George Priest saw his son smile. “I think he is, Dana.”
Nicholas Priest’s father signed the apprenticeship agreement and tendered thirty dollars to Christison and Son.
Isaac Griffin looked at the boy and said, “You’re bound to go now.”
He then told the father, “I’ll make sure he’s safe. But I’ll not coddle him. He’ll be a horned shellback before he becomes a lawyer.”
The boy looked puzzled.
“You’ll have crossed the line and rounded Cape Horn. What you tell your missus is your business, Mr. Priest, but I promise you and her that I’ll watch out for this boy. Might we speak in private? There’s something needs looking into.”
***
Nicholas Priest did not speak to his father during their horsecar ride from Atlantic Avenue to their Back Bay home. He remained silent despite his father’s efforts to persuade him that it was for the best that he should leave his home and go to sea. He was told to ignore the agony his father would suffer because of that decision. When they reached their home, his mother, Niesgin, greeted them in the parlor, where she had set up her easel.
Niesgin was a popular portrait artist in Boston. Her customers were wealthy businessmen requiring suitable portraits to hang in their places of business. In fact, the portrait of a bald man in his late sixties with a long nose, a long face, an imposing gray Francis Joseph mustache, and cold eyes dominated the canvas despite the impressive granite textile mill occupying the background. His dry-plate photograph rested on a table. This man could not pose for the painting because he had little time for things other than business and the obligations of his class. It was Niesgin’s insight and memory that colored his eyes and toned his cheeks.
These portraits paid well but were not her favorites, as so little imagination was required to render them. She preferred to paint dogs—large, imposing dogs with faces showing canine dignity and affection. Canine eyes fascinated her, wolves’ eyes. Today she wished she owned a dog, an angry Rottweiler or Pinscher to attack her husband.
Nicholas Priest stood some distance from his parents, who had forgotten he was in the room. He could hear every shouted word, could see every facial expression, every arm wave, and every belligerent pose.
“What have you done? How could you do this without asking me? I regret the day I met you, George. Don’t you care about Nicky at all?”
“How can you say that? Do you remember the doctors? Who hired the nurse? You recall none of that? You stand there and tell me I don’t care?” George Priest turned his back on his wife to hide the anger in his face. “I worry about the type of man he’ll become. How he’ll earn a living. If he’ll even live. Hell, I told you what that man said—the hazing was traditional, built character. I didn’t need to ask you; I knew your answer anyway. No. Nein. Always, nein.”
She touched his shoulder to force him to look at her. He stood with his back to her until he felt her hand drop; then he turned again, his eyes avoiding hers.
“Don’t you realize there will be no one on that ship to take care of him, to comfort him when he’s sick? And those men—have you ever seen a sailor? They are crude men. They swear. They smoke foul tobacco and even chew it. Disgusting.”
Niesgin’s arms were straight down at her sides and her hands formed tight fists.
“Their officers treat them like criminals. Do you think these men will care about Nicky? Those officers, all they care about is working the sailors hard; that was the way it was when I crossed the Atlantic on that packet. Those sailors stared at me, my breasts, down my dirndl, when they thought I wasn’t looking. They’d whisper and laugh. You’ve sent Nicky…is it too late?”
George Priest had thought about this moment. From the instant he made the decision to send his son to sea, he’d known this argument would occur. He replied, “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you. Do you think I like it any more than you?”
His wife raised her hands from her sides and placed them on her hips as her face reddened.
“The decision’s made; the money’s spent. It’s been well spent. He’s going on the Providence. The captain is Isaac Griffin. William Christison Jr. assures me that Griffin is a fair man. I could tell he is; I looked into his eyes. He’ll watch out for Nick. Our son will not be berthed in the forecastle with the rest of the men. That’s not done, never done unless a boy is at least eighteen.”
Niesgin’s mouth gaped. “Pederasts!”
“No!” George’s face grimaced in pain. “Nick and the other apprentices have their own berthing space. I’ve been assured the mates will be responsible for the boys. Give the boy a—”
“You said boys. How many will there be?”
“Three along with Nick.”
“Where is this ship going?”
“To San Francisco. From there to England and back to Boston.”
“Mein Gott! Do you know that involves rounding Cape Horn, George? Don’t you read the papers—ship after ship sinking there?”
George replied, “So? I send him to Virginia, to an expensive school, and what happens? Those boys may have killed Nick. These are the sons of rich men, the best families. And that pompous headmaster—traditional. Our son has consumption! The doctors don’t know how to cure it. Damn it, give Nick a chance to fight for his life.”
Nicholas Priest shuddered at the words “fight for his life.”
So that’s why he—
“Don’t swear at me, George! I’ll not have it!”
“The money’s spent. That’s that. I have to lecture tomorrow, torts. I need to prepare.”
Niesgin Priest screamed, “Do you know what it’s like to suckle your infant at your breasts? Do you know the pain I suffered when he was born or the happiness when he was first placed in my arms? Do you know what it is like to lie awake at night waiting for him to cry? That’s why I feel this way.”
Her husband turned to walk away, then stopped. He turned back and saw that his wife was crying.
“When, George? When did we stop? Did you notice when?”
George Priest saw the anguish on his wife’s face. He wanted to speak because he did remember. He wanted to comfort Niesgin, to promise her a tomorrow once more, to share expectations with her, but Nick must go. So, not finding the words, he turned his back on her to seek the familiar sanctuary of work. The house echoed the sound of his heavy oak study door slamming against the doorframe, forced shut by his frustration.
“Nicky, come to Mama. Come to Mama, little zaubermaus.” Nicholas Priest obeyed his mother, who gathered him in her arms, holding him close to her. She stroked his black hair while crying, “Mein zaubermaus.” He sensed the warmth, the softness, and safety of his mother’s arms, the comfort of her scent, but despite this he thought: I won’t have to watch them fight anymore.
Three
Kayleigh MacKenna
A charge we bear i’th’war, and as the president of my kingdom will appear there for a man. Speak not against it. I will not stay behind.
—William Shakespeare
Monday, March 25, 1872
Boston
Kayleigh MacKenna stood at her table so as to be seen amidst the crowd of women as her friend Hanna Christison entered the tearoom in Wellesley.
“I’m here!”
The sun streamed through the bay window in the front of the room and framed Hanna in gold for a moment, highlighting the rivulets of her blond hair, catching the flow of her white polonaise, illuminating the lace trim in a golden sheen. Even the cacophony of the room complemented Kayleigh’s friend. It was as if she was glorified by the room’s noises; as if wrapped in applause by the sudden rise and fall of the voices of women enjoying themselves, a chorus, a melody measured by the percussive notes of silver and fine porcelain. Kayleigh’s small table sat in the back of the room, in a dark corner, near the kitchen door.
Before Hanna could take her seat, Kayleigh exclaimed, “The meeting was such a success, Hanna. There were nearly two hundred women in the parish hall,
and we raised two hundred thirty-three dollars in donations.”
“I wish I had been there. Who was there?”
“Dr. Zakrzewska spoke about the New England Hospital for Women and Children. She told us how it was founded to provide clinical experience for women physicians. She spoke of her school for nurses and how limited the opportunity for such training was in Boston.”
Hanna’s nodding approval drew a smile from Kayleigh.
“She first spoke about how she began her career in Berlin as a midwife and how there were no other opportunities for women in medicine. Then she spoke about how medicine itself is changing, becoming increasingly scientific.”
Kayleigh paused to breathe.
“Dr. Zakrzewska has such eyes, Hanna. She inspires me.”
Leaning forward across the table and without thought, Kayleigh touched the top of Hanna’s hand to make sure she could share her excitement.
“Then she spoke about how Harvard and other medical schools were now requiring student physicians to pass examinations to demonstrate their competence. She said all of this creates a need for nurses who do more than change dressings and clean. Now body temperature must be measured and recorded to track the course of treatment; now organs must be listened to for diagnosis. Dr. Zakrzewska spoke, too, of the growing use of microscopes.”
Hanna’s face reflected Kayleigh’s rising level of excitement.
“She said nurses would become the eyes and ears and hands of the physician when the physician could not be with the patient. This, she said, was why nurses should be educated and licensed, why it is a profession and not a mere occupation.”
Kayleigh smiled.
“I could just feel the hope and pride she gave to the young women there. Oh, that I could do the same.”
Hanna smiled now in turn. Her friend was happy. Her smile encouraged Kayleigh to continue.
“Next, Phebe Walton told everyone about the New England Women’s Club efforts. I was so embarrassed by what she said about me. She saluted me for my willingness to take up nursing at Massachusetts General Hospital. She said I sacrificed so much to set an example for others. Then she said I was courageous to be seen as a modern woman without fear of how society might regard me. I thought she would go so far as to say I had abandoned the company of men and hope of marriage, but—listen, Hanna—she didn’t. Instead, she called me a lone woman, a maiden crusader.”
It did not matter to Kayleigh that Hanna had seen and heard many times before what was to come. Harsh or not, the words burned in Kayleigh’s bosom. As her anger rose and sparked in her green eyes, her voice would drop a chord at a time from mezzo-soprano to a near dark and malicious contralto. Then the curve of Kayleigh’s lips would flatten; the meter of her words would increase. Kayleigh’s instincts would reveal themselves in a moment’s flash of bared teeth.
“I’m not…We’re not helpless. Freedom, Hanna, comes from independence and equality with men. They won’t just give it to us either.”
Hanna spoke calmly and with the slightest hint of sweetness, “Easy.”
Kayleigh saw that Hanna’s face was calm, unaffected by the passion now driving her.
“I didn’t know, Hanna—my voice? Was I too loud? I just cannot comprehend why she accepts such nonsense—and marriage!” Her teeth flashed. “As if I should make that my life’s goal: dependence on men, obedience.”
The flash of anger discharged Kayleigh’s emotion. As she breathed, her voice returned to its normal octave.
“Still, I must thank her for her contribution, for the money she raised with the club.”
Hanna lowered her head slightly, blinked both eyes dramatically in unison, and grinned. Kayleigh saw this and laughed.
“Phebe knew you years ago, Kayleigh. You were so delightful when we were in college together. We had adventure after adventure. Remember? Young men sought our company. Do you remember sitting in that tandem shell with that blond boy? It was such a beautiful April day.”
“Oh, yes.” Kayleigh laughed. “We were chaperoned; the dean sat in the stern. My boy—that delightful boy—couldn’t even brush my hand with his.”
Hanna’s face changed before Kayleigh’s eyes. She saw vertical lines appear on her forehead’s center and the smile disappear from her lips.
“Now—for years—it’s been nothing. You’re no longer Kayleigh; you’re Joan of Arc, the brave warrior for all causes of women. Instead of armor, you wear starched gray and brown travel dresses. Your red hair, pulled back into a tight bun, is your helm. You work at the hospital; you raise money; now you are trying to create a nursing school and organize a demonstration in Fall River. You work to exhaustion—never for yourself. Your eyes are sunken. You do avoid men. Admit it.”
As Hanna’s remark registered in Kayleigh’s mind, she lowered her head and closed her eyes. Kayleigh then opened her eyes and focused them on Hanna’s. She did not realize that her eyes begged Hanna to stop. Hanna was always compelled to ask why Kayleigh had changed.
“I suppose even your father worries when he finds time away from making money. Did he and your mother see the transformation? Do they notice the dresses, your hair? Women call you a spinster behind your back. It’s no secret. Phebe said nothing new. It had to be that Beacon Hill boy. Tell me, Kayleigh. We call each other sister. Why do you leave me to guess? Trust me, please trust me.”
Kayleigh MacKenna continued to look into Hanna’s eyes. She saw both love and concern within them, but there was only one choice for Kayleigh; she must remain silent and hide her shame.
Hanna pleaded, “Come to dinner this Friday, Kayleigh. Come have fun with me and stay overnight; we’ll spend Saturday together. We’ll shop and have tea in Boston.”
“And I suppose,” Kayleigh replied, “you’ll have a dinner partner for me? Some shining example of manhood you hope will sweep me off my feet? “
“Kayleigh MacKenna, Kayleigh, Kayleigh,” Hanna gushed. “Yes, I do have a dinner partner for you. He’s handsome too, but so silent; you’ll labor all evening to draw a single word from him. Oh, Isaac Griffin’s polite, but he’ll not say a word unless it’s with Billy, and then they’ll talk shipping rates, recall old sailors they knew who have long since passed away. Yes, I think he’s shy. Oh, he’ll gather your interest up like a ball of yarn when he mentions something called the Cunningham patented topsail jigger bumpkin.”
Kayleigh giggled, repeated the words “jigger bumpkin,” and then smiled like a cat. Hanna ignored the smile and pressed her invitation.
Hanna began stroking an imaginary beard. “He’s handsome of course, bearded. He’s educated too. Those eyes, Kayleigh, those eyes. They’re gray. Oh, my. He’ll beguile you with them because there is a soul somewhere in him. There’s such a mystery just waiting to reveal itself.”
“Really?” Kayleigh was puzzled. “He sounds boring. I can imagine Griffin and me talking. He could tell me what he’s read, and I could tell him what I’ve read. Does he read, Hanna?”
“He buys a new almanac every year—Billy said so. Please don’t turn me down. I’ll lend you one of my dresses; I have a wonderful polonaise that matches your complexion and your red hair. It’s turquoise blue. Remember how we used to borrow each other’s dresses? You’ll be so stunning in the turquoise polonaise. Even Isaac Griffin will notice.”
Kayleigh replied, “I don’t know. By the end of the week, I’m exhausted, and I wouldn’t be at the hospital Saturday to take care of my ward.”
“We’ll have fun, Kayleigh. As for Saturday, I’d rather you go shopping with me. You owe me, too. That was some lecture you gave to the Employment Committee. You apologized for embarrassing me.”
While unconsciously shaking her head no, Kayleigh replied, “I do owe you. I suppose once wouldn’t hurt. Will you have a good fish course? It’s Friday.”
“What would you like?”
“Salmon or trout.”
Then Kayleigh protested, “Those committee women had a lesson coming. They think they know everything, incl
uding the needs of workingwomen. They want respect for their thoughts, their poems, while mill girls only want a sixty-hour workweek.” Kayleigh sat erect in her chair. “I just couldn’t be silent. Such earnest hypocrisy.”
Hanna’s voice became distinctly feminine, the voice mothers use to calm crying infants and irate men. “We’re all women. Freedom is also the right to have a mind and show it for the world to see.”
***
The James Bliss and Company ship chandlery, conveniently located next door to a sailmaker, was on Atlantic Avenue and was well-known as the oldest of its kind in Boston. Israel Dunrow, the clerk, held court with two customers, Captain Isaac Griffin and Captain Stephan Bray Jr.
Bray barked out, “Israel, do you have the ’sixty-nine Coast Pilot for California and the West Coast of North America? The Coast Survey one? I tell ya, Isaac, you have to treat those things with caution. Thankee, Israel.” He quickly flipped through the pages to find the recommendations for the approach to San Francisco Bay.
“This is what I mean. See, Point Año Nuevo, Pigeon Point. What these don’t say is that the sailing directions given are for steamers! I know of three wrecks there, the Carrier Pigeon, the Sir John Franklin, and the Coya. All sail. They picked Coya’s bones clean. All of them were broken up on those black rocks in the fog. Men’s bones are still there between the rocks. Steamer directions! Those smoke belchers don’t have to wear. Just you keep a good reckoning and an alert lookout.”
Griffin raised his gloved hand to Bray’s face. “Still have my common sense, Bray.”
“How in blazes can you use a sextant?” Bray’s curiosity exceeded his sense of civility.
“I let the first mate do it! Ha-ha. That’s his job, ain’t it?”
Griffin continued, “No, I had a Norwegian carpenter. Shipped him in Frisco. Knew his trade. He built me a pine plank that straps onto my forearm. It’s got a bulge that slips between the sextant handle and the frame. The sextant slips over, then fits down in a notch. Had trouble using it at first—I mean a second or two error.” He winked.
The Downeaster: Deadly Voyage Page 3
