“If thee must know . . . Lillian.”
Ren coughed a laugh. “Lillian Coffin will only loosen her purse strings if you marry Daphne.” When Tristram picked up the quill to continue signing a letter, it dawned on Ren that he did have such a plan in mind. Well, why should that be a surprise? Daphne and Tristram had been thick as thieves, growing up together, arguing frequently but always mending their quarrels. It shouldn’t bother him . . . but it did, and he couldn’t say why.
“And thee must seek out a cooper to sign on.” Tristram glanced up. “Would thy father be willing to reconsider?”
“Doubt it. I’ll speak to him, though. He hasn’t opened the cooperage for business yet. He’s been helping me on the Endeavour.”
“And I still haven’t found a first mate. Apparently Myron Gardner is now a wealthy man and has no need for whaling. Thee ruins people with thy generosity.”
Ah, Myron Gardner. He was a fine first mate, but had grown tired of the sea. “What about Abraham? He’s a fine navigator. He served as my second mate this last year on the Endeavour. I would not hesitate to make him my first mate.”
Tristram didn’t even look up. “Very amusing.”
“I’m not jesting.”
Tristram leaned back in his chair. “I can’t think of a single captain on this island who would sign on a colored officer.”
“And yet they are all Quaker captains, are they not?” Ren picked up the folders. “I don’t understand you Friends. You say one thing, you do another.”
“Be practical. Nantucket crewmen would not take orders from a Negro officer.”
“They would if the captain said to.”
Tristram frowned. “Thee will get to work on these matters, yes? If thee refuses to sell the Endeavour, then at least leave her repairs alone for now. She will still be sitting in the harbor in a few weeks, after the Illumine has set sail.”
“My mind is at rest after my conversation with the magistrate just now. As I was walking down to his office, I saw a light inside. He has finally returned to Nantucket! I explained the situation and the magistrate said he would be willing to look into it. He needed a bit of time to get organized, he said. Then, it would have his full attention.”
“Just like that?” Tristram said in a weak voice. “He did not require convincing?”
“Nay.”
“Stuart Mitchell was willing to bring charges against his own relative?”
“Stuart Mitchell? Is that the name of the former magistrate?”
“Former?”
“I heard the old magistrate had gone to visit his sister in Boston and fallen, shattered his hip. He won’t be returning for the near future.” Ren let out a sigh. “Thank heavens for that. I did not realize the old magistrate was a Mitchell. No wonder you and Daphne tried to talk me out of it. The new magistrate is a young fellow, educated at Harvard. Eager and ambitious. Named Linus Alcott.”
Tristram blanched. “An off-islander?”
“He said the governor of Massachusetts appointed him. He’s a Friend, if that makes you feel better about Nantucket’s corrupted legal system.”
Tristram stilled, then gave him an odd look. “Ren, what if Dr. Mitchell did not intentionally do wrong?”
Ren shrugged. “What of it?”
“Thee would ruin the reputation of a man who has tried to help others, all his life.”
“You sound like Daphne. Wrong is wrong. If a doctor prescribes a poisonous prescription, should he not be held accountable? Is a man, any man, not responsible for his actions, whatever his intentions?”
“Ren, I beg thee”—and indeed, Tristram was pleading—“think carefully on this. Thee might send a man to the gallows.”
“Me? I would not be sending him anywhere. The law makes those decisions.”
Though clearly troubled by the conversation, Tristram had no answer for him.
At first Daphne didn’t hear his steps on the quahog-shell drive that led from her mother’s house, and then she did. She looked up and saw Tristram striding toward her, hat in hand. She smiled. He hated hats and often left them behind, wherever he was. When he was but a rod away, she said, “Hello, there. Has thee been waiting for me at the house?” Had she forgotten that they were to meet?
“I wanted to bid thee farewell. I’m off to the mainland.”
“Thy ship! ’Tis ready at last?”
“Nearly. Soon enough. It needs a bit of finalizing. Some tweaking.”
“How thrilling, Tristram!” But he didn’t look at all thrilled. Sunlight glinted off his forehead and made him look sallow and pasty, as if he might be feeling poorly. “If I were in thy shoes, I would be over the moon with excitement to captain a new ship.”
He glanced out beyond her toward the water. “I would give it up in a minute, if I could.”
She tilted her head. He stood before her, nervous and tense. “Trist . . . why so ill at ease? Thee should be on top of the world. The Illumine is waiting for thee in Salem, thee is soon to captain thy first voyage. What more could thee want?”
“Thee. I want thee.” He dropped his hat on the ground and took hold of both her hands. He spoke as if his voice hurt, his heart pleading in his eyes. “Come away with me.”
She sucked in a sharp breath of shock and surprise. “Come away with thee?” It sounded stupid to repeat, even to her own ears, but she was that boggled.
“Let’s leave Nantucket and start fresh somewhere new.”
Leave Nantucket? “Has thee gone mad?”
“We could start over again. Have a new life.”
“This? I don’t want to leave this all behind. This is . . . my life. My family. My niece and nephew. The Cent School. They count on me. They need me.”
“And Ren?” He pushed the name out so it sounded like a hiss in the air.
“What about him?”
Tristram’s eyes were on their joined hands; his palms felt hot and sweaty. “Can thee not leave him behind?”
She yanked her hands out of his. “What has come over thee?”
His face was white. “I’m sorry,” he said in a strained whisper. “I’m just . . . it’s overexcitement. The new ship, the voyage. I’m just feeling a little . . . panicky. ’Tis a bit terrifying to leave the island without a return in mind.” His hands, still held out toward her, began to shake and he let them fall to his sides. “Thee knows how I’m a landlubber at heart.”
Her heart softened at his distress. “Just a few months’ time, thee said. Just the maiden voyage, to work out the ship’s quirks.”
He made a show of checking his pocket watch, giving himself time to recover, then flashed her a grin, though pain shone in his eyes.
“Enough serious talk on this beautiful afternoon,” she said, a little too brightly. “Come in and visit with Mother. The sight of thee will bring her great joy. It always does.”
He glanced up at the house. “I’ve already had a long chat with her.”
She stilled. “Thee told her of our conversation earlier this morning?”
“I did. Should I not have?”
Daphne looked up at the house. “I just . . . wanted to be with thee. Never mind. She was delighted, I presume?”
He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Over the moon,” he said, echoing her words. “I must be on my way. I set sail for the mainland at high tide.”
“So soon? Well, then, safe travels, Tristram. I will stand on the walk and look for the shiny new Illumine to sail into Nantucket Harbor.”
He did not return her smile. “Might I have a kiss to remember thee by?”
“Melodramatic as usual,” she said, laughing. “Thee will be back behind that ridiculously large partner’s desk before thee knows it, counting thy money.” But she saw that his eyes were glassy. She leaned into him and brushed her lips across his. He reached out to crush her against his chest and whispered in her ear, “Farewell, fair Daphne.” He released her, holding her hand an extra moment before letting it go.
Mary Coffin
Starbuck
7 February 1663
Richard Swain came by the Starbuck house today to ask if anyone had news of his runaway slave. As he asked questions of us, he never stopped moving about and peering at things. I said nothing, letting Catherine take the lead, but had an uncomfortable feeling that Esther suspected I knew something and wasn’t telling. And she would be right.
Richard asked if he could have a look around the property, and of course, Catherine agreed, though I suspect he might have done so whether she complied with his request or not. We watched him through the small window as he walked across the yard, eyes scanning the landslip, before he went into the barn. He was in there for a very long time, so long that I started to worry. The Negro disappears during the day and I do not know where he goes. But Richard came out of the barn. I held my breath when he opened the door to the woodshed, but he only peered inside, then shut the door.
“’Tis a wonder he doesn’t take the logs out one by one,” Catherine said.
“No doubt afraid of spiders,” I said. I’m not sure why that popped out of my mouth, but ’twas my mother’s ready excuse to avoid a trip to the woodshed.
Esther shuddered and wrinkled her nose. “Me, too.”
Satisfied that his runaway was not to be found hiding on Starbuck settlement, Richard Swain rode off on his poor, patient horse, and Esther set the table for dinner. When she brought me a plate, she filled it extra full, and gave me a sharp look.
“What is this?” I asked.
“You seem to be unduly hungry of late.”
I did not know how to answer her, and yet she was waiting for a response from me. Her natural suspicion made her study me with narrowed eyes. In this case, though, she was on to something.
Each evening, as I go outside to draw water from the well, I take a sack filled with food, whatever I can manage to take without drawing Catherine’s attention—a heel of bread, some slices of ham, apples. Each morning, I find the sack empty, neatly folded where I had left it.
It was Catherine who came to my defense. “Oh Esther, can you not see? Sometimes you miss what is right before your eyes.”
Esther looked at her, confused. “What?”
Catherine smiled. “Mary is going to have a child. In just a few months. Have you not noticed how wide her girth has grown?”
She looked me up and down, shocked, and I blushed from her wide-eyed stare. For such a keen observer, Esther often overlooks the obvious. However, I do not think my girth has grown so especially wide. As ’twas a timely and helpful remark, I did not take offense.
All evening, Esther has treated me as if I was made of spun sugar and might crack into thousands of pieces. Throughout dinner, she has spoken of nothing but babies.
This babe is already bringing me a blessing. I have not seen a side of Esther to enjoy until now.
8 February 1663
I thought the Negro might move on after Richard’s visit, but he is still here. I don’t know what he is waiting for.
I don’t know what else to do for him, besides provide food. And keep his hiding place a secret.
9 February 1663
Richard Swain nailed a notice on the door of the store, declaring that anyone who provides aid to the fugitive slave is breaking the law, and will be fined or imprisoned or both.
What law? Nantucket Island has no laws yet.
I ripped down that notice and used it to start the fire on this cold morning.
I had thought our little island could escape the plagues of the mainland. The Wampanoag Indians are treated with respect. In turn, they treat settlers with respect. Why could not, or better still, should not, a Negro be treated similarly?
Esther has asked me many questions about having a baby, and I have freely answered. My older sisters were often a source of private information for me, of matters that made my mother blush. I think it is best for a woman to know what to expect from her body, and I sense that Catherine has not prepared Esther for what lies ahead, for the time when she blossoms into womanhood. I let her put a hand on my tummy while the baby was particularly active last night, and her eyes went wide with delight. She wondered how it felt to have a baby inside, rolling and jabbing.
“It feels nice,” I told her. “Like I’m starting to get to know him already.”
Her interest in the baby has caused me to wonder if Esther and I will get on better after the baby arrives. Alas, it seems that the baby is the only area of interest she has in me. Yesterday, she remarked (in that oddly suspicious way she has, as if I’ve done something wrong) on the enormous quantity of wood piled by the door. “The way you keep stacking that pile, you sure are worried about running out of wood.”
And she is right! I keep that pile so high that she or Catherine will not feel a need to venture out to the woodshed and stumble into a runaway slave, as I did. But to Esther, I replied, “Sister, I know you are frightened of spiders, and there is an abundance of them in the woodshed.”
She has not spoken of the woodpile since.
12
Summer settled over Nantucket the week after Tristram left the island. As Daphne headed home after a happy day spent at the Centre Street cottage, she took a deep breath of the salt-scoured air, smelling the tang. She looked around her as if she’d never seen the sea before, never seen the white birches flashing silver in the sun, or the bay spilling sea foam and seaweed onto the shining beach. She had never felt a summer breeze like this, so soft and hushed, or heard a thrush singing quite so sweetly.
And never in her life had Daphne seen her mother as angry as she was at the moment she met her at the door of the grand house, eyes glowering. “Thee has been spending time off with Reynolds Macy. And don’t deny it.”
“Spending time with Ren?” Daphne colored and turned away. “Mother, I’ve been spending time with my niece and nephew. Thy grandchildren! The ones thee won’t acknowledge.”
“Stop lying! And stop using those children to hide behind. Thee is creating a scandal right out in public!” Her mother turned, went into the drawing room, sat down in a chair, and covered her forehead. “What if Tristram hears of this upon his return? To learn that his betrothed has disgraced him in his absence.”
“Disgraced him? A scandal? Who calls it a scandal? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Thee fancies Reynolds. Thee has been doing wrong with him since—” Her eyes narrowed on her accusingly. “Since when? The day Jane died? Or even before?”
Daphne winced. She could think of no way to answer that would satisfy her mother.
Her mother sighed heavily. “Thee always has fancied him. I remember how thee would wait on the stoop until Jane returned from her trysts with him.”
“That was years ago. And the reason I would sit on the stoop was to warn them that thee was home.”
“Thee is sounding more and more like thy father. Deflecting the truth . . . while he was off with . . .” She pinched her lips together. “He’ll turn thee, Reynolds Macy will. He’ll make thee walk wayward. Just like he did Jane.”
“Ren never turned Jane, Mama.”
“’Tis exactly what I feared would happen. That man is poison to our family. He turned Jane away from me, and now thee.” Her mother clenched her fists, and Daphne wasn’t sure to whom she was talking—to Daphne, or to herself. “I won’t let it happen. Not this time. Not again. He will not win this time.”
Sickened, Daphne looked away, wondering if everyone in town was thinking the same suspicious and dark thoughts about her and Ren. Already, the joy of the day was fleeting away.
Stepping into Tristram’s shoes was a bit more difficult than Ren had imagined it to be. First, the Friends—who controlled the island’s economies—were reluctant to do business with him. Despite having been born on the island, being a descendant of one of the first settlers, despite his father’s long history as a cooper, Ren was a nonobservant Quaker and therefore not considered to be one of them. Even still, he persisted. He knew that money talked. If he waved it in their fa
ces long enough, they would do business with him. And they did.
But only on their terms.
Friends did not haggle over prices, something Ren found unnerving. There was an underlying Quaker assumption that the value of goods or services was intrinsic and not dependent on whether it was in demand or not. In every port he had traveled to, he was accustomed to fierce haggling, a game of wits, in which each side was adamantly right and convinced the other party was morally suspect. Even the crew, before signing articles, would bicker and demand a higher lay. It was the way of business, of a free economy. However, the first deal he had tried to make was at a chandlery, not ten rods from Tristram’s office. The ship chandler was Quaker. Ren had offered a very low price for a large quantity of candles—ships consumed large amounts of candles on voyages—and the man had looked at him indignantly and politely but firmly declined the offer. Ren had fully expected him to bargain for a better price. He left the chandler puzzled.
It was Abraham, wise Abraham, who set him straight. He had accompanied him to the chandlery and had been patiently listening by the door. “Captain, sir, I believe the Friends set a price and do not budge on it.”
“But how do I know it to be a fair price?”
“The Quakers do not cheat or lie. They quote a fair price, Captain, sir.”
How did Abraham seem to know of such things? More importantly, how did Ren not? He was embarrassed by his own ignorance. Tristram had handled all these details, from signing the crew to outfitting the ship. Head to toe, bow to stern, Tristram often said, to remind Ren of his value. And now he did not need reminding.
A storm soaked Nantucket Island for the next few days, finally exhausting itself. Ren woke to a sky that was colored robin’s-egg blue, with white cottony clouds, and a breeze wafting light and soft as down feathers. A glorious island day. Ren and Abraham arrived home as the children were waiting for their noonday meal at the table. “Hello, children. Where’s Patience?”
Hitty pointed out the back window. “Aunt Daphne and Patience are trying to fix the rope that goes down the well. Henry broke it.”
Minding the Light Page 15