October 2010

By David Roper

Faith, fear and fateThe strong southeast winds had not dropped with the sun as they usually did that time of year, and the threatening black ledges 30 yards from Elsa’s stern off barren Smuttynose Island were close enough to show their barnacles as each wave receded. Peter hooked the long pennant of an unknown mooring that seemed sizable enough, but, combined with what I knew about Smuttynose’s history, there was nothing calming about our arrival. I thought of both faith and fate: my faith in each unknown link of that mooring chain; my faith in the tightness of each shackle pin down there connecting us to the mooring gear. Who had cast the chain? And how long ago? Who had tightened the shackle pins? Oh well, it was just another case of fate ruling the day.

Then I thought of the faith and fate of two women who had lived and died on the island 90 feet away in the early hours of March 6, 1873. The only structure now on the Isle of Shoals’ island of Smuttynose was the small clapboard caretaker’s house, staffed by two volunteers. I looked at the flickering kerosene lantern light, now visible in one window. Nearby once stood the weather beaten red house that sheltered a hardy pioneering Norwegian fisherman named John Hontvet and his wife Maren. They had later been joined by Karen, Maren’s sister, who had also emigrated from Norway. Last to join the growing family in the small house were Even and his beautiful new bride Anethe.

It was an isolated, lonely, and hard way to eke out a living, fishing off the remote small island. But it was better than the starvation that had faced them in Norway. Slowly things seemed to get better: John was saving money and Maren was less lonely with the two women with her now, especially while John and Even were at sea. Then, on March 5, 1873, John and Even had to sail into Portsmouth for bait, which was arriving by train from Boston.

The train was late, forcing them to spend the night tied to the wharf in Portsmouth, leaving the three women alone on Smuttynose for the night. John had faith that the women would be fine without the men for just one night. But Louis Wagner, a desperate out-of-work drifter, also in Portsmouth that evening, learned of the situation, stole a dory and rowed the 10 miles to Smuttynose, most likely with robbery, and perhaps rape, on his mind.

Things went horribly wrong. Two of the three women, Anethe and Karen, were brutally murdered by ax in the pre-dawn hours. Maren escaped and ran barefooted in her nightshirt to the other end of the island, hiding in a cave while clinging to her small dog. Louis Wagner searched for Maren, the only living witness, but figured she would die of exposure. and fearing the light of day, he rowed back to Portsmouth.

None of this made for a cozy sleep on Elsa. Rum helped a bit. The next morning the wind stayed strong out of the southeast, so Peter and I put a single reef in the main, dropped the mooring pennant, and headed east for Casco Bay. We’ve been sailing together for 35 years, so we are a pretty coordinated team. Still, putting the reef in at the mooring was a chore; maybe better to do it under way with a load on the sail and less slapping around, I thought. But, then again, I didn’t know what the seas would be like when we rounded the corner. So I figured this to be safer.

After Peter threw off the pendant, I had to motor into the 25-knot wind to get around the point of Appledore Island. Peter checked the reefing lines at the mast and then headed aft. As he stepped from the deck to the cockpit, the frantically slatting mainsail lifted and then dropped, the large aluminum boom crashing into Peter’s head.

If fate were different, he’d be dead. Another quarter-inch of drop of the boom and its full weight would have split his head open, knocked him unconscious and perhaps over the side. Instead, my friend fell to the cockpit seat, wide eyed and staring. Blood streamed from the top of his head and down his forehead. “Don’t let me go to sleep,” he said. “Give me a minute and a lot of paper towel, and I think I’ll be OK.” I circled back toward the dock on neighboring Star Island, just in case. But he was OK. And, after making certain, we continued on to Casco Bay.

On the offshore leg, I thought about it a lot. I thought about what could have happened amidst the swirling circumstance of life. And then I thought about Anethe and Karen and their fate. If Louis Wagner had been on a different street in Portsmouth that night and not heard about the women being alone; if John and Even had picked up the bait on a different day; if the train from Boston had been on time.

Just then Peter started to come up on deck, pulling his cap down tight over some squished paper towel on his head. “I guess I just got lucky on this one, Dave,” he said, smiling.

“Luckier that Louis Wagner and those two women,” I replied.

“Yeah, what finally did happen to Wagner? You never told me.”

“Let’s just say he succumbed to a stiff neck, with limited ground support by the hands of the law,” I said.

A doubled-up sea lifted Elsa’s stern higher than usual, and she dipped into the next swell. It was more than a frolic. It was getting rougher. I should pay more attention to the helm now. No more mistakes. But I had one last thought as I looked at my friend in the companionway:

“And Peter, before fate finishes you off completely, put a proper bandage and some Bacitracin on that cut, will you?”

Dave Roper sails Elsa, a Bruce King-designed Independence 31, out of Marblehead, Mass., where he lives and works.