The Adventures of Buttons
Burnside
Opening Chapter
One unusually large
tower of water fell upon an unsuspecting flock of seagulls. They exploded from
their perch and winged upward through the mist in a spectacular array. Huge
chunks of severed icebergs rocked in the ripples of the sea far from the
pounding surf. The sky was a rich oil canvas of sweeping brushstrokes created
by the distorted mind of an aged painter. The vanishing flight of fleeting wing
tips dissipated into the vastness of the cloud-laden sky. And, under a dusting
of snow, the barren soil gave life to only those few hearty tufts of wild grass
attempting to struggle through a Newfoundland winter.
A house stood surveying
the battleground where ocean met rock. It was the iron-souled home of Charles
"Buttons" Alfred Burnside, my grandfather. Inconspicuous and far from the
water, the house was a harmonious, uninvolved aspect of a larger landscape.
However, the two-story structure sat resolutely upon the soft powdered snow and
proudly fronted on the sea. The small, enclosed entranceway that connected the
front door to the face of the house was a firm-set jaw ready to withstand
nature¹s deadly spears, daring the elements to loose the structure from its
position. A heavy wood-shingled roof backed by a square annex gave the contour
of the warrior sufficient mass with which to fight the invading cold, the wind
and the sea. A square chimney assured the house of its own superiority over all
in sight; curling grey smoke billowed high above it, its heartiness and warmth
reflecting the happy, tightly knit family protected within.
"Buttons" Burnside, that
twenty-somethingth odd day in January 1713, sat on a long, high-backed bench
alongside the roaring fire. Firewood was scarce those days, but that evening he
permitted my brother Jess and me to place a few extra logs in the hearth to
pierce the extreme cold that enveloped our home. Buttons looked that day the
way he had always appeared to me: white lace beneath his chin and about his
iron wrists, the same blue redingote slightly faded, and his tall black, but
dusty boots. As always, his aged face held the same robustness that I attributed
to his youthful vitality. The short, white stubble of his whiskers frosted his
somewhat shallow checks and leathery neck. His deep, blue, dreamy eyes, amid
friendly wrinkles, gazed down knowingly at the large tattered book he held on
his knees.
I don¹t remember when I
had ever seen him read anything but that book, his ancestral tome, He had read
to Jess and me ever since those mysterious black scrawls formed ideas in our
heads. We had learned every story in the book, word for word. It told of everything
Buttons was interested in: the sea, ships and faraway lands. He would read the
book with a remote glint in his eyes, perhaps taking him back to the days when
once he, like his maritime forbearers, had worked and even commanded the mighty
vessels of the sea.
Little did I know that
our hostile land was an escape from his past, and the glint in our
grandfather¹s eye was due to us, mere innocents in the world.
Buttons had taught us
how to run those ships, and, even though we only saw them on the infrequent occasions
when they passed our remote island or during our monthly journeys to town, we
could still name and recognize the function of every line and sail of any type
of sailing vessel afloat. He had told us the difference between the quarterdeck
and the waist, the spars and the yards, the windlass and the capstan, teaching
us all about tacking, wearing and bracing a ship till if we ever had to, Jess
and I could easily sail a ship by ourselves. He had drawn us pictures of the
ships he had served on, even the one on which he was bos¹n in charge of the
deck crew and rigging. He had sketched out diagrams as to the proper method of
starboard tacking, mainsail hauling, bracing yards and so on until by the age
of fourteen‹Jess was thirteen‹I could have been the captain of any vessel
afloat, with unparalleled success at that! We had always listened attentively,
for we knew that someday, somehow this would be our life.
But as for the present,
our lives simply meant tending to Buttons¹ flock of sheep, which was the only
mainstay on the island. We had a few chickens to supply us with eggs, a well
dug deep in the earth and a cow to provide us with milk. But, aside from those
sources of nourhment, there was little to live on and little entertainment
to hurry by the restless hours. The nearest town was thirty miles away on
another island, and it required a two-day rowboat ride to arrive at its distant
shores. It seemed that the only reason we went to town was to keep the
townspeople informed that we were still alive and well, possibly even to give
the folks something to gossip about. Of course, they were our only contact with
the outside world‹they would call us the outside world‹and we did get
information on England and the Americas as we purchased our necessities.
In town we could also take in the
great ships that we had learned so much about back at home. We studied and
worshipped those fine crafts. We observed every detail of their construction
and searched for any scrap of information that might puzzle us, so that we
could discuss it later with Buttons. We marveled at their grace, power and
beauty. We were astounded at the tremendous size of their sails and computed
how fast each ship might run under a stout breeze.
I imagined myself at the
helm of those noble vessels, amid the smoke, noise and confusion of battle, and
sinking bravely with my ship. My imagination made me commander of great naval
fleets with flagships a hundred and thirty feet long, placing my crew in
precarious situations where only my skill, knowledge and leadership could save
the ship and bring honor to the Crown.
So I had many reasons to
look forward to town. It was a strong force that drew me, and the tedious hours
of rowing were worth the effort. Jess and I, too, had caught the fever that had
drawn generations before us to the sea. We saw waves with our eyes, but had
ships in our thoughts and distant lands in our dreams. We had a deep and
uncontrollable yearning, an ardent fervor, for the sea,
On warmer days, Jess and
I would spend hours sitting atop our island's peak, a mere fifty foot rise
behind our house, and overlook the ocean in an easterly direction. From there
we could view the world. We could gaze north to the vast, unexplored expanse of
snow and ice. We could look east to England, France and Spain. And beyond that
was a continent called Asia with the Chinese people. If Jess and I would cast
our gaze southeast, just over the rise would be Africa with all those untamed
natives with dark skin. Directly south of us was the coastline of North America
with large towns like Boston and New York that Buttons had told us about. But
to the west of that were mountains and rivers that no man had ever seen. Miles
and miles of untaken land, beautiful land, we would think. But Jess and I found
it hard to believe that there was a whole ocean even bigger than our own that
lay beyond that! Of course, it couldn't be true, but if Buttons thought there
wasŠ Buttons had once told us that over three hundred years ago a man had
sailed around the world, returned to his home and lived to tell of it. But if I
ever had the opportunity, I would sail around the world three hundred times in
one year!
Now, Jess and I had
grown up together. I was only one year older, so we had gained just about equal
amounts of knowledge and experience. We had one teacher‹Buttons; and when Jess
listened to his stories, I listened, too. So when it came to the question of
sailing around the world, we both sincerely believed that there could be
nothing more exciting for a person to do in his lifetime. There, before us, lay
a vast system of transportation reaching to the far corners of the world,
Uncharted or well-traveled, those were the main veins of a seaman's life, those
oceans, seas, estuaries, lakes, rivers and streams. The only thing we lacked
was a means of transport, and that was where my dreaming took over. If we only
had a ship...
But that winter evening
was too cold for us to sit atop our hill and survey the world. We had found an
equally fun and interesting way to pass the time. We would listen to Buttons as
he read from the big, brown book.