The Boy From Ballyclerahan

Chapter 13: The Narrows

St. John's, Newfoundland, August 29th, 1811

Pat felt uneasy as the ship sped towards the towering cliffs, with iron-streaked granite walls looming ominously, their features becoming more distinct with each passing minute. He scoured the shoreline, searching for their intended landing site. Sunlight and shadows danced across cleavage planes, reflected from angled facets of sparkling quartz scattered throughout the vertical rock face. Under different circumstances he would marvel at the display but instead his eyes were locked on the jagged coast in their trajectory. Surely, they know what they're doing? A flash of colour at an adjacent hilltop caught his eye. A signal flag! Thank heavens. Ok, so where... His thoughts interrupted, a deep cleft in the rocks appeared, revealing an isthmus of water leading beyond his line of sight. His jaw unclenched, relieved by the sight of the hidden entrance.

"The Narrows," the court clerk explained, noting Pat's relief. "It's why we came here in the first place. Well, that and the fish. A tough spot to find and easy to defend." Crossing the Narrows' threshold, the batteries came into view. Rows of cannons flanked the cliffs lining the entrance to the harbour, romantically dispersed amongst the clinging pines that blanketed their sides. A place of some importance.

Progressing slowly but steadily through the channel, Pat could hardly believe how narrow the passage was. Fine for a small ship like this, but how in God's name could something bigger get through? Answering the silent query, an explosive scene revealed itself as they entered the harbour. Tall masts from schooners, barks, and frigates filled the sky, obscuring the buildings and dwellings that hugged the waterfront. More than a hundred ships packed the hidden harbour, drawn to its shore in search of fortune or to weather out a stormy Atlantic.

Capping the vista, Pat noted green but sparsely forested hills, patterned with trabecular rock walls that reminded him of Ireland. At the crest of the hill ridge, a garrison fort of towering stone lorded over the town, guarded by tiny soldier silhouettes. About a mile eastward, Pat spied a second fort, this one at the base of the hill that bore the signal flags. Despite its predilection for the military, his first impressions of St. John's were favourable, at least for the first few moments.

Killing the scene, along with his mood, Pat discovered the ill-fated Fanny, its tar covered hull planks and decapitated figurehead forever etched in his memory. With her Jacks still stowed, she was the only vessel in the harbour that didn't have at least one flag flapping from its mainmast. She was moored at the west end of the basin, next to a large storehouse with 'Newman's' sprawled across its front in large letters. He seethed at the sight of the cursed vessel. Soon there would be justice.

"My oh my. The harbour is certainly busy today, now isn't it Mr. Gorman? I don't suppose you know how to swim?" the clerk asked with a smirk, satisfied with his rare display of humour. Pat's head spun round, glaring at the man, the joke being neither funny nor appreciated. Noting his response, the clerk shrugged, reverting to his lifeless visage. "I can't get you closer to shore, so I hope you still have your nimble sailor's feet." Their ship pulled up alongside the closest vessel, an old two-masted brigantine. "Off you go, Mr. Gorman," said the clerk, gesturing dismissively towards the brig. "Make sure you arrive early for the hearing on the 2nd."

"But..." Pat started, contemplating the distance he was meant to cover, at least six or seven ships deep before reaching the shoreline. "...how am I supposed to get there from here?"

"The same way everyone else does. Think of it as a pleasant game of hopscotch, except with ships instead of squares." The smirk returned.

Annoyed with the clerk's sarcasm, Pat climbed aboard the empty brigantine, anchored with a taught chain, joined to the adjacent vessel by a wide gangplank. And so it was with the next ship. And the next. A wooden, serpentine path leading all the way to the harbourfront. He could do it.