Captain Leander Morris, called Cap'n Lee, was a profane old seadog never seen far from the sacred scriptures or a flowing flagon.
"Fear God and beware Fire!", the good captain would admonish all miscreants and slaggards within range of his foghorn bellowing.
His simple but sturdy credo had been forged in storms on the seven seas between being confined to the crow's nest as a child and later lashed to the wheel as master of his own vessel, The Virgin Queen, clawing her off an angry lee shore in the teeth of a fierce gale. These five words are also engraved below the captain's portrait which hangs behind the bar in the Saltmarsh Inn's taproom. They reward a deeper delving below their simple surface and have been the subject of numerous fireside debates among our patrons over the years.
... Captain Leander Morris.
Before tackling fear, fire, faith and so forth, however, a few introductions are in order. Welcome to the Saltmarsh Inn! I'm Harris Morris, captain retired, the current innkeeper. Leander Morris is my great, well a score or so greats before we get to the word grandfather. In the portrait his hands rest firmly on the wheel of The Virgin Queen and to each the eyes seem to be following them alone. They glow angrily or appreciatively according to the course of the conversation, a certain slant of light and the spirits consumed.
A sharp fall night, say. Friends of ours and guests of the inn are gathered around the taproom fireside. Firelight flickers across their faces, casting strange shadows about the room. The lights are out, it's after-hours, the inn is closed. Now, in my lifetime, I've heard more uncommon sense spoken around this hearth than anywhere else in this big wide watery world. Speaking of a slant of light, there are few things more pleasant and illuminating than being seated with friends around a fire.
And by friends, I mean those from the past as well. It's never hard to feel the presence of the past in this old inn by the restless but unchanging sea. The ghosts feel at home here, gazing at us from the darker corners, flitting in the flickering shadows and those consigned to hell peering perhaps through the very flames themselves.
Look, we're all just shadows on a wall. Our ancestors lived out this same scene for centuries. It's all very familiar to them, although our dress and speech may differ. But they understand that and adapt. Clothing and language, the outer manifestations of men, probably changed a lot even in their own brief lifetimes. So there's a haven before the hearth, peaceful but exciting. Time slows in the quiet and we slowly slip back into the past. Time for reflection, to think before we speak, then to hear back what we're actually saying and dwell upon the words of our fellows. We agree to disagree, but never disagreeably. Agreement would be boring anyway. But our disputes are always friendly, however heated.
We can't sell drinks in the after-hours of course, but we can give them away. One anyway, curiously called Smoking Bishop. Aunt Polly Patience, Leander's wife, wrote the recipe with a precise feminine hand in the margins of one of the captain's scrupulously-kept logbooks on a page describing a winter voyage to St. Petersburg. Evidently he adopted it as a sovereign remedy for his crew when venturing into colder climes.
... Aunt Polly Patience Morris.
Wine, as Robert Louis Stevenson, another son of the sea, says is 'bottled poetry'. And Horace notes that no poetry worth a damn was ever made by water-drinkers. Smoking Bishop certainly seems to inspire the tongues of those seated around our fire. And it requires the cheapest of vintages. Almaden, Gallo or any plonk by the gallon will do, won't break the bank and tastes like a million dollars when elevated to Bishop. I usually do the honors, but let's let Aunt Polly patiently school us in the mysteries of making this piping hot, soul-warming nectar.
Smoking Bishop ... Roast slowly rinds of orange or lemon pierced by cloves.
Brew spices in a spider (cast iron pan), kept solely for the said purpose.
Cinnamon, mace, cardamom, allspice, cloves, peppercorns, whatever thou fanciest.
Add sufficient water to satisfy each topers's mug with a few drams.
Bring a-boil, move off flame, simmer. Strain liquor through an old stocking.
Add brew to mug with a thimble of Demerara (sugar). Fill with claret (need not be the best).
Heat pokers on hearth until they gloweth like the devil's own damned pitchfork.
Plunge into a mug. Hold while the wine spits and sputters like Satan himself.
Reheat the poker` upon the hearth and repeat. Ye will taste the very flavor of the fire itself.
Now, settled in front of the hearth with drinks at hand, we're finally fortified to "Fear God and beware Fire!" Our company tonight includes Shirley Loving, our librarian and author of 'Rowley Now & Then', which digs up our long local history, and appears from time to time in The Rowley Reporter, our town's modest bi-monthly newspaper, but the oldest in the nation. Fred Farnham, police chief; and Sam (The Clam) Davis, shellfish inspector and fence surveyor. So half of our town's powers are present. Patience Morris, my sister and manager of Saltmarsh Farm, has also joined us with her son Heath Harris, a tad over the legal age; along with Karen Thomas, a regular guest and minister from Ohio, a traveler but no simple tourist. The wind whips nor'east off the water tonight, whistling down the chimney and shivering the timbers of the old structure.
"Cap'n Lee looks particularly petulant tonight," Shirley observed. "Fear God and beware Fire for sure." We turned together to gaze up at Leander's now-frowning visage.
"Knows damn well we're talkin' 'bout him too, speak o' the devil," said Sam, "clever old coot. Never miss nothin'. Queer that. No offense Harris."
"None taken Clam," I replied using his nickname held in reserve for such moments.
"No, Sam's right, it is kind of uncanny," Patience agreed, a little too quickly I thought, perhaps hearing a note of snideness in my having called him 'Clam'.
Now, I like to think that I generally strike a tone of gentle irony, but it could come off as simple sarcasm. This regrettable tendency towards snarkiness might be cured with a century or so of psychotherapy, probably of the aversive school. So in short, don't count on it, I'm simply your typical Yankee. My sister is of the land, not the sea. She's straight-forward, un-ironic and quietly plain-spoken. Patience is one of those people who 'whisper' animals, from horses to hamsters. A quiet word to the wise in a sow's ear and there's a silk purse of peace made out of warfare in the sty. Patience is nothing if not patient, almost to a fault. A virtue I greatly admire - from afar.
I'm of the sea and can assure you this approach doesn't work aboard ship. In the quiet of a barn, yes, whisper away. Shipboard, however, is a relentless storm of noise: surging seas, howling winds, throbbing engines or slatting sails and squawking radios. Moreover, sailors don't tend to be a breed amenable to subtlety, unlike most animals. A fearful roar is often needed, and sarcasm is absolutely expected from any captain worth his salt who wants to keep command of his crew. A voice which also comes in handy when dealing with the more 'difficult' guests at the inn.
Tales of a Seaside Inn continues with Part Two in May.
