Minding the Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  His father looked down. “Is it not still?”

  Ren scoffed. “Where do you keep your clothes in this shanty?” As Jeremiah pointed to a cupboard, Ren added, “I’m hoping you’ve got something to wear that isn’t made of cotton.”

  “Save yer lecturing, boy. My mother dragged me to Meeting every week. Until I left on a whaler, I’d never missed a First Day Meeting.”

  Ren crossed the room to open a wardrobe and root through the pile of clothing stacked within. “As I recall from your stories, you were fifteen years old when you signed on, and you’ve missed plenty First Day Meetings since.”

  “Tell me why you’re suddenly minding the Light?”

  “Two reasons. First, I want to talk to the magistrate about a legal way to protect Abraham. Second, apparently, I’ve got some character rehabilitation to do.”

  Jeremiah’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “Yer character’s just fine. In fact, I’ve always considered y’ to be something of an old schoolmarm.”

  “On island. My on-island character.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s not new. Lillian has always thought your character was suspect.”

  “It’s not Lillian I’m worried about.”

  “Aha! Now I see. ’Tis Daphne.”

  “You see nothing. Daphne believes this is best for the children’s sake.” Ren turned from the wardrobe and tossed a white collarless shirt at Jeremiah. “And while we’re on the topic of Lillian Coffin, would you mind filling me in about the two of you? That’s one tale you’ve left out.”

  A red blush started above Jeremiah’s chin whiskers. “Nothing to tell.”

  “Something. There’s history between the two of you.” For an instant Ren saw a vulnerability in his father’s eyes, a regret, as if a brittle shell had cracked open.

  “We go way back, Lillian and me.”

  “How far back?”

  Jeremiah pulled off his graying tunic and slowly put on the white, badly wrinkled shirt. “You know this island as well as I do. We knew each other as children.”

  “That wasn’t the kind of look you gave each other.”

  “We were . . .” He scratched his whiskers, stalling, until Ren cleared his throat in impatience. “We had an understanding.”

  Ren stared at his father. “Did you break her heart?”

  Jeremiah scrunched up his face. “’Tis a long story.”

  “We’ve got time.”

  “Let’s just say . . . when I returned to Nantucket, a summer when Lillian had a certain expectation of me, and mayhap many others as well . . . I met your mother and I was a goner.”

  “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” Ren’s laugh was low and ragged. “So that’s why Lillian despises me. All these years, I thought it was because I was a lapsed Friend. It was because my own father jilted her.”

  “It wasn’t just your everyday jilt,” his father said in a rusty voice.

  Talking like this, venturing near deeper-to-the-heart topics than sailing, it wasn’t something Jeremiah did often. Ren knew his father was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t going to miss a chance to understand more about his parents’ courtship. He knew it had sent shock waves through the island, a Macy marrying Captain Phineas Foulger’s daughter from an off-island marriage Foulger had kept carefully hidden from all Nantucket. “How so? A jilt is a jilt.”

  “Not this one.”

  Ren saw the tightness of his father’s throat as he swallowed.

  “I chose a woman whose skin was a few shades darker than Lillian’s. Y’ got yer mother’s blood running through you, maybe more than mine. Y’ look like her, y’ think like her. And you know how this island feels about the color of skin, for all their high and mighty talk.” A brightness of tears was held back in his eyes as he gruffly added, “Y’ know how they treated your mother.” He fell silent for several long, long seconds. Then came the words, scarcely perceptible, “Angelica was a saint. Didn’t deserve what she got.”

  Ah, you old sea dog. You’re not as tough as you want everyone to think. “You might’ve told me.”

  Jeremiah shrugged. “Wouldn’t have changed anything. Yer still a lapsed Quaker and stubborn as a mule.” He slapped his hands on his knees, a signal that the rare intimate moment was over. “She’s looking well preserved, that Lillian. Held up rather well over the years.”

  Ren ran a hand over the back of his neck, pondering what a curious turn of events this was. They were mind-boggling thoughts. The grandfather clock chimed and he startled, grabbed more clothes, and tossed them at his father. “I won’t be a lapsed Quaker after today, if you’ll stir your tired ol’ stumps and make haste. Change your clothes. We’ll stop by the loft to borrow some hats from Tristram’s collection.”

  Jeremiah groaned. “Not the flat hat.”

  “Aye, we are wearing the flat hats. The full picture.”

  His father scowled at him. “And you say this isn’t to impress Daphne.”

  “I told you. This is for the sake of the children.”

  “Balderdash. Jane never got y’ to Meeting.” His father brought himself right up to him. “What’s going to happen, then, when Tristram returns back and finds you’ve stolen his girl? I can give y’ a Yankee guarantee he won’t like it and yer big business expansion plans will blow up.”

  Ren tried to force a smile, but his lips felt stiff. “Why don’t you save your jabber so we can be on our way?”

  His father’s words pricked, surprisingly so. They echoed his own unwanted thoughts.

  Not twenty minutes later, they arrived at the meetinghouse. As Ren led Jeremiah to a back bench pushed up against the wall, every head turned to watch them, astounded. From the front, seated on the elder’s bench, he felt Lillian’s hard stare. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Daphne among the head coverings on the women’s side, Hitty beside her. Daphne was preoccupied with making some kind of hand motion to someone across the room. And then, suddenly, a little hatted figure rose from the center of a bench, bumped and wiggled and pushed his way down the row of men to reach the aisle, then came to plop down beside him.

  Henry.

  Daphne braced herself for a harsh conversation with her mother as they walked home from Meeting. Lillian was never without opinions after Meeting. Normally, she would list the many indiscretions she had observed during Meeting: William Gardner nodded off again; Hester Foulger felt the Spirit move her to speak twice, which was two times too many; Barney Blakey scratched himself publicly in a very private place, on and on and on. Daphne would point out that if her mother would turn her attention to hearing from God rather than spotting indiscretions, she might get more out of Meeting than complaints. And then her mother would turn her sharp tongue in Daphne’s direction, and Daphne would stop listening.

  It was the pattern of their walk home from Meeting. Every First Day, since Jane had married.

  But today, Henry, dear little Henry, was moved by the Spirit! He stood and spoke to the Friends in a loud voice, saying that there was an evil bounty hunter on the island who was trying to steal Abraham away, for profit. And that all of Nantucket must not let that happen or God would be displeased, he told them. Then he sat down in his seat and adjusted his spectacles as Daphne and Ren exchanged a look of astonishment. Her heart was full of admiration for Henry. How proud Jane would be of him.

  Surely, Daphne thought, her mother would have something to say about Henry’s testimony. If not Henry, then the buzzing news that Dr. Mitchell was in the Nantucket gaol.

  On this day, Lillian was utterly silent, oddly preoccupied. Daphne didn’t mind so very much, other than a slight worry that her mother was ill. Finally, as they neared the house, Daphne asked if Lillian felt well.

  Her mother’s face was hidden beneath the large bonnet brim. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m well.”

  “Thee hasn’t said much about the wedding today.” After all, it was her mother’s favorite conversation.

  “Daphne, must everything be about thee?”

  Daphne had to bite h
er lip to keep from laughing. And then her smile faded. Sitting in Meeting this morning, after Ren had come in and sat down, her heart had felt something she had never felt before. She felt thoroughly complete, entirely whole. As she walked down the street, with the sun shining down on her, an epiphany struck her, shedding light on a topic she had not wanted to examine too closely for the unrest it brought to her.

  She could not marry Tristram.

  Her misgivings about marrying Tristram had always centered on her doubts that he loved her. This morning, she realized that she didn’t love him, not the way she should. She was fond of him, but not in the way she wanted to love a man. No wonder she had been full of misgivings, why she insisted they must wait to marry. She claimed a long engagement was for Lillian’s sake, but in reality, her mother was so eager for Tristram to propose that she would have agreed to any terms.

  It was me. All along it was me. She could see it clearly now. She was the one who distracted Tristram whenever their conversation turned serious. She had often put the blame on him . . . but it was her doing! She did not want to marry him. She never had. Everyone—her mother, Jane, friends—all assumed Tristram was the one dragging his heels, reluctant to propose. And there was some truth in that. But she was every bit as reluctant as he. Mayhap, more so.

  She gave a sideways glance at her mother. Now was not the time to tell her mother, not in the mood she was in. That news could wait, until Tristram returned. She shuddered at the very thought.

  She tipped her head to the blue sky, empty of clouds, eager to find something else to fill her mind. “I am going to take some food and sundries to Dr. Mitchell this afternoon.” She had a hope that the doctor might be released on bail by this afternoon. It was appalling to think he had been arrested like a common criminal, sitting in that dark, stinking gaol day after day because the bail had been set sky high. With a bit of carefully planned timing, she had passed the new magistrate’s house just as he walked out the door, and waited to walk alongside him to Meeting. “Jane was my sister,” she had told him as she matched his long strides, “and I believe the doctor wants to get to the bottom of the tainted tincture as well as thee does. The gaol does not seem to be the place for a man of his stature, a man so beloved and so highly regarded by all Nantucket Friends.”

  The magistrate said nothing in response, but he had been listening, she felt sure of that, before changing the subject to discuss the fog. Was it always so prevalent? he asked and she said yes. Then he asked, “Is it true that most everyone on Nantucket is related to each other?” and again she said yes.

  “Most all can be traced to a handful of families who were the first proprietors on the island.”

  “Most all?” he asked, a bit of a squeak. “Even the Mitchells?”

  “Most all,” she said with certainty.

  At the meetinghouse, news had trickled through about the doctor’s arrest, causing great distress among the hum of conversation. All but for Lillian. She had been pleased. Despite her complaints about Ren, after learning of the tainted tincture (there were no secrets on this island), she approved of holding the doctor accountable for Jane’s untimely death. “He will need sundries. The food is horrendous in the gaol.”

  Daphne wondered how her mother would know, as she’d never been within twenty rods of the gaol, but she kept that thought to herself and instead invited her along. Her mother shook her head. A little too quickly. She was up to something. “Thee has plans today?”

  “I do. I have . . . a visitor calling.” Lillian kept her chin tucked, but beneath her bonnet brim, Daphne could see her mother’s cheeks grow rosy, like the hollow of a conch shell.

  Aha. Jeremiah Macy.

  Mary Coffin Starbuck

  16 February 1663

  Jethro knows.

  I was alone at the house this morning, for the weather has been uncommonly pleasant and everyone had gone outdoors, eager for fresh air and a warming sun. The men went to the commons to see how the sheep were faring the winter, and Catherine and Esther went along with them as far as the Thomas Macy’s house. Esther was overjoyed; she has been cooped up too long in the house, she said. I offered to remain at home, for I am feeling weary. I have not slept well of late.

  After I had finished some morning chores, I stirred the venison stew to keep it from burning, then thought to scoop a bowl out for the Negro. How long, I wondered, had it been since he had eaten something hot? I took the wooden bowl out to the shed, but the Negro was not there. I noticed the empty handkerchief, picked it up, turned around . . . and there was Jethro. “I came back for the cart. Dad wanted me to bring some hay to the commons.” His eyes went behind me to the shed. “I won’t tell, Mary.”

  “Tell what?”

  “I won’t tell anyone that you’re hiding the runaway.”

  I weighed my options. I could deny it to him. A lie would be easy to justify, as it would be for Jethro’s own good. The truth was far more complicated.

  And yet, Jethro’s willingness to offer me silence was evidence of his maturity, a sign that he realized this was not an easy nettle to grasp.

  “How long have you known?”

  “A few days ago, I went into the shed to pull some wood, and I saw a corner of the quilt, folded tight under some logs. I knew someone’s been living in there. Yesterday I saw you slip outside, early in the morning, with that handkerchief fat with food. I figured it out.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet.” He went to the cart and put two hands on the wooden handles. “I won’t tell,” he said, pushing the cart to the path. “I’m not sure what you’re going to do about this”—he cast a glance at the shed—“but I won’t tell.”

  I weighed my options. It wasn’t right to expect a boy to keep something like this from his family. And if Jethro had discovered signs of the runaway, it would not be long before Esther found them. She was suspicious by nature, whereas Jethro was trusting.

  The baby kicked, and I rubbed my hand over my belly where I had felt the hard jab coming from within. A reminder that its time was soon to come.

  This deception has to end.

  15

  Fog settled over Nantucket, sending tendrils that shifted and curled through the streets, leaving a shiny sheen behind on the sandy roads. In spite of the damp, gray day, Daphne had just given the children of the Cent School time to play in the backyard when a hard rap came at the front door. She opened it to find the bounty hunter glaring down at her, cigar hanging from his mouth. Her heart sounded a loud drum.

  “Where is he?” A large man, he stepped around her, passing by her so closely that she had to back up to avoid getting pushed.

  “Who?”

  “The fugitive. Abraham. Tell me the truth.” He grinned, revealing two missing teeth, one upper, one lower. “I know for a fact that Quakers can’t lie.”

  Daphne did not respond.

  “Okay, then, is he here?” Moser walked around the room, looking for evidence.

  “He is not.”

  Moser frowned. “You’re breaking the law by sheltering him. You Quakers aren’t supposed to break the law, neither.”

  Daphne said nothing.

  “I’m not leaving the island without him. He’s worth a lot of money to me. He’s supposed to be a smart one.”

  “I have no doubt of that. The wisest, too, I believe. Abraham has the Light of God shining through him, clear and strong.”

  Moser scowled at her. “I don’t know about that and I care even less.”

  “That is because thee is diminishing the light within thee through thy selfish ambition. Thee is like a candle that has not enough oxygen. Soon, thy soul will be in total darkness.”

  His cigar nearly fell out of his mouth. “You quit that talk! I’ve had enough preachin’ to last me a lifetime.” He leaned slightly toward her, so close that her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Listen to me. I’m gonna find that slave and take him to his owner if it’s the last thing I do. Or . . .”
<
br />   “Or what, Mr. Moser? What else does thee want?”

  “I want the price of him.”

  There. There was the answer she’d been looking for. Ask and thee shall receive! She knew there was a Gordian knot to be cut; she just didn’t know what it was. “How much? How much money does thee want for a man’s life, Mr. Moser?”

  Moser startled her by moving suddenly, coming so close to her that she could smell his musty breath and nearly gagged. “One thousand US dollars.”

  Daphne barely hid a gasp. That was a small fortune.

  He pointed a thick finger at her. “I tol’ ya. He’s worth that much to me.” He swung around and walked off, the scrape of his boots against the street echoing in the gray fog.

  Hearing from Daphne about Silas Moser’s visit during the Cent School, Ren went straight to the magistrate’s office. After speaking together at Meeting yesterday, Linus Alcott had agreed to examine Moser’s papers, to see if his legal claim to Abraham was valid. “Unfortunately,” he told Ren, “the claim is perfectly legal.”

  “But Nantucket has outlawed slavery. Is there not some way around it?”

  “His owner is from Barbados, where slavery is legal. ’Tis an international issue, not an island one.” He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his neck. “I will search through my law books and see if I can find something.” When Ren started to leave, he added, “Just so thee is aware, I have allowed Dr. Mitchell to be released from gaol, without bail, on his own recognizance.”

  “How so?” Not that Ren held strong objection. He had not slept well for the last few nights; his mind kept envisioning the elderly doctor in that dark, dingy gaol. “I did not think you shied from controversy.”

  “A woman spoke to me on his behalf at Meeting yesterday. Rather convincingly.”

  “One of his relatives, no doubt.”

  “Nay.” Alcott released his hands and leaned forward on his desk. “Nay, Dr. Mitchell’s defense came from one of thy relatives.”

  “Who? Who spoke to you?” It couldn’t have been Jeremiah, as his father seemed wholly occupied by Lillian Coffin, flirting with her after Meeting, and Tristram was offshore.