Genius of Place by Justin Martin

have been intrigued by the people he saw as he wandered around. The letters that he wrote for the benefit of his family are full of descriptions of merchants in their silk robes and blacksatin skullcaps and little boys, their black hair pulled into tight queues, their fingernails surprisingly long. When three Chinese ladies passed him on the street, he noted their footwear: “But I was glad enough to have an opportunity of seeing ’em hobbling (exactly as if with wooden legs) on their tiny peg tops—what would you call ’em—not feet certainly—about three inches long.”
    During these visits ashore, Fred proved a keen observer with an insatiable curiosity. He noticed vivid details, which he communicated in exuberant letters that were also characterized by curious syntax and curiouser spellings—the result, no doubt, of his idiosyncratic education. He also showed an unusual sensitivity to the culture of China. At one point, he visited a temple in the company of some of his fellow sailors.

    The sailors milled about, talking loudly. Fred stood quietly, even took off his hat. “What are you taking your hat off for in a heathen temple?” sneered one of his shipmates.
    Because Fred was behaving so differently from the others, an old man singled him out and, after bowing deeply, walked up to him. The man spoke only a few words of pigeon English, but he beckoned Fred to follow. He led the way into a little room where he opened up various religious texts and invited Fred to look at them. He pointed out the decorative banners on the walls and showed Fred various implements used in the temple’s services. Meanwhile, Fred’s shipmates wandered about, tugging on lanterns and mindlessly banging on a ceremonial gong.
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    Fred spent Thanksgiving on the Ronaldson , still anchored at Whampoa Reach. He was ill once again, this time suffering from fever, chills, and exhaustion. Whatever the ailment was, Jim Goodwin had it even worse. Fred was able to return a favor, caring for the friend who had looked out for him during his earlier bout with seasickness.
    Fred wrote a plaintive letter, describing the Thanksgiving dinner he pictured in progress, 8,000 miles away in Hartford. “It’s just about the right time of day, & I am imagining you just about well to work on the turkeys & cranberry,” he scrawled. “I suppose Mother has the ‘boiled & oyster,’ as usual, while Father performs on the roast & criticizes the dressing.” Then he added, “Take care, Bertha,” a nod to his half-sister. “That’s a big drum stick, but I guess you’ll manage it with one hand.”
    Fred had been away for nearly seven months now. He was ready to head home. On Thanksgiving Day, his father wrote the following brief entry in his diary: “Fred’s company much wanted.”
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    On December 30, 1843, the Ronaldson finally set sail for America, preposterously laden with a huge load of Chinese tea.
    Among sailors, convention holds that return voyages are easier: Spirits are buoyed by the promise of familiar shores; discipline grows laxer. Certainly, that’s what Fred expected.
    It didn’t happen. Thanks to market forces—the fresher the tea, the higher the price it would command—Captain Fox was hell-bent on making
incredible time. Ordinarily, passage from China to the United States took about 120 days. He was aiming for 100 days. If anything, the crew would suffer greater privations during the trip home.
    Food was scarce, as always. That was a given on a Captain Fox-piloted ship. But the lack of fresh water became the bigger issue. The captain grew concerned that he didn’t have a sufficient supply onboard to last the entire voyage. At the same time, he didn’t want to lose so much as a minute by stopping at a port to take on fresh water. So Captain Fox simply cut the sailors’ ration of water severely, leaving them with minuscule