The Account of John D. Thornly of the New World || no. 1

To the refined and distinguished, Doctor George Whitmore at Cambridge, Language and Literature department

From: Clarence Martin, Curator, British Museum, London

May the fifth, 1843

My dear friend, Dr. Whitmore,

I do hope to find you in good health, as it has been nearly a year since last I heard word from you when you were in London. There have been recent changes underway to the Montagu House, in fact it has been voted to be replaced by a new, fine Greek exhibit building. In such a case we have been boxing up all the exhibits to be stored in the archive until further notice. I’m afraid the old place is going to be torn down. Quite a shame, for I have many pleasant memories and quiet places I have gathered from that portion of the museum over the years.

However, to get to the point of my letter: I discovered an old, and very dusty, box of strange papers in the archive today. I don’t really know how I’ve never known it was there before. The papers can hardly be called ‘paper’ for they are in their most organic form as the thin bark of birch trees. It appears the author hasn’t used any ink that is, shall we say, normal, either. It is very dark and dry at this point, but I do believe it is ink made from the blood of animals. This breed of birch tree, River Birch, does not grow in this portion of the world and I suspect its origin in the Americas, as it grows profusely in the southeast of the States.

I have very gladly wasted away my day, and infused myself into the thrilling life of this author. I assume the date of the 17th century, as the author beings dating the year ‘1630’. They’re not letters, as they are not titled to anyone, but diary entries or memoirs written with great enthusiasm and fictitious prose. I’ve taken the liberty of taking the box home with me for further study and reading. And as I know your intrigue over literature I’ve also copied here, at the end of my letter, the first entry of this young lad’s adventure—

The Account of John David Thornly

In which we discover the New World (by mistake)

‘It has been long since we first sailed from Plymouth, England and I was honored the duty of first mate aboard Captain Joe Blake’s brig the Bluemoon. Many things have come to pass since then and I came to be stranded on this strange land, where the forests are thick and green, and the Earth belongs to those who roam the fields and mountains. I am reminded often that I am a stranger here.

My last night as first mate aboard the Bluemoon was the day my Judas betrayed me for my third of the gold:

On my dog watch I stood on the bow and kept watch over the stars. The moon was hidden away below the horizon and all the lanterns of heaven shone over the watery mirror.

Mason Wordsworth had been assigned with me and stood on the helm. The night was fine and we were in the waters near where the Santa María had sailed some hundred and fifty years before us and discovered the New World. Only we were sailing north along her path, heading back for England.

I heard a small voice behind me and turned about quickly. There stood pale-headed Johnny, the cabin boy.

“Capan’ wants you, Mr. Thornly, sir.” Said he, blushing.

I judged by his color the captain must be in a wild temper again. I won’t be able to figure it this time; our weather was clear and our course sure for the North Atlantic. We weren’t being followed; we’d burned the Spanish ships. I only shook my head as I rapped on the captain’s door. The door was all but ripped off its hinges and suddenly I stood face to face with the scowling captain. He breathed like a bull, but said not a word. Slowly, he stepped aside and gestured me in. I ducked into the cabin and glanced timidly about, til he circled his great carved deck, then I watched him intently. He stared down at the document we’d written out that evening, agreeing to our shares of the Spanish loot.

Finally, he broke the sharp silence, “One of them is false.”

Only him, myself, and Mr. Wordsworth had signed for a third. And just as I hated myself for doubting Wordsworth, the captain turned his eyes on me, and a chill climbed slowly up my spine.

“One of them is a snake…Gathering the hearts of my men against me.”

Before I could even think, he shouted for Wordsworth, who burst through the door with two other thick, strapping sailors.

I turned back quickly to make my defense, but I had none. I clamped my mouth shut, It was true. This man was a beast; he abused his power, slapped poor Johnny around, and rationed too strictly so that the men lagged about, weak and trembling. I couldn’t deny the crew were starting to follow me more than their own captain.

Suddenly, the big sailors stocked my arms in theirs and thrust me to bow over the desk.

“Twenty lashes!” The captain roared, leaning down to my face. “So deserves the traitor who defies my orders!”

The sailors flung me away and unto the deck as if I were a sack of gunpowder between them. They tied my wrists to the top deck ladder, then roused all the crew, and released the cat whip on my bare back.

Sometime when the flogger shouted ‘seventeen!’ did I blackout out to the world and return only in the morning because the wood of the mast splintered against my back.

I closed my eyes to the blaring sun and felt it burning my flesh as the afternoon came on. It was then when the nest shouted, “Land ho!” The railings and ropes were herded with sailors and I turned my head west, squinting over the horizon for a spit of hazy blue land. There it was, a sliver of indigo on the edge of the world. I knew the captain well enough to know we’d change course for it. The way he judged it, if there’s land there ought to be a harbor; another ship to raid and burn. More treasure to fill our wooden belly with and just enough left over to fill the Crown’s purses. I only moaned that surely my time was fast approaching.

I hadn’t realized I’d drifted off til I woke again to the feel of cold metal pressing against my throat. Wordsworth’s scrawny face laughed at me. “Wake ye, did I?”

It wasn’t til his looming face backed up that the deck came into view and there stood all the crew. Then the deep green hills behind them, on the now near shore, took my breath away. There was no harbor or ships, but gray cliffs and a small sand bank where the waves frothed up and sank again into the sea. We swayed in the swells, being so near the shore, and I knew we had to have dropped the anchor.

Then came the thudding of the captain’s boots on the deck and he appeared beside the mast I still was bound to. His eyes stared over the crew, keen and narrow. His tricorn was cocked back, as the clouds had moved overhead, and his hands were hooked behind his back, which only more bulged his looming muscles beneath his blue jacket. I watched some of the younger lads try not to cower away at the sight of him.

Before he spoke I had enough sense to know why we were anchored. It was then, just as he began to degree my sin, I caught the wee, sun-freckled face of Johnny. He was hidden between two wide sailors, one being the cook. He clenched a small cloth-wound parcel to himself, and stared intently at me.

When Captain Blake finished my record of trespasses he billowed, “Ready the boat!”

Wordsworth bent and cut the ties around my ankles, then those two strapping sailors stood by as he cut my hands free. I almost fell forward, for I hadn’t realized the ropes had been holding me upright. The world woozed around a minute, but nevertheless they dragged me through the parting wave of the crew. The captain strode before me with his chin high. He climbed into the little boat hanging over the rail.

Murmurs ruffled through the sailors at the sight of me. Just the sight the captain wanted; my back stripped, and my limp body hauled between them like a dead fish.

I finally caught my feet before we got to the rail, and felt a tug at my trousers. I looked down to see a young hand shove a cloth parcel into my pocket.

“Geet away!” said one of my guards as he pushed Johnny back into the crowd. I glanced back at that instant, as they forced me over the rail, and saw the cook catch Johnny from stumbling. Then he put his arm around his shoulders.

I mustered up and smiled the best I could at Johnny before they slammed me into the bottom of the boat. Then I never saw the little boy again.

Several oarsmen climbed in and sat above me on the benches. Captain Blake sat at the bow, and I at his feet.

The boat lowered til we touched the swelling water, and we were set free from the Bluemoon. The oars began to pump and we coasted toward the looming wild beach.

It didn’t seem long til I felt the bow drag itself into the sand.

The captain looked down at me. “Get up, John.”

I forced myself up and the tumors began to shiver through me. But I climbed out and set my boots on the firm wet sand. Then I really felt my back. The sun blisters and the wood splinters swelling over the lashes.

Captain Blake noted the small beach, then looked at me. “It’s too bad. You were a good sailor. If only you’d remained loyal, John. You could have kept all that gold. Now we’ll have to cut you out.”

“It was never about the gold.” Said I.

“Fair.” Said he with his eyes squinted narrow. He turned in the bow and looked out to sea. “Find a good place to die, John. No one’s going to bury you.” Then he said so and the boat launched out into the waves.

I stood on the beach and watched til they came aboard again and the Bluemoon disappeared into the mirror.

The sun set behind me and my shadow was cast into the froth of the low tide. Finally my body collapsed in fatigue and my head laid in the sand, the grains clinging to me and the sea lapping at my feet. I kept watch over the stars til at last my eyes closed and I could feel my back burning no more.’

The End

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