
A wave of joy to match the swells beneath the hull lifted Faith’s spirits. When they had first sighted land, she had known there would soon be an end to the tedious boredom, turning food, and terrible smells. The excitement had faded as the far off shoreline slipped by day after day, never closer. With this news though, Faith could dare to believe the ordeal was near its end. She would have a proper bath and put on a fresh dress and feel truly clean for the first time in many weeks. More appealing than anything was the prospect of solid ground beneath her feet.
“Go below and tell your mother. I am certain she will be relieved as well, perhaps enough to join us for dinner. As for this” he said, holding up her sketchbook, “I will hold it for now. I suggest these last hours be spent in prayerful contemplation. There is one book you should never tire of reading.”
“Yes, Colonel,” Faith said, biting again at the inside of her cheek.
He responded with a curt nod that was as much approval as dismissal. He turned up the quarterdeck stairs, stride crisp and bearing upright in spite of the tilting deck.
Faith watched him for a moment. Even in his early sixties, Colonel John Trumbull was a formidable man. His hair was gray but full, his features still sharp and distinguished. He carried himself with self assurance and a noble bearing befitting his political and artistic fame. Revolutionary War hero, political prisoner, diplomat, internationally renowned artist, he counted presidents and statesmen among his regular correspondents. He filled many important roles, but doting father was not among them.
Faith often wondered what her real father had been like. Her mother refused to speak of him, whether out of pain of loss or respect for the Colonel, Faith did not know. Would he have been as handsome and well respected? Would he have been more loving and less reserved? Would he have praised her simple drawings and let her call him Father, or even Papa, like other girls did?
She sighed and turned her gaze to the horizon. The sky had been strangely hazy since early summer, as though a gauzy veil had been drawn over the firmament, but the sunsets were dazzling. The sun was now a golden puddle beneath an explosion of carmine, vermillion, and magenta. A seagull flew past, its silhouette consumed by the bright center of the sinking sun before reemerging as a dark chevron on a flaming sky. Like a phoenix in fire.
Faith sighed again and shook her head, ridding it of unproductive thoughts. Wondering how her life might have been different was as useful as daydreaming about mythical birds. And utterly ungrateful. A man of the Colonel’s stature must maintain his dignity, both in his affections and in those who shared his name. She supposed it was a mark of his esteem that he expected so much of her, and gave so little praise for it. Faith reminded herself that she was fortunate and should be proud to consider a man like him her father. If she worked harder to school her wild and wicked heart, and if he didn’t look too carefully at her sketchbook, she was sure she could one day make him proud in return.
With fresh resolve and the happy prospect of an end to their voyage, Faith made her unsteady way to the stairs, grabbing in turn onto each rope, stanchion, and box that lined her path. The ocean had grown more fitful as the afternoon had passed and she could not rid herself of the image of losing her balance and tumbling overboard. At the top of the steps she paused and took one last gulp of fresh air before heading below deck.
She held her breath while her eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. Sadly, there was no adjusting to the smell that rose up from the ‘tween deck hatch down to steerage. It had not been long after they set sail before unwashed bodies, mildewed bedding, human waste, and sickness had formed a noxious miasma that was no match for the meager air from a few portholes. The fumes rose up through the hatch like a creature trying to escape its own stench.
Of course, the Colonel would never have demeaned himself to travel in such conditions and had secured them a room. Faith walked as quickly as decorum allowed down the common space between the staterooms, not daring to draw breath again until she was at her own cabin door. She stepped into the cramped room and wrinkled her nose. It did not smell good in the cabin either. Her mother had suffered seasickness the whole voyage and the bedding was musty with constant damp. But the porthole was open, moving the stale smell of vomit and mold, and compared to the stench from steerage, it was tolerable.
Her mother raised her head as the door scraped shut, then fell again when she saw it was Faith.
“Good news, Mama! The Colonel says we will reach port in a day or two!”
Her mother groaned. “Bloody hell child! Must you shout so?” Her Scots tinged English accent was raspy with sleep. Her mother turned on her side and covered her head with a pillow. Her next words came out muffled. “I don’t know why you are so excited. There are as many sharks in New York as there are in the water. We’d find a warmer welcome at the bottom of the sea.”
The idea made Faith shiver, although she did share some of her mother’s worry about what waited for them on shore. Faith was, like her mother, born in England - hardly an endearing trait to the Americans following two wars now. It did not help that her mother, an orphan raised far from high society, lacked the refined manners that were so valued on both sides of the Atlantic. Her accent and her language were coarse. Her efforts to imitate the graceful courtesies were forced and exaggerated. It was a trait that vexed the Colonel in private but one he never failed to defend in public.
They had gone to America once before, when Faith was very little. At the outset, their ship had been caught in a terrible gale and the reception by the Colonel’s family had not been gentler. When her mother was tipsy, she would start to complain of some unforgivable Incident, but the Colonel would not tolerate the topic. Faith could not specifically recall the ship’s dangerous passage nor any part of the Incident, but both had left a mark in her mind. Whatever had happened, the Colonel had severed most of his family connections and they’d hardly had a letter since.
Fortunately though, none of his family lived in New York and visitors were unlikely. There was little to dim Faith’s excitement about leaving the ship beyond her mother’s melancholy. Still, she did speak more quietly.
“Will you come to dinner at least?” Faith asked as she went to the small dresser secured to the wall. She poured water from the pitcher into its chipped basin, careful not to splash lest the Colonel scold her for being sloppy. In the black splotched mirror, she watched her mother rise up on one elbow to consider Faith’s request. Usually a great beauty, Sarah Trumbull’s face was gaunt and pale with dark rings beneath her eyes. “You might feel better if you eat.”
“No, I will stay abed,” Sarah said, sinking back down.
Faith found herself frowning as she directed her attention to her own reflection. She removed her bonnet to find a sunburnt nose and chin and a frizzy halo about her head. She splashed some water on her face and used wet fingers to coax the curls back into place. She was only partly successful, but it would have to do. Having washed off the salt air and neatened herself as well as she could, she turned back to her mother.
“Can I bring you something, at least?”
“Wine, dear. Bring me some wine. It settles my nerves.”
“Yes, Mama,” Faith said as she slipped quietly out the cabin door.
