In April of 1850, the merchant ship Nantucket readied to sail from Boston Harbor bound for San Francisco by way of Cape Horn. She carried eighteen tons of cargo, forty-eight crewmen, and one passenger.
Hester Davies.
Being the last to board, she climbed the wooden ramp from dock to deck, a lamb in the ways of the world, oblivious to the scrutiny of forty-eight pairs of leering eyes. A tall, bony crewman carried her bags below. She stayed on deck to witness the Nantucket set sail, pacing to the ship's port side and resting her forearms on the rail. She did not lean on the rail, as a lady never leaned. Rather, she stood with back stiff and straight, fretting, yet anticipating the journey.
San Francisco was months away. There she would board a ship for more sailing to Polynesia and her beloved fiancé, Paul Alden. When he announced before the wedding his plan to take Hester, once married, on a year-long missionary trip to the Pacific, her blustering father called off the marriage, would not allow his daughter on such a treacherous voyage to a treacherous place so far from home. Paul fled in anger to pursue his calling. Hester cried herself to sleep for weeks.
Now the Boston skyline gradually narrowed to a distant dot, and then vanished from straining, weepy eyes. Already missing her parents and sisters, she wished they were there to see her off, but the stealthy manner of her leaving made it impossible. While at peace with taking the money, as it became rightfully hers the previous day when she turned twenty-one, this first defiance of her father weighed heavily on her conscience, even though she was of age now to make her own decisions. He would read her apology in the note.
The trip was a daunting undertaking for a girl coddled in a wealthy Boston upbringing. But courage came to the strong-willed Hester from her belief that God and a great love for her betrothed would provide strength to overcome any hardship.
She set aside her apprehension and guilt and melancholy and allowed the promise of adventure to fill her senses. Every lungful of salt air tasted exhilarating. Spinning to see the horizon on all sides, she imagined what exotic lands lay beyond. Hester shivered with excitement, her childhood dream of seeing the world coming true.
The ocean breeze stiffened. Her gray wool dress and cape protected her from neck to ankle, but the bitter October wind lashed at her ivory face, and in spite of a tight woolen cap, mussed her wheat-yellow Puritan hair. She turned to go below but stopped when the hulky form of the ship's captain settled his braided coat sleeves on the rail beside her. His wizened face bore witness to a lifetime of salt-air travels. And never in all those travels and all those years had providence bestowed upon the guileful seaman a passenger the likes of Hester Davies.
Withdrawing a smoldering pipe from between green stumps of teeth, he let out a sigh. "I always turn a bit to the sad side when we sail from port," he said, knuckling up his braided cap. "Ya ne'er know if you'll see 'er again."
"You have surely sailed from many ports, sir," said the young girl with envy.
"Oh, missy, I been 'round this world so many times I quit countin'," he told her.
Hester's startling blue eyes turned dreamy. "It must be wonderful, sir, to have seen so much of the world. I hope to see a lot of it someday."
The captain said nothing. He set about relighting his pipe, protecting the dancing match flame with cupped hands whose chapped, rough appearance said he wasn't always a ship's officer. She turned toward him, lips offering a thin smile of gratitude.
"I want to thank you again for allowing me aboard your freighter, sir. Well, you and God, who I know sent me to you."
"That he did, missy," said the captain, staring out to sea.
"I do not know what I would have done," she told him. "Trains are filled months in advance, and I just couldn't have endured a wagon trip across country. I came to the port this morning never thinking all the passenger ships would be filled. I sat down on my bags and cried. That's when you saw me and took mercy."
"Aye, it's the gold fever, missy," he told her, his relit pipe between his teeth. "Everybody's wantin' to get to California. We lost crewmen to the damn-sorry, missy-darn stuff when we docked there last trip. Cost us valuable time, it did, and a good sum a-money to replace 'em, too." Turning hardened eyes from the green sea to her, he said, "But I expect gold's not somethin' interestin' you with the kinda money you told me you're holdin'."
Hester shook her head. "No, captain, my only interest is to see my betrothed as quickly as possible."
The captain stood tall to put a match to his pipe once more, cupping the flame and drawing it to the bowl several times.
Tossing the spent match into the sea, he leaned on the rail again.
"Ah, missy," said he, "I'm dreadful sorry to tell it, but you will ne'er see him."
Hester thought her ears had deceived her. Large blue eyes dimmed with uncertainty studied his bearded face. "For what reason do you tell me this, sir?"
"Nothing personal, missy, just good business," he replied. "When we dock, the money you carry will make nice sums to keep the crew from runnin' for those vexing gold fields."
"By what right do you take my money?" Hester protested, her soft voice raised in indignation. "I need it for fare, or I'll never see Polynesia."
"Ah, missy," the captain said, turning to walk away, "unless you be a mighty good swimmer, you will ne'er see San Francisco."
Courtesy: Flash Fiction Magazine 
