“Yes, he found out that day he came back and you saw him here.”
“Then he shouldn’t have hit Papa,” Josh declared, as if coming to a firm decision.
Laura sighed, not knowing how to straighten out all the mistaken thoughts in Josh’s young mind even as the child went on.
“And besides, after Rye came back, Papa started not coming home at night. I ... I wish he’d come home for supper like he used to.”
Unable to keep tears from forming, Laura hugged Josh close again to keep him from seeing her distress. “I know. So do I. But we have to be patient with him, and ... and extra nice, too. Remember what Rye said? Papa needs an extra lot of cheering up, because it’s a bad time for him right now, and we ... we have to understand, that’s all.” What a large order for a child of four, thought Laura. How could he be expected to understand what she herself at times could not?
Yet there was a new peace within Laura now that Josh knew the truth about Rye. And later, as she and her son carefully measured and mixed the potpourri, Laura took the piece of cedar from her pocket and cut it into tiny pieces, which she added lovingly to the recipe. It seemed like a message of hope from Rye, one that would lie in her bureau drawer through the long winter ahead.
Chapter 15
IT WAS OFTEN said that the commerce of the world would have come to a complete standstill without the lowly barrel stave. On a day in late September, there appeared at the cooperage a dapper little gentleman who knew well how highly honored the coopering craft was and understood that coopers were among the most respected and sought-after of tradesmen. As the visitor paused in the doorway, he produced a fine lawn handkerchief and wiped his nose, upon which perched a pair of oval wire-rimmed spectacles.
“G’dday,” Josiah muttered around his pipestem, eyeing the stranger.
“Good day,” came the nasal reply. “I’m looking for the cooper, Rye Dalton.”
“That’d be m’ son there.” Josiah indicated Rye with the stem of his pipe.
“Ah, Mr. Dalton. Dunley Throckmorton is my name.” He moved toward the rear of the cooperage, where Rye turned to meet the congenial handshake with a firm one of his own.
“G’dday, sir. Rye Dalton, and this is m’ father, Josiah. What can we do for y’?”
“Don’t let me stop you from your work. This world needs barrels, and I’d hate to be guilty of slowing down production for a moment.” Throckmorton sniffed and burst out with a sneeze, after which he apologized. “The weather on the sea-coast doesn’t agree with me, I’m afraid.” He dabbed his nose. “Please, Mr. Dalton, please go on with what you were doing.”
Throckmorton watched as Rye went back to work on a partially constructed barrel, which had already been hooped and had its uneven ends trimmed off with a hand adz. Rye now set to work smoothing them with a sunplane. Throckmorton watched his powerful shoulders curve into his planing. The man had arms and hands of enviable strength, the kind America needed as its borders pushed westward.
“Tell me, Dalton, have you ever heard of the Michigan Territory?”
“Aye, I’ve heard of it.”
“A beautiful place, the Michigan Territory, a lot like here, with its snowy winters and mild summers, only without the ocean, of course. But it has the great Lake Michigan instead.”
“Aye?” Dalton grunted almost indifferently, never missing a beat.
Throckmorton cleared his throat. “Yes, a beautiful place, and all its land free for the taking.” The visitor sensed Dalton’s complacency and wondered what it would take to convince this young man to follow him into the frontier. He was of prime, child-producing age, which was vital to the future growth of newly established towns. And he knew his craft well, so could pass it on to others. A hearty, healthy, skilled young buck—Rye Dalton was exactly the kind of man Throckmorton sought. But competition for skilled coopers was keen.
“How’s business, Dalton?”
Rye chuckled. “Y’ come askin’ that of a barrel maker in a whalin’ town? What do y’ think those outgoin’ whaleships put water and beer and flour and salt beef and herring in? And what do y’ think they bring back blubber and oil in? How’s business?” He couldn’t resist a second chuckle, for he had already guessed why Throckmorton was nosing around. “We could turn off the lights o’ the world if we stopped makin’ barrels, Throckmorton. Business is boomin’, as y’ve already guessed.”
Throckmorton knew it was true. Whale oil alone made up a large share of the commodities shipped to world markets in barrels. Still, he asked, “Have you ever thought about leaving here?”
“Leave Nantucket?” Rye only laughed in reply, and the visitor now employed his most convincing voice.
“Well, why not? There are other parts of the country where barrels are needed j ust as badly.”
Rye’s muscles continued flexing as he laughed a second time. “Somebody’s got y’ misinformed, man. Or haven’t y’ heard it’s Yankee factories supplyin’ the rest o’ the country with everythin’ from nails t’ gunpowder? T’ say nothin’ of the Boston and Newport distilleries—and all shipped in barrels. Why, we could shut out more than the lights o’ the world. We could keep it sober, and bring the triangle trade to a complete standstill.”
What Dalton said was true. Canary and Madeira—the “wine islands”—shipped raw sugar and molasses to New England distilleries, which in turn shipped their rum and whiskey to Africa, whose slaves supplied labor to the Caribbean plantations, completing the triangle. And it all hinged on barrels produced along the northern seaboard, since the wood supplies of Europe were sorely depleted.
Throckmorton shook his head in surrender. “I can’t deny it, Dalton. What you say is true. Let me lay my cards on the table. It takes barrels to build new towns, and I’ve got a group of men and women who believe Michigan’s the place to do it.” Throckmorton paused for effect, then went on. “We’re forming up a group to leave Albany for the Michigan Territory in the spring, as soon as the Great Lakes open up, but we need a cooper.”
Rye’s hands fell still on his work while he peered at the man from beneath lowered brows. “Y’ askin’ me t’ go to Michigan t’ start up a town with y’?”
“I am.” The dapper man gestured earnestly. “We can’t survive out there without barrels for flour, cornmeal, threshed grain, maple syrup, cider, soaking hams, and ... and ...” Throckmorton released a distressed sigh. “Even housewives need you for washtubs, pails, churns, dashers ... why, you could be a rich man in no time, Dalton, and highly respected at that.”
Again Rye hunched over his work. “I’m respected where I am, Throckmorton, and I have no hostile Indians t’ contend with. If I wanted a change o’ scenery bad enough t’ leave Nantucket, why go to that godforsaken land? I could go t’ the South and sell m’ barrels for transportin’ rice, indigo, tar, turpentine, rosin, sourghum—why, the list goes on and on. Why go with y’ when the South’s already civilized? I wouldn’t have t’ do without convenien—”
“Bah! The South!” The small man clasped his hands behind his back and took up pacing like an incensed headmaster. “What would you want in that wretched part of the country? No man accustomed to the ... the healthy rigors of a brisk northern winter would be content in that hot, miserable climate!” He gestured theatrically.
Rye smirked, erasing the expression when Throckmorton looked back at him. “I didn’t say I wanted t’ live there. I was just pointin’ out the fact that I can earn my livin’ anywhere. I didn’t spend seven years as an apprentice t’ risk life and limb followin’ a bunch of strangers into the wilderness. Besides, I’m content where I am.”
“Ah, but there’s little challenge in this easy life, my boy. Think about having a hand in shaping America, extending its perimeter!”
The man was well chosen for his errand, thought Rye, who was enjoying this stimulating exchange more than he let on. Throckmorton was glib, and earnest to boot—a quite likable fellow, who aroused Rye’s penchant for debate. The cooper found himself happily immersed
in discussing the merits of the frontier versus civilization.
Still clasping his hands against his lower spine. Throckmorton studied him from beneath lowered brows. “Tell me, Dalton, they say you’ve gone whaling. Is that true?”
“Aye, one voyage.”
“Ah! So you’re the kind of man who seeks adventure and knows how to rough it, if need be.”
“Five years on a whaleship was enough roughin’ it t’ last me a lifetime, Throckmorton. Y’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.” The visitor’s spectacles turned toward the arresting sight of the cooper riding a croze cutter around the inner edge of the staves, beveling out the deep groove, called the chines, into which the barrel cap would be seated. Damn, the man knew his craft too well to let him slip away!
“How’s your wood supply here, Dalton?”
“Y’ know perfectly well we barter for our rough staves with the mainlanders.”
“Exactly!” An index finger pointed to heaven for emphasis. “Imagine, if you will, not this windblown island where the sea prunes every struggling tree to the height of the nearest hill, but a forest so thick and high you could make barrels until your hundredth year and never make a dent in your raw supplies.”
Rye could not restrain the grin that appeared on his face as the man looked upward and raised a hand, gesturing toward the ceiling beams as if he were standing in a verdant forest. Rye nodded and gave the shrewd man a point. “Aye, y’ve got me there, Throckmorton. That’d be somethin’, all right.”
As the cooper continued gouging out the chines, the other man pressed his advantage. “The blacksmith we’ve found to go with us will have none of your advantage when it comes to raw materials. He’ll have to have every ounce of iron shipped in from the East. Yet he’s willing to take the risk.”
Rye looked up, surprised. “Y’ve found a smithy?” Throckmorton looked pleased. “And a good one.” Now his expression became the slightest bit smug.
Almost to himself, Rye muttered, “I’d need a smithy.” Then, remembering that Josiah was listening, he glanced in the old man’s direction with almost a guilty cast to his eyes. Josiah gave no indication he’d heard Rye’s remark, yet Rye knew he was taking in every word.
“We’ve found some fifty-odd people so far, among them all the necessary tradesmen the town will need to survive, except a cooper and a doctor. And I’ve no doubt I’ll yet come up with a doctor this winter in Boston. As I said, the party is set to leave just after the spring thaws, as soon as the inland rivers open up.”
For just a moment the thought of making a fresh start in such a place as the Michigan Territory excited Rye’s spirit of adventure. He was—it was true—a man who’d gone whaling, one of the greatest adventures a man could make. Yet the thought of leaving Nantucket gave him a sharp twinge of homesickness. He glanced again at Josiah, busy banding a hogshead, adjusting the pins through the holes of a temporary leather hoop like a man adjusts his belt. A puff of smoke drifted above the old man’s head. The young cooper turned back to meet the earnest eyes behind the oval spectacles. “I’m not for y’, Throckmorton, though I appreciate the invitation. I have ... family I wouldn’t care t’ leave behind.”
“Bring your father along,” the agent said heartily. “His knowledge would be as invaluable as yours. He could teach the young people far more than just coopering, I’ll be bound. The West is a place where all ages are necessary—the old to bring experience, and the young to bring children. Tell me, Dalton,” Throckmorton said, glancing around. “Are you married? Have you a family?”
Dalton now stood erect, his croze forgotten in his left hand. The agent’s eyes traveled down to check it and found there a gold wedding ring.
But Dalton’s answer was, “I’m ... I’m not, sir, no.”
“Ah, well ... a pity, a pity.” But then the man gave a wily smile as he patted his waistcoat buttons as if preparatory to taking his leave. “But then, there’ll be young women making the trip, too.”
“Aye ...” the cooper said tonelessly.
Suddenly Josiah tipped the hogshead up on end and abandoned it to shamble across the dirt floor in his usual unhurried fashion, squinting and drawing on his pipe.
“Young man, if I was y’r age, y’ could talk me inta goin’ with y’. Specially on a day like this when the Little Gray Lady gits to givin’ me twinges of the rheumatis’.” He took the pipe from his mouth and rubbed its bowl thoughtfully. “But m’ son now—well, he ain’t got no rheumatis’t’ spur him on t’ such hiiigh adventure.” He drew the word out drolly as only a crusty New Englander can.
Rye’s head snapped around. It sounded as though Josiah was issuing a challenge, though his eyes never touched his son as he went on with dry perspicacity.
“If y’ was t’ come back when his bones’re creakin’ and his hands gnarled and he’s not good fer much anymore, y’ might get him to take y’ up on it then.”
Almost as if on cue, Throckmorton sneezed, reminding them how inclement the weather of Nantucket could be. When he’d dabbed his nose and tucked away his handkerchief, he shook hands with both men, first Josiah, then Rye, whose hand he clasped while delivering his final appeal.
“I ask you to think about it, Dalton. You have all winter to do so, and if you should decide to come along with us, I can be reached at the Astor in Boston. The party sets out from Albany on April fifteenth.”
“Y’d better keep lookin’, sir. I’m sorry.” After a last hearty shake, Rye released the man’s hand and a moment later he was gone.
Josiah buried his hands between his britches and his back shirttails, clasping his waistband and rocking back on his heels while air hissed softly into his pipestem. He concentrated on the doorway through which Throckmorton had just disappeared. “Notion’s got some merit to it. Specially for a man caught in a sticky triangle’s got him achin’ like a horse ’ts thrown a shoe.”
Rye scowled at his father. “Y’re sayin’ y’d have me go?”
“Ain’t sayin’ I would ... ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t. I’m sayin’ it’s gettin’t’ feel a mite crowded on this island, what with you and Dan Morgan both livin’on it full grown.”
***
The old man’s curious comments settled like a burr in Rye’s thoughts as September gave way to October. Josiah was old; Rye couldn’t leave him. But had the old man meant he’d actually consider going along? Though Rye puzzled over the conversation, he resisted bringing up the subject again, for talking about it lent the idea credence, and Rye wasn’t at all sure he was prepared for that. There was Laura to consider, and Josh. But the thought of them presented the dizzying possibility of taking them along.
The first frosts came, and with them the most beautiful season on the island. The moors lit up with their autumn array of colors as out along Milestone Road vast patches of huckleberry turned bright red, then began softening to rust. Skeins of poison ivy thrilled the eye with their new hues of red and yellow. The scrub oaks turned the color of bright copper pennies and the bayberries turned gray, their skins like the texture of oranges. Ready for picking now, their fragrance was as spicy as any apothecary shop.
In the dooryards, mulberry bushes took fire and chrysanthemums put on their final show of the year, while the deepening frosts brought appropriate blushes to the cheeks of the island’s apples.
Then the whole island took on a delicious fragrance, until it seemed the very ocean itself must be made of apple juice as wooden apple presses were brought into yards for cidering. The scent was everywhere, redolent and sweet. Cauldrons of peeled apples were boiled down into apple butter and jelly. Circles of white apple meat were strung up to dry until it seemed the ceiling beams in the keeping rooms of Nantucket would collapse beneath their weight.
In the house on Crooked Record Lane, baskets of bayberries waited for the cold days of December, when Laura would begin candle making. Overhead, the apple slices drooped like garlands between cheesecloth sacks filled with drying herbs— sage, thyme, marjoram, mint—filling the keeping room
with an almost overwhelming essence.
Laura had delayed making apple butter until last. It was midafternoon when she hammered a scarred wooden lid onto the last wide-mouthed crock. Suddenly the cover cracked in half and one of the broken pieces dropped into her clean yellow fruit.
Tossing the hammer aside, she muttered an oath and fished the broken piece out, then licked it off before tossing it into the fire. Laura searched through her remaining wooden covers only to find that none fit the crock.
She glanced out the window at the bay, visible in the distance, and the forbidden thought crossed her mind. There was nothing to stop her—Josh was at Jane’s for their annual pumpkin carving. Resolutely, Laura knelt down to try each wooden lid again. But still, none fit—no matter how she pushed, maneuvered, and jiggled.
Suddenly her hands fell still. She looked up at the window again. Scudding gray clouds with dark underbellies galloped across the skies like wild mustangs while the wind lifted loose mulberry leaves and threw them impatiently against the glass.
Laura squeezed her eyes shut, slumped forward, and clasped her thighs as she sat on her haunches before the burning wooden cover. I must not go near him. I can put a plate over the crock.
But a minute later she was measuring the diameter of the container with a length of tatting string, then her apron was flying off to fall forgotten across a chair, and she was hurrying down the scallop-shell path toward the cooperage.
Its doors were closed now. She hesitated before opening them, to glance off down the street toward the quayside, where the large blue anchor hung over the door of the pub where she’d heard Dan spent most of his evenings. She shivered, drew her cape together, and stepped through the cross-buck doors into a place of bittersweet memory. It was shadowy, and fragrant with the smell of fresh-worked cedar, and warm from the fire blazing a welcome on the hearth.
Josiah was there, straddling his shaving horse, a curl of smoke twining through his grizzled gray eyebrows. He raised his head, relaxed his grip on the drawknife, then slowly leaned over to rest it against the horse. His benevolent gaze never left Laura as he swung to his feet and reached for his pipe, intoning in his familiar voice, “Well hello, daughter.”
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