The Old Cape Teapot

by Barbara Eppich Struna

  He nodded his head and then he and Molly ran to the living room to watch a TV show.

  I positioned the wrapped teapot near the end of the bench, and then went to find Paul in his studio. While I passed through the living room, I pointed at Molly and asked, "Have you started your book report yet?"

  Molly returned a wide-eyed stare and then ran to grab her backpack containing her new library book. Nothing more needed to be said; she got my message.

  Paul was painting at his easel. I planted a kiss on his cheek and sat in the lounge chair. "Guess what?"

  "Uh oh. What's up?" He made one more stroke with his brush and then stopped.

  "After visiting a few antique stores, I finally found Agnes in Dennis."

  "And what did Agnes in Dennis tell you?"

  "A guy sold her some china from his grandfather's estate that matches my little shard.”

  "Keep going."

  I pulled out the shard from my pocket, touched the blue flowers that decorated its surface and continued, “Agnes didn’t have any pieces for me to look at but she said that the pattern looked familiar to her. Then she told me to follow her to the back of the shop.” I looked at Paul with a big smile across my face and added, “When we got to the back, she reached down into a cardboard box and pulled out an old teapot.”

  “And?”

  “It was chipped, cracked and the lid was stuck but it matched my shard. She sold it to me for only $5.00.”

  “That’s great, but what does that have to do with anything?” Paul sat down at his drawing table and folded his arms.

  “The teapot came from this kid’s estate that Agnes then sold to a guy in London. Agnes would only tell me the seller’s name, no address; client confidentiality. But as I was paying for it, I secretly copied the address from her ledger.”

  The phone rang, Paul picked up the receiver. “The Caldwell Gallery, may I help you?”

  I grew impatient, waiting for Paul’s attention. I wanted to finish my story and tell him that Brian had called. Twirling my hand in a circular motion, I signaled for him to hurry up. Paul nodded Okay.

  ***

  Danny, engrossed with TV in the living room, reached for his juice box on the floor next to the couch and accidentally knocked it over onto the carpet. The red juice began to seep out of the plastic straw as the cup lay on its side. Instinctively, he ran to get something to wipe up his mistake. The first thing he saw was the small quilted blanket that lay jumbled in a ball on the foyer bench. A fast tug at a corner of the material was all that was needed. It came off the bench with a clunk against the tiled foyer floor. The sound of something other than the soft swish of material made Danny frightened. He stopped, quickly replaced the bulky quilt back on the bench and stuffed its ends into the corner. Then he ran into the kitchen calling, “Martha! Help!”

  21

  October 1722

  YARMOUTH - CAPE COD

  AFTER BAKER LEFT, Davis dressed and began his investigation into who was in his house and on his property. He climbed the stairs to Hephzibah’s quarters to find them empty. Slamming her door, he walked with an angry foot down to the deserted kitchen. He then proceeded to look for Tobey in the barn. Having no luck in his search, he punched his fist into a hay bale inside the horse’s stall. “By God, those two have not seen the last of me.” He hissed, “I need a drink.” As he walked back to the house, he rubbed his reddened knuckles. Once in the kitchen, he filled his tankard, emptied it with one lift of his hand, and filled it up again. Then he took his drink and Baker’s information upstairs to his study.

  Davis focused on two options: the up-and-coming business proposition and where to bury the newly found chest of treasure. Throughout the day he wandered aimlessly about the house until he finally devised a plan. He decided that he would remove as much booty as he could from Julian’s cache and hide it in a safe place, well out of sight. He was confident that as he travelled to the Baker Mill site, he would figure out where that safe place would be. Besides, his journey would get his mind off the two scalawags who had roughed him up.

  One of Felicity’s kerchiefs lay on the floor at his foot. “Humph… insubordination, and from a woman yet.” He mumbled, “Why did I ever choose her? Such a disrespectful wife.” He shook his head back and forth in disgust and clenched his teeth. “Partying away in Boston, not caring about her husband.” He grabbed the dainty linen square and threw it into the filled chamber pot. “She’s a shameful wife and now she carries my only child in her womb.” He collapsed on his bed. His eyes closed and he remained there through the rest of the day and into the night.

  ***

  Davis rose early and secured the house. He stuffed Baker’s paper detailing the mill site into his breast pocket, gathered a few garden tools, canvas sacks, plus several jugs of ale and then left for the barn. Finally, he strapped all to his horse and set out for Eastham.

  Later that day, as he approached the crest of the dividing line between Eastham and Harwich, he noticed a man kneeling on the ground with his back to him. Coming nearer, he saw a circular stone foundation radiated around the crouched, solitary figure. The man seemed to be carving on a stone with a chisel and hammer.

  “Good day,” Davis greeted the lone carver.

  The man kept quiet. He looked up and only tipped his hat to acknowledge Davis.

  “Has Mr. Baker been here today?” Davis asked, dismounting his horse.

  “No, sir.” The carver continued his repetitive tapping of his hammer.

  “Do you know when he’ll be making an appearance?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I see.” Davis surveyed the land surrounding the mill site. The location was certainly suited for a mill, with ample wind coming from all directions. It would be a good investment. He took his ale and sat on a boulder off to the side to rest. Davis couldn’t stop thinking about the treasure that lay buried only a few miles to the east. He stood and approached the stonemason. “Seems like you’re near finished,” Davis commented as he admired the man’s labors. There were eight stones set in a circle, each one marked with the directional letters of the Compass Rose. The mason was chiseling the final seraph on the letter N. Davis ultimately inquired. “When will the carpenter come to frame the floor joists?”

  The man kept his head down, concentrating on his work. “He took sick and near died, so they called in another man.”

  Davis stepped closer. “Do you think the new carpenter will be coming soon?”

  The carver kept his eyes downward. “Not for a week. Too busy.”

  An idea sparked in Davis’s head. Now that he was part owner in this enterprise, he probably could utilize the site for his own needs.

  After the stoic stonemason packed up his tools in a sack, he went on his way without a goodbye. Davis mounted his horse and left in the opposite direction, following the ridge down to the path that led to Enoch’s Rock.

  The sun began to set as Davis neared the mammoth boulder that rose above the horizon. Looking around, he saw no evidence that anyone had disturbed the site since he and Tobey had last visited. Untying the spade from the back of his saddle, he began to dig under the stones and into the dirt that hid the chest. He laughed to himself. No matter how many times he set his eyes on gold coins and jewels, his mouth would salivate in lust for its possession. Spit now dribbled from his lips and into the open wooden box. Davis scooped as much of the treasure that would fit into three sacks, leaving a small layer on the bottom for John Julian. Greed clouded his rationale, making him think Julian would not remember the bulk of the chest’s contents. He buried the near empty chest once more, placing a layer of stones over the freshly dug dirt.

  ***

  That night, Davis slept under the stars nestled against Enoch’s Rock, with three lumpy bags snuggled close to his body, his arms wrapped tightly around them. He woke in the early morning, stiff and cramped, but with a smile on his face. Pleased with his new fortune, he paid no mind to his aches as he threw the filled sacks over the saddle, tyin
g them secure. Davis decided to walk, noticing his horse was already weighed down with the treasure. As clouds gathered above his head, he picked up his stride, eager to retrace his steps back to the mill site.

  Davis made his way around the cove and up the ridge, finally arriving at the excavation. He stepped into the circle foundation and scanned the area within. The west facing stone was carved with a W, traditionally marking the door opening to the mill. It enabled the miller to watch the weather outside and the millstones grinding inside, all the while taking note of where to turn the arms for the most advantageous use of the wind.

  When his work was finished and the three bags buried, he scattered stones over the loose dirt, noting the three steps that lay between the door’s opening and the gold. Too tired to continue that day, he lay against a rock until the morning. Spent from the open road and longing for the comforts of his home, he tried to sleep but stayed restless. Before the sun made its rise, he pushed his weary body up off the ground and headed towards Yarmouth.

  As the hours passed across the dusty roads, he grew even more fatigued until he at last reached his house, where, once upstairs, he fell into a deep sleep. Davis lay there through the rest of the day and into the night. When he finally opened his eyes it was almost morning. Still dressed in traveling clothes, his aging body cried out to stay sleeping. Exhausted atop the bed’s coverlet, he slowly sat up. Feeling the urgency to relieve himself and in need of some more ale, he grumbled and winced from back pains as he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. The house was cold. As he opened the back door, a rush of frigid air pummeled his body, forcing him to stand in the doorway and not step to the outside left, as usual, for his morning constitution. The steam from his piss billowed into the atmosphere; it fell upon the hard frozen ground and lay atop the surface in a shiny puddle.

  As soon as he closed the door, he found the last of the ale and proceeded to climb back up the stairs, drinking as he moved upward on his quest to find clean garments for the day’s errands. He found a small amount of water in the dry sink bowl and managed to wash his face and hands. After spotting a dress shirt on the floor, he remembered it was only worn once and decided it would do just fine.

  Before traveling to seek the discipline of Hephzibah’s father upon his rude daughter and the authorities regarding the Antiguan slave, Tobey, he needed to do one more thing: secure John Julian’s map in a safe place. He first went into his study to contemplate a suitable hiding spot, then he sat at his desk, pulling drawers in and out, trying to think of where he could hide the map. Davis pushed some books to the side of his desk and slid Baker’s folded fact sheet into his ledger book for later. Finally, glancing around the small room for his answer to secrecy, he spotted the glass-fronted cabinet against the opposite wall. Behind its doors, the blue teapot that Felicity seemed to find distasteful sat elegantly on the wooden shelf next to the matching tea bowls and saucers. A broad smile beamed across his face as he retrieved the teapot from its perch.

  Taking pen in hand, he drew a tiny windmill near the site of the proposed mill on the map and added the number 3 for his steps, along with a W for the directional marker. Folding the map in quarters and then once more, he fit the vellum into the opening of the ceramic vessel and sealed the lid with wax and glue. After latching the door to the cabinet, he stood back to admire his cleverness.

  Before he left the house, Davis pocketed his pistol and grabbed his winter waistcoat. Throwing it over his shoulder, he reached for the latch and gingerly stepped outside. With the first step of his heel against the urine-coated mud, his foot slid from under him, sending his body and limbs flailing into mid-air. Within seconds, the back of his skull came crashing down against the stone threshold. As blood oozed from the open gash, Davis’s life force seeped in an erratic pattern that encircled his head. While he breathed his last labored breath, the tiny snowflakes that floated gently throughout the winter landscape stole any warmth that lingered in his body.

  22

  November 1722

  BOSTON

  AN EARLY MORNING RAIN turned into sleet and stung the faces of the few people that ventured out onto Beacon Hill. A messenger approached house #35 and checked his ledger to make sure he was at the correct address. When he was certain, he lifted the iron circle attached to the door to sound his presence. The massive entranceway opened and a young employee of the Gibbs family appeared.

  The young woman shielded her eyes from the cold rain. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Felicity Davis.” Water dripped from the corners of the gentlemen’s hat.

  “Come in. Wait here, please.”

  He followed her inside. As the door closed behind him, John, the head butler appeared in the foyer and whispered to the maid to step back. She moved in front of the stairway leading to the second floor.

  John turned to the unexpected visitor. With a somber face he asked, “What is your business with Mrs. Davis?”

  “I’ve come from Yarmouth, Massachusetts with, I’m afraid, bad news.”

  “And?”

  The messenger opened his waistcoat and produced a letter with Felicity’s name on its front.

  At that moment, Bethia Gibbs came into sight at the top of the stairs. “John, what is the disturbance?” Before he could answer, she descended down the steps to see for herself. The old woman wagged her finger and chastised her servant, “We must have absolute quiet in this house.”

  “Forgive me, madam, but there is news from Yarmouth.”

  Mother Gibbs showed no emotion as she instructed him further, “Show the man to the study and then leave us.”

  The sparse room was decorated with shelves of books, two lone chairs and a small desk. The three pieces of furniture were situated in the middle of the room. Atop the desk’s wooden surface rested a quill pen with inkbottle. Mother Gibbs sat down and motioned for the man to also sit. “Now, what is your news?”

  “I have a letter for the wife of Thomas Davis from the constable of Yarmouth, Massachusetts.”

  Mother Gibbs sat taller in her chair. “That is my daughter. I’ll deliver it to her.” She stretched her arm out to accept the letter.

  Hesitant to give the missive to anyone other than the intended recipient, the stranger held it firmly between his fingers.

  Mother Gibbs motioned with her hand to pass it over, but he held it fast. She grew impatient and raised her voice, “Give me the letter!”

  “Forgive me, madam, the law states that the letter is to be hand delivered to Mrs. Felicity Davis.”

  She sat back in her chair and tried to soften her approach by lowering her head and speaking in quieter tones. “I am Felicity’s mother and, at this moment, she is in her eighth month with child and beginning her travail.” She stood and walked over to the window. “You must excuse me, but I’m quite worried about her health and I am not of right mind.” She took out her kerchief and dabbed at her dry eyes.

  The courier hesitated, but growing more convinced of the dire situation, slid the letter across the desk.

  Mother Gibbs, out of the corner of her eye, could see it was free of his grasp and smiled, knowing she had won. She returned to the desk, placed her fingers on top of the vellum and coyly smiled. “I will see that my daughter receives this message.”

  He rose and gave the woman a slight bow, then asked, “Shall I wait for her response?”

  “No, that will not be necessary. I am sure whatever the news is, we will take care of it in due time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mother Gibbs rang for John to show the stranger out. Once alone in the study, she opened the letter.

  Mrs. Felicity Davis,

  I regret to inform you of the accidental death of your husband, Thomas Davis, which occurred in Yarmouth, Massachusetts on the eighteenth day of October in the year of our Lord, one thousand seven hundred and twenty two. Please be advised that his house and possessions will be secured until I receive further word as to your wishes.

  Sin
cerely,

  Constable John Maker

  Yarmouth Massachusetts

  Mother Gibbs was stunned, but she felt only a fleeting wave of sadness fly in and then right out of her heart. This was good news! She began to contemplate her options, and all of them began with the words that Felicity was now a free woman. Her status in society would be secured by this new increase in wealth. She decided to withhold the information until after the birthing of her grandchild. No need to bring more stress to her daughter. She folded the letter and locked it into a small drawer in the desk, made a quick adjustment to her bodice, pulled a few strands of gray hair behind her ears and stood tall. Bethia Gibbs looked happy for the first time since her daughter had unfortunately married Thomas Davis.

  ***

  Ten days passed. Felicity still lay in her bed, unaware of her husband’s demise and struggling with false labor pains.

  Today, she screamed in agony as the child finally began to crown its head. Servants rushed about the house. Mother Gibbs paced as the midwife and doctor tended to Felicity’s rants and tirades.

  “He will never touch me again!” she screamed. “I hate him for doing this to me!”

  “Try to breathe,” coaxed the midwife.

  Felicity thrashed about ignoring any advice or consolation. As the child finally made its appearance, Bethia Gibbs thought her looking glass would shatter with the pitch of her daughter’s shrieks. When the drama was finished, the doctor checked the child’s hands, feet, and little body for unusual markings or faults; the infant boy seemed perfect.

  Mother Gibbs retired to the study. She sat at her desk and placed an apprehensive hand on the small drawer that hid the letter about Thomas Davis. She decided that she would inform Felicity of the untimely death of her husband in a few days. Determined to bring closure to her daughter’s marriage and reap the benefits of inheritance, Mother Gibbs anxiously awaited the appearance of the family lawyer.