The Chesapeake, 1779.
The slim schooner glided silent as a ghost into the cove with the hidden creek, the evening dark masking her from prying eyes. Only hours before she'd shaken off the pursuing English frigate just outside Cape Henry. The crew, moving about her decks barefoot to avoid noise, took in what little sail she had aloft, and the anchor dropped in the water. A number of long boats rowed out to her and long narrow boxes and kegs were swayed over the side to be off loaded in the dark. French muskets and kegs of of powder for General Washington's army were a precious cargo. The schooners built on the Chesapeake, were the seaborne racers of thier day. History would later call them Baltimore clippers, and they could sail from a French port to the embattled colonies in record time, dancing past the blockading English ships like a ballerina past a country clod hopper.
This night went smooth, and the off loaded cargo rowed across the Chesapeake under cover of night. The crew of the schooner walked the short way to the town of Cambridge, were they were from. All aboard were men of the Choptank, and were born to the water. One young man in particular, Robert Travern, was anxious to see his wife and two young children that he'd not laid eyes on in three months. Though the walk was only an hour, it seemed like a full night till he was at the rooming house were he had a couple of rooms rented for his family. On entering, his wife let out a yell and embraced him, and her yell of surprise roused the children who ran to great thier long absent father.
His wife lit an extra oil lamp and the warm yellow glow flooded the kitchen. He reached into his sea bag and took out a bolt of fine lace from France.
"It's what all the ladies in Paris are trimming thier dresses with, I reckon you'll be needing to spruce up yours and Becky's." he said.
"Oh Robert, what did this cost?" she asked in awe.
"Not as much as you think, over there. Flour's always cheaper at the mill." he said.
He reached back into his bag and took out a cloth wrapped bundle. It was a French made doll with a hand painted face and lace trimed clothing. His daughter hugged it tightly.
"Daddy, it's the most wonderful doll in the world." she exlaimed and threw her arms around her father in a gratefull hug.
Robert's son, aged 12 stood watching, too polite to ask if there were something for him, but he did not have to wait long. Robert reached back into the canvas sea bag and took out a small long object wrapped in a piece of cloth. He handed it to his son.
"You didn't think I'd forget you now, do you?" Robert asked the boy.
The boy slowly and carefully unwrapped the object from the cloth, and he found a long slim folding knife with a horn handle. The horn was dark as night, with pale streaks running through it, and bolsters of shiney brass. The boy pulled open the single blade and it made a strong metalic snick as it clicked into place. The blade was long and slim, tapering down to a needle sharp point. The boy gazed at it in wonder, for he'd never seen a fine knife like this one. It ballanced lightly in his hand, like it was made for him.
"It's...it's beautiful...what kind of knife is this?" the boy asked.
Robert scratched his stubbled chin.
"I don't know, son. A lot of those Frechies carry one, and thier common over there. They call it a Lagol, a lago, something like that. They come from a region of France I gather. I got one too." Robert said, and reached into his coat pocket and took out one just like he had give his son. Same dark cattle horn handle, same long slim blade, only Robert's was stained and darkened a bit from use on the trip over the ocean.
"I've used it a lot on the ship, and it cuts great. " he said. "Those Frenchies know how to make a good knife."
"Dad, when can I go to sea? I'm 12 years old now, and Captain Hattie says I'm about right for a ships boy.
Robert thought about the ugly sound of the cannon ball from the Englsih Frigate as it flew over the deck as they fled the blockade.
"Well talk about it when you're 13." he told his son.
The hour was late, and the children were packed off to bed. In the dark the boy held the knife and slipped it under his pillow for safe keeping. He'd never seen a knife like this, and it was extra special as his dad had brought it from far off France, over the sea.
To the boy who had never been far from Cambridge, France was one of those exotic distant relms he'd try to see some day. He made a promise to himself, that when he got old enough, he'd go to sea like his father, and see the country that was helping them in thier war against England. As sleep overtook him, his young hand closed on the horn handle, and he dreamed of sailing over the sea in a trim Chesapeake schooner.
The slim schooner glided silent as a ghost into the cove with the hidden creek, the evening dark masking her from prying eyes. Only hours before she'd shaken off the pursuing English frigate just outside Cape Henry. The crew, moving about her decks barefoot to avoid noise, took in what little sail she had aloft, and the anchor dropped in the water. A number of long boats rowed out to her and long narrow boxes and kegs were swayed over the side to be off loaded in the dark. French muskets and kegs of of powder for General Washington's army were a precious cargo. The schooners built on the Chesapeake, were the seaborne racers of thier day. History would later call them Baltimore clippers, and they could sail from a French port to the embattled colonies in record time, dancing past the blockading English ships like a ballerina past a country clod hopper.
This night went smooth, and the off loaded cargo rowed across the Chesapeake under cover of night. The crew of the schooner walked the short way to the town of Cambridge, were they were from. All aboard were men of the Choptank, and were born to the water. One young man in particular, Robert Travern, was anxious to see his wife and two young children that he'd not laid eyes on in three months. Though the walk was only an hour, it seemed like a full night till he was at the rooming house were he had a couple of rooms rented for his family. On entering, his wife let out a yell and embraced him, and her yell of surprise roused the children who ran to great thier long absent father.
His wife lit an extra oil lamp and the warm yellow glow flooded the kitchen. He reached into his sea bag and took out a bolt of fine lace from France.
"It's what all the ladies in Paris are trimming thier dresses with, I reckon you'll be needing to spruce up yours and Becky's." he said.
"Oh Robert, what did this cost?" she asked in awe.
"Not as much as you think, over there. Flour's always cheaper at the mill." he said.
He reached back into his bag and took out a cloth wrapped bundle. It was a French made doll with a hand painted face and lace trimed clothing. His daughter hugged it tightly.
"Daddy, it's the most wonderful doll in the world." she exlaimed and threw her arms around her father in a gratefull hug.
Robert's son, aged 12 stood watching, too polite to ask if there were something for him, but he did not have to wait long. Robert reached back into the canvas sea bag and took out a small long object wrapped in a piece of cloth. He handed it to his son.
"You didn't think I'd forget you now, do you?" Robert asked the boy.
The boy slowly and carefully unwrapped the object from the cloth, and he found a long slim folding knife with a horn handle. The horn was dark as night, with pale streaks running through it, and bolsters of shiney brass. The boy pulled open the single blade and it made a strong metalic snick as it clicked into place. The blade was long and slim, tapering down to a needle sharp point. The boy gazed at it in wonder, for he'd never seen a fine knife like this one. It ballanced lightly in his hand, like it was made for him.
"It's...it's beautiful...what kind of knife is this?" the boy asked.
Robert scratched his stubbled chin.
"I don't know, son. A lot of those Frechies carry one, and thier common over there. They call it a Lagol, a lago, something like that. They come from a region of France I gather. I got one too." Robert said, and reached into his coat pocket and took out one just like he had give his son. Same dark cattle horn handle, same long slim blade, only Robert's was stained and darkened a bit from use on the trip over the ocean.
"I've used it a lot on the ship, and it cuts great. " he said. "Those Frenchies know how to make a good knife."
"Dad, when can I go to sea? I'm 12 years old now, and Captain Hattie says I'm about right for a ships boy.
Robert thought about the ugly sound of the cannon ball from the Englsih Frigate as it flew over the deck as they fled the blockade.
"Well talk about it when you're 13." he told his son.
The hour was late, and the children were packed off to bed. In the dark the boy held the knife and slipped it under his pillow for safe keeping. He'd never seen a knife like this, and it was extra special as his dad had brought it from far off France, over the sea.
To the boy who had never been far from Cambridge, France was one of those exotic distant relms he'd try to see some day. He made a promise to himself, that when he got old enough, he'd go to sea like his father, and see the country that was helping them in thier war against England. As sleep overtook him, his young hand closed on the horn handle, and he dreamed of sailing over the sea in a trim Chesapeake schooner.
