“One more voyage?” Ren looked at him, astounded. “Tristram—I have been home but two days. Another voyage could not be farther from my thoughts.”
Tristram’s face went blank. “Most of the crew has already signed up. I met them on Straight Wharf as the lighters came in from the ship. They gave me their word. All but the first mate and some fellow named Abraham. And thy father. He says he is done loving the sea, that ’tis always an unrequited love. I don’t know what he meant by that, but I think he can be persuaded to reconsider.”
“Signed up the crew? Signed up!” Ren’s voice bellowed throughout the small room. “Before the crew was told they would not be receiving their lay from this last voyage? And you must have known all that, Tristram. Have you lost your senses?”
“We’ll get it all straightened out.”
“Do you have the money to pay the crew’s lay?”
A pause. “Nay. I’m a bit short of cash myself these days. I sunk all that I had saved into the new ship.”
“How much is the cost of this new ship?”
“Three hundred pounds sterling.”
At this point, Ren eased himself down in the hard wooden chair. “Tristram, what have you done?” He felt a trickle of fear run through him. Fear was not an unknown feeling to him. He had sailed nearly to Cape Horn in a creaky old vessel, turning back only when he was convinced the seam of the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans would tear the Endeavour in two. Another time, he’d fallen overboard during a severe tempest and could’ve—should’ve—died. Yet he had never felt fear like what he’d felt since arriving in Nantucket. Jane’s collapse caused a new kind of fear. And now this. Life felt desperately out of control.
First things first. It was the way his mind worked, keeping calm in a panic, quickly arranging the order of tasks. It was a great asset at sea; surely it would carry him through this storm on land. Slowly, he rose from the chair. “I will go to the bank now and see what can be done to pay the crew.”
A look of relief swept over Tristram. “Excellent, cousin. They will listen to thee.”
“When is this new ship due in?”
“She’s a bit late on the tide.”
“When, exactly?”
“Next month.” He turned to face the window and mumbled, “Perhaps the month after that.”
Ren heard.
Tristram whirled around. “The Illumine.”
“What?”
“That’s the name of the ship. Jane named it. She wanted thee to have this new ship. She gave me her blessing. Wipe that skeptical look off thy face. She did!” He sat down in his chair. “Cousin, forget not . . . thee was gone for six long years, with hardly a word from thee. Decisions had to be made in thy absence. Thee must understand. Jane did.” He paused. “Life had to carry on without thee.”
Ren did not disagree, he sympathized far more than Tristram gave him credit for. But it was the shifting of principles that he did not approve of, the borrowing on the future. “Is it true that Jane did not have a stipend for her expenses?”
“Nay, not true! She did, she did. At least . . . up until the ship was commissioned. With Jane’s blessing, mind thee.” He frowned. “Ren, don’t look at me as if I squandered thy earnings. All will be well.”
“Nay, Tristram. All will not be well. Six years of hard work has disappeared.”
“Disappeared? Hardly! It has been transferred to the new ship. Ren, I am trying to plan for the long haul. It takes risk, vision. Thee must not be shortsighted.”
Shortsighted. A soft description. Ren wondered how his crew might respond if he told them he could not pay them because he was a bit shortsighted. Mutinies occurred for lesser crimes.
He lifted his chin. “I should keep forging ahead, so that I can return to Jane. Foremost on my mind is distributing the lay to my crew. I must be off to the bank and see what can be arranged.”
“Before thee goes, I should tell thee I will be under way to Salem at high tide this afternoon, to see to the Illumine. I will be gone a day or two at the most.” He smiled brightly. “And when I return, Jane will have recovered, and I will bring thee a full report of our new ship. Nothing but good tidings lie ahead of us, cousin!”
Ren stared at Tristram. His cousin’s optimistic nature was infectious, and there were many times when Ren wished he’d more of Tristram’s joie de vivre in him. His cousin was a dreamer, with extravagant ideas, and Ren loved him for it. He doubted he would’ve captained the Endeavour without Trist’s cheerful confidence in him. Yet he did it, and did it well, and he gave much credit to Tristram for providing the push he’d needed at that critical moment. He hoped his cousin’s optimism was fortuitous at this critical juncture, as well. “I pray you have second sight, Trist. Safe travels.”
At the bottom of the stairwell, Ren paused, leaning his back against the wall, to gather his thoughts before he went outside and met up with Abraham. His mind was spinning like the wheels of the Old Mill in a squall.
It distressed him greatly that Tristram had commissioned a new ship before waiting until the Endeavour returned to Nantucket. They could have lived well off the income from this last voyage. That had been Ren’s intention—to remain on island for a while. He would no longer have such a luxury of time but would need to set sail as soon as the new ship arrived from the Salem shipyard and was outfitted—certainly before winter arrived.
This new ship cost three hundred pounds sterling. The cost of insurance alone for the maiden voyage would be at least fifteen guineas. Ren had scarcely a pence left to his name but for the Orange Street house, and he had to find a means to pay his crew what was owed them. A sizable amount. A small fortune. What had Tristram been thinking? Why would Jane have given him her blessing for such an extravagant expenditure?
As he walked outside, into the bright sunlight that had burned off the morning fog, Ren felt bitten by a friendly dog.
All afternoon, there’d been a steady influx of well-meaning relatives to 15 Orange Street, to welcome Ren back and to inquire of Jane’s condition. Nearly everyone but Mother, Daphne noted. Cousins Hagar and Kezia sat in the foyer and sipped tea, waiting for their moment to visit with Jane.
They could wait as long as they pleased, for there was no way Daphne would allow those two upstairs to see Jane. They were the gloomiest pair in Nantucket. Each week, they read the obituaries, fully expecting to find their own names.
When Daphne excused herself from listening to the doomful tidings of the elderly cousins, she went into Jane’s bedchamber and nearly gasped when she saw that her sister’s skin had turned an unearthly pale color. But then, to her delight, she saw that Jane’s eyes were wide open. “Jane! Jane, thee is awake!”
Jane tried to lift her head. “Where are my children?”
“They’re downstairs, having lunch. They’re fine. We’ve been at the Cent School all morning.” Daphne pushed a loose strand of hair behind Jane’s ear. “Shall I get them for thee?”
“Nay, nay.” Her head dropped back on the pillow. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”
Daphne sat beside her and reached out to hold her sister’s hand. Cold, so cold. She cupped Jane’s hand in hers to warm it, noticing how navy blue the fingernails had become.
“Great Mary’s book,” Jane said, pushing out the words on a breath. “’Tis thine to keep.”
Daphne uttered a small exclamation of surprise to hear her sister say that, and on the heels of that feeling came . . . embarrassment. Jane must have been aware that Daphne had been reading the journal. “I’m sorry. I found it the other day. I’ve been reading through it. I know that Father gave it to thee.” She tucked the sheets over Jane’s cold hands. “Oh sister, ’tis so good to hear thy voice.”
Jane’s eyes fluttered shut and Daphne thought she’d fallen back to sleep. After a minute or two, her eyes opened and she took in another gasp of air. “My babies.” With much effort, she said, “Remember me to them. Remind them how I loved them.” She began to pant, shallow gulp. “Daphne, be
their mother.”
“Jane, thee mustn’t talk like this! Thee will recover from this affliction.”
“Promise me.”
“I do. I promise. But, Sister, ’tis too early for a testament.”
“I can feel my life ebbing from me.” A tear rolled down Jane’s cheek. “Thee must tell them . . .”
“Tell who?” Daphne slipped over to sit on the bed. “Jane, dearest, what does thee want to say?”
Jane’s nostrils flared with each breath, as if she was trying to capture every bit of oxygen in the room. “Do not blame him.”
“Who? For what?”
Her eyes squeezed shut. “He was . . . trying to help.” Her eyes flickered open and she took in a deep breath. “And tell . . .” Her voice drizzled off.
“Who, Jane? I don’t know who thee means to tell.”
“Ren.” She lifted her head slightly. “Ren must exert his mind toward the Light. To relinquish grievances . . . if not for his sake . . . then for the children’s.”
“He has no grievances, Jane. He only wants thee to be well again.”
“Tell Mother.”
“Mother?”
She took in another gasp of air. “I forgive her.”
“Jane, thee can tell her thyself. Thee will be fine in a day or two. Thee is so strong.”
Jane gave a slight shake of her head. “Nay.” A bead of sweat broke out on her forehead. “Pretend not with me, Sister.” She let her eyelids fall closed and struggled to pull in one more breath. “Each breath feels like . . . when we were children . . . at the beach . . . when we would bury each other in the sand. The sand . . . it’s piling up on my chest.” Her eyes flickered open. “Soon . . . there will be too much.”
Downstairs, Daphne heard a heavy rap on the door. She heard Patience open it and murmur something, then the familiar deep voice of a man. “Jane, Dr. Mitchell has come.”
“Get him.”
As Daphne hurried down the stairs, she waved to the doctor to come.
Dr. Mitchell started up the stairs, meeting Daphne halfway. “How does she fare today?”
“Better, I think. Much better.” She relaxed somewhat, but not completely. “See for thyself.” Dr. Mitchell followed behind her to the top of the stairs.
He paused at the doorjamb to Jane’s bedchamber, a startled look on his face when he took in the condition of his patient. He strode to the bed, dropped his bag, and pressed four fingers to the pulse of Jane’s wrist. He glanced at Daphne. “She’s losing strength.”
“Nay . . . nay,” Daphne said, panic rising in her throat. “Thee is wrong. She is no longer in a stupor.”
He frowned, set Jane’s hand on the sheet, and took Daphne by the elbow, gently leading her out of the room and closing the door behind her. She stood there, fidgeting like a child, pacing in the small hallway. When the door opened and Dr. Mitchell finally came out, she was alarmed by the defeated look on his face.
“Did she speak to thee? She is no longer confused. I told thee, she is getting better.”
He shook his head. “Just try and keep her comfortable. Let everyone in who wants to say their goodbyes.”
Daphne’s heart started to pound. “Goodbyes? But . . . she’s turned the corner! She spoke to me with great clarity.”
“About what?”
“About . . . about giving others a message.”
The doctor sighed. “I’ve seen this before, Daphne. Sometimes people get a burst of strength. It’s a gift from God, is my opinion, so they can finish up their business.”
“But . . . she was talking . . .”
“Lungs can only take so much. When they are pushed too far, they cannot endure. Like a punctured balloon.”
Panic tore through Daphne. Ren. Where was he? She should get him. And the children. And Mother! But she couldn’t bear to leave her sister’s side. “Would thee send for Ren? I think . . . he went to see Tristram. Or mayhap he went to the bank.” That was hours ago! Where was he?
He patted her shoulder in a fatherly way. “I’ll locate the captain and send him here at once. But thee . . . thee must stay by thy sister’s side.”
When Daphne went into Jane’s room, she realized there was a change from just a moment ago. Jane’s face was sheened with sweat. Her breath came in gasps, rapid and shallow, and there was a sharp pulling of the chest below and between the ribs with each intake. Her flesh was white and cold, her lips nearly purple.
“Jane, oh Jane, don’t go. Hold on, please hold on. Don’t leave us. Ren is coming. Please hold on.”
“Fear not, Sister,” Jane wheezed, gasping for a breath, “for God . . . is with me. And . . . with thee.”
Daphne lay beside her sister and held her in her arms, trying to match her breathing, to sustain her. The gasping ceased, and her breath seemed easier. Then there was a pause, and Jane’s breath eased out in a slight puff, as if she was releasing something.
Daphne waited for Jane to take in a breath, but it did not come.
Mary Coffin Starbuck
15 September 1662
In the course of a few weeks, a new life has begun on Nantucket Island, and an old life has ended.
Old Rachel Swain passed in her sleep a few days back. ’Twas not unexpected, as she had been knocking at death’s door all winter long. But the time had come for the first grave to be dug, and Father chose the field where sits the oak tree that my dear friend Eleazer Foulger and I are so particularly partial to. Fortunately, Father did not instruct others to dig anywhere near the oak tree, but right in the center of the meadow. He called the field “Founders’ Burial Ground” and then he marked his own spot! It struck me as a bit morbid, but Father is a practical man.
“Someday, Mary,” he said, “my grandchildren will come to this field and remember me.”
I looked at him, and he looked at me, and then we both of us started to grin, despite the solemnity of the event. I do not think of my father as a particularly clairvoyant man. Grandchildren! How did he know? How in the world did he know?
6
After an hour or two spent haggling with Ezra Barnard, the manager at the Pacific Bank, Ren finally had a goodly sum in hand to pay his crew their due. But it cost him a profound loss.
Ezra Barnard had refused to extend any credit to Ren or to take out any loan, as if he considered Ren to be a bad risk. “’Tis not personal, Captain Macy, but bank policy.” He would not budge on that.
Ren had reviewed his options. His father would give him the cash if he had any, but he did not. Everything Jeremiah had left was sunk in the Endeavour. His mother-in-law had plenty of money, was one of the wealthiest women on the island, but she would not part with a copper pence, not if it benefited Ren.
Tristram had put them in a dreadful position. If Ren could not pay his crew within a reasonable period, he would have no crew. No sailor would ever sign on with him again. Nor should they—he could not blame them. The crew had risked life and limb for six years. They had earned their lay. And if he could not attract a crew, no investor would back him.
Slanting his beady eyes at Ren, Ezra whispered, “There might be one stone left unturned. My wife has always had a hankering for 15 Orange Street.”
A sick feeling roiled through Ren. The Orange Street house had been bought and paid for in full—it was his wedding gift to Jane. It was a modest house for the street, but at least it was on the street. The whaling captains’ street. He had not wanted her to have any cause for worry during his absence.
But now it had to be sold.
After signing the deed over to Barnard, he went outside into the bright sunlight, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. He forgot Abraham had been waiting for him. “Abraham, come along back to the countinghouse. The lays can be distributed now.”
Abraham glanced at the bank, then looked at him with that patient look of his. “I can wait on mine, Captain.”
That was a kindness, as Ren knew the other crew would not wait. Nor should they.
After he left th
e crew’s lay at the countinghouse and walked down Centre Street toward Orange Street, his throat felt tight and his chest was weighted with a strange sadness, as if he were grieving for something that had never been. A thing that never even was, only imagined.
Six years ago, he had kissed his bride and sailed away from Nantucket Island, convinced he was doing the right thing. A few years at sea and he would have built a foundation for the rest of his and Jane’s life together.
Today, his wife hovered on the brink of life and death, and after all that time away from her—time in which he stubbornly insisted the Endeavour would not return without a full hold, thus he let six long years pass by—he was walking away from the countinghouse with nothing left to his name.
But he could not, would not succumb to panic. He had to keep a steady hand on the tiller and a keen eye on the horizon. Tristram’s cockeyed optimism had put their livelihood in serious jeopardy, but if all went according to his cousin’s plan, it might just work. And Jane had survived those critical twenty-four hours after her collapse. She was young, strong, determined. Surely, good health would prevail. Mayhap there would be good news waiting for him at the house. Mayhap Jane was improving by the minute. His spirits brightened at the thought and he picked up his steps.
As he approached 15 Orange Street, he saw Daphne sitting on the steps of the house. Memories flashed through his mind. Once he had asked Jane if all Quakers were as quiet as she. “My sister,” Jane said, “is not quiet.” How true. Daphne was a chatterbox, lively and animated. He felt a special fondness for her, as he was an only child and missed having sisters or brothers of his own.
He recalled how Daphne would wait on the steps for him, just like she was now, to run interference, keeping him posted to Lillian’s whereabouts. The sight of her had always brought a smile to his face.
But today, as Ren drew closer to the house, he saw tears running down Daphne’s face. Ren clamped his jaw shut so hard his teeth ached.
He knew.
It took Ren a while to wrap his head around the words Daphne had spoken on the porch steps, even though he had no doubt what she was going to tell him. He felt as if he heard them, yet didn’t hear them at all. Jane was . . . gone? He grasped her hands in his. “Were you with her? When she died? She wasn’t alone, was she?”
Minding the Light Page 7
