A New Beginning

Captain Wilson glanced down at the strange man at the ship’s rail. Although a white man, years in the sun and weather had turned him a light brown. Standing just over six feet tall, the broad-shouldered man peered out into the vast sea. When he stood this way, staring at the sea, it was as if he was looking back, to another time, another place. Wilson judged him to be in his late twenties, but his expression indicated he might be older. Yes, either he was older, or the things he had seen and been through had aged him beyond his years.

Wilson knew the signs. He could tell his passenger was troubled. He had spoken to the man, who was a paid passenger, only briefly. Should he approach him again or not? Would it be rude to intrude on the man's thoughts? The reclusive man had mingled little with the other passengers during the voyage, and he gave the distinct impression that he wanted solitude. Wilson let go of the thought for now. Let him have his peace.

The captain turned to the helmsman. "I see Mr. Stanislaski is taking in the fresh air today, as usual."

"Yes sir. He spends almost all his time on deck, looking at the sea. I doubt he even sees the waves. I think his mind is many miles from here."

The helmsman changed his focus slightly upward, toward the sky, and then continued with a question, "Where does he come from? I've seen a few people dressed like that before. Most of them were from Russia, but he doesn't seem like a Russian."

Wilson acknowledged that the troubled man, who had come aboard in Hamburg, was dressed a little strange for this part of the world. He wore black, shiny boots that always appeared to be recently polished; his trousers were tied at the waist with a combination leather belt and sash. The pant legs sort of ballooned and were tucked into the top of his boots. His white shirt, with billowy sleeves, was buttoned tightly at the wrist. Over the shirt he normally wore a black, sleeveless, sheepskin vest, but heavy-threaded, like a coat. On this day, with the weather warmed slightly, the vest was off and lying nearby. The entire apparel was not the kind of attire that you usual see people from Europe wearing.

In the earlier conversation, the Capitan had noted that while most Polish people’s eyes were black, this man’s eyes were light, sort of a blue-grey, an indication that perhaps some of his ancestors might have come from the Scandinavian countries. He was not unattractive, yet his sour expression made him appear so.

Wilson replied to the helmsman. "He isn't Russian, and I would be careful that you don't call him one. He is a Polish Cossack. They were ferocious soldiers, more at home on a horse than on their feet. Notice the slim waist and broad shoulders. Their legs are strong for grasping the sides of the horse, but their feet are not used to walking. Notice that from the waist up he looks very strong and well developed. I would guess he is plenty tough and not a man you would want to trifle with.”

"He came aboard in Hamburg, didn't he?"

“Yes,” Wilson said thoughtfully, trying to remember everyone on board, along with their particular details. “I thought he would get off in Boston, but evidently he didn't like it there. After going ashore for a few hours, he came back aboard and asked where we were going next. I told him Charlestown in the Carolinas. He wanted to book passage. When I asked him how he liked Boston, all he said was, ‘Too many people. I'm used to forests and farms and open plains.’ “

“I also ventured to ask him if he had relatives in Boston or the Carolinas. He said, ‘No relatives at all. All are dead in Poland.’ I didn't want to ask any more questions. He seemed not to want to talk about his past or his family. I thought it best to leave it be."

After a few minutes in thoughtful silence, Wilson spoke again, "Did you see the scar on the left cheekbone? That's a saber scar. I've seen those before on Calvary troops who have been in hand-to- hand combat. One of those military sabers can slice you up pretty good. From the look in his eyes, and the sad expression on his face, I would say he has seen his share of hell."

"Do you think he's a deserter, or on the run from the law?" The helmsman shifted the wheel slightly southwest, taking advantage of the wind.

"Maybe. From what I hear about the wars Poland has been fighting, they’ve been fighting on all fronts for the last 20 years. They are hemmed in by Russia on the east; Hungary to the south; and Germany and Prussia on the west. And all of these countries want a part of Poland. A couple years ago Russia attacked and took over part of Poland including their capital of Warsaw. Poland rallied and drove the Russians out of Warsaw, but they suffered heavy losses. And early last year, Prussia attacked from one side and Russia from the other. They overran the Polish Army and all but annihilated them. Then Poland was divided between the two, wiping a whole country off the map. I suspect he is one of the few Polish soldiers who escaped." Wilson rubbed his tired eyes. "All of this is just guessing though. It is a subject I don't want to ask him about."

The morning breeze caused the waves to playfully smack the bow. Stanislaski, who stood at the railing of the ship, moved in time with the ship’s dance; his muscles expanded and pressed tightly against the sleeves of his shirt.