The Hearth and Eagle

by Anya Seton

  She glanced at Lem Peach, hunched on the cobbler’s bench, and at the other two cordwainers, Barnegat men whom she did not know. “Might I speak with you a bit—” she said to Johnnie—“Are you busy?”

  His father snorted. “He’s not that! He’s no hand for shoemakin’, gr-reat clumsy loon. He’s good for naught but the sea.” Lem drew his sparse brows into a scowl, but a baby would have heard the pride in his voice. “Afor-re ye go out, Johnnie—hand me me long-stick and a cup o’ grog. Can’t stop work for a minute if we’re to deliver all these pairs to Porterman’s on time.” He took a pull from the tin cup of grog and handed it to the man on the next bench. “I mislike that Porterman,” he added gloomily—“hulkin’ penny-pinchin’ furriner from Danvers, nor do I like his foreman neither, ever a-huffin’ and a-dingin’ at us to horry up with the consignment. We be free men here in Marblehead, not nigger slaves.”

  “Right you are, Pa—” said Johnnie, puffing on his pipe. “Don’t you let ’em boss you, cordwainers’ve always been their own masters, slow or fast as they willed, and where’d the manufacturers be without you—tell me that?”

  The three men grunted, Lem coughed, polishing a gleaming chalk-white sole with his mahogany long-stick. “And the bostard talks of lower wages too. As it is, we barely keep body and soul together at three dollars the case.” He picked up a pigskin bristle and waxed his thread.

  “Johnnie—” whispered Hesper, fearing this talk of prices and Porterman, whoever he might be, might go on forever.

  “Oh aye, aye, lass,” said Johnnie kindly, putting his pipe in his pocket. “Mustn’t keep a lady waitin’.” He made a bow, and stood aside for her to precede him into the sunlight.

  “Well, Hes—what’s on your mind?” He glanced with amusement at her worried face and twitched the long auburn pigtail that swung down her back. “You been filchin’ your ma’s pasties again? Or come to think on it, why be’nt you in school? ’Tis very wrong to play hookey.”

  “Oh, Johnnie, I’m not. I’m not a child any more. It’s a grave matter. We mustn’t be overheard.”

  He chuckled. “You don’t say. Well, come up Burial Hill then, the gravestones’ll not listen.”

  He shambled along beside her but his rolling seaman’s gait was fast, and long as her legs were she had to trot to keep up with him. Much courting took place at night on Burial Hill among the old graves, and more than courting too, but this April morning there was no one in sight.

  They climbed the sharp hill to the highest spot by the Seaman’s monument. It commemorated many a drowned seaman, and Johnnie’s uncle and Hesper’s two brothers among them, but neither of the young people glanced at it. Johnnie, squinting out to sea, immediately forgot Hesper. There was one of the new clipper ships beating to windward off Little Misery, Salem bound, she’d be. He shaded his eyes with his hand until he was sure of her. She was the Flying Cloud, for he saw the angel figurehead plain under the bowsprit. Then her master’d be Cap’n Josh Cressy of Marblehead. A pretty enough craft but over-flimsy and tender, a toy for feverish transporting of landlubbers. She’d never stand up in even a half-gale off the Banks, he thought, jealous for the old Diana whose masts he could see swaying gently above the shed on Appleton’s Wharf in the harbor below.

  “Johnnie—” cried Hesper tugging at his arm. "Please listen to me.”

  He lowered his head, and patted the hand on his arm. “Sorry, Hes. Out with it.” He threw himself down on the bank, and pulling a grass blade began to chew.

  “Johnnie, you are abolitionist, aren’t you?” she cried, abandoning all subtle approaches.

  He sat up straight, his indulgent gaze sharpened to surprise. “I am. You’ve not got me out here to start political argument?”

  “No, but Ma wants your help, tonight. There’s two—two packages being delivered at the Inn, and we’ve to hide them.”

  He stared at her and gave a long whistle. “The Underground?” She nodded and he drew his brows together. “Where are they to go, after?”

  “Canada. There’s to be a brig off Cat Island, waiting. Lucky it’s the dark of the moon.”

  “To be sure. They’re allowin’ for that. They always plan well.”

  “Then you’ve done this before?”

  He smiled and spat on the grass. “It’s often best not to question if you don’t want to hear lies. Now tell me all you know about this thing.”

  “I know all about it—” she said hotly. “Ma and I are doing it together. Pa wouldn’t.”

  “So? Well, get on with it.”

  She had his full attention at last, and he listened gravely, nodding sometimes as she told all that had happened that morning, and her mother’s plans. “But—” she added as she finished the account, “I’m afeared of Nat Cubby, he’ll be at the Inn tonight.”

  “Oh, he’s all right,” Johnnie said. But he wasn’t so sure. There wasn’t the old free understanding between them. Nat was a bit like a cat, you never knew which way he’d jump, except it’d be to his own advantage. But Nat was smart at anything he’d turn his hand to. Johnnie didn’t begrudge him the mate’s berth, he’d worked hard for it, he’d be a good mate, maybe, if he didn’t get one of his savage vindictive notions when no man could make him see reason. “All the same—” he said out loud, “ ’twould be best he knew nothing of this matter tonight. Run along Hessie—get Peg-Leg like your ma said, and find a fiddler. I’ll go ready my dory for her trip. Peg-Leg’U have to help me row. Tide’ll be racin’ in against us, and there’s wind makin’.” He squinted at the sky.

  “Yes, Johnnie—” she said, turning slowly to go. Johnnie had taken over, masterful and sure, as she knew he would, but this hadn’t brought him any closer to her. He hadn’t looked at her once, to really see her. And why should he, she thought bitterly. I’m not so much to look at. Why didn’t I take time to put on my good dress and pin my hair up?

  An inkling of the girl’s dejection reached Johnnie, and he thought she was frightened of the dangerous project tonight. “Hes—” he said, chuckling, “d’you mind the time we stowed away on the Balance to fetch the salt?”

  “Oh, yes—” she breathed.

  “You were a plucky one, got the makin’ of a seaman too, shouldn’t wonder.” Her eyes shone, dazzled by this highest praise, and then Johnnie spoiled it. “It’s mortal shame you’re only a girl.”

  She put her lips tight together, and walked away. Johnnie, after a moment’s surprise, forgot about her and started down the hill towards Little Harbor and his new dory.

  Hesper continued in the other direction along Beacon Street to Dolliber’s Cove, and Peg-Leg’s neat cottage. She was startled to find her uncle wrapped in a red blanket and lying propped up on a bench in his yard. Peg-Leg for all the strapped-on wooden stump that served him for left leg and despite his increasing plumpness was nimble as a jack rabbit. He still went out dory fishing in the bay, and he was a great gardener. From May to September his little yard bloomed with daffodils, or cinnamon roses, moss pinks or asters.

  “Why, Peg-Leg...” cried Hesper pushing open the gate, and hurrying up to the red cocoon on the bench—“Whatever’s the matter?”

  The round face above the fringe of sandy beard surveyed her sourly. “Where’s yore manners, chit? Yore Grandsir Dolliber hear ye callin’ me thot, he’d guv ye a stroppin’, he would. Susan’d ought to raise ye better.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Noah,” said Hesper, rightly deducing great stress from this unusual cantankerousness. Half the town had nicknames everybody used, and Peg-Leg never minded his. “Ma wanted to see you at the Inn, right away.”

  “Well—she won’t then. Nor see me at all, lessen she comes here. Oi’m thot kinked up wi’ t’ rheumatiz, Oi wouldn’t budge fur Old Nick hisself.”

  “I’m sorry—” said Hesper again. So Peg-Leg wouldn’t be any use to Johnnie tonight; who then could he get to help him? Well, he’d make another plan, Johnnie was never at a loss, but—a blinding and thrilling idea struck her. She straightened her stro
ng young shoulders. If only she could persuade him....

  Her uncle saw the sudden brightening of her face and was naturally annoyed.

  “Me pains’re far worser now than after the God-domned shark bit me leg off,” he said peevishly, scowling at her.

  “It’s a mortal shame—Peg—Uncle Noah. Have you tried the goose grease?,” She was in a fever to be off on the rest of her errand, and dismayed to see her aunt come bustling through the door into the yard.

  “Who’re ye a gabbin’ with, Noah—Oh, I see, ’tis Hessie. How be ye child, an’ how’s your ma and pa ? He’s real grouty wi’t’ rheumatics—” she jerked her double chins in the direction of her husband. “Oi’m cookin’ him up a garney stew. Me father-r useter say there was naught like tongues and sounds and fins well seethed in a bit o’ broth fur strengthenin’ the belly. D’ye ’member me pa, Hessie? Master o’ the Rebecca he was.” The insistent babbling voice paused an instant—

  “Oh, yes, Aunt Mattie I do—” cried Hesper with complete untruth. “I must be—”

  “Nay, to be sure ye don’t—” went on her aunt, whose pauses were always for breath and not for response. “Ye wasn’t barn yet when he died, an’ speakin’ o’ dyin’—does yore ma know Puff-Ball Thompson expoired yester e’en? Oi was there, an’ ’twas the drink did her in, wi’out doubt, fur she stank loike a dram-shop, but maybe we’ve no cause to blame her fur drownin’ her troubles, when ye think there’s her brat Cassie, eight months gone by Rob Nichols and him China bound out o’ Salem, an’ not loike to wed her even—”

  “Mattie!” Peg-Leg opened his eyes. “Ye forget yore hearer.” His wife was no way discomfited. “Well, Oi should hope Hessie’s old enough to take warnin’ from the sins o’ others, an’ Cassie’s not the only one either, Oi have grave doubts about—” The acrid odor of scorching fish swirled out the kitchen door. Mattie sniffed reluctantly and said “Crimmy—there’s me garney a-cautchin’ itself—wait, Hes—Oi’ll be back directly,” but Hesper did not wait.

  As she climbed the narrow sharp lane up Gingerbread Hill she briefly considered Aunt Mattie’s last remarks. What had Cassie and Rob Nichols done exactly, that Cassie should be “eight months gone?” That it was something shameful and to do with a baby, Hesper understood. But people had babies after they were married, not before. Sows and bitches could be “eight weeks gone,” not months, there was perhaps some connection, but for Hesper not a convincing one. She couldn’t ask Ma who’d slapped her once for mentioning the old sow’s tits. The girls at school were always whispering and giggling in corners; they might know, but she had no intimate friend she cared to ask. Her interest lagged and reverted to Johnnie, and the adventure tonight.

  She reached the top of the hill by Black Joe’s Pond, and hesitated in the lane between the two rival taverns. The Widow Bowen, “Ma’am Sociable,” lived in one, and “Aunt ’Crese” lived in the other. They both ran cent shops, and sold election cakes, gingerbread, and Gibraltars as well as grog. Both women were shrewd and easy-going, both held frolics and jigs and reels and penny-pitching contests, in an endeavor to lure customers away from each other’s establishments. “Ma’am Sociable” was a spry little elf of a woman with faded flaxen hair. “Aunt ’Crese” was fat and dark as soot, the widow of “Black Joe” who had been a free Negro and fought in the Revolution. Marbleheaders in search of gaiety patronized them quite impartially.

  At Hesper’s approach the flock of white geese on the pond set up a raucous cackling and honking. The Widow Bowen fled out the door and down her stone steps. “Come in, come in, dearie. Your ma send ye fur my rosewater ? I’ve got a bottle or so left—” over Hesper’s auburn head she saw Aunt ’Crese waddle through her own doorway, and she raised her voice to a high wheedle, “I’ve got fresh gingerbread nuts, or some mighty pretty ribbons, you’ve pennies with you, haven’t you?”

  “Only two—” said Hesper fumbling in her pinafore pocket. Maybe a red ribbon tied into a bow at the neck of her best dress for tonight—

  Aunt ’Crese reached the lane and her thick molasses voice flowed over them—“Mornin’, young lady—ah got some tasty nice pep’mint drops today, some purty pitcher cyards too, they’se got li’l pink hearts on ’em an’ li’l gol’ doves. Sho’ you want to see ’em.” She ignored her rival and bestowed on the girl a dazzling smile.

  Hesper, flanked by the small insistent white woman in a sunbonnet and the large determined black one in a yellow turban, suddenly giggled. “I didn’t really come to buy. Ma wants to know, will you send her a fiddler for tonight?”

  Both women stopped looking persuasive, and drew together in a momentary bond of caution against outside competition.

  “What’s Mrs. Honeywood want a fiddler for?” snapped Widow Bowen. “She never has jamborees at her Inn.”

  “Well, she’s holding a farewell for the men on the Diana and the Ceres; thought they’d like maybe to dance a bit,” said Hesper pacifically.

  “I’m holdin’ a frolic myself,” snapped Widow Bowen, who had just thought of it, “I’ll need Pipin’ Willy here.”

  “Yo’ kin have Ambrose—” said Aunt ’Crese, referring to one of her grandsons. “Ah expecs yo’ ma’ll pay well? Ev’body know Ambrose es the bes’ fiddler in Essex County.”

  The Widow Bowen sniffed, shrugged her shoulders, and retreated. Those Honeywoods, uppity they were, hardly give you the time o’ day—let ’em just try to liven up their stuffy old inn, that moony ink-stained Roger, and Susan Dolliber glum as a haddock—they’d not get far. She slammed her front door.

  “Thanks, Aunt ’Crese,” said Hesper. “Could Ambrose be there at seven?”

  The old Negress nodded, her yellowed veiny eyeballs rolled and focused keenly on the girl’s face. “Yo’ got su’thin’ on yo’ min’, chile. I can see it plain.”

  “Oh, no I haven’t,” said Hesper quickly, but the old woman put two fat black hands on her shoulders and held fast. “Wait, chile, I can read a powerful lot in yo’ face. Yo’re goin’ to go through a heap o’ livin’.”

  Hesper tried to back away; all morning people had been detaining her, and the old woman’s breath was fetid.

  Aunt ’Crese’s gaze rolled inward—her purplish lips stuck out. “Le’me tell yo’ fortune chile. Yo’ got coppers, ain’t yo’?” Hesper nodded, “But—”

  One black hand slid down to her arm, and Aunt ’Crese pulled Hesper into her little tavern. It was dark inside; from the smoke-blackened rafters there dangled hams, bunches of dried herbs, and strings of corn ears. Next to the rum keg there was a glass case containing rusty pins, a spool of thread, faded picture cards, and a cracked dish of miscellaneous taffy balls, peppermint drops, and Gibraltars all filmed with dust. This was the cent shop. One of the grandsons, a lanky bulletheaded young Negro, sprawled on a pile of corn husks near the fire, snoring fitfully. His grandmother stepped over his legs and Hesper followed. Her unwillingness had given place to interest. She’d heard that Aunt ’Crese told fortunes when the fit struck her, but Charity Trevercombe and Nellie Higgins had sneaked out here once after dark, and Aunt ’Crese’ hadn’t told them any fortune at all, she’d made them spend all their coppers on moldy candy they didn’t want.

  “Set down,” ordered Aunt ’Crese, pointing at a sticky bench spotted with candle grease. Hesper did so gingerly, and the old woman pulled a lean pack of dirty playing cards from a niche under the tavern trestle.

  “Cut with yo’ left hand.” Hester imitated the other’s gesture, staring at the cards and suffused by an agreeable feeling of excitement and guilt. She’d never seen playing cards before. Ma wouldn’t allow the devil’s playthings in the house.

  “Make a wish—” Instantly, Hesper thought “Johnnie,” and as instantly suppressed it; she ought to wish for something noble and unselfish—like the success of the venture tonight.

  Aunt ’Crese shuffled and slapped the cards on the table. Outside on the pond the geese quacked incessantly. The young Negro snored by the hearth. These were comforting noises, nor
was there anything eerie about the old Negress in her grimy yellow turban, even when she began to speak and her voice had gone high and thin, drifting through her pendulous lips and scarcely moving them. “Yo’ goin’ ter see a heap o’ trouble, chile—Heartbreak. Heartbreak. Yo’ll think it won’t mend, but life’s got a hull lot up her sleeve for you. It’ll mend an’ yo’ll fin’ out how many ways a woman’s heart can break.”

  Hesper drew in her breath. “I don’t want to hear things like that. I don’t believe you anyway.”

  The thin singsong continued unheeding. “Yo’ll know three kin’s o’ lovin’. They’s three men here in yore life.”

  “Three?” cried Hesper, relaxing again. This was the sort of thing a fortune should tell. “Will I get—get married?”

  But Aunt ’Crese stared at the cluttered cards and heeded nothing else. “There’s fire aroun’ yo’, fire in yore hair, fire in yore heart, fire that makes a beautyness, an’ real fire fearsome in the night. An’ there’s water too. The ocean salt’s in yore blood. Yo’ cain’t live without it.”

  What rubbish, thought Hesper, and she looked around the tavern for a clock, but she could not see one.

  The old woman stooped closer over the cards. “Ah see yo’ scribblin’ away, pen on paper, puttin’ down words ... puttin’ down words.”

  Hesper brightened. That was her secret ambition, poetry like Pa. Like Mrs. Hemans or Mrs. Sigourney. She had a pansy album half filled with little verses.

  “All them words won’t do yo’ no good—” said Aunt ’Crese with contempt. “No good at all. Yo’ want things too hard. Always hankerin’ an’ a-ravenin’ after su’thin’. Yo’ can’t holp it, Ah reckon, but yo’ should listen to the house.”

  The girl sighed. “I can’t listen to a house,” she said crossly.

  “It’s yore home—an’ it’s powerful wise effen yo’ll listen to it, yo’ kin hear the Words o’ God through it.”