Mary Coffin Starbuck
25 October 1662
Just when I thought things had come to a peaceful place with Catherine and Esther, I am faced with a new challenge: Edward! My father-in-law has not often been at home, as he has spent much of the summer months on the other side of the island with the Wampanoags. He has learned their language and is translating parts of the Bible for their benefit.
When Edward is home, I pepper him with questions about the Wampanoags, their way of life, what they think about. He enjoys my interest in his work. At least, I thought he did, until last night, when Catherine shushed me at dinner. I have grown accustomed to her shushes and do not take them to heart as I first did, but last night she added in a very snippy tone, “Why must you talk so much?”
“Because she is a female, Catherine,” Edward said. “All women talk a blue streak. It’s in their nature.” To my shock, Catherine laughed and passed him the bread.
I did not find Edward’s remark to be at all amusing.
Why do men dismiss women, as if their thoughts are trivial and not at all important? And why would Catherine find it humorous?
Later, in the privacy of our bedroom, I said as much to Nathaniel. He wondered if I had ever considered that not every thought I have need be expressed. Of course I’d considered that! ’Twas not the first time he had said as much to me. ’Tis true for me, as ’tis true for others. But it’s the casual dismissal of my gender that I object strongly to.
And then there’s Catherine’s constant shushing. That, too, is deeply annoying.
When I asked Nathaniel why his mother shushed me whenever I shared an opinion, yet she does not object at all when Esther speaks her mind, he said, oh-so-gently, “Esther is her baby girl, Mary. Soon you will have a baby of your own. Can you not see how vehemently you would defend him or her?”
As I have felt flutters from my little one, like butterfly wings in my belly, I have realized his meaning. My heart has softened in understanding.
He is a wise man, my husband. I am blessed to have a man who likes to hear my thoughts, even when they differ from his.
9
Ren rolled up the design papers for the new ship and set them back on top of Tristram’s desk. He could find no flaw with the design, though he was looking carefully. Just as well, he supposed, for Tristram’s ship was nearly completed.
Tristram’s ship. Strange, Ren thought, that his mind framed it as such. His cousin bestowed the ship with the name Illumine, an interesting choice Jane had wanted. It meant to light the path.
Indeed, he was pleased to see that the ship was soundly built, and well it should’ve been, for Tristram had contracted the preeminent shipbuilder of New England to undertake the project. The Illumine was much larger than the Endeavour’s simple square rigging and blunt nose. This broad-beamed ship would present more sail to the wind to move the ship swiftly, and her hold would store five hundred barrels and then some. It was not faulty thinking on Tristram’s part—a larger hold would make a significant difference. Such a hold meant the ship could seek out new whaling grounds, for the industry was growing. As Tristram had often pointed out, there would be no need to hurry home on such a ship.
Ah, there was the rub. The source of Ren’s unrest. A larger ship meant longer voyages. He’d already been away from Nantucket for six years. It took that long to fill the hold. Six long years. How could he leave again? Even if the next voyage were to last but a few years, Henry and Hitty would most likely be ten or eleven years old when he returned. He was already a stranger to them. What then?
Two months ago, if anyone were to ask Ren how he envisioned the rest of his life, he could answer without dropping a beat: “To spend my life sailing the seven seas.” It was not the pursuit of wealth that drove him as it did most Nantucket whaling captains. It was the sea itself. He was at home on the ocean. He loved everything about it. What most sailors considered to be tedium, he viewed as endless variety. He liked having the full, awful responsibility for the crew rest on him. He was never happier, never more alive than when he was guiding his ship safely through a tempest. In a way, he took pleasure in reading the sea, mastering her moods.
Fool that I am, he realized, thinking I was captain of the sea, of my life, in complete control. I never was.
As he turned onto Orange Street, he heard a child’s voice and saw Abraham and Henry out in front of the house, playing with a hoop and ball, and his heart hitched. He slowed as he approached, and his heart dropped further still as he heard the topic of questions Henry was peppering Abraham with: all about harpooning a whale. The sound of his son’s voice caught up in animated conversation nearly undid Ren and he stopped to lean against a fence post. With a twinge of guilt, he reviewed again Daphne’s remark that he had been spared from death for a purpose, that being a father to his children was his purpose. He had mulled that insight over and over; he intended to take the children out to see the Endeavour as she had suggested. He liked the idea of it, but had not gotten round to it. Partly, he’d been preoccupied with repairing the ship, with preparing for the move from Orange Street. More so, he had to admit, he felt uncomfortable around children.
Henry spotted Ren down the street, dropped the hoop, and ran into the house. The boy seemed just as awkward around him as he did around the boy. Abraham picked up the ball and walked up to him, waiting until Ren addressed him. “Abraham, thank you for taking time with the boy.”
“My pleasure, Captain.”
“You have a way with little ones, Abraham. You’ll have to let me in on your secret.”
“There is no secret, sir. Children require time.”
Ren took the ball from him. “Love and attention make all things grow, eh? Something like that?”
Abraham beamed. “Exactly that, Captain, sir.”
A memory floated through Ren’s mind, long forgotten. He was four or five, close to Henry’s age, and had timidly asked his own father to toss a ball on a summer afternoon. He remembered being promptly rebuffed, for his father did not particularly like children. In fact, he had never even called him anything other than Jeremiah. Not Father, not Dad, not Papa. Jeremiah preferred his given name, which made things simpler once they crewed together on ships. Simpler, but not sweeter.
Jeremiah was softer now, in his middlin’ years, and they had grown to understand and respect each other. But as a boy, Ren remembered vowing to himself that he would not treat his own children in the same dismissive way his father had treated him. And yet . . . mayhap he was doing just that. It was a nettlesome thought.
The smell of cinnamon spiced the air. “Dare I hope that sweet smell is coming from my house?”
Abraham smiled, a large wide grin. “Sir, I believe Patience has made an apple pie for supper’s end.”
Ren glanced up at the shingled house with blue shutters. It was a place he loved for all it represented. His first true home on land, a lovely and stately abode. Despite his gratitude for the availability of the Centre Street house, he had to hide his dismay at its shabbiness when he toured it the other day. Most of the furniture from Orange Street had to be sold off, as little could fit in the Centre Street abode. “I hope you will stay and join us. Our last night spent in this house, for tomorrow is moving day.” He grinned. “Methinks a certain maidservant might enjoy your company, as well.”
The sailor’s brown eyes went wide, and if Ren wasn’t mistaken, he blushed. Ren laughed, and so did Abraham, and they walked up the steps.
Later that night, Ren stood in the small yard behind the house, gazing up at the darkening sky, dotted with a few stars. The air was still, hot and humid, and fireflies flickered in their dance in front of him.
Without consciously trying, his eyes sought out the North Star, fixed in the sky. Wherever Ren was, at any time, day or night, even in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight, he always, always knew where he was and where he was going. For the first time in his life, he had no clues to navigate. He had no idea, deep down, where he was, nor
where he was going. It was an unsettling awareness, one that he tried to tamp down throughout the days but seemed unable to in dark of night. He went to the well in the center of the yard. After drawing up the bucket, he leaned against the curved stone wall and drank from a tin cup left out for the purpose. When Daphne came outside to join him, they watched the fireflies flicker in their dance.
“’Tis a wonder that insects can light up from within,” he said.
“’Tis a wonder that illustrates what is in all of mankind. We all have that Light within.”
He took a deep breath. “Mayhap . . . to varying degrees.”
She cupped a firefly with her hands. “Some, I think, do not acknowledge the Light that is within them. Some let it smolder, but even then, all it takes is a spark to cause the Light to flare up again. But then there are those who . . . snuff out the wick.”
He watched her as she lifted her hands to release the firefly that blinked away on its flight.
“I would like to hear more about the time when thee went overboard. How did Abraham reel thee in?”
“Ah, that. There was so much commotion going on, thundering and lightning, I didn’t think anyone saw me fall. But Abraham saw. He has a rare ability to see the full picture, even as he’s fully occupied with his own work. He cut the closest whaleboat loose, so I was able to swim to it and grab on. Even still, trying to return to the ship seemed an impossible task. The headwind pushed me farther away. Finally, Abraham threw a harpoon at the center of the whaleboat, nailed it spot on, and dragged me back to the ship.”
“When?” Daphne’s eyes flashed briefly at him. “When did this happen?”
What you noticed first about Daphne, Ren thought, was the way her dark eyes would snap. They truly snapped, the way sparks flew off a struck flint. He’d never seen eyes quite like hers—they could send a jolt down a man’s spine, those eyes of hers. “Oh, let’s see, I suppose a year ago.”
She lifted her hands to cup her face. “Oh my goodness . . .”
“What is it? Why are you surprised by that?”
“About that time, word came in that the Endeavour was feeling blue.”
“Feeling blue? M’ own ship?” When a ship was said to be feeling blue, it meant the captain had died.
“A blue flag had been spotted, a blue line painted along the side of the ship. The town crier went through the streets, calling out thy name in the death toll. When Jane heard thy name called out, she was inconsolable. Utterly distraught, unable to sleep, refusing to eat. I was the one who fetched Dr. Mitchell. He measured out but a grain of laudanum, I remember that distinctly. He mixed it well in some kind of spirits to mask the bitter taste. She slept for two days, and when she woke, she was herself again. A few weeks later, a whaling schooner arrived into Nantucket with more accurate information. ’Twas not the Endeavour’s captain that died, but the Enterprise’s. This ship had spotted the Endeavour from afar, and knew she was sitting low in the water.”
“The Deborah. Tristram filled me in.” He looked straight at Daphne. “Did Jane’s laudanum use continue after that? Please be candid. I want the truth.”
“Not that I was aware of.”
“See here, Daphne, do you mean to say y’ never noticed if Jane seemed . . . floaty? Preoccupied? If the pupils of her eyes were constricted? You were with her nearly every day.”
“I did not see signs of indulgence. Truly, I did not,” she hastened to add as he gave her a skeptical look. “Patience might know more.”
“I asked. She would not answer me. She seems . . . uncommonly devoted to Jane.”
“Patience has been with our family for as long as I can remember. She would not betray Jane.”
“Is telling the truth a betrayal?”
“I think . . . Patience’s silence is her way of telling the truth.” Daphne fingered the ends of her capstrings. “I remember how distraught Jane was after hearing of thy death, and the laudanum . . . it helped her cope.” She tilted her head. “She loved thee, Ren.”
He couldn’t speak for the longest while, couldn’t voice what those words meant to him. He hadn’t realized how he had needed to hear them until they were said aloud, and it felt as healing as balm to a wound. Finally, he broke the silence. “I’ve not had a chance to take Henry out to the Endeavour, but after the move to Centre Street is sorted out, I plan to. I suppose I could take Hitty too, if she might have interest—”
“She will. They’re both learning to sail my sloop.”
“You have your own sloop?”
“A small one. I keep it docked off my mother’s house.”
Interesting, how Daphne and Jane always referred to their childhood home as their mother’s house, as if they were but houseguests. While most everything had changed for him as he returned to the island, some things had not changed at all. It felt oddly comforting. He ran a finger around the top of the tin cup. “Daphne, I don’t suppose . . . well, would y’ come along with us?”
She looked shocked at the thought. Then she lifted her head to look at the stars. “I would love it.”
Someone, long ago, had planned this snug little cottage well, Daphne thought, as she helped Patience unpack a crate of kitchen tools. The keeping room was positioned with a southern exposure, one window facing the road and one in the back, so sunshine flooded the room most of the day—at least it did when fog wasn’t blanketing the island as it did three days out of four. Patience had scrubbed the house clean and opened the windows to let it air out.
The Centre Street keeping room was about half the size of the Orange Street kitchen, but Daphne preferred it, though she wouldn’t be staying here. She had moved back to her mother’s house, at Lillian’s strong and repeated urging, and she let her mother believe she had obliged her. The truth was that there was no place for her to stay in this small house.
Much furniture from Orange Street had been sold to accommodate the small house. Daphne worried the children might feel distressed to leave their childhood home, but they seemed very at home in Centre Street. Hitty said the house smelled of tea and lemons now. Henry was pleased that it was closer than their Orange Street house had been to the wharves—his favorite place to be.
After the kitchen was unpacked, Patience took Henry and Hitty with her to the small garden out back, to hoe the weeds. Abraham offered to help dig, so the four of them set out. Daphne watched them out the window, noticing how at ease Abraham and Patience seemed with each other, often laughing together over something. It occurred to her that she had never heard Patience speak of a man in her life, so when she came back into the kitchen, she asked her directly. “Has thee ever wanted to have a family of thine own?”
Patience was searching in a crate for a tin of biscuits for the children to snack on. She looked up, her face lightened with quiet laughter. “Miss Daphne, I cannot tell you my private business.”
“But why?” Patience knew everything about Daphne, everything about her family. Why would she ever keep secrets? What secrets were there to keep?
Patience’s hands went still for a moment, and then she said, “Because some things are more complicated than you want to see.”
Of course, Daphne knew that. Of course she did. Like what?
Mary Coffin Starbuck
5 December 1662
I was working at the store when I heard shouts come from Capaum Harbour. Nathaniel was with me, as was his mother, for they had come to pick up some supplies that my brother James had brought from the mainland. We went outside to see what was causing such a ruckus. It turns out Richard Swain’s slave had run away, but was caught hiding in James’s sloop.
Richard had bound the slave and forced him to walk behind his snorting horse, like he was taking home an animal from auction. As they passed the store, Richard raised his hat to us. His hand knocked all the bags that hung off his saddle horn to flop against his horse’s side, spooking it. The horse reared and the slave was yanked off his feet. I hurried to help him up, but Nathaniel grabbed me and held me back. “
Do not get involved, Mary.”
I shrugged off his hold. “But he may be hurt.”
“Do what your husband tells you,” Catherine said.
I looked to Nathaniel to soften his mother’s sharp tone. He did not: he was watching Richard, whose gaze was fixed on the slave. The poor man was lying facedown in the dust, kicking his legs to try to roll onto his side. Richard had an odd look on his face, as if he enjoyed the man’s helplessness.
I have never much given thought about slavery, whether it was right or wrong, moral or immoral, approved of or abhorrent to God. Not until today.
’Twas a very unsettling experience, all around. I did not speak for the rest of the afternoon and evening. I could not.
2 February 1663
Peter Foulger once told me that I was a brave person. I have never thought of myself as a brave person, though my mettle had not truly been tested now.
All day, I had the strangest sense that I was not alone, though I knew I was. Edward, Nathaniel, and Jethro were out hunting and would not return for a few days. Catherine and Esther were spending the day with Jane Swain, due back before nightfall. I have been feeling under the weather lately, and was grateful for the peace and quiet. I went outside to feed Esther’s chickens and let them out of the henhouse, to get a bit of sun as the weather has been uncommonly pleasant this week.
Minding the Light Page 11