The pragmatic side of Ren was increasingly ill at ease, especially as they toured the upper deck. Such extravagance distressed him, particularly the detailing in the captain’s cabin. A teak desk with bronze pulls. A mahogany-framed mirror above pitcher and basin. Carved shelves affixed to the walls. A bed suspended from gimbals to hold steady when the ship rocked. He turned in a circle, astounded, and caught the amused look on Abraham’s face, and cynicism in his father’s eyes.
“Go ahead and say it. Say what you’re thinking. Both of you.”
When they hesitated, Ren prompted again. “Abraham . . . what is your impression? Speak freely.”
Abraham cleared his throat. “Well, sir, Captain, sir, there is no doubt that this cabin projects authority.”
Jeremiah huffed. “’Tis not a whalemaster’s cabin. ’Tis a king’s bedchamber. Everything . . . ’tis deluxe.”
Ren was in full agreement. The captain’s quarters of the Endeavour were a mere wooden closet compared to this . . . regal boudoir. None of this fine detailing, nor the finishing work, was apparent on the original blueprints. What was Tristram thinking?
And where was his extravagant cousin, anyway?
When Patience came downstairs after putting the children to bed, Daphne asked her to sit down. She had made peppermint tea for both of them, and pushed a teacup closer to the maidservant. “I have some difficult questions to ask thee.” She leaned over and patted her arm. “Please be candid with me. Patience, I could not tell if my sister took laudanum frequently, but thee must have known.”
Patience’s face, as always, was inscrutable. She lifted the teacup to her lips, and the saucer rattled. That was the only visible evidence to Daphne that she was uncomfortable with this conversation.
“Patience, I must have the truth.”
Finally, she spoke. “Miss Jane felt sad on rainy days.”
“And foggy days, too?” Three out of four days on Nantucket.
A frown darkened Patience’s brown eyes, and she gave a slight nod.
Such an economy of words out of this woman, and yet they clattered into the room like stones down a dry well.
So this was the answer that Daphne had not wanted to know, to believe. She had blinded herself to Jane’s habit. What a child she was! Patience was correct in her appraisal—there was much in life that was more complicated than Daphne wanted to see.
This time Patience was the one to pat her arm, snapping her from her reverie. “I will make more tea.”
“Nay, Patience, please stay put. I must ask thee more questions. About someone else. About Abraham.”
Patience startled her by moving suddenly and swiftly. Wrapping her hands in her apron, she lifted the water kettle off the trammel and filled the teapot with steaming water. Her gaze jerked over to Daphne and then away again, and two bright spots of color blossomed on her cheeks.
Getting information out of this quiet woman took effort, and Daphne refused to be deterred. “Why is Abraham so devoted to Ren? Why wouldn’t he crew on another ship? There are two whalers heading out by week’s end. Ren would find him a worthy position. He would be safe on a ship, far away from Silas Moser, or any other bounty hunter.”
Patience dipped her chin. “All that I know is what Abraham has told me. Captain Reynolds Macy, he says, is the first honorable white man he has known. The only one. He will not leave his employ.” In the hearth a log burned through and fell. Patience adjusted the remaining logs with the poker. Her hands were always busy with work: churning, stirring, clearing. Like Jane’s.
Daphne watched Patience for a while, thinking of how many of her movements reminded her of Jane. They’d spent so much time together, it was no wonder they’d picked up each other’s mannerisms. Choking back the memories, she wished that Jane were here, right now, to listen as Patience described Abraham’s loyalty to Ren.
Praise of Ren’s captaining was not uncommon—by other crew members, by their wives. But Abraham had a different perspective. Imagine that—the only white man he’d ever found to be honorable.
And now she realized why Abraham was so beholden to Ren. She’d understood that Ren felt he owed his life to Abraham for rescuing him when he went overboard in the squall . . . but mayhap that was how Abraham felt, as well. Ren had saved him from a lifetime of bondage to corrupt men.
She wondered of the men Abraham had served—his master, other sailors—if any had been Friends. It troubled her to think that all he knew of white men, bar Ren, was a lack of scruples. Surely all men had a measure of Light within.
Daphne had grown up with the understanding that all were created equal in God’s eyes. She had heard Friends declare that slavery was wrong and must be opposed, but that had been all thoughts and words. She could not remember a time when there had ever been a slave on Nantucket Island. Now she must actually do something, though she did not yet know what. With Ren off island for a few days, she had to find an answer.
The evening meal in Lillian’s house was a serious event, with four-course meals served by two maids, even if she dined alone, which she generally did. She was formal like that, and nothing could dissuade her from this evening ritual. Tonight, Daphne made sure to arrive early, to ask Cook to prepare her mother’s favorite dessert—cranberry almond cake—to dress for dinner without a complaint, and to be seated at the table, waiting for her mother’s entrance.
Lillian swept into the dining room and appraised the table setting with a distracted glance, then stopped short when she realized Daphne was here. Her face did not lose its composed expression, but her features seemed to snap into place. “And why is thee here?”
Daphne lifted her palms up in surprise. “Mother! I live here.”
Her mother frowned. “I would hardly know. Thee is rarely home for the evening meal.”
That was not far from the truth, at least the last few days. She’d hardly been to her mother’s house since Ren had left for the mainland, staying overnight with the children. “I’m here now.”
Lillian plucked at a wilted flower in the vase. “I certainly didn’t expect thee.” She sat down in her chair and unfolded the linen napkin over her lap.
“I needed a word with thee.”
Her mother clasped her hands together and pinched her lips in a tight frown. “I knew it. Thee is up to something.”
That, too, was not far from the truth. “I need some money.”
“Thee has an allowance.”
A modest sum at best. Ren had insisted on paying for Patience’s wages after he learned that Daphne had been providing for her the last year or so. She took a deep breath and pushed out the words, “I need one thousand dollars.”
Her mother’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Whatever for?”
“I think it best not to say more.”
“Oh Daphne, what kind of pressure is Reynolds Macy putting on thee?”
“None! ’Tis not what thee thinks!” Whatever it was she was thinking! “I will reimburse thee.” She bit her lip. “It might take some time . . . but I will pay thee back.”
“Is this for Tristram’s sake? Does he need more money?”
“More money?” Daphne’s head snapped up. “Did Tristram come to thee for money?”
Her mother’s lips tightened, with pursed lines along them like a drawstring bag. “He needed money to outfit his new ship.”
“And thee provided it to him? But why?”
Lillian tucked her chin. “Soon enough, Tristram will be family.” She lifted a hand, palm up, sweeping it in an arc. “After all, this will all belong to thee and him one day.”
That rationale just didn’t sound like her mother’s way of thinking. Lillian was parsimonious with money and only provided loans when she had reason to benefit. And then, slowly, it dawned on Daphne. “Mother, did thee make some kind of bargain with Tristram?”
Ignoring her question, Lillian reached for the silver bell on the table.
“Mother, I asked thee a question. I would like an answer.”
He
r mother waited until the maid cleared their plates and left the room. She wiped her lips with the napkin and spread it on her lap, taking care to smooth out the edges. When Daphne cleared her throat in an “I’m waiting” cough, her mother snapped her head up. “Does thee think Tristram would have ever proposed to thee without some encouragement? Is thee so vain as to think such a thing?”
“Oh, Mother. Thee didn’t!” Daphne sat back in her chair, stunned. “So thee offered funds to Tristram if he proposed marriage to me.” It should have infuriated her, and yet she felt tremendously relieved, as if tossing off a heavy backpack. She kept her head down and chin tucked. To her mother, she appeared distraught. In reality, she was thinking through the irony of her engagement, biting her lip to keep from breaking out in laughter. Tristram did not love her any more than she loved Tristram, not in the way a man and woman should love each other. She no longer dreaded his return, for she wouldn’t be hurting him at all. She would be setting him free. And she, too, would be freed from an obligation she did not know she didn’t even want until she had it in her hands.
But her mother did not need to know any of this. Daphne did not lift her face until she felt she could keep her expression utterly stoic. “Mother, I wish thee would have told me what thee did.” Just as she thought, her mother had been carefully watching her reaction.
“Thee wants such candor from me, yet thee will not tell me the truth about why thee needs one thousand dollars.”
Daphne folded her hands and put them on the tabletop. “I want to give the bounty hunter the funds to leave the island.”
Lillian sighed loudly and sniffed so hard her nose quivered. “So it all funnels back to making an impression on Reynolds Macy.”
She kept her voice low and controlled. “Nay, Mother. It has to do with protecting a man’s freedom.”
“I don’t believe thee. I have told thee before and I will tell thee again . . . I will not contribute a single pence to anything that benefits that man. He has stolen too much from me.”
Daphne jumped from the table and stood near her mother. She could hear the rising hysteria in her voice, but she couldn’t seem to stop it. “Tell me this, Mother. Why is Reynolds Macy the source of thy bitterness? Why has thee made him thy scapegoat? Anything that goes wrong in thy life is somehow the fault of Ren. He is a fine man, a noble and caring man.”
Lillian’s face went livid white with anger. She rose and gripped Daphne’s chin, hard, with her fingers. “Not a penny will thee get from me. Not. One. Pence.” She released Daphne’s chin and swept from the room, slamming the door behind her.
The serving maid had entered from the kitchen and stood frozen, dessert plates held in her hands, baffled by what she’d witnessed. Daphne slipped back down into her chair and rubbed her chin. “Set them down, Lucia. I’ll eat them both.”
Mary Coffin Starbuck
22 February 1663
Richard Swain came in the store today, alongside Thomas Macy. Richard needed a pound of nails. While gathering the nails in a sack, I listened to their discussion about the runaway slave. “He’s worth a pretty penny to me.”
Thomas Macy, a man who never holds himself back from asking questions, wondered aloud how much Richard had paid for him.
“Twenty pounds.”
“Twenty pounds!” Thomas whistled in amazement. “’Tis a princely sum, Richard.”
I could not resist interjecting, though in retrospect, I should have. “What price can be put on a human life?”
Both men wheeled around to look at me. Richard Swain’s darting eyes went from confusion to a sudden shrewdness. “Mary, what do you know of this matter?”
“I know that life is precious, is it not?”
Richard tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “In this case, ’tis worth twenty pounds.”
’Twas a message aimed at me with a very sharp point, and I received it.
After much thought and prayer, I have decided that I must pay Richard Swain twenty pounds—the price of the runaway laborer (he is, I hope and pray, no longer a slave). And yet, twenty pounds is a sizeable sum. I have not that kind of money, nor do my parents. I could not ask it of Nathaniel, for that would put him in a very awkward position with his family. His father might be willing to part with the money if he knew what the purpose of it was, as he has a tender heart toward the underprivileged, but his mother does not. She counts pennies very carefully. I suspect it would create a bitterness in the home for many days and months to come, mostly toward me.
I thought of asking my brothers for the money, then dismissed it. Their assets are not in pounds, but in building supplies for their businesses. It would be a hardship on them.
That left me with one option. The buried treasure of Spanish silver that Eleazer Foulger and I came across. It fits all the parameters we agreed to set on the treasure—to use the coins only to help one in need and not for our own personal benefit.
I wish Eleazer were on island, but he has not returned from the mainland with his father. I need his help to dig the treasure up from under the oak tree. I am getting rather bulky these days.
24 February 1663
I could not wait any longer. Eleazer has not returned to the island, and I must take care of this before the baby arrives.
This afternoon, I asked Jethro if he would take me for a ride in his pony cart. He was delighted to oblige me, as driving is a new skill for him and he is eager to practice. I put two shovels in the back of the cart and he raised his eyebrows, reminding me so very much of Nathaniel, but he did not question what they were needed for.
I directed him to the oak tree in the Founders’ Burial Ground. I stood under the largest branch, marked six long strides from the tree trunk, and started to dig. Jethro took the shovel from my hands and did the rest of the digging. Every now and then he would look up at me and I would shake my head. “Deeper.” Back to the task he would go. I think he enjoyed the mystery of this strange adventure.
His shovel made a clunking sound, and he looked over at me, sitting under the tree. I nodded and rose, rather clumsily, to my feet. “That’s it.”
He dug and pulled and dug and pulled. It took quite a while, but eventually, the small metal chest emerged. “Whoa,” he said when he lifted it out of the ground. And another “whoa” when he pried open the chest to find the sacks of coins.
He looked at me with wide eyes. “Mary, you are full of surprises.”
“This must remain another one of our secrets, Jethro,” I told him, and he gave me a knowing grin, as if to say, “But of course.”
I took what coinage that I needed and left a small note inside the chest, dated and with an explanation, in the case that Eleazer had need of the coins. Jethro placed the chest back in its hiding place and filled the hole with dirt. He did a fine job spreading the sod back over the hole. On the way home, Jethro did not ask a single question of me about the treasure, nor about why I suddenly needed the coins.
He is a remarkable boy.
2 March 1663
Today was the opportunity I had been waiting for. Richard Swain came into the store, alone, to purchase a few specially ordered items. He flipped a coin at me for his purchases and I caught it. Then I took the Spanish pieces of eight from my apron pocket and pushed them across the counter to him.
He narrowed his eyes. “What is this?”
“This, Richard, is the price of a man’s life.”
He leaned across the counter and wagged a finger at me. “I knew you had something to do with it. I knew it. Where is he?”
“He is gone from the island.”
“You had no right to interfere.”
“Slavery does not belong on this island. ’Tis not needed. You can hire the Indians to do work for you.”
“That’s not for you to decide. You need to know your place, Mary Starbuck. You and your father act like you’re running this island. I wonder what the others will have to say about your trickery.”
I put my hand on his brown sack, on the items he
specially ordered every few months. “And I wonder what the others might think of these items, if someone were to tell them? What of your wife? I wonder of her response.”
Richard’s eyes moved immediately to the sack. Instead of the anger I expected, a cagey grin spread slowly across his face, followed by a strange and admiring expression, as if he’d been outfoxed by a fox. He winked, then replaced his hat and backed from the room.
17
Buried treasure. Late in the night, Daphne read that entry in Great Mary’s journal, rose from her bed to hold it close to the candlelight, squinting, and reread it. The Starbuck family had passed along the legend of Great Mary’s buried treasure to each generation, but no one thought of it as anything more than that—a family legend.
Then again, the Starbuck family had considered the existence of Great Mary’s journal as nothing more than hearsay too, and yet Daphne was holding it in her hands.
If there was treasure buried on this island, if Spanish silver still remained in that chest, then this might be the way to buy Abraham’s freedom.
Under an oak tree. Of course, of course! It was so obvious. It was the oak tree in the Founders’ Burial Ground, the one that Great Mary was buried beside. She knew the tree well. She and Jane used to climb in it when they were children.
She had not a surfeit of time to explore. Now that Silas Moser knew Abraham was hiding on the Endeavour, he would no doubt find a way to capture him.
She wrote down instructions in the journal about how many lengths to stride away from the tree before starting to dig. This, it was an overwhelming task, and she did not think she could do it alone. If only Ren were here, or Tristram, but they had yet to return from Salem.
She went to the window, holding tight to her elbows. It was a full moon and a clear, warm night, after two days of rain. The ground would be soft, malleable enough for a woman to dig. It would be dawn in a few hours, providing just enough light to see where she was going, not enough light to alert anyone to her task. Patience was asleep upstairs in the children’s room. Resolve filled Daphne. Now was the time to act.
Minding the Light Page 21
