Vox Meditantis

11th October 1778

Aboard the Constellation, in the Atlantic

This Evening past, as the Heavens unveil’d themselves in such Splendour as to make even our weathered Captain pause at his Reckoning, I found myself among the Company upon Deck, all of us drawn as Moths to that celestial Flame. Mrs. H declared she had never witness’d such a Profusion of Stars, not even in her Youth in Hampshire, and indeed the very Firmament seemed to press closer, as tho’ the Almighty had drawn back the Veil to shew us His handiwork entire.

We are now seventeen Days from Portsmouth, and the Crossing proves gentler than many fear’d, tho’ the Talk aboard runs ever to Newport and that unfortunate Business in August last. Captain R receiv’d Word ere we departed that the French fleet had withdrawn, and the Attempt upon the British quite undone by Storm and Mischance. One cannot but wonder at the strange Turnings of Fortune, when Wind and Weather serve as Generals in this War.

I confess, my Spirits are unaccountably light this Night, despite the Uncertainty that awaits us in New-York. There is something in the rolling Constellation of this wooden World – forty Souls bound together by Circumstance and Canvas – that stirs in me a most peculiar Contentment. At Supper, young Miss T spilt the Pease-porridge quite thoroughly upon her Frock, and rather than Tears, there arose such Laughter as I have not heard since we left England’s Shore. Even stern Mr. D, who speaks only of his confiscated Estates and the Injustice of Rebels, crack’d a Smile.

The Sailors have their own Society below, and we Passengers ours, and yet we are knit together by this Voyage as surely as Thread through Cloth. When the Watch calls out the Hour, we all mark it. When the Cook’s Bell rings, we all hunger. ‘Tis a curious Fellowship, this Company of Strangers, and I find myself quite devoted to its small Rituals and Rhythms.

Mrs. H ask’d me this Afternoon, as we sat with our Needlework (for there is precious little else to occupy one’s Hands at Sea), whether I recall’d when I first felt myself no longer a Child but a Woman grown. ‘Twas an odd Question, and yet it fix’d itself in my Mind.

I told her true: it was not upon my Marriage, tho’ many would suppose it so, nor even when I first kept Household Accounts or order’d Servants about their Tasks. Nay, ’twas rather when my Mother fell ill of the Fever, three Years since, and my Father was away on Business in Bristol. I was not yet twenty Years, and suddenly all the Weight of that House fell upon me – the Servants to direct, the Apothecary to summon, the Poultices to prepare, my younger Brothers to keep from Fright. I remember standing in the Kitchen at Two of the Clock in the Morning, brewing Chamomile and Feverfew by Candlelight, and thinking with great Clarity: There is no one else. Thou must not fail in this.

My Mother recover’d, thanks be to God, but something in me did not return to what it had been. I had look’d upon Mortality and found myself equal to the Task of standing between it and those I lov’d. ‘Twas not Courage, I think, but rather a Recognition of one’s Place in the Order of Things – that we are each given our Portion of Duty, and must discharge it whether we feel ourselves capable or no.

Mrs. H nodded most thoughtfully at this, and said she had felt much the same when her first Child was born, and she understood with terrible Certainty that she alone stood between this small Creature and the Perils of the World.

But here upon this Ship, under these impossible Stars, I feel something else entire – as tho’ I am both Child and Woman at once, both alone and part of some greater Body. We are all of us suspended between two Shores, neither quite English nor yet American, and in this Liminal space there is a strange Freedom. The Stars care not for our Allegiances or our Destinations. They wheel above us all alike.

The Orion constellation stands high to the East this Night, and I am put in Mind of that Verse from the Book of Job: Canst thou bind the sweet Influences of Pleiades, or loose the Bands of Orion? Indeed we cannot, and there is Comfort in that – in knowing we are govern’d by Laws greater than King or Congress, set in motion ere any of us drew Breath.

Young Master T (the Brother of the Pease-porridge Girl) has just discovered that if one stands at the Bow and looks down at the Water by Moonlight, one may see the strange Luminescence that the Sailors call Sea-fire. We are all going to look presently, like Children at a Fair. Even the Journey has its Wonders, if one has Eyes to see them.

I shall write more when we make Landfall, if the Almighty wills it and the Privateers permit. For now, the Heavens sing, and I am content to be a small Voice in this floating Chorus, bound for Whatever Comes Next.

Per aspera ad astra, as my Father’s Latin Master was fond of saying – through Hardships to the Stars. Tho’ I confess, at this particular Moment, the Hardships seem rather distant, and the Stars quite wonderfully near.

---

Late eighteenth-century Atlantic world; the American War of Independence (1775–1783) broadened into a global conflict after France allied with the United States in early 1778, intensifying naval warfare in the Atlantic and Caribbean. In mid-1778 the British evacuated Philadelphia and concentrated on New York, while both sides repositioned for winter quarters and Atlantic crossings carried soldiers, merchants, and Loyalist refugees amid rising privateering. The failed Franco-American Newport operation (August 1778), marred by storms and coordination troubles, exemplified the difficulties of coalition war at sea. Subsequent campaigns shifted southward (1779–1781), culminating in Yorktown (1781) and peace in 1783, reshaping imperial trade and Loyalist destinies.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved. | 🌐 Translate