The Accidental American

Robert Upton

Description

The Accidental American is a look at the underside of 17th century America, the adventure tale of a British lad who is rescued at sea by Captain Kidd, jumps ship in Charleston and makes his precarious way to New York, where he is reclaimed by Captain Kidd; falls in love with Kidd's young wife, Sarah, who instructs him in the myriad ways of love, short of sinful fornication. When Kidd goes back to privateering he, knowing of his young wife's feeling for Christopher, insists that he come along. As history tells us, the expedition ends badly for Kidd, but not for Christopher, who is freed from prison by his father and introduced to the son he did not know he had. Returning to New York with his son, he marries Sarah and they retire to a peaceful life in New Jersey.

Sujets

• Histoire
• América
• Accidental
• American
• History
• Upton

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 14 décembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669858836
• Langue: English

Extrait

Novels by Robert Upton:
The Big Tour
A Killing In Real Estate
The Faberge Egg
Dead On The Stick
Fade Out
A Golden Fleecing
Who’d Want To Kill Old George? (Soci é t é Des Organisme Award winner)
Excerpts from previous reviews:
“Here Upton deserves a standing ovation for a turn-up that is, literally one for the books.” Publishers Weekly
“... well drawn and realistic. The writing is breezy and irreverent.” The New York Times Sunday Book Review
“Upton’s knife-edge wit rivals Ben Johnson.” Publishers Weekly
“Upton’s style is fast, upbeat and funny.” Rocky Mountain News
“Robert Upton is one of the keenest social satirists writing today.” Melvin Van Peebles
“... the novel is extremely well-written.” Clarion Ledger/Jackson Daily News
“Upton, a gifted and witty writer, has done a good job.” Minneapolis Star Tribune
“A jem of a novel!” Joliet Herald News
“... well- worked-out, snappily written and often irreverent ...” Newgate Callendar, The New York Times
“... daring witty novel ... the story arrives at a socko finish.” Publishers Weekly
The Accidental American
 
 
 
 
 
 
Robert Upton
 
 
Copyright © 2023 by Robert Upton.
 
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-5885-0

Softcover
978-1-6698-5884-3

eBook
978-1-6698-5883-6
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 12/13/2022
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
849194
CONTENTS
Affidavit of Christopher Rousby
Chapter 1 Name as Destiny
Chapter 2 Bound for America
Chapter 3 Lost at Sea
Chapter 4 The New World
Chapter 5 Zeus doth not bring all Men’s Plans to Fulfillment
Chapter 6 Running around with Cotton Mather
Chapter 7 The Politics of New York
Chapter 8 Boys Night Out
Chapter 9 London
Chapter 10 Hockley-in-the-Hole
Chapter 11 Homecoming
Chapter 12 Letters Home
Chapter 13 Limping Home
Chapter 14 The Letter of the Law
 
 
 
 
 
 
Being a True Tale of His Sailings
with the Infamous and Notorious Pyrate
Captain Kidd
 
Including a Ribald Report on the Economic and Social Conditions
of America in the late 17 th century, as well as a
Tasteful Account of the Villianies, Rapes,
Debaucheries, Mayhems, Murthers and
Plunderings along the way
Affidavit of Christopher Rousby
Having been commanded by the Honourable Lords of His Royal Majesty’s Admiralty Court to render a full account of my recent voyage with Captain William Kidd, I hereby sweare that everything I write shall be the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.
Fully three days have passed since I thus began. I write slowly because I am not a writer but a sailor--or pyrate, as the Lords of Admiralty would have it. Also--and this is more than sufficient reason by itself--while I write I enjoy a private cell rather than the vomituous, disease-ridden, rat-infested pit to which I am otherwise confined with a hundred other vermin-laden inmates in this Godforsaken hole that is Newgate prison. The cell in which I presently and gratefully find myself is not much larger than a sail locker, and although it is full four floors above the dungeon, with an open, barred window at one end, there is still no relief from the stench that hangs over the prison like an invisible cloud. Still, here I can be comparably comfortable for the short time remaining me, while I attempt to write my confession.
It occurs to me--for the little chance the Captain and I have of coming out of this alive--that I might just as well slash my wrists and write my story quickly in my own blood. Yet unmerciful as is each waking moment in this hell, there is something within me that will not allow me to lop off even a minute of the precious but horrid time remaining to me. I also find, looking back at this last paragraph, that I am rather better at this writing thing than I had supposed and, surprisingly, I find I’m rather enjoying it. Not the “affidavit” part--that is of necessity much too lacking in character, plot and atmosphere to be of interest to anyone other than the jurists who will hang me--but the introspective part about the will to live even in the face of utter despair. Also, the brief mention of jail conditions in 17 th century England I think rather nicely imparts broader social meaning to the work, much in the manner of Mr. Defoe’s writings. Pity there is no way to present an affidavit in the fine wrappings of literature, but to present such a document to my judges would be my death knell for certain, for the law requires that words be precise and capable of but one meaning, whereas the poet in me cries out for resonance and ambiguity.
The facts then--hew to the facts, damn you! Captain Kidd is accused of killing one of his crew and that is fact. He did strike Gunner Thomas Moore across the head with a bucket which did proximately cause the man’s later demise, but only when the blackguard threatened to cause a mutiny and take the ship a-pyrating. And ’tis fact the Captain did later capture the Quedah Merchant and all its cargo (which was unfortunately the property of the powerful East India Company), but ’twas only to placate the mutinous crew and spare the lives of the God-fearing sailors amongst us.
But how am I to explain life aboard a pyrate ship to a group of Lord Justices whose nautical experiences consist of nothing more than an afternoon’s punting on the Thames? And if I were to point out that Captain Kidd’s so-called pyrating expedition was sponsored by none other than King William and six of the most powerful gentlemen in Parliament, I should find my head lopped off for treason long before I could be hanged for pyracy. Prithee, if my Lords will indulge me, I should like to begin at the beginning, confident that when all the extenuating facts and circumstances are known, ye just and Honourable Lords will see fit to release Captain Kidd and me.
“Gaoler, more ink!”
Chapter 1
Name as Destiny
Having been christened Christopher (after Christopher Columbus) at my birth in 1675, I suppose it was inevitable that I should one day go to America, although if I had known then what a cursed place it is, I’d as soon have shipped to the wilds of Ireland. But as I was a young man, more than full enough educated by my own reckoning, and destined for fame and fortune beyond the meager capacity of the seaside village in which I had been born and reared over the previous fifteen years, caution played little part in my decision. Doubtless, the reckless spirit of adventure resides in some measure in all boys, but in most it is checked by the wisdom of a cautious father, until that role can be assumed by a wife.
My father, however, the somewhat dreamy headmaster of the village school, rich in imagination if little else, was a fireside adventurer who filled my head with tales of ancient Greek travelers and modern day explorers such as Christopher Columbus, with never a thought for the consequences of his romantic tales. In other families a practical mother would have seen the danger and rushed in to correct it with a solid dose of reality. But alas, my mother had died only a few minutes after giving life to me, which I’m told was the cause of my father’s dreamy mien. Also, while recounting the reasons for my destined departure for America, it is perhaps well that I mention Mr. Halburton, who offered me a handsome sum if I would but stand by to row him out to his ship when it might appear in Lyme Bay.
The arrival of Mr. Halburton and the veiled lady in our village on a warm day was, save the sardine run, the most exciting event of the season. I was just hauling my dinghy up onto the beach when I looked up to see the Southampton Coach pull to a halt in front of the Lyme Bay Inn where the owner, Mr. Hoghey, stood with his hat in hand. That a coach should stop at our village was unusual enough, but the two splendid people who stepped down from the coach were a vision such as none in our village had ever glimpsed. Indeed, had it not been for the sword at his side and the pistol in his belt, in these parts a man so dressed might risk being called a fop. His waistcoat, out of which a great scarf and collar bloomed like a spring lily, was of a scarlet material that glistened like the sea in the sunlight. And although the sun was already quite bright on that lovely afternoon, it seemed to grow in intensity at the moment the veiled lady followed him out from the cab.
It was impossible to see her face beneath the broad hat and veil she wore, yet the sight of her incredibly pinched waist alerted me instantly to a kind of beauty I had, until this moment, only sensed from my exotic imaginings of London or Paris. And the foot she extended from under the silvery skirt that billowed out like a wind-full s