by Rachel Field
“Tide’s ’most full,” Seth Jordan was saying. “They’ll take the channel easy with this favoring wind.”
“The Cap’n he’s been hankerin’ to be off for weeks,” Joel Sargent told him. “He only stayed to oblige me with all this buildin’.”
“Yes,” his wife added, “an’ I don’t know where we’d have been but for his help. It makes me feel real bad to see the last of him.”
“Oh, maybe not the last,” Ira reminded her.
“You can’t tell these days,” she answered soberly. “I’d feel a heap easier in my mind with him by.”
“Look, Maggie,” Becky put in. “The anchor’s up. She’s headin’ out.”
Marguerite could understand Dolly’s feelings as she stood watching the water widen between shore and this vessel that had been like home to them all. Even after the shelter had been built they had returned to the boat again and again. She knew every knothole and peg of its timbers, and the patches on its sail were as familiar to her as those on the quilt that covered Jacob.
“Good-by! Good-by!” the group on the point called as the vessel swung about.
“Good-by! Good-by!” the men called back, their voices crossing those coming over the water to them, so that the words became suddenly a single cry.
“I wish I was goin’ too.” Abby Welles spoke up.
“I’m glad you ain’t,” Ira answered at her side.
Marguerite’s heart beat queerly to see the Isabella B. slipping past their point. Already she looked small and strange, not the vessel they had known so well. Soon the dark trees on the farther headland would shut her from their sight. She ran with the twins and Patty to a boulder that she might keep the sight as long as possible. The sail showed very bright in the setting sun, and already the prow was heading out between the islands. Suddenly Marguerite was reminded of the Captain’s words on their first morning out of Marblehead: “It takes you places without waitin’ for no road.” That was what he had said of the sea, and it was the truth. Once again she saw it as a watery highway going round and round the world, and once more she quickened to the fancy.
“There, it’s gone,” she heard one of the women say.
“Our cove looks dreadful empty without the Isabella B.,” said Susan.
“Yes,” echoed Becky. “I’m lonesome for her a’ready, ain’t you, Maggie?”
That night, after their visitors had rowed away and the remains of the feast were eaten, they all turned into the new house. It was still unfinished inside, with a floor to be laid and beds and benches to be built against the walls. But logs burned on the hearth, the firelight shining on the rough stones that had so painstakingly been carried from the beach. The chimney rose in the center of the house, dividing the two rooms and making a fireplace for each.
Marguerite and the twins slept in the kitchen on make-shift beds, while Joel and his wife and the three younger children were in the other. A loft above housed Caleb and Ira, who climbed to it by means of a ladder. All this was still unfinished, but a roof at least was over them, and even Dolly admitted that was a great step forward. Marguerite tossed on her spruce boughs. She found sleep long in coming, with the light of the dwindling fire making strange shadows on logs and rafters. She had grown used to sleeping in the half-open shelter, and the new quarters added to all the events of the day made her wakeful.
Jacob wailed from the other room, and hearing him she was reminded again of Hepsa Jordan drawing together the edges of that ugly gash. She saw it all plainly in her mind’s eye, and inwardly she went over each gesture. Would she be able to do such a thing someday, she wondered? And suppose the hammer had hit him lower? What then? She shivered and huddled closer to the sleeping twins under the quilt folds. A strange bird called from the woods, and crickets were all about the house with their clamorings. Some night they would be still, and that would mean frost and winter almost upon them. She had heard Eliza Stanley say so to Hannah Welles only that afternoon. It was sad about crickets and the frost. Oncle Pierre had once sung her a little song about that. She must try to remember the words. Queer how her French ones were slipping away from her! It was easy to forget when she must keep them hidden as she did the ring and button round her neck. Her hands felt for them in the darkness.
She awoke to sunshine coming through the six small panes of window glass and all the unstuffed chinks. Caleb and Ira were stirring above, and Joel Sargent had already begun building up the fire. Marguerite sprang up and, slipping her dress quickly over her cotton underbody, was soon helping to stir the kettle of hasty pudding. The house would be full of hammering that day as she 7ell knew.
So it was for all the week following and the one after that. Marguerite’s feet were never still as she ran from spring to doorstep; from beach to garden patch and back a score of times a morning. The corn and turnips had not fared so badly for so late a planting, but the potatoes were poor and rotting. Every one must be gathered and stored away for winter use. The children and Marguerite grubbed over and over the bit of cleared land lest they overlook a single one of the precious brown lumps. Sometimes Caleb allowed them to turn his fish drying in the sun, and often he let Marguerite take a hand at the corn-grinding, which he had learned to do Indian-fashion with stones and wooden mallets. It was a wearisome task that made the muscles ache and the head throb if one kept at it long. But Marguerite never dared let Caleb know when she lagged. He would be sure to jeer, and though sometimes it seemed that he was less ready than of old to pounce upon her every failing, still she could not risk incurring his disfavor.
Jacob’s hurt was almost healed, though the scar still showed red and jagged on his forehead and he liked to keep closer to Marguerite than had been his habit. Between him and Debby, who had reached the creeping stage, the girl had her hands full.
“Acts kind of pindling since he got that blow,” Aunt Hepsa Jordan said one day when she came over on a short visit. “I’m goin’ to bring over a brew o’ my goldenrod tea to make him spruce up.”
Seth had rowed her over along with some apples from his orchard. With Joel Sargent he went over to examine the applegrafts he had helped Flint make two springs before on some thornbushes in the clearing. These had been cut down and the apple shoots set in before the sap rose. Several of the grafts were doing well. Marguerite marveled to hear him talk of fruit from these apple cuttings. She and the children watched in fascination while he told how it must be done.
“Thorn trees are pretty tough wood,” he was saying, “an’ if these pippin shoots catch hold you’ll have as good an apple tree as any up an’ down the coast.”
“That thornbush won’t know itself when it commences to bear,” laughed Ira as he turned to with his strong brown hands.
“And will they grow?” Marguerite asked incredulously. “Will there really be apples there sometime?”
“If we have luck,” Seth told her, “an’ the sap comes up good again next spring.”
“It is wonderful,” she murmured, “like magic.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, child,” Hepsa Jordan said, “though come to think of it there’s a wonder to anythin’ that lives an’ thrives.”
“When the first fruits are gathered,” Marguerite found herself grown quite voluble with the old lady by to listen, “we must remember to thank the tree. Often I have heard Grand’mère say so to make sure it will bear again.”
“That’s a good one,” grinned Ira, “thankin’ a tree.”
“I’ve heard o’ queerer doin’s in my time,” Hepsa retorted. “But ’twon’t be for a good spell, to judge from the looks.”
They walked together back to the house. The children must show her every corner of it and how their father was going to make a corner cupboard and shelves as soon as he had finished the shed to house Brindle and her calf. The sheep had been given to Seth Jordan in exchange for some pieces of wooden planking, a bag of nails, a keg of molasses, more cornmeal, and half of the next pig he killed. In addition Aunt Hepsa had agreed to spin and
weave their wool into cloth for winter wear.
“’Twon’t be near enough for the yards you’ll need,” she had told Dolly, “but I never was one to stint a neighbor. You can send Maggie an’ the twins over to help me set up the loom and pick the wool, an’ we’ll call it even.”
The afternoom was unusually warm for mid-September, and there was an even greater color and shine on every leaf and grass blade. Dolly came out to sit beside Hepsa Jordan on the doorstep, and the children gathered on the ground roundabout. A rock maple was still aflame nearby, and mountain ash trees were brightly hung with orange berries.
“I would that the trees stayed red and yellow all the year through,” said Marguerite, rescuing Debby from a headlong tumble on her nose.
“’Tis a right pretty time,” agreed Aunt Hepsa, taking out her workbag. “I could do without winter myself this year.”
“I don’t dast to think of winter,” sighed Dolly.
She was mending an old coat of Seth’s, and beside her on the stone lay a pile of knitted stockings, all worn and ragged, which must be made ready for the children’s feet. Marguerite took up one, turning it this way and that in her hands to see how best it might be made to do duty. She was clever at patching, but with yarn scanty and such great gaping holes it seemed a well-nigh hopeless task.
“There’s but two pair o’ shoes between the four young ones,” Dolly was going on mournfully, “an’ none for Maggie.”
“Never you mind.” Hepsa had her square of patchwork out now, and her needle was already moving quickly in and out of the calico scraps. “I’ve two pair an’ she’s welcome to one. I can spare them easy with my moccasins for indoors.”
The children drew close to watch her fit the patchwork together, marveling at the speed of her needle and the cunning in her small, knotty fingers.
“You young ones good at answering riddles?” the old lady was asking as she worked. “You are? Well, here’s one for you then. My mother used to say it to me when I was knee-high to a grasshopper.” Her eyes twinkled as she repeated it, her head cocked on one side so that Marguerite thought she looked even more birdlike than usual.
An iron horse
With a flaxen tail;
The faster the horse does run,
The shorter does his tail become.
Since none of them could guess it she told them the answer with a quick wag of her head in its neat calico handkerchief.
“A needle an’ thread, sam’s I’ve got here in my hand.”
Even Dolly grew expansive in the older woman’s cheerful company. She remembered stories out of her young days and recalled an old recipe for making cakes from cornmeal and mashed pumpkin. Marguerite listened happily as she sat sewing among the children, keeping an eye on them, particularly on the creeping Debby.
“That baby’s growin’ dreadful fast,” observed Aunt Hepsa after Marguerite had rescued her from the end of a fallen log. “First thing you know you’ll have trouble with her an’ the fire. There’s just one way to cure ’em of meddlin’ with it. Seems pretty mean to take a hot coal to to their little fingers, but it’s temptin’ Providence if you don’t.”
“You mean burn her—on purpose?” Marguerite’s eyes widened with horror.
“Yes,” the other told her. “I had to do it to mine, an’ Ethan too when he was little. You can’t watch ’em every last minute, an’ soon’s your back’s turned they’ve fallen into it or their little clothes have got afire.”
Dolly snatched the baby up with one of her rare bursts of affection. “I couldn’t do it,” she said stoutly. “I vow I couldn’t turn to an’ brand no child of mine.”
“Well, they’re your young ones,” the older woman rejoined quietly, “but I always say—better the child cry than the mother sigh.”
The men were busy over the shed, Seth Jordan giving Joel a hand with the heavier logs and advice as to the door. Caleb hung about without a look in the direction of the womenfolk. Presently they saw Ira slip away down to the shore. Soon he was pushing out in the dory with the triangle of canvas already hoisted to the pole that did duty for mast.
“Oh, look at Uncle Ira!” cried Patty.
They all followed her pointing finger with interest.
“For pity’s sake, what’s he up to, settin off at this time o’ day?” exclaimed Dolly.
“He ain’t fishin’, that’s sure,” Aunt Hepsa remarked, shading her eyes against the sun on the water. “Looks to me like he was headin’ east for the Welles place.”
“He’s got on his best blue coat,” put in Susan.
“Then that’s where he’s goin’ most likely.”
Marguerite thought she noticed a shrewd, half-amused look pass over the old woman’s face as they watched him round the eastern point.
“He might have told me,” complained Dolly. “I could find work for him right here.”
“Well, he’s young to keep at it from sunup to sundown,” the other reminded her, “an’ Abbey Welles is a nice girl. I’m sure I couldn’t ask for no better for Ethan if he’s lucky enough to get her.”
It was nearly sunset when the Jordans set off for Sunday Island. Marguerite walked with Aunt Hepsa down to the strip of shingle. She held the old woman’s hand, and it felt warm and light in hers, not limp and chill like so many old people’s. The tide was in, filling the cove to the full. The spruces crowding the points at either side seemed to be wading in their own dark reflections.
“See how my windows shine,” she pointed out to the girl, “just like they was pure gold. It’s a good thing, I always say, to see a place from other folks’ land.”
“They are like eyes,” said Marguerite, “like two eyes looking over the water at us. I like to see them so.”
Off to the northeast the line of hills showed clear and strange in reflected light. They had turned to a curious blue, deeper than Marguerite had ever seen them, as they lay heaped one upon another, faintly rugged and far.
“Isles des Monts Déserts,” she murmured half to herself.
“I mean to have my new quilt just such a blue as they are now,” Aunt Hepsa said, “soon’s Ethan fetches me back the dye. It’s only right an’ proper, seein’ the pattern’s called ‘Delectable Mountains.’”
It was well after dark when Ira beached the dory again. They could hear him whistling as he came up to the house, and he refused the mush and milk Dolly had saved for him.
“I lay the Welleses set a better table,” she remarked with a sly twist to her lips as he went past her, “but like as not you wouldn’t know what they put before you.”
Ira shrugged, but Marguerite noticed that his eyes looked bright, and he joked with the children as he had not for some days past. Also when Dolly was putting the younger ones to bed he brought his old homespun coat to Marguerite to mend.
“Turnin’ colder,” he said a trifle apologetically, “an’ I can’t go round like a gypsy, not even in such parts.”
She reached for the coat willingly. She would have liked to ask him if Abby Welles had worn the pink calico, but dared not venture so far in his confidence.
That night there was a heavy frost, and the days following were too full of work on the house and shed to allow for more visiting. All the children even down to Jacob were pressed into service stuffing moss between the logs, and the sound of hammers and axes echoed from early till late. Now flocks of wild geese flew in long wedge-shaped companies southward. Their wings beat dark against the blue fall skies, and no matter how they might wheel and veer they always followed their leader out past the islands and on tirelessly. Sometimes Joel or Ira brought one down for their supper, but Marguerite could never relish the taste as she did other food. It did not seem right to kill any creature with such a compass of its own. Once when Caleb teased her for this, Dolly unexpectedly spoke up in her behalf.
“I don’t say as Maggie’s right to act so squeamish,” she had said, “but I declare when I see those wild birds headin’ south so sure an’ knowin’ I can’t help feelin’
maybe they’ve got more sense ’n some folks. Yes, there’s plenty could take a hint from them.”
She gave a sharp look at her husband as she spoke, but if he understood her meaning he gave no sign.
Sometimes Ira and Caleb with Pumpkin made a long day of hunting in the woods and brought back rabbits, fowl, and other game over their shoulders. Once they shot a deer and dragged it back to be eaten and dried, and the skin scraped for winter use. They reported that the woods seemed free of Indians and that there was witchhazel growing in one spot a mile or so inland on what appeared to be a blazed trail to the north.
“Aunt Hepsa says witchhazel works wonders for sickness,” Marguerite told them at supper. “I would like to gather some for her.”
“I could do with some myself,” put in Dolly. “There’s nothin’ like it to take down a swellin’. Do you think ’twould be safe to let Maggie an’ the young ones go there alone, Ira?”
“Can’t see the harm if Caleb went along with my gun,” he answered, and so it was agreed upon for the day following.
Marguerite had been fearful of Caleb’s making an objection at the last minute, but he liked to feel that the safety of the expedition rested upon his shoulders. Besides, he might bring down a squirrel or a rabbit to add to the store of skins he was curing to make winter caps. Pumpkin went with them, his tail bristling with excitement, his nose close to the ground as he ran before. The Flints had blazed a rough trail into the woods, but the blazes on the trees had grown faint with time and frost so that it was easy to lose the way if eyes were not sharp. Caleb knew it well, however, and kept Marguerite and the young ones firmly in tow. He carried his uncle’s musket on his shoulder and allowed no loitering for the picking of late berries or bright moss.
“Supposin’ we was to meet that old bear again,” Patty suggested as she scampered at Marguerite’s side. “What would you do without no water to douse him?”
“A bear—huh, I’d make short work o’ him!” Caleb told them confidently. “An’ if we followed where he was a-goin’ like as not we’d find a wild honeycomb hid in some tree.”
