Strange Yesterday by Howard Fast

John Preswick had come to that decision rather suddenly. Yet it was not only the obvious, but the only, thing for him to do.
    â€œYou have never been to sea?”
    â€œNo—sir.”
    â€œFarmer?”
    â€œInnkeeper.”
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    â€œJohn—”
    â€œJohn what—?”
    â€œJohn—John Ridge.”
    â€œI see. But that does not matter. Can you shoot?”
    â€œWith a rifle?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI can.”
    â€œSir,” Mr. Cortlandt interposed smoothly. “Can you split a silver dollar at fifty paces?”
    â€œYes—sir.”
    â€œThat is good.” For a moment, Mr. Cortlandt paused; then he said:
    â€œI am the-master. Mr. Mitchell is the first mate. Mr. Kent is second mate. Mr. Brooker is third mate. You will address each of them properly, regard them with due respect. They have divine right; I am God. Now I saw you looking at the guns.”
    â€œI was wondering—?”
    â€œThere are six. Two carronades, two long nines for stern chasers, and a long twelve swivel mounted both at bow and poop. As the seas are in a state of war, we must protect ourselves.” Again he paused, finally saying:
    â€œWe are in English and Italian trade. England is at war with France. Dutch ships are not amiable to the British. Spanish ships are prone to be intolerant. And then, there are the pirates off the north of Africa. We must always protect ourselves, even should it prove profitable. And fear not but that it will. Do you understand?”
    â€œI think I do,” John Preswick said slowly.
    â€œYou will receive thirty dollars a month and a change of clothes. And with each prize there is a liberal bonus. Now go to your quarters.”
    The sun was bloated with the full heat of morning as John Preswick turned and walked back to the forecastle….

5
    J UST one year later, off the coast of Sardinia, Mr. Kent, the second mate, was shot through the heart while Mr. Cortlandt was defending his vessel from a French sloop of three six-pound guns. Subsequently, the mast of the French ship gone, its hull riddled, its deck a tangled mass of wreckage, it was boarded, and the four seamen remaining alive cut down. Still defending his vessel, Mr. Cortlandt had the Frenchman ransacked, and then put to the torch. His loss was a second mate; two of his seamen were wounded slightly, one of them John Preswick, who, cutlass in hand, had run out along the bowsprit, hung from the jib boom, and, as it crossed the low deck of the Frenchman, leaped down in the face of a pistol (already discharged) and three muskets (already discharged), and drove the edge of his blade through one of the Frenchman’s collar-bones.
    The following day, Mr. Brooker was promoted into the position of second mate, and the crew was searched for a third officer. It was not with a great deal of surprise that the twenty-nine men saw Captain Cortlandt choose John Preswick, who, in term of service, was out-ranked by twenty-two of them. Upon more than one occasion, John Preswick had distinguished himself, not only for a willingness to carry out orders, matter not what they might be, but for a ruthlessness remarkable even in that crew. And he had had opportunity enough to prove his mettle. In twelve months they had taken nineteen prizes. Not only the master and the mates, but the crew itself were wealthy beyond all expectation. Later, they rounded the Cape St. Vincent and trimmed sail for Liverpool. After that, John Preswick as third officer, they beat across to Boston. From there they swung back to Naples; then Venice; then Lisbon…. It was in the year eighteen eleven that the brig Angel sailed into the Narrows, and beat up the upper bay to the Battery. And for the first time John Preswick, standing upon the poop-deck, the genial and dark Mr. Mitchell at his side, saw New York.
    Summer was over, but the air was warm and good, and the sky was wide and blue above. A breeze slunk