“How about Thomas Richards?” I ask. “Is he still working the farm with Papa?”
“I daresay he is. And that colt of your brother’s, Bayard, well, I should tell you that story. The morning that malefactor absconded with you, Bayard had his hackles up. He knew something was wrong.”
I remember the horse running free in the yard.
Ezra Brewer continues. “Well, he jumped the fence and went after you. But he was so agitated that he got whipped and cut by bare branches running down the high road and never made it to you. He had a few deep wounds and one eye swollen shut when they found him.”
“Oh no,” I sign.
“I am not trying to make you feel sorry,” he signs. “It’s just because you mentioned Thomas. Can ye believe, it was that young daughter of his who helped nurse Bayard back to health? You know how finicky horses are; they only like who they like, and you can naught change their minds. He wouldn’t let the Irishman near him, but he decided that Indian gal is all right.”
That story makes me feel glad. Sally’s persistence was rewarded.
“How is Sarah Hillman?” I ask, eager for any news of Chilmark.
“Do you have a fever?” Ezra Brewer signs comically. “Since when does that haughty chit deserve your consideration?”
“She’s not that bad,” I insist, all things considered.
“How about Reverend Lee?” I ask.
“Aye, he feels right sorry,” Ezra Brewer signs, “for bringing that villain into town under his protection.”
“It’s not his fault,” I insist.
“I know it,” he signs. “But like all good Christians, his conscience troubles him.”
As we continue our voyage, we pass the remnants of a boat.
“A wrecked whaler,” Ezra Brewer signs, removing his cap.
“What happened?” I ask.
“What usually does,” he replies. “Whaling boats are sunk by injured whales trying to escape the harpoon. In some cases, the whale crashes its head into the hull of the boat, smashing it to splinters and causing it to sink with the terrified whalers struggling for their lives on the open sea.”
“Doesn’t it hurt the whale?” I ask.
“No,” he signs. “You take less damage hitting something head-on.”
I shiver, thinking of the loss of life.
Ezra Brewer changes the subject. “Better check the fish hook,” he signs. He heads toward the stern and brings back the catch of the day. An old friend has a small fish flapping in her mouth.
“Smithy!” I exclaim.
“Where else would she be?” Ezra Brewer asks. “She’s a regular one-eyed pirate. Her treasure is of the fishy variety.”
Smithy walks over to greet me, fish in mouth, her belly swinging. I stroke her thick coat while she eats her catch.
I know the rest of the journey will not be so jovial. Andrew Noble is pursuing us. I am counting on my roguish captain to vex him.
Now I need sleep.
The cabin’s basin is chipped, but the mattress is fresh hay. I pick up the blanket. It is my quilt that Mama made for my tenth birthday. She must have given it to Ezra Brewer with a clean nightgown and mobcap. I hold it to my face and inhale its familiar scent as I change clothes and snuggle into bed. Smithy keeps me warm, and the sea rocks me back and forth. I tuck the map of memories under the hay for safekeeping.
We’ve been sailing three days. I chart the Defiance’s progress with Ezra Brewer’s spyglass. We are both tense, though he shows it less than I do. Still, I feel it in his movements, the way he watches as he alternates between tasks, checking the rigging, navigating with the deftness of an old sea hand.
Though we have a lead on Andrew Noble, he is in steady pursuit.
There is little for me to do but feel as if I am in the way. I play with Smithy for a time, but she saunters off eventually to attend to her own feline affairs.
When evening approaches, I am no longer able to spy the Defiance with my bare eyes. I am relieved to think that Andrew has given up.
To keep the chill of the winter ocean at bay, Ezra Brewer gives me his thick woolen socks. I pull them up like stockings above my knees. They are large and sag on my legs.
He signs, “My apologies that I have nothing fancier to match your finery.”
I stick my tongue out at him and he cackles.
The sky looks so big when you are in the middle of the ocean on a boat. Tonight, there are red and pink streaks, stretching out for miles. I rub my eyes to stay awake a few more minutes.
Watching me, Ezra Brewer signs, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”
I imagine he’s speaking to more than just the weather. Let it indeed be a good omen.
I sign, “Mama once called you a privateer.”
He signs, “Did she, indeed?”
I nod.
“Aye,” he signs, “that was a long time ago.”
“Won’t you tell me?” I ask. A bedtime tale told well in signs can reignite a flame in one’s soul.
He rubs his hands together.
“It was Captain Wemyss Orrock of London. That’s quite a name, isn’t it? His ship, the Hariot, regularly transported goods between London and Jamaica.
“But in March 1776, the Hariot was driven into the shoals between the Vineyard and Nantucket. Captain Orrock wasn’t headed to Jamaica, though; he was carrying a load of provisions to British troops in Boston.
“He ran aground, managed to get free, but then had to anchor in safe water to wait for the currents to be in his favor. While he sat, word got back to Edgartown.”
Ezra Brewer continues, quite animated. “We went out armed, in a sloop and other small boats, and demanded that Captain Orrock surrender his vessel.”
“His Majesty’s ship?” I ask, incredulous.
“More or less,” Ezra Brewer signs, with a rueful smile. “Shots were fired, and the captain was wounded. We took him and the Hariot into Edgartown Harbor as a prize of war!
“Eventually, we released Captain Orrock. We weren’t cutthroats, you know? In proper apparel, mind you. Some would tell you we stranded him without his breeches. That would be most improper, even for a band of mutineers.”
I give Ezra Brewer a sidelong glance at that last statement.
He concludes, “We weren’t commissioned, so the profit was divided among us. I can tell you it wasn’t small. The ship was taken on to Dartmouth. Whether Captain Orrock returned to England I do not know. I like to imagine him fat and happy in his ancestral home.”
“Was privateering legal at that time?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” Ezra Brewer admits. “The law had not yet been passed and letters of marque, or authority, were not yet being issued. Privateering was done in the name of piracy and patriotism. It wound up being an asset in the War for Independence.”
“Do you feel guilty about what you did?” I ask.
“Not really,” he signs, brushing cat hair off his trousers.
“You are a genuine scoundrel, sir,” I observe.
“You have it,” he signs.
Ezra Brewer makes the sign for walking downstairs with his fingers, and then pretends to fluff a pillow under his head.
I smile and nod. I follow Smithy down the wooden steps to the bunk.
My mind is filled with images of privateers searching for treasure. Finally, I drift off, like a baby in her mother’s arms.
The next two days and night pass much the same. I assist Ezra Brewer in small ways. He gives me modest tasks to keep me occupied, like rolling the slack rope for the rigging, or searching belowdecks for any leaks or pooling water.
When I wake on the sixth day, I feel the roughness of the waters around the cutter. We are being tossed, rather than rocked. A whale oil lamp swings from a beam on the ceiling. I climb the stairs to the deck. The sea spray from large, foamy white waves makes it feel like it is raining. It numbs my face.
Ezra Brewer is still at the helm in his sealskin coat and Monmouth cap. He nods at me and smiles.<
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To my horror, in the distance, I spot the Defiance. I point, and Ezra Brewer nods, barely perceptibly. Is he not intimidated, or does he not want to show me he is alarmed?
How did Andrew catch up to us? What if he overtakes the Black Dog and throws Ezra Brewer overboard? A shiver passes through me.
Ezra Brewer slips a rope anchored to the deck around the wheel to keep us on a steady course. He motions for me to come and hold the wheel, just to be certain. I think he is trying to keep my mind off what may come to pass.
While my hand holds fast to the wooden peg on the wheel, Ezra Brewer reefs the mainsail, rolling the edge of the canvas in on itself, and ties it tightly. He changes the smaller sail out for a “storm jib.” He spells these words with his fingers, explaining it to me.
“We must keep the waves at the helm,” he tells me, pointing behind us.
When he no longer needs my help, I fetch us hard biscuits and dried fish from the larder down below. Moving about keeps the frostbite off me. I ladle grog from a barrel for us to drink. Ezra Brewer must agree with Miss Hammond’s theory that this light spirit is healthier than water.
Ezra Brewer looks tired. I’ve noticed him nap at the helm, then come to with a shiver and a shake of his head.
“Soon we will come close to the tip of the Cape,” he signs, slipping off the sealskin coat and placing it on me. I am grateful for its warmth.
The ship rocks back and forth in the gusting winds. I stagger to keep from falling. The rain turns to hail. Small white stones pelt us and gather in piles on deck. I scoop them up and throw them overboard before the waves rush over the sides and melt them into blocks that will slide across the deck.
I can no longer see Andrew following us. Did he capsize?
The waves rise higher and higher, and the Black Dog with them. Up and down we go, cresting each one and falling back down, only to rise on another. My stomach turns over a few times.
In English folklore, a black dog can bring bad luck. Ezra Brewer is rascally and named his boat after a dark omen. “By facing the worst,” he once told me, “I can only have good luck.” With a black cat and a woman on board his boat, he is almost courting bad luck!
Up and down, up and down. It’s like riding a wild horse over hills and jumping stone walls. How long will it go on?
Lightning strikes at regular intervals as if it is right above my head. I can feel a crack in the sky, and the strange hum of electricity that follows. During one great flash, I see the Defiance is beside us! It sideswipes the Black Dog. Where did it come from?
“Go below!” Ezra Brewer signs one-handed, gripping the wheel.
I don’t want to leave him. I crouch down on the deck, to keep out of the way.
Another boom of thunder and zigzag of lightning. The Defiance, lit by the flash, goes hard to port, away from us, and circles back around. Andrew is a deft sailor, I will give him that. He uses the waves, even as they tug and toss and he struggles against the storm. The bowsprit ducks in the water as he rolls forward toward us, and I am reminded of a ram lowering its head, ready to charge.
I think of the whaler we saw and realize that Andrew intends to ram us!
I fall to the bottom of the boat and grab for the railing, afraid to be knocked over the side into the crushing sea. My captain handles the wheel rapidly, teeth gritted, and turns the boat hard. Andrew smashes alongside us again. I slide across the deck.
Suddenly, a knot slips loose in the riggings, and I lunge for it, holding on with all my might. It burns as it slips through my wet hands. I brace my feet against the slippery deck. Ezra Brewer gestures frantically for me to hold on. I wrap the rope around my wrist and tug hard.
I pray to God in Heaven to deliver us to dry land the way Noah, his family, and all the pairs of animals were delivered. Send us a dove with an olive branch to show us that we are near.
The sea is churning. Waves higher than the sides of the Dog flood the deck again and again.
A great wave rises out of the ocean like a pride of leaping lions and slams into the Defiance. I watch the schooner slowly topple in the violent sea and gasp in horror when a flash of lightning illuminates Andrew’s slim figure trying to keep hold of the sinking ship. The way the waves are battering it, there seems no chance for it to right itself.
It appears suspended in its strange, lopsided position. I hold my breath and watch another wave hit. It turns turtle, the barnacled bottom facing upward, the mast pointed downward to the seabed. Do I see a hand reach out of the roiling ocean, then disappear?
We are fighting the storm too hard to help. Ezra Brewer must have struck a bargain with the sea god Neptune because he somehow keeps the Dog afloat.
When at last the storm starts to abate, I slump onto the deck. The pooled water soaks my skirts down to my wiry legs. I shake with cold but am too exhausted to go below. Ezra Brewer comes over and helps me pry my frozen fingers from the rope I’ve been clutching.
I see him shake his head and then suck his teeth. He tells me to wait and goes belowdecks to retrieve a salve for my wounds and scraps of cloth for bandages. My palms look as if they have been burned in the shape of the rope; my knuckles are crooked knots. He massages my hands gently, bringing feeling back into them.
As he works, he nods to a tune inside his own head. A shanty no doubt.
“Your hands are rougher than they were before,” he observes.
I nod. I must look sad because he chucks a finger under my chin. “Maybe now you’ll learn those knots, eh? So’s next time you’re in a storm, you’ll just tie off a rope instead of holding on to it through the whole blasted thing!” he teases, and it makes me smile.
We sit together and share mugs of grog as rays of thin sunshine begin to peek between the clouds. Ezra Brewer looks whipped by a thousand storms.
“No wreckage of the SS Defiance,” I observe. My signing is a little awkward on account of my sore hands and bandages.
“Nay,” he signs, “too much time has passed, and the waves have carried us too far. Try not to think on it. The good reverend will get word back to his family in Connecticut. You and your own have borne enough.”
Somehow Ezra Brewer’s words help me see that when Mama, Papa, and I were left to cope with George’s loss, we pulled apart instead of coming together. I won’t let that happen again.
The seas are calm for now. My mind is clearer than it has been in a long time, maybe ever. I point to the stairs, signaling Ezra Brewer to go rest. He nods and smiles before making his way belowdecks to check for damage. And then to his bunk, for a well-deserved nap.
Is this truly the end of my ordeal?
I stand close to the rail and survey the ocean around me. There isn’t another boat in sight. The waves have calmed to ripples, and there is something so hopeful about full sails. But my sorrow needs a release. I sit sobbing, without wiping my face, until all my tears have been shed. I’m glad Ezra Brewer doesn’t see me.
As soon as Ezra Brewer has taken his rest, we are on our way again. I am increasingly anxious about returning home.
“Why did you assist Andrew with the genealogy?” I ask.
“You mean those scribbles I wrote down about the Lamberts and Skiffes?” he signs.
“You mean you lied?” I ask
“Of course not, I am a man of my word,” he signs, pretending to be annoyed by my accusation.
“But …,” I sign, encouraging him to tell me the whole truth.
Ezra Brewer scratches his chin, and the corners of his mouth form a puckish smile.
“It is true,” he signs, “that your father’s second cousin was deaf as a post. But it is not as well-known that her nickname was Pattycake, if it even was.”
I erupt with laughter. “Pattycake? Pattycake Lambert? That’s what you wrote?”
“I did indeed,” he signs. “And that Yalie, with his clever ways, couldn’t tell when he was being fooled.”
“He wasn’t clever,” I sign soberly.
“I know it,” he signs. �
�Honestly, Mary, if I had known what that man had in mind to do to you, I would have chased him back to his schooner the day he arrived.”
There’s something I have to get off my chest before we arrive home.
“It is different in Boston,” I tell Ezra Brewer. “They don’t sign. They look down on us, like we’re animals.”
“I’ve been there,” he signs. “Watched all their lips flapping, and I don’t believe they are a wick smarter than Vineyard folk. Take you. I’ve been watching you for all your years. You’ve got something in you, girlie.”
“Some people don’t think that’s good,” I sign.
“Pay them no mind,” he signs. “I never do.”
Since I have never taken a faraway trip off-island, I have never approached my home as an outsider from this distance. It looks small.
As we come near the shore, I stand on the bow of the Black Dog, peering through the spyglass. Matthew Pye is gazing back. Standing on a hill, he signs “welcome” by bringing his arms down from above his head to the middle of his chest. I am warmed by the gesture.
Then I see him jump on his horse and ride off. He must be spreading the news of our return.
Will Mama and Papa be on the beach when we dock? I hope Nancy comes too.
The hills and the beach look the same. A familiar collection of boats is scattered on the shore, with men I’ve known all my life hauling nets out of the sea. I can even see the bottom of our sheep farm. The sheep are like squiggles of paint on a winter landscape. Snow covers some of the ground. There are patches of brown turf and thickets of bare oak and fruit trees. The pitch pines have not dropped all their needles.
Ezra Brewer slowly steers us toward the beach. He marches the bow till the water is knee-deep. Then he turns it seaward and tosses the anchor. Fishermen walk through the icy water in their winter gear to pull the cutter safely onto the sandbar.
I stand still, cold and bruised, my hair wildly blowing like a mermaid’s and my cheeks sunburned. I face the shore, wearing Ezra Brewer’s sealskin coat with the map of memories tucked safely inside a pocket. I hold on to Smithy until she struggles and leaps to shore.
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