by Lea Wait
“He moved a little, but he’s quiet,” said Jake.
“Luckily he’s just eaten,” said Mother. “Here, help me move the screen so it covers most of the pallets in his corner.”
The screen covered some of the pallets, but not all of them.
Mother’s hands shook as she pulled up her hair and straightened her apron. “Go and pump some fresh water for the kettle. We must offer Mrs. Neal some tea,” she said.
Jake was pumping the water when Mrs. Neal appeared around the bend in the drive, carrying a basket.
“Jake! How nice to see you. I’ve come to call on your mother.”
“Of course. It’s good to see you, Mrs. Neal,” said Jake, holding the kettle and reaching to open the door for her. “Mother, we have company! This is Mrs. Neal, our neighbor who was so kind to us when we first arrived.” Mother had composed herself and managed to get out her best teapot. She welcomed Mrs. Neal as though they were in a Boston sitting room.
“How lovely of you to have stopped in, Mrs. Neal,” Mother said. “I was just about to have a cup of tea. I hope you’ll join me?”
“I would love to.” Mrs. Neal looked around the room but made no comment about the rope line that was still hanging there, or the strange pile of pallets in one corner. “I’ve brought you some blackberry jam, and some fiddlehead pickles I made last spring.”
“Oh, how lovely,” Mother said. “Thank you! Perhaps we can have some of the jam on a slice of the bread I made this morning.”
She went to the sideboard and got out the mahogany caddy she still used for tea, a tea strainer, two silver spoons, and a small knife for spreading. Jake hadn’t seen their silver spoons or knives since they’d arrived in Maine. They had been using pewter ones.
Jake hung the kettle on the crane in the fireplace.
“Won’t you sit down?” Mother gestured to Mrs. Neal. “I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of space here, but there are just the three of us, after all.”
Jake winced slightly. Mother had not included Frankie in the family.
There was a slight groan from Frankie in the other room. Mother ignored the sound, but Mrs. Neal looked up. She had heard something.
“Old houses make the strangest sounds, don’t they?” Mother asked. She talked quickly to distract Mrs. Neal, and to cover any other noises Frankie might make. “Jake, there’s some straightening up to do in the other room. Perhaps you could take care of it while Mrs. Neal and I get to know each other?”
Jake nodded. He understood: He was to make sure Frankie kept quiet. “It was nice to see you again, Mrs. Neal,” he said as he left the room, making sure to open and shut the door quietly.
Jake took another blanket from the large bed, folded it, and covered Frankie in one more layer. Frankie was sleeping, so maybe all would be well. But how could he stop Frankie from making noises in his sleep?
He tried to listen to Mother and Mrs. Neal talking in the other room, but with the door closed he couldn’t hear much.
Frankie murmured, and moved slightly in his sleep. Jake prayed he wouldn’t have one of his fits. Then he realized the best way to keep Mrs. Neal from hearing Frankie was to make other noises. At first he paced up and down the room loudly. But the sound of his boots on the floor was too loud, and it might wake Frankie. What did Mother do to quiet him?
Jake started singing softly. At first he sang Mother Goose rhymes, but then he realized Mrs. Neal would think that odd. Why would a boy of twelve be singing nursery rhymes? He switched to hymns. Better Mrs. Neal thought he was very religious than think he was childish. He sang louder every time Frankie moved or moaned.
He had sung every song he could think of, including three stanzas of “Blest Be the Tie That Binds,” when Mother opened the door.
“She’s left,” Mother said. “You did well. Although I do think Mrs. Neal thought it odd that you were singing so loud in the next room!” She picked up Frankie and carried him back to his place in the front room. “And you did well too, my poor dear.” Jake moved the screen so she could put the boy back on his pallet. “Mrs. Neal seems pleasant enough. I was nervous, so I wasn’t as gracious a hostess as I might have been. I’m sure she left thinking I’d rushed her out, and that we were a bit odd, what with my drinking tea twice as fast as usual, and your singing.”
Jake grinned. “But we did it.”
“We did,” agreed Mother. “Now let’s just hope Mrs. Neal isn’t kind enough to pay us another call soon!”
17
Jake stayed home long enough to devour two slices of bread with blackberry jam. He hadn’t eaten anything sweet since Mrs. Neal had given them a pie. He could have eaten two more slices, but he knew Mother was also craving sweetness. She added a bit of extra sugar to a second cup of tea.
“Thank goodness you spotted Mrs. Neal as you started to leave,” Mother said, relief filling her voice. “What if Mrs. Neal had just knocked on the door?”
Neither of them said anything, thinking of that possibility.
“You could have pretended not to be here. Maybe you were in the orchard. After all, the curtains on the windows do keep someone from looking in.”
“I’m just afraid that she would have walked in anyway,” said Mother. “I remember from Framingham that country people don’t even seem to be embarrassed about such details as whether someone is in the privy or not.”
It was chance that he’d seen Mrs. Neal. A lucky chance.
“You go ahead and visit Nabby now,” Mother said. “I’ll hang the clouts up again and straighten the bed clothing we borrowed for Frankie from the other room.”
Jake nodded and started out again. He looked for Nabby as he passed her house, but all was quiet, and then he sprinted by the Neals’ house. He didn’t want to see Mrs. Neal again, and he didn’t want to run into Tom.
After another mile he saw what he was looking for. Near the road, on a slope overlooking the Sheepscot River, was the Lincoln County Jail and the jailer’s house. The jail was a forbidding place, dark and high.
The two bottom stories of the jail were made of large granite blocks. The third and fourth floors were wood, as was the roof. Jake looked at the narrow barred windows and questioned whether his plan was a wise one.
The two-story wooden jailer’s house was connected to the prison so the jailer could check on the prisoners and attend to their needs without having to go outside, and the kitchen that served the jailer and his wife and children also served the inmates.
A three-sided fence was on the far end of the jail; its fourth side was the back of the building. Solid timbers ten or eleven feet high were topped with a plank covered by long spikes whose sharp ends rose another eight inches.
One entrance served for both buildings. Jake raised the heavy iron door-knocker and let it fall.
The man who answered was taller than Father and had a deep voice and wide shoulders. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Holbrook.”
“You’ve found him.” Mr. Holbrook opened the door and gestured for Jake to enter. “I don’t know you, and I know most of the boys who live hereabouts. Would you be the one my son, Ed, said moved into the old Crocker place?”
“I would,” answered Jake. “My name’s Jake Webber.” Had Ed told his father of Jake’s getting stuck in the mudflats? “My parents and I moved here from Boston in early September.”
“Then, welcome to Wiscasset,” said Mr. Holbrook. “Are you making a social call, or have you business at the jail?” He smiled as though he were jesting, and waved Jake into a sitting room to his right. On his left was a larger heavy iron door with forged iron hinges and latches and two locks. That must be the entrance to the prison, Jake thought.
Jake smelled stew, and heard small feet running on the floor above him.
“I came on business,” Jake said firmly.
“Then, please sit,” said Mr. Holbrook, settling into a straight pine chair next to a round table piled with red and blue leather-bound books, a pile of pape
rs, an inkwell, and two quill pens. He gestured that Jake should sit on a long bench near the stove. Jake was glad of the warmth. He put his hands out toward the stove and rubbed them together for a moment before turning back to Mr. Holbrook.
“I’ve heard you’re the schoolmaster for this district of Wiscasset, as well as the county jailer.”
“I’ve been a schoolmaster longer than a jailer, but Wiscasset was in need of both, so I agreed to take on two jobs. I hope you’ll be attending our school. The winter session starts six weeks from now.”
“Nabby McCord tells me supplies are required.”
Holbrook looked at Jake. “The usual: ink, slates, and primers for mathematics and reading, depending on your abilities. Mrs. Ames has a flock of geese and sends me enough quills for everyone. Have you attended school before?”
“I studied at an academy in Boston.” Jake hesitated. “I can read well, and calculate. I’ve been studying geography and history, and I can read some Latin, but no Greek.”
Mr. Holbrook shook his head. “I only run a district school aimed at teaching basic reading and ciphering. There are academies and tutors in Wiscasset that would be more suited to your needs.”
“I’m going to be forthright, Mr. Holbrook.” The sound of giggling and stomping above made Jake look up.
“My children are playing games. You’ve met Edwin, my oldest. Annie is five, and Margaret two. Mrs. Holbrook and I hope to be blessed with another child early in 1839.” Mr. Holbrook was clearly proud of his children. “Are there other Webbers I can look forward to meeting?”
“I’ll be the only one attending school,” Jake said quickly. “And I would like to join your classes. My family has suffered financial reversals in the past year; academies and tutors are not possible for us just now.”
Mr. Holbrook nodded. “The country is going through difficult times. President Van Buren is trying to create a national treasury system separate from the banks. I believe his ideas will work, but they’re far from being accepted. The crisis will not end soon.”
“My father worked for one of the banks that failed.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve heard many have lost jobs, particularly in the cities.”
“We came here because there was work for Father at the mill. But we have no money for new books.”
Mr. Holbrook paused. “There are other students in the district with limited funds, and often they share books, or borrow those of students who have completed the lessons. But your skills are too advanced for such measures. I do have some books of history you could borrow, and I would enjoy having a Latin scholar to work with, perhaps after regular class hours. It would help me review my own skills.”
“That would be very generous of you.” Jake paused. “I have a copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Twice-Told Tales I could share.” Jake hesitated again. “It’s my favorite book.”
“Excellent. I don’t think any of my scholars are ready to read Mr. Hawthorne on their own, but they would enjoy hearing his stories. He may live in Massachusetts, but he’s a Mainer at heart, you know. Spent a year or two in Maine when he wasn’t much older than you, and is a graduate of Bowdoin College. Perhaps you could read some of his less frightening stories to the class.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holbrook! I would be happy to read to the younger students. And I would appreciate any extra help you could give me.” Jake relaxed somewhat. Mr. Holbrook was being very understanding about his plight. “I do have a Latin dictionary. Before the Panic I was preparing for college. Maybe Harvard, or Bowdoin.”
“I will help as best I can, Jake.” Mr. Holbrook started to get up.
“But . . . no.” Jake stopped him. “School is not all I came to discuss. I must get enough money to buy corn for traps, and salt to preserve whatever meat I can bring home. Our chickens need oats, and we should have stores of cornmeal and dried peas and beans for the winter. . . .”
Mr. Holbrook looked at him. “You’re new to country living.”
“But I’m a hard worker, and I’ve found out what I must do. I came to ask if you knew of anyone looking for help. I need money.”
“Is all well with your parents?”
“Father brings home some dollars and essentials each week. And Nabby McCord is helping me learn how to collect and preserve food. But my family still has needs that we can’t meet.”
Mr. Holbrook paused and listened to the commotion above for a moment. There was a ball bouncing upstairs. He looked back at Jake. “Nabby’s a special young woman.”
“She is,” agreed Jake.
“Did she suggest you talk with me?”
“No. That was my idea, after Ed told me you were both the jailer and the schoolmaster. I came to talk with you about school. And also”—Jake paused—“to ask if you knew anywhere I could work. I’m almost thirteen, I’m strong, and I’m willing to do anything needed.”
Mr. Holbrook got up and paced a bit.
Jake sat quietly, rubbing his hands together with nervousness and cold.
“Clearly you have responsibilities at home,” said Mr. Holbrook.
“I can meet needs there early and late in the day. We need money to purchase additional provisions.”
What would Father or Mother think if they knew Jake was admitting their financial situation to someone outside the family? But he had made his choice. He hoped it was the right one. He was doing what was necessary.
“Your family must be proud of what you’re doing for them.” Mr. Holbrook shook his head slightly. “And Nabby, too. Those who feel childhood is only a time for games do not know its realities.” The happy giggling of his daughters, and a hoot of laughter from Ed, filled the silence. “I could find work for you here at the jail, but it is not pleasant work. It would mean cleaning cells and emptying chamber pots and answering the needs of those who are criminals, and those who are insane.”
Could he do that? Jake remembered feeling uncomfortable seeing the homeless and confused in the streets of Boston. Here he would be working with those who were not only confused but possibly violent.
But Mother and Frankie were at home. Waiting for him to provide.
“I can clean cells,” said Jake. “I can do whatever has to be done.”
“You’ll still need time at home, to care for your family,” said Mr. Holbrook. “But if you could come here every other day, it would help both of us. I could use the extra time to prepare for my classes.”
“I understand.”
“Good. You may begin Monday morning.”
Jake stood and reached out his hand. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“I don’t believe you will, Jake. That’s why I’m hiring you.”
18
“But, Jake, will you be safe?” Mother frowned after he’d told her about his job at the prison.
“We need the money. And I’ll only spend three or four days a week there. The other days I can work here. Nabby’s going to teach me how to trap, so we can have meat.”
Mother paled visibly. “Trap what?”
“Squirrels, she said. Woodchucks. Rabbits. Maybe raccoons.”
“We’re going to eat squirrels and woodchucks? Jake—I can’t. Only wild Indians eat animals like that!”
Jake decided not to mention Granny McPherson.
“Who will skin them? And clean them? And cook them?”
“Nabby will show me how to skin and clean them,” said Jake. “And you can cook them, Mother. It’ll be like boiling or roasting chicken. If I get enough meat, we’ll smoke some by hanging it in the chimney. That will keep it from spoiling.”
Mother shook her head. “Eating squirrel! I never thought I’d be reduced to eating squirrel! Remember the parties we used to have, Jake? All the candles and music and elegant dresses?”
“And we have lots of apples,” Jake went on. “Some we can peel and slice and hang in the loft to dry.” Mother brightened at that. “I can peel and slice apples,” she agreed. “And they’ll be good all winter. We can put some whole app
les in the cellar, too; the ground is already cold, and they’ll store well down there.”
“So I hope,” agreed Jake. “I’ll cut some dried grasses to layer with them so air can circulate. We can store the pumpkins we have left too.”
“And you can keep oysters?”
“And mussels, I’ve heard,” said Jake. “I’ll take our wagon down to the shore and collect what I can.” He remembered what Granny had said. “There are seaweeds that make good teas. I’ll try to find some of those. We can dry them for the winter.”
Mother wrinkled her nose again. “Seaweed tea?”
“It won’t be like the tea you’re accustomed to,” admitted Jake, “but it will cost less and be a warm drink in winter. Seaweed tea is strengthening.” He noticed Mother’s quizzical look. “Some say.”
“Who are these people you’ve been talking to?” she asked. “They have some strange ideas of what can be eaten, and what is healthy.”
“Nabby and a friend of hers,” said Jake. “Nabby knows where there are rose hips, for another tea.”
“Rose hip tea?” Mother smiled. “That I’ve heard of. A friend of my mother’s was quite fond of it. She drank it with honey.”
“Maybe I’ll be able to get some honey when I get paid,” said Jake. “But first we need to get corn for the traps. And I’ve been thinking we could get a few more chickens. We have space, and we have the ground oyster shells now. Then we’d have more eggs, and the chickens could be meat if we had nothing else left.”
“No more chickens until we see how the rest of your plans work,” advised Mother. “All these projects will take time, and you’re now committed to being away from home half the week.”
“And I must find dry wood and chop it to size for the fireplace,” Jake continued, getting excited about all the possibilities. “The woodpile I’ve made so far will hardly get us through a month or two.”
Mother brightened. “I know how to knit! My aunt taught me, when I was small. Somewhere I have the needles my uncle carved for me. If I had some wool, I could knit socks for all of us.”