He looked up in alarm. Already, he’d grown dependent on Daphne’s presence. “What about Jane? I must be off to the countinghouse in the morn, as soon as it opens.”
“Patience will be here. And Jane has many friends. They have been stopping by all day, offering to help.”
“Is there any way to convince your mother to come and stay by Jane’s side for a spell?”
“I’ll send word. I don’t think she understands that Jane is . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Ren finished her thought. “That the situation is as grave as it is.”
She nodded. “Jane was always far more accommodating to Mother than I. She carefully avoided aggravating Mother.”
“Until I came along.”
“I suppose Jane felt thee was worth the aggravation.” Daphne smiled. “Tomorrow is covered. Jane will be attended to.”
“Assuming there is a tomorrow for Jane.” As soon as Ren said the words, he wished them back. Daphne’s eyes took on a glassy sheen, and he was sorry he voiced aloud the fear they both kept right under the surface.
“There is milk warmed by the fire. I will be in Jane’s chamber if thee needs me.” At the doorjamb, she turned. “Get some sleep, Ren. Jane needs thee to be rested for when she returns to us.”
He gave her a weak smile, and nodded. “Thank you, Daphne.” Though by the time he said it, she had gone.
The following morning, a dank fog settled over Nantucket. Normally, the changeable island weather didn’t affect Daphne’s mood, not the way it did with her mother. This morning, it added to her unsettled mind.
It didn’t feel quite right to leave the house with Jane so ill. Yet it didn’t feel right to stay at Orange Street either and postpone yet another morning of the Cent School. Nantucket mothers counted on them, and Daphne knew Jane would be upset, after she recovered, to hear that so many lives were disrupted because of her illness.
Patience assured her that she would not leave Jane’s side, that she would send word if there was any change, any at all. Daphne had complete confidence in Patience, but as she walked away from Orange Street with Henry and Hitty, hurrying toward Centre Street, she couldn’t shake a sense of dread. But this school of Jane’s, it was her mission, and thus Daphne would forge on.
In spite of the damp, gray day, Reynolds Macy threw his cloak over his shoulders, relishing that his clothes were dry and clean after six years of being splattered by ceaseless waves.
As he strode toward the countinghouse at the foot of Main Street, the sound of his boots on the streets magnified like a beating drum. Almost at each half beat came the sound of Abraham’s boots, following behind Ren.
Nantucket town had changed much throughout Ren’s thirty-one years. When he was a boy, it had been little more than a cluster of shops and houses, its few streets wide and laid out in a grid oriented from the harbor.
The shops were now mostly on Main Street, and the variety dazzled him, with several groceries, two butchers, a cobbler, a barber, a dentist, a milliner, and even a bookstore. The street looked somewhat improved—wider and less rutted, though planks had been laid in front of the shop for pedestrians, so he assumed the street was still prone to mud when it rained. When, he wondered again, would it ever get cobbled?
There was also more traffic: horse-led buggies and wagons heading their way, or passing them in the opposite direction to head toward the tiny village of Siasconset. Ren maintained a strained smile as he passed by Friends, women peering at him from under their bonnet rims, men from their black broad-brimmed hats. Vaguely, he remembered them. He tried to mask what he was thinking: Save your false smiles and welcomes and tell me instead, did you treat m’ Jane as you treated m’ own mother? Did you turn away from her because she made a choice that didn’t line up with the Friends’ rigid rules?
When Ren’s hand touched the door latch of the brick countinghouse, Abraham stopped. “I will be waiting here, Captain.”
Ren nodded.
Inside, the place swarmed with activity as it always did after a whaler sailed into harbor. Ren exchanged greetings with clerks as he made his way to the office of William Rotch, who oversaw the entire countinghouse. Rotch was a jovial, mutton-chopped man, but Ren never fully trusted his good humor. Lurking just under the laugh lay a shrewd businessman.
When Ren appeared at his doorjamb, Rotch hurried forward with hand extended. “How good to see thee again, Reynolds. Come in, come in. Sit . . . over there.” He motioned to a spare chair under the window, waiting until Ren sat down before easing himself into a leather chair beside an enormous rolltop desk. “’Twas quite a goodly haul the Endeavour brought in.”
“Aye. I would’ve preferred it to be shorter in duration, but I cannot complain about the deep hold.”
“Hardly a whale must be left in the ocean.”
“Oh, I think I left a few for some other Nantucket ships.”
A frown settled over Rotch’s features, and he hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. He scowled thoughtfully at the floor before looking up.
“I received word there is a problem with distributing lays to my crew.”
“Not a problem, exactly. A dilemma, perhaps. Thy crew has come to collect their lays.”
“Aye.”
“Unfortunately, we cannot distribute the lays.”
Ren was stunned. “The Endeavour brought in a full load. Why wouldn’t you give my men their fair share?”
“Because of the debt thee has incurred.”
“Debt? I have no debt.”
“For the new ship that thy partner has ordered. The Endeavour’s cargo was offered as collateral, a down payment on the ship.” Ren opened his mouth to respond, but Rotch got there first. “Surely, thee knew.”
“There must be a misunderstanding. Tristram has told me nothing of this.”
Rotch shook his head. “There is no misunderstanding.”
Ren thumped a fist on his knee. “I signed no such agreement.”
“Thee didn’t have to. Thy cousin signed in thy absence. He showed me the power of attorney he held in thy stead. I will let thee and thy cousin work that out.” Rotch leaned forward, hands clasped. “In the meantime, how does thee plan to pay thy crew? All day yesterday, they arrived at the countinghouse to collect their lay. We did not know what thee wanted us to tell them.”
“I will have to speak to Tristram first.” Ren hoped his cousin had a plan, because he had no idea what to do.
Daphne set the children to work on their letters at the long table in the keeping room on Centre Street, in a small house that belonged to Jane, a wedding gift from their father. She’d survived her first disaster of the morning: little Johnny Swain had come to the Cent School with a penny in his mouth, forgot to give it to her when he arrived, and nearly choked when he took a swig of water from the scooper.
How many times had Jane reminded Johnny’s mother to put his penny in his pocket? Dozens! And yet she never failed to pop a penny under his tongue as she sent him out the door each morning.
Last year, Jane had started this school for young children, to not only mind children while their mothers were at work, but to also educate them. The majority of their fathers were somewhere at sea, crewing on whaling ships. It was a concept borrowed from England, the Cent School, and it suited Jane well. Daphne had come alongside Jane to help start it, then, intrigued, she stayed, taking part in each day’s activities.
Daphne saw Johnny Swain staring out the window. To her surprise, there stood Ren, a quizzical expression on his face. Standing behind him was the Negro sailor. What was his name? Something Old Testament-y. Before she could recall, her mind traveled to Jane’s condition. She flew to the door and opened it. “Ren! What’s wrong? Has Jane woken?”
Ren seemed startled by Daphne’s questions. “I haven’t heard anything. I’ve just come from the countinghouse. Have you heard anything more?”
“Nay. Patience promised she would send word if there is a change.”
Ren peered through the w
indow. “What is going on here? Why are my children in this house?”
“I told thee. Last night, I explained that I was taking the children to the Centre Street house.”
Ren stepped over the threshold of the open door. Abraham remained outside, hands clasped behind his back. “What is this?”
“This is Jane’s Cent School. She started it a year back. Perhaps longer.”
“Why?”
“Why did I bring the children? I thought it would be helpful, to everyone. To give thee time to sort out the countinghouse. To keep the house quiet, and to give the children some routine. They’re accustomed to being here. We’ll be back to the house by midday.”
He shook his head. “Nay, nay. I meant . . . why did Jane start . . . ,” he shot a look beyond her, “. . . this?”
“The Cent School?” Daphne took in a deep breath. “Our father had given her this house as his inheritance . . . and she decided to use it to start a school.”
“But why, Daphne? Why did she do this?”
Oh. That. She worked her palms together nervously. “Additional income . . . was required.”
“What do you mean?” Ren rocked back on his heels. “Are you saying that Jane did not have a subsidy to draw on?”
Daphne’s mind moved quickly. “I’d best let Tristram give thee more details.” She glanced at the children. Hitty was underneath the table, tying Johnny’s shoelaces together so that he would trip over his own feet. It was her favorite trick, and Johnny, as usual, was completely unaware of the mischief. “I bid thee good day, as I should give my attention to the children.” She paused. “Thee is welcome to stay.”
Ren, obviously disconcerted, backed out of the doorway. “I should . . . I must be off.” He nodded and waved his hand, as if giving her permission to carry on.
Always the sea captain, that Reynolds Macy.
As Daphne bent down to pull Hitty out from under the table, she thanked God that Ren chose to leave the house and did not persist with questions. She had no desire to remain in this uncomfortable spot—between two cousins, two business partners. If Ren had asked, she would have expressed her own skepticism over Tristram’s ambitious project. Jane had given Tristram her blessing to commission the building of the new ship, but to Daphne it was a high-stake gamble, bargaining the Endeavour’s haul against the new ship.
It was an argument never fully resolved with Tristram. He had accused Daphne of not having faith in his judgment, not the way Jane did. And what could she say to that? There was some truth in it.
She bent slightly to nudge Hitty to go sit in her chair. As she straightened up, she saw Ren still standing in the middle of Centre Street, as if he wasn’t quite sure which direction to go. Then, the black sailor—Abraham! the name popped into her mind—said something as he lifted his hand to point toward Main Street and Ren snapped into action.
It was a surreal moment. The bold and determined Captain Reynolds Macy, gently shepherded along by a lowly black sailor.
Mary Coffin Starbuck
1 August 1662
Richard Swain returned to Nantucket on his sloop today with an African slave, having bought him at the Boston Public Market. I knew of slaveholders in Salisbury and had seen Africans before. Not often, but often enough.
I tried not to stare, but I could not help it. The African must have felt my eyes on him, for he turned sharply around and our eyes met. Some kind of connection passed between us, some understanding. He reached a hand toward me, palm up. A small gesture that went unnoticed by others, but it had the power to grasp my soul, for to me it spoke loudly. It said: Help me.
Then Richard Swain gave the African a push to move him forward and he hung his head low, as if he feared what lay ahead.
He should not be afraid, as Jane Swain will be a kind mistress. Richard, I do not know what kind of master he would make. He can be severe and sharp tongued with his wife and children. How, then, fares a slave?
5
Ren and Abraham went down toward the wharf to Tristram’s loft, a small rented room above a cordage factory on Water Street. Once again, Abraham deferred, choosing to remain outside and wait for Ren to conclude his business.
Ren climbed the steep stairs to the loft and paused at the open door’s threshold. The loft faced Nantucket Harbor with a row of windows that brought in the sea air, clearing out the stink of rendering whale oil that infused so much of the island near the waterfront. Nearly seven years ago, he and his cousin had shaken hands on the start of their business venture in this very room.
He found Tristram seated at his desk—a vastly different desk than the one they had lugged into the small space at the start of their venture. That battered desk had belonged to their great-grandfather Barnabas Starbuck. It was nothing fancy, but there was history in it. This one was a partner’s desk, three times the size, made of walnut, with ornately carved legs, and it dominated the room. Tristram’s chair was made of forest-green leather with a steep back. For a split second, Ren felt what it must be like to be summoned to meet the king.
His cousin looked up in surprise. “Ren! I didn’t expect thee. How does our Jane fare today?”
Ren took a moment to decide how to respond. Before leaving the house this morning, he had sat by Jane’s bed and noticed the husky blue on her fingernails had spread from the cuticles to the tips of her fingers. What could that mean? He wasn’t sure, but he knew it was not an improvement. “She was sleeping as I left the house.”
Tristram’s face brightened with relief. “Excellent! Sleep is just what she needs. A day or two of rest will cure her overexcitement.”
“Overexcitement?”
“With thy return. That’s what Lillian diagnosed. She said Jane was overwrought with thy arrival. Daphne hinted it might be more than that.” He seemed sincerely concerned.
Ren hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to say, or to whom. His reluctance was not for the protection of Dr. Mitchell, but to shelter the reputation of his beloved Jane. “Mayhap I will find her improved when I finish my business in town and return home.”
Tristram nodded as if he understood, but Ren did not think it possible. His cousin’s mind was like a hummingbird, flitting from one thing to another, never tarrying too long.
Trist waved at the chair opposite him. “Please, have a chair.”
Ren remained standing. “There seems to be a problem at the countinghouse.”
“The countinghouse?”
“The countinghouse,” Ren repeated, expressionless.
Tristram busied himself with some papers on his desk. “What seems to be the problem?”
“William Rotch said he is unable to distribute lays to the Endeavour’s crew.”
Trist kept his head down, but lifted his eyes at Ren. “There’s a small glitch.”
“A small glitch? This is a crew that has worked tirelessly for six years. Six years, Tristram! And the reason they can’t collect their lays, according to Rotch, is because you’ve already spent the haul by commissioning a ship!”
The tension between them grew as thick as the fog that covered Nantucket on this morning. Tristram bit his lip, pausing, then put the palms of his hands on the arms of his chair and hoisted himself up. “Sit down, Ren. We can talk this through.” He hurried to the other side of the partner desk and pulled out a wooden chair. That one Ren recognized. “Look, there’s a spot waiting for thee.”
Ren still refused to sit. He was accustomed to facing trouble on his feet, head on. “You are the one who has talking to do. What of this new ship?”
“I was waiting for the right moment to tell thee. It’s all good, Ren. Thee has nothing to worry about.”
If that were true, Ren wondered, then why did Tristram’s voice sound so strained? Why did he seem so nervous, so anxious?
“The Endeavour is a doughty old ship. A hulk. Thee has said so thyself. It’s a wonder she’s lasted these six years. The time has come to sell her and move on.”
“I well know the wear and tear o
f m’ own ship.” Yet Tristram was not wrong. The Endeavour needed extensive repairs before she would be ready for another voyage. But sell her? The thought had never crossed Ren’s mind, not once.
“I was hoping the new ship would be here by the time thee returned.” Trist’s eyes lit with excitement. “And she is a beauty, Ren. A vessel more grand than any coming in and out of port. It’s the start of our fleet.”
“Our fleet? Tristram, are ye daft, man? One successful voyage does not guarantee the next.”
“It was a success, yes, but imagine if thee had sailed on a bigger ship. Imagine the haul thee could have brought in. Ren, listen to me. Spermaceti oil is the export that will make us rich. Ambergris, too. Wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.”
“What dreams are you talking of?”
“Ours! The same dreams we’ve always talked of, ever since we were boys. Sailing ships around the world, chasing the mighty leviathan. Shipbuilding is a booming business. If I hadn’t made a decision when I did, it would’ve been a wait of another year or two.” He paused his speech to let Ren take it all in, all the while pacing the small room until he finally stopped moving and stood under the small window. The morning sun streamed over Tristram’s head, limning him in sunlight. Briefly, Ren wondered if he’d done it for effect.
“So I used the Endeavour’s haul as down payment,” Tristram continued, “to order the building of the new ship.”
“You knew nothing of the hold! How long has this been under way? A ship takes as long as a baby to make.”
“But I did! The Deborah came in last year with news that the Endeavour had been spotted in the Caribbean, plowing deep in the water. When word came in, ’twas not difficult to make plans for the future, nor to persuade the right people.”
“Who are the right people?”
“The investors! They are willing to wait for their return until after the next ship returns. They have confidence in us, Ren. They understand it takes money to make money.” Trist paced back and forth, back and forth. “How can I make thee see the light? Just one more voyage will put us in fine fettle.”
Minding the Light Page 6