When I was twenty, I’d finally grown out of the gawky, awkward and lanky stage of youth, and began filling out quite a bit.  I’d always been tall for my age, but to my chagrin, I tended toward being wiry (fellows around me teased me with the nickname ‘Skinny’), rather than looking robust.  I was very strong but didn’t look it. Between the ages of fifteen and nineteen I seemed to be all hands and feet, legs and nose. I was grateful that it didn’t seem to stop the young ladies from casting their eyes my way, however.

Not long after my birthday in January, Captain Stoddard took me by surprise when he named me as the replacement of Mr. Spriggett as First Mate. Spriggett had been badly hurt during a storm when one of the mains’il’s collapsed onto the deck.  He’d pushed a young ensign out of the way but took the weight of it himself, shattering his collarbone.  A shame; Spriggett is a good man, and an able seaman.

“Well, Mister, are ye turning down the promotion, then?” demanded the Captain when I was so gob smacked I couldn’t even reply to the news.

“No, sir!” I sputtered, “You just… well, you surprised me is all.”

The old seadog chuckled and sniffed.  “Surprised me as well, but Spriggett insisted that you were the better candidate.  Says you’re able to keep your head in a crisis and you learn quickly.”  The old man’s eyes tacked my hide to the main mast as he studied me for a reaction.

I immediately straightened my spine slightly and nodded. “Aye, sir,” I said, with just the right touch of pride tempered with gravity.

Stoddard guffawed, then.  “Bold as brass!” he laughed. “Well, then, Mister, take the helm.”

Since that day, we neither of us had looked back.  What mistakes I made as I learned my job weren’t repeated; God knows I had no desire for the Captain to rip into me more than once about an error!

Towards the end of the hurricane season, we had to put into Portsmouth, New Hampshire after Wanderer suffered another mast mishap.  It required a few days for repairs, and I got my first leave in months.

Sitting in a pothouse on the waterfront, sipping a beer – good and cold! – it amused me that the two barmaids, quite lovely girls, to be honest, circled around me like bees to a hive.  The several men from Wanderer who’d also chosen this drinking spot were giving me a good bit of chaff for it.  It increased even further later into the evening when a few … ahem… ladies slipped in and tried to peddle their …wares.

“Good looking fellow like you, drinking alone?” cooed one, slipping onto a bench beside me.

I grinned at her. “You’re welcome to enjoy a drink with me, lass, but that’s as far as it goes.”

She pouted prettily and her compatriot, as blonde and fair as the first was dark and sultry, cuddled up onto the other side.  “Per’aps yer lookin’ for something a little younger,” she offered, slyly.

I laughed.  “No, I’m afraid not.  I’ll tell you what, though,” I mused, smiling at them.  “I can promise you both drinks for a few hours.  Will that do you?”

The girls looked at each other and shrugged, smiling.

“To be honest, honey, your average whore wants nothin’ more than a good night’s sleep without interruptions,” said the dark woman airily.  “You buying all evening makes that possible for both of us!”

“What’s your name, sailor?”

“Ben,” I responded, taking a sip of beer, then – after hesitating a moment – gesturing to the bartender for a bottle.  “Ben Cartwright.”

“I’m Mary,” the blonde said, settling in, “and that’s Bonnie.  Where’s your berth?”

“Boston,” I replied.  “We’ve had to put in with a load of furs and coffee due to a mast collapse.”

“Hark at that!” the dark-haired girl said sympathetically.  “So close to home and havin’ to stop here.”

The girls settled in, and my mouth twisted in a grin to see Wanderer’s men a bit disgruntled as they got nowhere with the ladies themselves.  The fact that I’d washed before leaving the ship had likely been helpful…

We talked and drank, me likely spending more than I should have but enjoying the girls’ company. I shared stories about the ports we’d visited, the adventures and dangers we’d encountered, from storms to piracy, to cargo shifting dangerously in the swells. They in turn shared tales with me that could curl your hair!  I’d had no idea what ladies forced into this profession sometimes had to deal with.

But at the end of the night – or rather quite early into the morning hours – I managed to weave a bit on my way back to the ship, hands in my pockets and whistling. It hadn’t been hard for me to put aside the girls.

Because for me, the lighthouse of my port of call wasn’t a structure.

It was a beautiful girl named Elizabeth, waiting for me to put into port and claim her as my own at last.  No one and nothing held a candle to her.