THE STORY TELLER

Let me tell you a simple tale you’ve heard it’s like before.

About a man, a whaling man and a woman he did adore

A time when a greedy world needed oil and the whale’s blood filled the sea

A story told to me about this sailor and the pretty and sweet Molly Bee

Tom T. Hull was a fighting man a sailor born to sea

Two years a- gone to sea he came to find his sweet Molly Bee

But a girl can change, you know, with a man two years before the mast

She sat the Widows Watch but funds and patience wore thin at last

The tongues did wag and Tom ashore came angry to the Boar’s sign

Where she had to work the men plied them rum, ale and wine

Tom saw her in the arms of a man. He cried, "There can be no other one!"

She laughed with hardened heart quite cruel and said, "There is one with each setting sun."

"Tom T. Hull you are a fighting man but low in the wits of love…"

She said, " to hold a women you need a fat purse and fine silk gloves."

He knew it well to be true for he’s seen it all before

But before his anger waned a man lay dead upon the floor

Tom T. Hall smartly…Sailor, Sailor. Gather your wits about you son

You are a man just the same. Get you signed to a Whaler

And run the fair seven seas.

He quickly signed himself to a Whaler to search the Arctic Seas.

To sight the blows of glory …fear to keep a man free

His mates were all fine men all fair and stout and true

The spent their days making way under cold skies of blue

A name with harpoon he did earn him one fine September day

With fifteen kills a fortnights haul and a bonus for his pay

He slew the whale for glory to forget the man lay dead

For a fey and jealous word for a desperate women he would have wed

But she sits there now, on a Widows Watch and tears from fair blue eyes

Tom T. Hull smartly …Sailor, Sailor free

'Tis said he never came to port but run from ship to ship, high line

'Tis said he sent his share to Molly by way of the Boar’s sign

'Tis said a great blue whale pulled him dory down in a cold, bleak Arctic Sea

'Tis all but forgotten now like the tides and rolling seas

Tom T. Hall smartly…Sailor, Sailor free

There's the tale, written and sang by myself in many a tavern and inn up and down the eastern seaboard. In some of these establishments I took many a turn and those frequenters knew the words by the heart, singing it- we all- together, like it was a hymn in a grand Church. Imagine that, me making up a tune to be sung in a Church. Now, I ain't a heathen and have fear of the Lord and a true love of Jesus. Give me an arm up and an understanding of the reason a son of the road, such as me, would come to a thinking that the Lord has created, in His wisdom, many a different way to bend a knee in his behalf. And no more fertile ground than these United States, where so many seeds of faith have been sewn together in one field. So I, moving unnaturally often and over such great distances, amongst these fertile fields, have taken on any religious visage that a locale demanded. My work then as a troubadour was assured.

I do each night bend my knees and pray for the forgiveness any soul deserve. At least, to the matter of a Great Lord confused at which manner and orientation a man should profess his faith. I give myself much leeway on the issue of what is the true line and verse of proper worship. Forgive me if I find anything past the true word of God, as written in the Holy Books, to be the making of man. 'Tis beyond my ken to think that being of full beard, the washing of one's feet, or whether a full dip, or partial dip, is such a thing, that the not doing of it should send a man's soul to perdition. Now I am no heretic like those amongst my betters, those heathens that stand themselves up in secret, yea, in Societies that wallow in sin, for I have been mistaken for a person deserving of such membership. Each time that situation should beset me I sought the confessional and did seek true and earnest absolution from those wicked ways that took me over and brought to me such temptations. I am a simple man comforted, as is right, by a pint or two, the attention of a working girl with a kind heart, a goodly meal, a warm bed, a Rosary, and the love of Jesus that befriends and forgives the common and foolish man.

Know this, the song is true and this is the tale as it happened. I'm telling it then as a way to find forgiveness and if not, some penny or two toward the balance of my life as written in that heavenly Book of Life.

I found myself, this summer last, without hope of work and a proper bed. My guitar, a fine thing I had purchased from a Spaniard in need of funds to find him passage home, was broke and splintered. The ruffians, evil of disposition and finding in their opinions a true hatred of my poor offering, waited and fell upon me as I left the Inn. Make no mistake, when the ire of the brutes was finally spent; my instrument was in no better shape than was my humble self. It was the worst and most final critique I had ever suffered. Bloody, bruised and ill battered, I sought some comfort in a bottle of rum, purchased from the last of my funds. The bastards had not seen fit to inspect the bottom of my boot, my purse was enough. The devil had me, true enough; the melancholy of circumstance and drink was on me as I stumbled, as a beast, down sodden and filthy alleyways. For my state, I was conscripted easily by as simple a method as bagging me in burlap and tossing me on an out bound ship.

The following morn I was sore in state, ill, and astonished at my fate. The very first face I saw, after the bagging and bindings were cut away, was that of the hero of my song, Tom T. Hull. His smile was not in keeping with the situation. He said to me in a slight brogue:

" Whatever thy occupation afore, ye are now no more and no less than a sailor! Ye will believe in the days to come that I have cursed thee, but nay, thou are surly made to be here. A sailor whilst thou be or ye will be shark bait. So up with ye and toe the line. Think not on the fairness of thy fate, 'tis in me to see thee as pampered, yet not a privileged sort. If I may beseech thee what good work  or ill enterprise had thee?"

I answered him and he looked at me as if he had seen some mythical beast. Then he grinned again and lifted me up and all but carried me to the sun and the rolling deck. We were at full sail. Latter, I was to learn we were 'by in large'. I was not the only conscript; more poor souls stood in a rough line, with eyes puffed blue, dried blood upon their mouths, and a lost and weary look upon their faces. Dear Lord, was that also my visage?

We stood in line strangers yet brothers of situation. The sun beat down on us for a time without reckoning. Some poor soul fell to the deck and was allowed to lie for some time.

Then bear me witness 'twas the voice of God Himself that spoke in a boom like thunder. There in the sun was the Captain astride on the Quarter-deck looking down on us unfortunates.

" Quartermaster?"

"Aye Captain" said the man as I shook in terror like I have never known.

" Give that man some water…"

"Aye sir."

He ordered another to bring water that seemed to me readily available. This all was being the way of it, the space a-board was small ,indeed, for all hands to step upon it.. I relaxed some and thanked Jesus for my cleverness and then asked forgiveness for myself for the sin of pride. I could learn a new trade.

"Water him and then let you the cat out of the bag and administer ten lashes."

"Aye Sir."

 The man was dragged to the mainmast and strapped  up upon it. From a red velvet bag the Quartermaster took out a cat and nine tails. My stomach turned, I knew this device first hand in a visit to a New Orleans prison over a misunderstanding with a young women related, unbeknownst to me, to the Governor. I lived and found myself as witness to this beating, which had a profound effect on me. I would endeavor with renewed vigor to learn the ropes and would apprentice myself to Tom T. Hull.

The ship was a whaler headed to the north seas. The Captain was a fair man but hard and worked us drill after drill. We rowed the dories hard and became hard in that effort. We worked tended rigging and line. Oiled the decks and kept all devices shipshape, as the Captain would say. We repaired and kept fit the sails. We were like monkeys in the riggings, fearless of the height and roll of the ship. We grumbled and cursed, for our blisters and sore muscles, in our hammocks at the devil that was in our Skipper. It was the Quartermaster who put a stop to the mutterings. He came down one midnight to tell us of the reason for the toil. 

He said, " The Captain is a fair man, Godly and true. Listen well, the lot of you, if you've the sand you'll be better men for the meeting of our good Captain."

 The telling brought us all pride, a new view and fuller heart. The Captain was proud of the way we had shaped up and felt confidence that it would be the best voyage he had ever sailed. We all would do well in our pay and were promised a bounty, well above what we would expect. All we had to do was what we now knew and do it well. We looked from that day a different crew and took to our duties, as men of the sea are right to do.

Now, I have told you how the devil finds easy purchase in me. I broke curfew one night to watch the stars, for the poet in me bubbled up and made me melancholy. The officer on the watch was kind to me but I had the devil to pay. The next dawn I was woke and stood there beside my friend Tom. He was blamed for not having an eye on me. We spent two days hands in oakum bent at the knees and in agony caulking that long seam on both port and starboard sides. It was a grueling task but a time to gain in my affection for Tom.

We shared stories and brags of ports and women we had known. It was here that I heard of his true love, Molly Bee. He wanted to return this trip rich from whale kill so that he could wed and leave the toil that the sea demanded. From that moment on, when there was a time for it, Tom talked of none else save Molly Bee. And I a poet took to writing pretty lines for my friend to deliver unto her once we took to land and a post was available. Maybe it was the devil in me or a greater weakness of character that the dark throne could in all ways have it's will with me, but I soon took the words for my own and fell in love with Molly Bee.

Tom never knew. I was devious and convinced myself that I had not taken her to heart but had created only a glamour so that I may be more true in my words. With that delusion was I already doomed.

We sighted blow after blow and took whale such that we did receive our bonuses. We watched our P's and Q's when we moored in the small rendering ports. Some tried to beat a dead horse but the captain held stern so that each one of his seasoned crew would all return. No sot would the Captain leave from his duty to ship and crew. Two years before the mast, were we, when the Captain had all hands toe the line. He smiled on us and said he would be proud to sail with each man when he again took to sea in the following spring. Never, said he, had he such a crew and may never again. We all rang out with a hurrah. The Quartermaster called us aloft and we headed for the trades. We were going home.

We were discharged upon our mooring in Mystic Port. Our purses full and both Tom and me sought out Molly Bee. Tom went to his favorite Inn and it was there that the tongues did wag. 'Twas said that Molly Bee's fortune had taken a downturn when her father died a year before. She was forced into a livelihood as old as history. Tom and I made way to the Boar sign. I begged Tom to cut and run. He would only rage on with curse after curse. I did not try to turn him for his good, though I did give it effort as I was able.  He howled at a God that would allow such a turn of fate; I took comfort that Molly was now available to me. Tom would surely do harm; I would pay up and win her heart in the process.

Tom found her dressed as a wanton in that Inn. She was serving and had a man's arms around her waist. Tom took the man, and beat him. I slipped behind the man to add my fists to the battle, should it be needed. There was a terrible furor and din so that Molly did, not immediately recognizing Tom, stand by the sailor she had served which added to Tom's rage. The sailor was not an easy rival, he pulled a knife and another was given Tom and they went mad and blood for each other. Molly screamed when the light of recognition came to her, here was her true love in a mortal battle with a good and faultless man. Her protests now, turned, were not heard. The innocent man fell and I made Tom, push and shove, cut and run. Molly was left in tears cursing her love and heaven's neglect of the faithful.

So the story is told how Tom took to the sea, sent his pay to Molly and after a Nantucket sleigh ride the sea monster's fluke dashed those great men of the sea; sending them and Tom all to the deep. Molly was faithful to him and lived alone pinning for lost love. She took her own life when word came of Tom's demise. Molly could not be buried in hallowed ground for that act so hated by the church. As for me, 'tis my belief that God does know that some acts are not sin, but faith. I claimed her body, hired a boat, and buried her at sea so that she could be with her love.

That is the story, one that I have made truer each time I sang it.

But Constable, a lie no matter how many times it is told is still a lie. But such is the power of the word. In my nightmares or visions I see a future where a lie forged into a large enough beast can stand as true. Can you imagine then, Constable, a world where the cleverest of gentry or the mischief of a politician could mill out such issue that the humble and simple truth could be overshadowed by a tale larger than even I could spin, yea, as if it never was?

I trust my tale has not caused you to nod away, for there is more to it. I have told you a story you well know for it is a great beast of my own concoction. Some truth I have cleverly wrapped in coil of deceit. No better, I, than those I see as prophecy, though no prophet am I.

'Tis true that Tom came and had murder in his mind when he saw his Molly in the arms of another. I did not deem to stop him that fruitless violence. No, I in my foul genius wrote it out like a play on a stage. The man, a scoundrel, was in my hire and did behave in a brutish manner at my bidding. Molly was a virtuous woman being taken in by her brother, the honest owner and proprietor of the Boar Sign. I set Tom afire with such evil speculation as was possible for me to ferment. The fight was laboursome, both men looking for the blood of the other. I was patient. When my hired man fell onto me I slipped my blade' tween his ribs and into his heart. Tom took him as weary and fell on him with his own blade. But, the truth be told, Tom's blade bit dead flesh. 'Twas easy to unship myself and send Tom on his way. I meant to ease Molly's woe with my own earnest and heartfelt attention but she was mad with grief and despair, giving me no mind at all. Her brother took her and cared for her till the end of her days. Make no mistake; I did love her, as a man could love the ideal of Helen of Troy. His waking thoughts ablaze and nights filled with lurid dreams of a woman so beautiful as to bring men to war. So it was with my Molly, Tom T. Hull affixed her beauty and grace in my thoughts. I had lost my wits and my soul for the want of her affection and imagined passion.

The sea can sow such thoughts a-swing in a lonely hammock. If such a man is me.

Old Nick has had his way with me; I killed the brute in the tavern with no more thought than the killing of a fish for my supper. For my cunning, I killed my friend as if I pulled him down into the abyss with my own hands. And my obsession- my Molly, I killed her as if I slipped the looped bridle around her neck and took her breath.

I visited the place of my baptism, the Roman Church. I did this, Constable, before I came here. I gave my confession and was absolved by the clearly horrified priest. I fear God turned his back on me for I heard a terrible laugh while I recited my Act of Contrition. I believe the cleric heard it too. He bade me, with fear in his voice, turn myself in to the authorities.

If you would hang me, make haste. Judge me and build the gallows, make the rope fast on that fateful gibbet. I have taken a slow poison. I will sicken and die within the week. So if you would have me swing, a-collared, for my transgressions, or watch me die at my own hand, it is of little matter. For all of eternity I will sing only one song to the Dark Prince and his minions. 

Tom T. Hall was a sailor, sailor free.

All hope was lost when my guitar was broken in that alley. Those hooligans were demons come for my soul but stooped short in their vicious duty to laugh at the disaster I would make of my life and those souls unfortunate enough to share my company, should I be allowed to live. Alas!

Sad for the choices made… laments sang to an arctic sea…sailor, sailor, free.

Sad for the paths we take…laments sang for the likes of me…sailor, sailor, free.