The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel

by Johanna Moran

  Except for Deborah and Lillith, the captain’s motherless girls, Margaret and her children were the only passengers on board. They kept to themselves mainly, passing their nights in a dank hole. There was no piano to divert their attention, no singsongs, no library, no berths with sheets, only hammocks slung close together. John fell out of his when the all hands bellow came from above. He was due on deck during the most furious of gales, expected to reef the heavy flapping sails right alongside experienced, sure-footed men. Margaret lay swaying in the dark, nauseated, listening to the pounding boots overhead, the shouting, fearing in the next moment her boy would be swept overboard. For John it was adventure, high and pure.

  “It was nothing, Mum,” he said every time.

  The Sacramento, formerly the Governor Bartholomew, was a creaking, shuddering old tub of an English brig. Margaret judged her to be at least thirty years old. She carried Australian wool and seal pelts that stank to high heaven, particularly on the leeward side of the ship. There was no getting used to the odor of decomposition, no getting used to the rats and cockroaches, the weevil-specked flour, the yellow water, and the rancid meat. There was only endurance, and the reward of a splendid sunset, signifying the end of another wretched day. Her stoic children did their best, as they had in captivity. There was little complaining to be heard. They simply kept at it, like the mindless cockroaches themselves, only without the same sense of urgency.

  ONE NIGHT in the galley Margaret learned that they were to put in at the Sandwich Islands within three or four days. Once there, the current lot of native sailors was to be let off and another set taken on. She asked the taciturn American cook how long they’d be in port, but he did not know. “Can’t say,” he said, with his usual paucity of words. “And the place is called Hawaii now. We took it last summer.”

  The captain and mate, Americans as well, were the same way, saying little unless the subject centered on America’s military brilliance. The army would make mincemeat out of the Filipino gooks, said Mr. Grady, the mate. The navy had Guam sewed up.

  “Took Wake Island while she was sleeping,” he said, erupting in a rare laugh, thinking his little play on words extremely amusing. Mr. Grady scraped green mold from the last potato and pitched it into the pot. “China’s next,” he said. “Mark my words.”

  Mr. Grady looked for American men-of-war every day, but never did spot any. He’d come away from his watch like a lad who’d found coal in his Christmas stocking, treating everyone but the captain to a fit of the sulks.

  The captain was another odd duck, though one of a different plumage. No display was made of it, but he had to be in mourning, having lost his wife to pleurisy only four months earlier. He was the indifferent sort, fairly ignoring his poor girls, who were naturally grieving themselves. They did not take to Margaret, perhaps because her pitted face frightened them, perhaps because she was alive and their mother was not. Who could guess the reason? They were ten and twelve, lithe little monkeys, at home on a slippery deck.

  “Your stories are silly,” the eldest said straight to her face. They needed no assistance braiding their hair or washing their frocks. “We’re perfectly capable of minding ourselves.” After a week of hovering, Margaret let out the tether, inviting them to come to her anytime. But they never once did.

  THE WINDS DIED DOWN on a Wednesday. It was another ten days before the lovely Honolulu harbor came into sight. By then the necessary rationing had begun to take a visible toll on them all.

  The gaunt sailors sent up a rousing cheer. Their brown kin paddled out to meet them, bringing music and flowers and exotic women. The sailors dropped their lines one by one and commenced jumping overboard. The lucky lads were quit of this rat-infested bark. Envy made Margaret even hungrier.

  The stinking cargo was unloaded first thing. The captain and crew then lowered a boat in preparation for a trip ashore. Fresh stores were sorely needed. Margaret stood watching, wondering when they might weigh anchor and be on their way again. Deborah and Lillith scrambled over the side without so much as a ta-ta for her. Captain Fisk followed, turning to Margaret at the last moment.

  “Is there anything out of the ordinary you might require, madam?”

  The offer took her by surprise, and so she said no at first, immediately changing her mind.“A book or two would be lovely. How kind of you to ask, sir. Any sort, on any subject, will do.”

  “Consider it done,” he said. With that the hellfires still ahead seemed quenched by a good ten degrees. If he brought back just one book she would divide the pages by days at sea to make it last. Two books and she’d be in her glory. More than two was asking too much.

  WITH THE SHIP entirely to themselves, Margaret decided on a sea bath, thinking it would do them all a world of good. John had no interest, but kept watch, turning his gentlemanly back as she and the girls stripped down to chemise and drawers. Her modest girls hopped about, hugging themselves, poking each other in the ribs. Skimpy, bony things. As if Margaret had room to speak. She felt quite fit; she simply didn’t look it. She’d like to say it was of no concern, but it was. A woman with a complexion as ravaged as hers was entitled to an ample pleasing figure. Fair’s fair. A husband’s eyes must have someplace to rest.

  They climbed down the rope ladder and slipped into the warm water. There were fish of all colors, beautifully speckled and striped. The girls lathered each other with the last of the soap, splashing about, giggling. They were holding hands, dancing a watery minuet, when a long shadow passed behind them. Margaret put an immediate end to the frolicking, refusing their pleas. “A minute longer, please, Mum.” She hadn’t always been so fearful; though perhaps that wasn’t true. She couldn’t reliably recall her former self anymore.

  The remainder of the day went by without sign of captain and crew. Just after dark a Kanakan boy paddled up in his canoe. A yellow lantern hung from a pole in his bow. Margaret and the children could see the boy quite clearly. His face was round, his teeth chalk-white. He banged on the side of the hull and lifted a large fish by the tail.

  “From the captain!” he yelled in English.

  John let down a basket and brought up the fish, along with a bowl of clay, which the boy demonstrated was edible, dipping two fingers into the gray stuff and licking them clean. He signaled for the basket and John dropped it again, pulling up a bar of soap, a tin of lamp oil, and kindling for the stove. Other canoes approached, curious boys in them, chattering happily in their musical tongue. A grand three-quarter moon hung low, throwing ripples of light on the calm water. John lowered the basket a third time. Margaret and her girls leaned over the side of the ship, eager to see what was coming next. They received another glistening fish, some rice, sugar, and flour. Then before her weak eyes a book was pulled from beneath a tarp and placed inside the basket.

  “Gently does it now. Don’t drop it, son.”

  It was only one, but it was nice and thick. Dickens perhaps. How silly to be so excited. Here it is, here it is. She plucked the book from the basket and turned it over, her shoulders sagging with disappointment. A Bible.

  The boy pushed off and paddled away. Margaret made a megaphone of her hands. “Thackeray,” she called. “Austen. Trollope. James.” The boy waved, grinning, flashing his bright shark teeth.

  “God bless you also,” he hollered. “God bless you one thousand times.”

  Two days later, the boy returned, bringing fish and more taro mush, but no other books. Margaret shouted down, “Any word from the captain?” The boy shook his head no.

  On the fourth day, Captain Fisk approached in the ship’s boat. Margaret thought it peculiar that he was alone. At the same time she was hopeful. The winds were out of the west, a perfect day for sailing.

  He came bearing gifts, strangely enough. She and the girls were presented with Kanakan dresses, calico frocks that went from neck to toe without a break. “How practical, sir,” said Margaret. “Thank you.”

  John received a telescope, which he immediately trained on majes
tic Diamond Head. The back of his head looked afire in the sunlight, reminding Margaret of a young Henry in England, a walk down to the stables in winter, the Saturday before they married.

  “I’ve sold the ship,” said Captain Fisk. “My daughters and I are staying on.”

  Margaret broke from reverie. “Sir?”

  There was a certain wildness in his gray eyes. “God has called me, Mrs. Oades. There was no mistaking it. My work is here now, among the Kanakans.”

  “All best wishes, sir,” said Margaret, baffled by the news. What sort abandons passengers and crew mid journey? “Will the new master be sailing straightaway for America?”

  The captain ran his hand along a teak rail in need of oil. “I’m afraid not.”

  Her underarms wetted.

  “Mr. Bainbridge is a sealer,” he said. “He’ll be heading south. I cannot say when precisely.”

  John lowered the glass and moved to Margaret’s side. Her girls stared up at God’s newest servant, clutching their colorful frocks to their narrow chests.

  Margaret found her voice. “And as for us, sir?”

  “I’ve given your situation long, hard thought, Mrs. Oades.”

  Margaret nodded, needles of apprehension pricking. “And?”

  “I believe you and your children will best be served by staying on as well. There’s a great deal of work to be done.”

  “Sir, we cannot possibly consider…”

  He raised his hand and closed his eyes, shaking his woolly head. “Don’t dismiss me so readily, woman.” He flung out an arm. “Look! Open your eyes and look, will you? Look at the sea! The beautiful bountiful sea! Have you ever in your life known any place like it? Here’s latter-day Eden, I tell you. Every day is as now. You’ll never again suffer an English blizzard, or a blistering, mosquito-infested summer. This is God’s own sacred place. Do not suppose you are here by chance, good lady, by some mercurial quirk of fate. God brought you here, and he means you to stay. I prayed on it. Day and night I prayed on it.”

  He was breathing hard now, but still did not allow a word in. His daughters would benefit from Margaret’s presence, he claimed, from her wise maternal comfort and guidance. His rabid tone shifted, becoming soft and courtly. “I myself would welcome your company. I try not to question the Lord’s plan. But there is a dearth of eligible white women here.”

  “I am not an eligible white woman, sir. I am married.”

  “So you say.”

  Margaret looked him directly in the eye. “So I do indeed say.”

  He averted his gaze, heaving an impatient sigh. “Will you not give my proposal the least consideration?”

  The warm harbor breeze brought a lovely scent from shore, a flower she could not name. “No sir, I cannot.”

  “Very well,” he said coldly. “The Golden State is in port. I shall speak to the captain on your behalf.”

  “Thank you, sir. When does she sail?”

  His jaw went hard. “Saturday. Will that be soon enough for you, madam?” He turned and strode off toward his quarters. Margaret felt a twinge of regret watching him go. For all she knew Henry was dead. She spent the afternoon stewing. It was not like her. She was a decisive person by nature, or so she once believed.

  ALL DOUBT VANISHED at first sight of the Golden State. She was a magnificent passenger ship, a fine, sleek steamer on the return leg of her maiden voyage. Margaret thrilled to see how clean and modern she was. She was more than delighted to accept the cook’s helper and pot-scrubber post. She would have gladly signed on as a stoker had it been the only job available.

  She was at work in the galley when they sailed and did not have a last look at Hawaii. They were busy laying out a seven-course meal for United States congressmen, a clamorous group. Upon arrival in San Francisco the congressmen presented Margaret with an envelope thick with American notes. This was the second of May, 1899, a Tuesday. They’d been at sea two months less four days.

  Hello, Henry

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA. A haven for the depraved, named for the kindliest of saints. Margaret corralled her children and kept them close. Seamen with knives swarmed the docks. They drank openly, staggering in and out of saloons and billiard parlors, shouting fuck this and fuck that at every turn. There were women, too, girls on the game, lingering in doorways, chatting up the reprobates. The atmosphere stank of fish, of whiskey, urine, and vomit.

  “A reeking place,” said John. They started down a damp alley that ended at a padlocked door, and turned around again. There was no obvious route, no signs to direct them to the ferry. A cook from the Golden State brushed by in a hurry. Margaret called to him.

  “Mr. Mandina! Could you help us locate the Berkeley ferry?”

  He had two knives himself, she noticed up close, one tucked inside each boot. Self-defense, she supposed. On board he’d seemed a gentler sort, with a special fondness for the seabirds he spoke to and fed. He guided Margaret and the children through the crush of men, past the ships and cargo, past an open crate of bananas with a small dead monkey inside. Softhearted Martha saw the poor creature and began to cry.

  “It’s sleeping,” said Margaret, wondering what in God’s name had drawn her husband to this miserable abyss.

  On the ferry, John asked, “What shall be your very first words to Father?”

  Margaret laughed a little, with a vague headache throbbing. “I suppose I shall say, ‘Hello, Henry.’”

  “Hello, Henry?”

  His deep voice would astound his father. John had been ten, a squeaking whelp, the last time Henry laid eyes on him. He would be thrilled beyond expression, utterly bedazzled by their beautiful son.

  “After all these years, Mum? That’s the best you can do? A paltry Hello, Henry?”

  Margaret cuffed him playfully. She had no idea what she’d say first, but was certain the right words would come naturally.

  WITH THE AMERICAN DOLLARS earned on board the Golden State, she hired a coach to deliver them to the Berkeley post office. Once there, Margaret asked the coachman to please wait, she wouldn’t be long. John made a move as if to accompany her inside.

  “Stay and mind the girls. I shan’t be but a moment.”

  All she had of her husband was this box number. She’d not given voice to it, but it had occurred to her that he’d left again, returned to England perhaps. Or died. She wouldn’t have her children hearing it first from a foreign stranger, not after all they’d been through.

  The postmaster sorted envelopes behind a caged window. Margaret approached, introducing herself properly. He abandoned his task, his sleepy eyes widening. She ignored the rudeness. People will gawk, as if they’d paid their shilling to see the scarred lady and were entitled.

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Oades, sir?”

  “Dairyman,” said the postmaster.

  “My husband is an accountant,” said Margaret.

  “Only Henry Oades around here is a dairyman. You’re his missus, you say?” He wetted a pencil with the tip of his tongue and offered to draw a map to Henry’s farm. “Is he expecting you?”

  She’d heard about overcurious Americans, how they were keen to pry for the pure sport of it. She was not about to take up the long wretched tale with him, and so simply said, “Of course he is.”

  Outside, Margaret presented the map to the coachman, who offered a choice of a quick or scenic route.

  “Oh, quick, please,” she said, paying the agreed upon coins.

  “Only two bits more for the scenic,” he said, eyeing her bank notes.

  She drew her reticule closed. “You shall take us directly.” She climbed up without assistance and settled in beside John. The coachman slammed the door, muttering, “Foreigners.”

  “He’s turned dairy farmer of all things,” Margaret said to the children.

  The news seemed to please John. He turned to the window with a smile. The coachman cracked his whip and they were off. Margaret rode facing her daughters, expectant-faced rag children in donated frocks. “
He’s a lovely man,” she said, for perhaps the hundredth time.

  “He’s tall, bearded, and quite handsome,” recited Martha.

  Margaret nodded. “Quite.”

  “He thinks the world of us,” said listless Josephine. She rubbed her eye with the heel of her hand. “We are Dad’s all and all.”

  Margaret pulled down on Josephine’s lower lid, checking for pinkeye. Her big girl had suffered two dripping bouts in captivity. Josephine twisted to the side, fending off her hand.

  “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  “I’m just a bit nervous, is all,” said Josephine. “It’s been a very long time.”

  “Though he may be standoffish at first,” said Martha, “due to the surprise. We shan’t let it bother us.”

  John continued to stare out the window; he was having no part of the old game.

  Margaret leaned forward again and fussed with Josephine’s limp hat ribbons. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. You are your father’s all and all; you mustn’t forget it.”

  The hats weren’t the most grand. She’d thought them sufficiently suitable until she’d noticed all the women, on the ship and on the ferry, wearing extravagant feathered creations. Not that it would make a difference to Henry if she turned up wearing an entire swan.

  Good God, Meg! Did you suppose I’d give your hat the first thought?

  I wanted to look nice for you, Henry.

  You could be wearing your drawers on your head for all I care. Come here now, lovely girl. Let me look at you.

  She imagined the children already tucked in when he said it, her thoughts roaming to how they’d be once they were alone for the night. They would be fine, she decided, a thin shiver running. She knew her Henry. They would be lovely. Margaret sat back, happy for the first time in years.