A Concise History of Portsong Read online

A Concise History of Portsong

  In 1742 or thereabouts, a young lad named Percival Edmund Rumph became enchanted by stories of exploration. By his twelfth year, he had devoured stories about the exploits of famous men of history such as Sir Francis Drake, Ferdinand Magellan, and Christopher Columbus. While he dreamed of great ocean voyages, he began to focus on overland adventures by the likes of Marco Polo because he did not own a boat and his prospects of acquiring one were bleak. Being the son of a blacksmith, he spent his days dirty and hot, not at the docks where he could sign on to work on a ship as an apprentice. While his family was very necessary to their community, they were not particularly rich or affluent. They had little property save a small house abutting a workspace that housed their forge. So Percival seemed doomed to spend his life with feet stuck on the ground in a small cage, yearning for the freedom of open seas.

  After reading a tale about the Spanish explorer Ponce de Leon, he came to the conclusion that one needed only a pair of boots, a hat with a plume, a journal and a fanciful imagination to set out on a conquest. With that in mind, he robbed a goose of its tailfeather, filled a pouch with supplies and took a westward bearing away from his family home. Unable to rouse any chums as support, the boy set off alone. He passed through the Union Ward and skirted by the burial grounds to avoid bad luck and was on his way. The city of Savannah resided on the edge of a vast wilderness at the time, and it didn’t take very long for young Rumph to find himself outside its safety.

  The hapless boy hadn’t a clue how to use a compass and had forgotten to pack one anyway. He thought it best to follow the river, which would make a return trip easier to navigate in case he needed to make a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, he never made it to the river. He couldn’t find it. Instead of going slightly northwest, Percival took a turn southward and dug through the forest for hours, wondering why he hadn’t struck water. When that thought hit him, he stood in confusion and decided to retrace his steps and head east. As night fell, he began to feel marshy sand beneath his feet. The wind picked up and smelled of seawater. Percival breathed it in heartily, wondering if his adventure was already coming to a close.

  “Maybe I’ve hit the western ocean!” he thought to himself, little knowing that he was on the cusp of the Atlantic some five miles south of his home. He transcribed an account of his day in the journal complete with a very inaccurate map of his travels thus far.

  Soon he became weary and bedded down for the night to the sound of lapping waves and curious gulls. In the morning, when the sun reached its yellow fingers over the brilliant water, the impatient lad realized he had rediscovered the eastern ocean. With some disappointment, he gathered his things together and tried to muster a brave face. This lack of progress was humiliating.

  After resuming his trek, he noted that every great explorer needs a title. Perhaps his lack of discovery was a result of his lack of a title. He thought for nearly a mile’s walk down the beach before dubbing himself Sir Percival Rumph, the Child Explorer.

  “That should do it!” he said to a passing pelican. “Now for a discovery.”

  As he meandered down the coast and headed inland, he met up with a new river and followed it westward. He was positive it was flowing west this time. The river was wide at its mouth where he had started, but gradually narrowed during the day. When he woke up the next morning and followed it further, it wound down to a stream. Several days later he found the water’s end and had nothing left to guide him west. Sir Percival sat on a rock to bemoan his loss. In his loneliness, he realized just how much he had lost. Yes, the water was gone. Worse than that, he had eaten the entirety of his rations, and he found the will to explore had left him. He wanted to go home.

  Water was struck again as a tear left the poor lad’s eye. He did everything he could to keep from allowing another, but an uncontrollable crying jag came upon him until he sobbed in great heaps. He was shaken from his fit by the sound of singing. It was the first human contact he had had in several days, but he was not sure if the voice was a friend or foe. Percival wiped his face, ducked to the ground and crawled underneath the brush, hoping to find the singer. What he heard was not at all like words being sung…more of a humming than anything. Although the tone never broke, he could not pinpoint its location, crawl as he might. The voice wailed throughout the day until Percival became more than a little spooked at its haunting tone.

  His imagination began to overtake him, and he wondered, “Could this be a siren or harpy nest?” He had heard fantastic tales of sailors being killed by such creatures and did not want to be numbered among their victims. He felt it his duty to warn others, so he took out his journal, marked an “X” where he found himself and wrote down the word “song” beside it. Then Sir Percival fled back toward the narrow riverbed that led back to the ocean. Of course there were no mythical beasts along his route. What he had heard was simply the gurgling of his lost water, which was not gone at all. It had disappeared underground and resurfaced in a cavern a few feet from him, where it collected and churned before reemerging to become the southern fork of the river.

  Percival Rumph was discovered by another traveler and gladly taken back to his home in Savannah where he faced severe punishment from his stout father for the trip. He recounted the story of his exploration to his mates and inflated every detail, including a horrifying description of the harpies he had found and his death-defying escape. He took copious notes in his little journal and wove a tale to anyone who would listen. In time, the tyranny of occupation drove him to continue his father’s trade, and he became a blacksmith of renown in Savannah. He lost his journal, forgot most of his exploits and discounted the rest as childhood folly as he slipped into obscurity.