Henry peered up at him, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Thee was once a boy?”
Ren swallowed a smile. “Indeed I was.” Though he did not remember many carefree days of childhood, not like he hoped for his own children.
“What about school?”
“None.”
“No school!” Henry let out a whistle, impressed. “That sounds perfect.”
“I was educated at the Academy before the Mast.” He grinned. “On the sea, among the sailors. ’Twas a constant schooling.”
Hitty sat on a hammock and swung back and forth. “What did thee do as cabin boy?”
“I coiled ropes so the captain wouldn’t trip on them.”
“Grandfather Jeremiah!”
“Later, Jeremiah was captain of this very ship. But I’m talking about another time, when I was cabin boy for another ship, and another captain. This particular captain would punish any sailor who left a rope untidy.”
“How would a sailor be punished?”
“For an uncoiled rope? Tied to the mast for a full day, with the sun beating down on him.”
“Did thee ever leave a rope uncoiled?”
“Once. Indeed, once I did, but Jeremiah intervened and I was not bound to the mast. After that, I was especially careful to do the captain’s bidding. I served the captain his meals, and he liked them hot. I learned to serve him quickly, to avoid a scowl that often led to a lashing. I swabbed decks and holystoned them. Mostly, I was given the lowliest chores on the ship.”
Henry poked his glasses up. “What else?”
“When a sperm whale was captured and killed, the crew towed it back to tie to the ship, and it would be flensed. The blubber would be stripped, like peeling an orange. Then the head was cut from its body and raised onto the deck. The teeth were pulled.”
“For scrimshaw!” Hitty said. “Abraham carves scrimshaw.”
“Aye. Scrimshaw is carved with a sail needle, or a knife, and filled in with ink or soot.”
Henry squinted his eyes. “Pulling teeth doesn’t sound like a lowly task.”
Nay? Well then, how about this? “A hole was cut into the whale’s skull, just big enough for a boy.”
Hitty gasped, then cried out, “For thee!”
Ren laughed. “Aye!” He stopped himself, wondering if it was wise to continue, if such gritty knowledge might make them queasy. He could almost hear Daphne’s voice, scolding him, reminding him they were but children. And yet Henry and Hitty stared at him with rapt attention, waiting for him to continue. “’Twas my task to stand in the whale’s skull and scoop out the valuable spermaceti oil in a bucket.”
“How much?” Henry asked.
“One time I counted 582 bucketfuls. I slipped and splashed and was thoroughly drenched with blood and oil. By day’s end my hands were blistered and raw.”
Hitty looked at Ren thoughtfully. “Did thee have to stand in the whale’s head for each one thee caught?”
Henry scoffed. “Only sperm whales have liquid wax in their head. That’s what’s used for candlemaking.”
Hitty scowled at him for butting in, but the boy’s knowledge was correct. Ren, watching Henry and Hitty inspect each corner of the forecastle, said to himself, Why, I do believe they like this old hulk of a ship! They were enchanted by it, awed by stories of the whaler’s life. And he loved them even more than before with this awareness of their deep connection. It was in their Macy blood, this love of the sea.
Hitty turned to him. “Where did thy mother sleep?”
“Ah, well, that’s a tale for another day.” The story of Ren’s mother was a complicated one.
Only one thing marred the day. They had climbed the companionway and up onto the upper deck, drinking in the fresh scent of the damp, salt air after being on the musty lower deck. When Hitty caught sight of the setting sun, a glory of red and gold and orange, she spun in a series of pirouettes, like a ballerina on a stage. Something inside of Ren broke as he watched his young daughter dance for joy on the upper deck of the Endeavour. To his surprise, words spilled out from his heart. “I’ve missed you. Both of you. I’ve missed so much.”
Hitty stopped abruptly and turned at his words, her gaze searching his face. “We’ve missed thee too, Papa,” she said.
“Thee was the one who left,” Henry quickly thrust out. “Not us.”
What could Ren say to that? It was true. He had left Jane to face life alone. But on the heels of the sorrow he felt for missing out on his children’s early childhood, it dawned on him that Hitty had called him Papa. Papa! For the very first time.
As the sun dropped on the horizon, he rowed the dory back to the wharf with a promise to take them out again. He carried Hitty home and she fell asleep on his shoulder. Tears stung his eyes as he laid his cheek atop his daughter’s head. Patience opened the door before he could knock, as if she’d been watching through the window for them. Out of the corner of his eye, Ren saw Abraham stoke the hearth fire and gave him a nod. It pleased him that something sweet was stirring between Abraham and Patience.
Ren took Hitty upstairs and laid her gently on her bed, then let Patience take over the bedtime ritual. Henry did not look quite so hostile when he bid him good night.
It was a very good day.
Tristram did not arrive at Lillian’s house until long after nine o’clock in the evening. Annoyance flooded Daphne. She could have gone with Ren and the children out to the Endeavour, returned back, helped get the children to bed, and still be waiting for Tristram.
Were it anyone else at the door, looking the way he did, Lillian Coffin would have the servant send him on his way. But for Tristram Macy, she welcomed him warmly, ushering him into the drawing room where Daphne sat reading. As Trist came out of the shadows of the foyer and into the brighter light of the drawing room, Daphne took note of the dark stubble on his chin, the tie that hung loosely around his neck, the open collar of his shirt, the disheveled hair. And no hat! Anyone else and Mother would have upbraided him for his sloppy carelessness. Not Tristram, though, and especially not tonight.
Mother had chattered nonstop all through dinner, nervously straddling the fine line between giddiness at the thought of Daphne finally, finally getting betrothed . . . and fear that her daughter would do something to ruin this glorious, long-sought-after moment.
Tristram smiled brightly when he saw her, swaying slightly as he stood by the doorjamb. “Daphne, thee looks lovely on this s-s-summer evening.” He took great care to cross the room and helped himself to the whiskey on the sideboard. He poured a generous amount in a cut-glass tumbler, cradled in his palm, then lifted it in a mock toast to her. He tried to smile but it came out all wrong. He took a long gulp of his drink. He paced around the room, looking at trinkets, refilling his glass, slurping down the amber liquid. Two drinks. Three drinks. “These knickknacks—they are from thy f-f-father’s whaling voyages?”
Daphne nodded, slightly bewildered by his anxious behavior, not at all acting like his usual swaggering self. “What thee is holding in thy hands—he called it his monkey’s spoon. Father picked up a monkey on some island and discovered it liked to steal his eating utensils. One day it grabbed that spoon and climbed up the center mast. When Father ordered it down, the monkey threw the spoon at him. See the dent in it?”
Tristram squinted his eyes and peered at the spoon. It was a sizable dent, but he seemed to have trouble focusing. She took the spoon away from him and set it back where he’d found it.
“It must s-seem odd, to live in a h-house where thee mustn’t touch anything. Like . . . a museum.”
Daphne had never considered her mother’s house in such a way, but now that Trist pointed it out, it probably was odd. His own upbringing had been helter-skelter, raised by elderly maiden aunts, as his mother had died in childbirth and his father was a seafaring man, rarely in port. Trist had to make his own way in this world. Daphne envied him such freedom, but he scoffed at her admiration.
“Thee doesn’t
know how s-s-s-sweetly blessed thee has been, Daphne Coffin.”
She took a closer look at him. She hadn’t heard his stutter in years; it only returned when he was under great stress.
“T-T-T-To never have a worry about the future, that is a r-r-remarkable thing.”
She supposed there was some wisdom in that, but she knew that inherited wealth brought complications of its own. And she could not deny that she relied on her mother’s generosity. What would she do if she had no financial resources, like Trist? It occurred to her that this was the panic Jane had lived with, was why she started the Cent School. Maybe this was why laudanum had slipped in to become a part of Jane’s life, if Ren’s theory proved true.
At some point, Mother popped her head into the drawing room to see what was going on. Daphne smiled like everything was fine and she smiled back, happy to see it was all working out.
The mantel clock chimed and was joined by the grandfather clock in the hall. Half past nine! Too late to go to Centre Street and apologize to Ren for missing the trip to the Endeavour. She felt a flash of familiar annoyance. Why did she always seem to be waiting on Tristram? Finally, she addressed the purpose for his visit. “Mother said thee had tidings.”
“T-T-Tidings?” His cheeks turned as red as autumn apples. He wavered, and reached out a hand to grab the black marble mantel capping the rounded arched fireplace.
“She said thee was coming by with news.” She couldn’t keep the snippy sound of irritation out of her voice, though she didn’t try very hard.
He wiped the corners of his mouth. “News?”
She sighed. “Tristram, it seems as if we are paddling a canoe in opposite directions, so the canoe has nowhere to go but to spin around in a circle.”
He gave her a funny look, blinking his eyes rapidly. “Thee has a w-way of . . . putting me off m-my stride.”
As they studied each other, they both knew there was no more pretending.
He smiled suddenly and tossed back another healthy swallow of whiskey. Then he tugged the hem of his double-breasted waistcoat, as if steadying himself, and cleared his throat before moving—lurching!—toward Daphne to sit beside her on the settee. So close to him, she could catch the smell of whiskey on his breath and notice how bleary his eyes looked. She frowned. He was drop-dead drunk.
“Daphne, my darling.” He reached out for her and pulled her close to him, kissing her. It was not their first kiss, but this kiss was clumsy, without tenderness. And the taste and smell of whiskey revolted her.
She untangled herself from his awkward embrace. “Oh Tristram, let’s just . . .” But she didn’t know how to finish. Let’s just what? “Why don’t I get thee a glass of water?”
She didn’t wait for him to respond. By the time she returned from the kitchen, he had stretched out on the settee and was sound asleep.
She thought of waking him, of pushing him out the front door to let him stumble his way home. Hopefully, the town crier would spot him, hurry to the sheriff, and have him sleep off his bender in the Nantucket gaol. The image pleased her.
Instead, she blew out the candles in the bowl-shaped reflector of the hurricane lamps—the Coffin fortune had begun with whale hunting, but no Coffin would use it, for the price of whale oil was too dear—and left Tristram snoring away on the settee.
Upstairs, as she opened the door to her bedchamber, eager to untie those awful corset stays that poked her so mercilessly, she stopped abruptly, surprised by a person in her room. “Mother!”
Her mother was seated in the reading chair, waiting for her, a glint of hope lifting her brows. She dropped the book on her lap. “Well?”
Daphne shook her head. “Not tonight.”
At times Daphne felt she could almost see her mother’s disappointment in her, like fog rolling in from the sea before settling heavily over the room.
Her mother stared at her for several seconds before her voice came, quiet and hurt and angry. “Thee is determined to spoil things for me.”
“I’m not trying to spoil anything, Mama. Tristram was tired tonight, ’tis all. He’d had a long day, he said.”
Her mother contemplated her across the shadowed room. Her hands gave away her nervousness—they were gripped together tightly. “’Tis just as well.” She rose and sighed tiredly. “Thee looks a bit peaked this evening as well. ’Tis that brown silk. It washes thee out. I told thee to wear the blue dress, did I not?”
“Did thee? I’d forgotten.”
Tenderness covered her mother’s face. “Mayhap I only thought to say it. Do not worry, Daughter.” She tutted, patting Daphne’s shoulders. “All is not lost. Tomorrow, we will regroup.”
As her mother headed down the hall to her own bedchamber, Daphne breathed a sigh of relief that Tristram’s heavy snores floating up the stairwell from the drawing room went unnoticed. When he woke, if he woke in the night, he could let himself out the door.
Mary Coffin Starbuck
4 February 1663
The Negro has a fever. I went to the shed late last night, waiting until Catherine and Esther had retired to their beds. The wind was fierce and the lantern wick nearly blew out twice as I crossed the yard, my boots crunching on the winter-brittle grass.
’Twas such a cold night, I felt worried about the Negro, that he might freeze to death. Yet I also hoped he had fled and gone elsewhere to seek shelter. Even still, I carried an extra quilt with me. When I pushed the door open and shined the lantern inside, I saw him huddled in a dark corner, shivering and sweating. He is younger than I’d first thought, not much older than Jethro or Esther. I put a hand on his warm brow, and he closed his eyes as a child would with his mother’s touch. It made me think of whether his mother had done the same for him, and where she is now. I did not stay long on that image, for I feared that he had been stolen from her and the thought was quite disturbing to me. I cannot imagine being parted with my own babe, and I haven’t even met him yet. I already love him so dearly though.
The runaway’s fever felt warm, but not burning up. I brought him some water from the well and covered him with the quilt. Just as I slipped out of the woodshed to hurry back to the warm house, I heard the Negro whisper, “Thank you.”
5 February 1663
I have not slept more than a few hours at a time since the Negro arrived. Throughout the night, I kept jerking awake, certain I’d heard Richard Swain’s horse clatter into the yard. It turned out to be nothing more than a loose shutter, banging against a window in the wind.
Even in the daytime, I cannot relax. I keep noticing clues of the runaway’s presence—less eggs for Esther to find among the hens each morning, the changed location of the scooper near the well. Clues are all around us. I marvel Catherine and Esther seem not to notice and yet they do not.
Why can I not still my troubled thoughts? What is this Negro to me?
This afternoon, after closing the store, I stopped by my parents’ home. Mother was kneading dough, punching it, lifting it up, and punching it down again. I knew she was upset about something. Bread dough is made early in the morning . . . unless Mother is upset. It is her remedy.
She was quick to fill me in, even as she punched and poked the poor ball of dough. It has to do with the anticipation of new settlers to the island this spring, and whether they are deserving of full shares of property or not. Father says no. He wants complete control of the island left in the hands of the first proprietors. He feels a half-share status is more than generous. Mother believes a half-share status will only discourage newcomers. She longs for more female companionship, as do I.
I listened as long as I could bear to watch that beleaguered ball of dough get beaten and punched, until I could bear it no more. I took my leave, claiming I should return to the Starbucks’ before darkness fell.
I walked home heavyhearted, burdened, and disappointed. This morning, I had prayed for some insight about this Negro and fully expected to receive it. This afternoon, I am even more confused about who belongs here and who
doesn’t. I feel all at sea about the future of our island. I know there is no such thing as paradise this side of heaven, but a little part of me hoped we had found a corner of it.
Tired as I was, I lay wide awake in bed, imagining conversations that might be illuminating, to shed light on my dilemma with the Negro.
Nathaniel, if he were here and not out hunting, would tell me that this is not our problem, but Richard Swain’s.
Were I to ask Father for advice, he would tell me to walk right over to the Swains’ and tell Richard that the Negro is hiding in the woodshed. To Father, it would be nothing more than returning a runaway horse or cow. Merely property.
What would Peter Foulger say, were I to ask for his opinion?
I think I know Peter well enough to know. He would turn the question back to me, and ask why I felt such turmoil. I can hear his voice: “What might God be trying to teach you, Mary?”
The answer would be that I had never considered all men to be equal in God’s eyes until I saw the pain in that Negro’s eyes, until I spoke to him, and cared for his needs.
And if I do believe such a thing, what do I do with that belief?
11
Daphne slipped out the door of her mother’s house to hurry to Ren’s Centre Street house as early as she dared to arrive, as fast as she could go with those horrible corset stays gouging deep into her ribs. How she hated them! But she didn’t want to miss Ren before he left for the ship.
“Daphne!”
She whirled around. “Tristram!” She waited for him to catch up. “What is thee doing here?”
“I never left.”
“Looking for more to slake thy thirst?”
His eyes widened in hurt, as if she had slapped him with her words. “I was waiting to speak with thee this morning . . . though I didn’t expect thee to be slipping out the door at first light.” He rubbed his face and she thought he looked terrible, world-weary, with bloodshot eyes and rumpled clothing. And he reeked of a boozy smell too. “I wanted to apologize. I thought thee might be angry with me. For . . . overindulging.” He tipped his hand to his mouth in pantomime.
Minding the Light Page 13
