“Captain,” Hugh heard Pearson weakly rasp. He made his way over to the bunk and dropped to a knee, clutching the retaining edge of the bunk as a handhold. “How are you doing, Nate?”
“Fine, sir,” Pearson replied, but even in the poor light Hugh could see that was not so. The sailor’s face was as white as the pillow his head rested on—the part of it that was not splotched in red—and the brown hair on one side of his head was matted in blood. Hugh grabbed a shirt of his that had fallen from its peg onto the floor and crawled over to the wide-bottomed barrel containing fresh water, which surprisingly had remained upright. He soaked the shirt in the water and then half-filled a cup whose handle had been attached to a hook secured to the tub. He crawled back to the bed, snaked his arm under Pearson’s neck, and gently lifted his head. “Drink,” he said.
Pearson brought both hands to the cup and drank greedily before a hard roll of the schooner wrenched the cup from his grasp. “Thank you, sir,” he said as Hugh laid his head back down. “That did the trick.”
Hugh dabbed at Pearson’s bloody head with the wet shirt. He could not determine the extent of the wound, only that the cloth had absorbed fresh blood. He withdrew a small sailor’s knife from its sheath at his belt and cut away a sleeve. This he wrapped around Pearson’s head, over the wound. As he rose carefully to his feet, Pearson again mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, Nate,” Hugh said. “Rest easy. I’ll be back,” he added before working his way out of the cabin. Just as he reached the companionway leading up to the weather deck, Falcon slewed hard to leeward. Stumbling forward, Hugh seized a lower rung of the ladder and hung on for dear life until the schooner had gone over as far as she would and slowly began to right herself. When she was back on an even keel, more or less, he pulled himself laboriously up the ladder.
On deck, his first impression was that the wind had eased a knot or two during his stint belowdecks. Paul Shipley, still at the helm, confirmed that impression.
“I think we’ve seen the worst of it, sir,” he said. “She’s beginning to moderate. The wind, that is, not the sea. And sir, the garboard strakes are leaking. Patten went down in the hold for a look, and he reports we’re taking in water. Nothing to be overly concerned about yet, I should think.”
“Shit,” Hugh cursed aloud, although he was not surprised by Seaman Patten’s report. The garboard strakes were the first planks rising from the keel and were the hardest to caulk. If seawater were to seep into a vessel during a bad storm, every sailor worth his salt knew it would likely be through the garboard strakes.
“We’ve manned the pumps?” Hugh asked, already knowing the answer. He had heard the clanking amidships when he had been below.
“We have, sir. Sturgis is down there now seeing to it and assigning shifts. We’re holding our own, I believe. We can recaulk in Cape Town—Hang on, sir!”
Falcon, riding the cusp of a wave, took a sudden sharp dive, careening down the wave’s leeward slope toward the trough. Hugh lunged for the railing and hung on with one thought in mind: Falcon’s hull. She could not many more times run bow-on down a wave like a lone lancer charging a Mongol horde and survive. He dared not contemplate how long the schooner could continue this fight, especially now with water coming in.
“I’ve got the helm, Paul,” he said in the lull. “Your hour is up. Go below and advise Sturgis that he’s next. I’ll hear his report when he comes on deck.”
Shipley nodded. When the wheel was firmly in the grip of his captain, he waded forward toward the aft hatchway, keeping a hand on the starboard railing for balance. Hugh watched him disappear below and then peered forward at the next wave in battle array. It seemed considerably taller and steeper than the others, more ominous; and something else was different, too. Unlike previous ones, this wave towered so high that it seemed primed to collapse under its own crushing weight. Now on the high upward roll, Hugh faced a nearly vertical slope with grayish-white spume dancing on its cap, as though challenging the impudence of the puny block of wood bobbing up and down like a cork on the endless expanse of angry gray water and white foam.
Alone on the weather deck, Hugh felt a chill run down his spine. “Come on, you beautiful bitch,” he muttered, urging Falcon to Herculean efforts. He hunched over the wheel and gripped its spokes with all his might, fighting to keep the bowsprit dead-on in line with the wave’s monstrous roll, painfully aware that one small error at the helm could spell instant disaster. Up, up the schooner climbed, until at the very peak of the wave she hesitated, giving her captain a quick sweeping vista of the South Atlantic and a glance to windward that disclosed a brighter sky on the far eastern horizon and thin shafts of golden sunlight streaking down through breaks in the distant grayish-black clouds.
Mesmerized by the sight, Hugh’s attention was jolted back when he felt Falcon’s bow tip downward, toward the abyss, and heard the ferocious thundering roar that came at her from behind, a gargantuan wash of foaming-mad seawater that sounded like every demon in Hell was shrieking down upon them. The cresting wave crashed over the schooner’s stern in a cascade of water so powerful that it plucked Hugh Hardcastle from his place at the helm as though he were a twig and propelled him down the full length of the schooner, his body ricocheting off masts sprung from their shrouds and stays and snapped off like matchwood. Hugh slammed hard against the forward larboard bulwarks, and from there was carried up and over her forecastle and bow, feet-first as though spurting from a colossal spigot.
Underwater for what seemed like hours, his bearings utterly askew, Hugh managed to claw his way upward. He broke the surface gasping, thrashing, sputtering, drawing air deep into his tortured lungs. He spotted a broken mast floating nearby and sidestroked over to it, pain searing through his body with each stroke. Draping his left arm over the spar, he treaded water as best he could and searched wildly for Falcon to shout out a cry for help. He found her, lying over on her beam-ends, a crippled gull shorn of its wings, and nary a soul visible anywhere on her or around her. As Hugh watched in abject horror, Falcon gradually settled into the foaming sea, water pouring into her from every quarter, until her bow lifted, drawn down by the weight of water filling her spacious after cabin. For brief, agonizing moments her bowsprit remained, pointing skyward as if in silent tribute or final farewell. Then, on a steep uproll, a wave washed over the bowsprit and it too slipped from view, leaving Hugh Hardcastle adrift and forlorn upon a cold, desolate sea.
Fourteen
Hingham, Massachusetts
June 1808
ON THE DAY BEFORE the Atlantic claimed Falcon, Katherine Cutler took a bad spill on the front stairway in her home on South Street. Richard heard the sickening thuds and rushed to her side. After first checking for broken bones and finding none, he cradled her in his arms and carried her, barely conscious, to the four-poster in their bedroom. When he was satisfied there was nothing more he could do for her, he raced down the stairs and out the front door in search of Dr. Prescott.
Two hours later Dr. Prescott found Richard Cutler in the parlor, slumped over in a chair with his head in his hands. “She is resting comfortably,” he said, sinking into the chair opposite Richard’s. After a moment he added quietly, “I fear she cannot last much longer, Richard. She is of stout heart and mind, but the human body is not designed for immortality, not on this earth.”
Richard glared into the physician’s somber gray eyes, as though his anger might spur the doctor to greater efforts. “Is there nothing that can be done?” he whispered.”
Prescott shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid. The cancer lies deep within her, and by now it has certainly infected vital organs. In point of fact, there was nothing that I or anyone else could have done for her after the surgery. She was in God’s hands then, and she is in God’s hands now. The miracle is that she has lived such a healthy life since then, and for so long. I frankly did not expect her to survive for three years. To judge by her outward appearance she seems to be in relatively good
condition. When I examined her today I found no dark color around her eyes or blotches on her skin, or any of the other signs of illness and deterioration that one would expect to find. She is thin, of course, because she has no appetite. But her skin still glows and her hair remains thick and healthy. That in itself is a miracle, I can assure you. I have never seen the like.”
“What of the pain? Can we treat that, at least?”
“I offered laudanum, but she refused to take it. She insists that she is experiencing no pain.”
Richard nodded knowingly. “She tells me the same thing, although I know she is lying to spare me. I have asked her many times about the pain, hoping that she would allow me to tell you that the cancer had returned. But each time I did, her answer was the same. Pressing the issue only made her angry—for a short while, anyway.” He smiled ruefully. “We could never remain at odds with each other.”
Prescott shook his head. “Of course she experienced pain; I knew that. I can only imagine its degree and extent. But she was determined not to let on. I have rarely witnessed such courage. Do you know why she refused help?”
“I do. It was for the same reason she didn’t want to tell anyone the truth about her cancer. She wanted to live out the balance of her life as normally as possible, free of pity and sparing her family the suffering and sorrow that knowledge would have brought.”
“That’s Katherine Cutler for you. Always thinking of others; never of herself. When did she tell you that she suspected the cancer had returned?”
“Last spring, a year ago.”
“My word. She confided in no one else? Just you?”
“Just me. And Reverend Ware. She called on him a number of times during the past year for spiritual guidance and counsel. Like you, he is a dear friend of our family and a man we trust completely.”
“But surely your children and others of your family must have realized that something was . . . different?”
“Our children have been away in recent months and very much involved in their own lives. Will has joined the Navy. Jamie is also away at sea, and Diana and Peter are living in Cambridge. We hardly ever see Joseph. Others here in Hingham may have had their suspicions—Katherine was losing weight, as you say, and she has not been out in town as often as she once was—but they rarely confronted either of us with their concerns. Agee tried once or twice, but I could not tell even him. Katherine had sworn me to secrecy, and I was determined to honor her request. Besides, it was hard even for me to think that anything was seriously wrong with her, for the very reasons you just mentioned. And her disposition has remained as bright and cheerful as always.”
“I understand,” Prescott said as he removed his spectacles. He wiped the lenses with a handkerchief, held them up for inspection, and then tucked them into his coat pocket. “As I am sure Reverend Ware would agree,” he said devoutly, “God has blessed your family, Richard. He has blessed you all through her. I wish there was something more I could do for her.”
“I realize that, Doctor,” Richard said. “I know you care deeply for Katherine. More to the point, she knows it too.” He looked away, biting his lower lip, and then returned his gaze to Prescott. “How long does she have?”
“A week or two, I should think,” Prescott replied. “If pneumonia sets in, less; if she slips into a coma, it could be more. These are just estimates, of course. Each body responds in its own way, and no one can accurately predict what will happen and when. Because that is so, I urge you to gather your family together as soon as that can be arranged. I further urge you to say whatever you want to say to her now, while she remains lucid. I realize how terribly difficult all this is for you and your family. But in the future, none of you wants to regret lost opportunities to say your farewells. I will monitor her closely each day, and I will do my best to keep you and your family informed of where matters stand.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” His eyes bright with unshed tears, Richard asked, “Does Katherine know . . . all this?”
“She does. She asked me for the truth, and whenever a patient asks me for the truth, I tell the truth as I understand it to be. We talked awhile and I can tell you without equivocation that she is grateful to the Almighty for every day of her life. She accepts her fate, Richard, and it’s imperative to her that you understand that. It’s certainly not a fate she would have chosen, and certainly she has no desire to leave you and your children. But please understand that she is at peace with herself and with God. What she wants now is to be allowed to go quietly into the night without a lot of fuss and bother.”
Richard looked around the parlor as if seeking answers to unanswerable questions. “What can I do to make this easier for her?” he managed.
“Just be there. She is sleeping now. She’ll likely sleep more and more as time goes by. That fall took the fight out of her, and she is no longer able or willing to defer the inevitable. But sleep is a blessing. Think of it as God’s way of keeping her oblivious as her body gradually shuts down. She will not want to eat much, if anything, but make certain she has as much water as she wants. And be sure to move her position on the bed every few hours. To avoid bedsores, you understand.
“I’ll check back tomorrow morning. Perhaps we can convince her then to take some laudanum.” He rose to go. “Is there any other service I might perform for you?”
Richard fought through the daze settling over him. “Yes, Doctor, there is,” he said. “If you would, please drop by Caleb’s house and ask Joan to come over as soon as she can. And Phoebe, if she’s there. You might also check in on Edna. She hasn’t been feeling herself this past week.”
“I will see to it immediately,” Prescott said, adding, with a touch of a smile, “although I doubt Edna will want anything to do with me and my medicine. She is the orneriest woman I know—and one I admire very much.” He offered Richard his hand and then picked up his black leather medical bag and left the house, closing the door softly behind him.
JOAN CUTLER and Phoebe Hardcastle arrived within the half hour. To Richard’s surprise, neither woman seemed overwrought by his news. They sat quietly, watching him pace like a caged lion and listening to his agonized announcement. They nodded as though they had long ago accepted as fact what he had expected them to hear as a surprising revelation.
“I must contact everyone,” Richard concluded in the same firm tone he had once used on a quarterdeck, as if taking decisive action and issuing commands might blunt or defer the pain: “Anne and Frederick, and Lavinia and Stephen, and Diana and Peter, of course. Let’s see: Mindy is living here, with her parents, and Caleb—when is Caleb planning to return from Boston, Joan?”
“On Friday, Richard,” Joan said.
“Very well. We’ll arrange for a packet boat to be standing by on Long Wharf on Friday morning. Shall we say at ten o’clock? That leaves Adele, who is here in Hingham with her mother, and Agee and Lizzy and—oh my dear Lord, Will and Jamie.” At the harsh realization that their two sons would have no chance to say their good-byes, or even know that their mother was dying, he gave an anguished sob.
Phoebe was up in an instant and took him in her arms, clasping him tightly to her.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped.
“Don’t be,” Phoebe soothed.
“I mustn’t do that,” he insisted. “I cannot break down. I need to be strong—for her and for our family.”
“You will be,” Joan said, coming up and wrapping her arms around Richard and Phoebe. “You will find the strength you need. Phoebe and I will see to everything,” she added firmly. “And I mean everything. We’ll enlist Agee and Lizzy’s help too. Knowing them, they’ll want to come right over, if that suits.”
“Of course it suits.”
“Good. I’ll tell them that. At least one of us will be here to help at all hours. We have plenty of room for houseguests, so don’t worry about that. Edna hopes to be over later today to help with meals. She wants to be here for you and Katherine. If it turns out she is unable to come, we’
ll take care of meals as well. You are not to concern yourself with such things.”
“You have but one concern, Richard,” Phoebe seconded, “and that is to give your full attention to your wife.”
“Thank you,” Richard said quietly. “Thank you and bless you both.”
AFTER JOAN AND PHOEBE LEFT, promising to return shortly, Richard went upstairs to the bedroom he had shared with Katherine since their earliest days in Hingham. She lay supine with pillows propping her up in a half-sitting position. A bedsheet was drawn up to her waist, and a light cotton blanket to her knees. The heavy dark blue drapes that covered the two east-facing windows had been drawn apart and tied off; the two windows were open, and a warm summer breeze stirred the white lace inner curtains. Richard heard the gleeful chatter of children at play and dogs barking excitedly in the distance. The sounds belonged to another world.
He sat down on a chair pulled close to the edge of the bed on Katherine’s right side and took her hand in his, gently massaging the palm with his thumb, his gaze fixed on her beautiful face. A hundred memories spanning thirty-four years swept through his mind, each brush of memory combining with the others to create a portrait of a marriage well lived and well loved. He dared not, could not, consider the future. His context was in terms of yesterday and today, never of tomorrow. Since he had first met Katherine Hardcastle in England as a boy of fourteen, his life had been inexorably tied to that of the dear soul who lay dying three thousand miles away from her birthplace and birthright. He could not imagine, let alone accept, what his life would be like without her.
At length she opened her eyes. For several moments she stared vacantly at the ceiling, as if to get her bearings, perhaps to cross the gap between dream and reality. She looked to the left and then down at her right hand. When her gaze rose to meet Richard’s, she smiled weakly. “Hello, my darling,” she whispered.
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