“Thy wife’s sister, I believe she said.” He lowered his voice. “Does thee know that nearly everyone is related on this island? Nearly everyone!” He leaned back in his chair. “I did not understand the tightly woven web of connections. A curious place, this island, is it not?”
“Daphne? My wife’s sister? She spoke to thee?”
“I don’t recall her name, but I do recall she was quite convincing in her appeal.”
“How so? What did she say to change your mind?”
“She asked me to mind the Light that morning, to see if God had guidance for me regarding the doctor. And so he did. That is why I permitted the doctor to be released.” Alcott fingered the feathers of his quill pen. “Captain Macy, thee is right in thy assessment. I do not shy from controversy. But I do mind the law, and I do mind what God has to say. This issue, slavery, ’tis a knotty problem. I wish I could do more, legally, but my hands are tied.” He dropped the pen and spoke with authenticity, perhaps for the first time since Ren had made his acquaintance. “Pretend I am not thy magistrate for a moment, but thy friend. I suggest thee keep this runaway well out of sight of Silas Moser.”
Slowly, Ren rose from the chair and went to the door. “I understand.” And for the most part, he did. Any sea captain knew that laws were laws, to be respected, and not subject to whims or bias or sympathy.
To be perfectly candid, when it came to the matter of the doctor’s release from gaol, Ren felt surprisingly grateful to the magistrate. Mayhap Daphne did do the convincing, though he had a hunch it had more to do with the discovery of how many Mitchells were residents of Nantucket. As those thoughts were tumbling in his head, he saw the older man across from him on Main Street. Dr. Mitchell spotted him too, pointing a finger and shouting “Captain Macy!” then walked straight toward him. Ren debated within himself for a moment. Should he leave quickly or should he approach the doctor, meet him head on? He chose to meet him. The two men met in the middle of the street, surrounded by horses and carts, and plenty of islanders who moved carefully around them, carrying on business within full view and earshot. Dr. Mitchell did not look worse for the wear, after a night or two in the gaol.
He raised a bushy eyebrow at Ren and pointed a finger at him. “So then, thee intends to place blame on me for thy wife’s death.”
“Not I. It is up to the law to decide who is to blame.”
“In the meantime, thee does not seem to mind destroying my reputation. Dismantling my life’s work.”
The truth was, Ren did mind. He minded quite a bit. But he also wanted justice for his wife and he knew he could not have both. “If you did not provide that tainted tincture to m’ wife, then you have nothing to worry about.” Ren nodded and walked past him.
“I did not, Captain Macy,” the doctor said in a loud voice for all to hear. Curious eyes turned their way. “I did not! So then thee must ask thyself, who did? Who did?! That, Captain Macy, that is the question thee should concern thyself with.”
Ren did not turn to defend himself but allowed the doctor the last word. As he walked toward Centre Street, forlornness covered him, the way fog could steal in and blanket the island, and he felt guilty of something not exactly nameable.
With Tristram so overdue, Ren decided the smartest, safest thing was to take Abraham away by sailing to Salem. A shipyard on the mainland would be easier for him to blend into than on tiny Nantucket. He asked his father to join them, but Jeremiah declined. He claimed he was too busy.
“Too busy doing what?”
“Never y’ mind, boy.”
“I do mind. This is about Lillian Coffin, isn’t it?” Ren wagged a finger at Jeremiah. “You sly old salt! You’re smitten!”
“I’m rekindling an old friendship, ’tis all. And watch yer mouth around yer old man.”
“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. Lillian isn’t like most women.” Thank heavens for that. “She has a way of cutting a man down to size.”
Jeremiah chuckled. “I know all about her sharp tongue. I’ve had many a jab from it. We grew up together, remember? She was the same on the play yard. Bossing everyone around, telling them who they could play with, who they couldn’t. We used to call her Queen Nan.”
“And you find that appealing in a woman?”
“I’ll tell y’ one thing—Lillian Coffin is many things, but she is not dull.” He spat the word like it tasted bitter. “Not like most of the hens on this island.”
“I just . . .” Ren stopped. “Look, you’re no greenhand. Just . . .”
“Just what?”
Just what? Where to start? Guard yourself, for Lillian is difficult, unpredictable, dangerous. Jeremiah was nobody’s fool, he’d always had strong ideas, not caring what others thought. He did what he wanted, whether anyone liked it or not. Mayhap his father could manage Lillian rather than the other way around. Mayhap not.
“Mind the Light. That’s what.” Ren crossed his arms against his chest. “Hear me on this. Despite your schoolboy’s crush, I need you to come with us to Salem. Just for a few days. To tell the truth, I’m growing a little concerned that Tristram is so late on the tide.”
“Well, he’s no greenhand, either. He’s probably gotten bogged down by buying a few more ships.”
“Exactly why I want to track him down. I’m not sure what he might be up to without supervision.”
Working silently well before daybreak the next morning, Ren and Jeremiah untied the mooring lines of Daphne’s sloop from the dock cleats. Ren stayed on a close tack to sail over to the harbor. He let the main sail fall slack and glided up to the Endeavour, oceanside, to pick Abraham up before venturing out of the bay.
The sun was starting to light the sky, throwing shiny mirrors off the water. Ren glanced at Nantucket Town, starting to wake for another day. He considered again if he should have told Daphne he was taking Abraham with him today, or that he was worried about Tristram. His cousin had many faults, but tardiness was not one of them. In the end, he had decided against telling Daphne. If Silas Moser cornered her as to Abraham’s whereabouts, she would not have to lie—though he suspected she would not be able to lie. It simply wasn’t in her nature. Thus, the less she knew, the better.
As for Tristram’s curious absence, Ren thought it best not to create needless anxiety for Daphne. It did strike him odd, though, that as days passed, she never asked after Tristram’s expected return.
The wind caught the mainsail of the sloop, bellying it out with a great snap and filling every corner, and Reynolds Macy turned his face to the bracing salt spray, smiling with sheer joy. Abraham trimmed the sail and the sloop heeled deeper, the bow sliced through the waves, leaving foamy wake spilling from its stern. They sailed around the lighthouse and out into Nantucket Sound, heading northeast, to sail around the arm of the cape and into Cape Cod Bay. Ren hoped to reach Salem in early afternoon, if the wind held steady.
It was here, on the water, that Ren had always felt most alive, most sure of himself. Give him a motley crew of sailors and he knew he could bring out the best in them. He’d always imagined himself as a brave man, sailing forward to conquer new waters, but in his own home he had no such confidence. At home, it was Daphne who brought out the best in his children. In himself, to boot.
It was one of those gray, misty mornings, when the sandy roads were sheened with moisture, though it had not rained. Daphne kept glancing out the windows, hoping to see blue sky. It was nearly time to excuse the children from the Cent School when Silas Moser rapped hard on the front window, peering inside, motioning to Daphne to come to the door.
Henry sidled up next to her and whispered, “Where’s the captain? He’ll know what to do.”
She frowned distractedly at him. “He’s thy father, not ‘the captain.’ Thy father and grandfather went off island. They left early this morning to sail to the Salem shipyard to see the new ship.”
He peered up at her. “Then who’s watching over Abraham?”
“Henry, thee must leav
e such matters in God’s hands.” But he wasn’t listening to her. He never listened.
When Daphne opened the door, Moser gave her a leering grin. “The slave’s on the captain’s ship, ain’t he?”
She stepped outside so the burly man wouldn’t scare the children. Henry skirted right around her and escaped out the door, running up toward Main Street.
“I was told he’s there,” Moser spat out. “On the ship Endeavour.”
When Daphne didn’t answer, he smiled that odd jack-o’-lantern grin. “That’s what I thought. One thing I figured out about you Quakers . . . silence is omission. If you don’t want to tell me the truth, you just don’t answer.” He tipped his hat. “Thank you, missy, for saving me time spent searching.”
Daphne watched Silas Moser stride toward Main Street, then turn left to head to the wharf. She closed the door, turned around, and saw the eyes of fifteen young children stare back at her. She put a smile on her face and hoped it didn’t look as artificial as it felt. “All is well. Let’s get back to our work, children.”
Hitty wasn’t fobbed off. “Where did Henry go?”
“I don’t know.” She had no idea to where Henry had made haste, but she couldn’t leave school to fetch him, nor could she allow her face to reveal her fears. Big tears filled Hitty’s eyes. “Please, Hitty, don’t fuss. Henry will be fine. And I need thy help to keep the children calm.”
The town bell started to sound, ringing loudly to tell Nantucketers that there was a ship returning. Daphne and Hitty looked at each other, thinking the same thought. It was low tide. No ship would draw close to the harbor during low tide.
Hitty said it first. “’Tis Henry’s doing!”
Daphne found Patience in the backyard, pegging laundry on the line. “Stay with the children.”
Daphne and Hitty ran down Centre Street and pounded down Main Street, passing others as they poured toward the dock. They found Henry at the town edge of the wharf, shouting at the top of his lungs as people reached the dock. “The bounty hunter! He is trying to catch a runaway slave! Do not let him use thy dories!” As Daphne realized what Henry was shouting, she joined him in passing the word along, as did Hitty, as did others.
The strangest thing started to happen. The wharf, usually bustling with activity, grew quiet and still. A wall of people, mostly Friends from the meetinghouse, closed off the wharf so that Silas Moser could not pass. He went from person to person to person, trying to talk anyone into rowing him out to the Endeavour in their dory or lighter, offering money from an open wallet. No one would accept his money. No one would allow him use of their dory. Not a single Nantucketer! They would not answer him, nor would they let him take a step onto the wharf. They just blocked him, a silent, impassable wall.
Daphne and Hitty watched the entire spectacle. Her heart felt full to the point of overflowing. Such fine, brave people filled this island!
Finally, exasperated, Moser turned away. He spotted Daphne in the crowd and pointed at her. “This ain’t over.”
No, she thought, as he stomped away. No, she didn’t expect it was.
Mary Coffin Starbuck
20 February 1663
My hand is shaking even as I write this account.
Yesterday morning, Peter Foulger came into the store. He and his son Eleazer planned to head over to Cape Cod while the weather held and he offered to take extra boxes of bayberry candles to trade.
Peter sensed something was troubling me, so he sent Eleazer down to the sloop with the candles. No sooner did the door shut behind Eleazer than I poured out the story about the runaway slave, hiding in the Starbucks’ woodshed. I had told no one about him, but I knew something had to be done. He would be discovered soon.
Peter looked at me with those wise blue eyes of his. “So what is it you want to do about him, Mary?”
I took a deep breath. “I believe no man has the right to own another. I want to help this man find his way to freedom.”
“You’ll be risking the wrath of Richard Swain. ’Tis no small thing.”
How well I knew. “I will find a way to deal with Richard Swain. First, I must help this man go free. My conscience will not let me rest.”
“Eleazer and I must cast off at high tide. If you can find a way to get this man to the harbour without being seen, I will take him to the mainland and see that he is cared for. I’m afraid that’s all the help I can offer, as we need to load the sloop all afternoon.”
Indeed, that would be a great deal of help, far more than I had expected. “If I can come up with a way to make it happen,” I told Peter, “I will get the Negro there by high tide. If not, do not delay your journey.”
I locked up the store after Peter left and hurried to the Starbuck house. Halfway there, I passed Esther and Catherine. They were on their way to visit Jane Swain—of all people!—and wondered if I might like to come along. I declined, saying that I wasn’t feeling well, and it was not a lie. My stomach has been in knots for days. Catherine offered to return to the house with me, but I insisted that I needed quiet. That, too, was not a lie.
As they walked away, I turned and watched them go. Their dark woolen cloaks covered their heads and clothing. From behind, they were clearly women, but their identities unrecognizable. A sparrow flew through my mind again, and stayed to roost on a rafter.
If he would be willing to try something outlandish, I just might have an idea. Hiding the Negro in plain sight.
An hour before high tide, the Negro sat beside Jethro in the pony cart, dressed in my Sunday dress, covered in my spare cloak. If all went well, it would appear to others that Jethro was taking me to the store at Capaum Harbour. A very ordinary event. That is, if all went according to plan, and if Peter Foulger was still waiting in his sloop for Jethro’s passenger to climb aboard.
The Negro turned to me before he climbed on the cart. “May God bless you.”
“And you,” I said. And you.
It shames me to confess it, but as I watched the cart drive down the path—such a momentous occasion—my thoughts turned away from the risk the poor Negro was facing and toward undue concern for my dress and cloak. I was ashamed of myself! And yet I do hope the dress and cloak will eventually find their way back to me. Of course, only after the Negro is safely off island.
16
The Salem shipbuilder, Elias Derby, greeted Ren enthusiastically, pleased he had come. “I’ve heard all about y’, Captain Macy. ’Tis a pleasure to meet y’. Y’ve got a fine reputation.” He motioned to the shipyard. “Let’s go see thy grand and glorious ship.”
Ren’s stomach twisted at the use of “grand and glorious” to describe the Illumine. Grand and glorious were not qualities needed in a whaling ship. Sturdy, solid, dependable—those were the qualities he would have preferred above grand and glorious. They followed Elias to the far end of the shipyard, where the Illumine—to Ren’s shock—was still in dry dock. Ren looked up at the ship, then at Elias, at Abraham, at Jeremiah, then back at the ship. How could she still be in dry dock, after all these many months?
“Well, she’s no beauty,” Jeremiah said at last.
That was the truth. The Illumine was square-rigged, blunt-nosed, broad in the beam, a squared-off bow and stern. Not glorious, not in any way grand.
“And you, Abraham?” Ren said. “Have you an opinion?”
“The big square sails on the foremast will give drive, Captain, sir,” Abraham said quietly. “And the fore-and-aft sails on the main and mizzen masts, they too will add power to her bulk.”
“She’ll need it,” Ren said. “She’s a hefty size.”
“I’ve had my own misgivings about the design,” Elias said, “but your partner insisted. Myself, I prefer speed over size. It took a while to persuade me to his thinking, but I see what he was after. She’ll have more sail area to the wind to move the weight of the ship.”
Ren glanced at him. “She cost a pretty penny.” A shocking sum for such an inelegant, clumsy-looking ship.
“T
hat’s your partner’s doing. He insisted on the best wood in New England. Live oak from New Hampshire. Cedar brought down from Maine.”
“Such wood must’ve fetched a dear price.”
“Ayup, a dear price. Dear, but less costly here than if imported from England.” Elias put his hands in his pockets. “And then there’s the bricks.”
“The bricks? You mean, for the tryworks?”
“Ayup. He wanted them brought in from Virginia. A special clay down there, he said.”
“What!?” Jeremiah snapped. “Only for the bricks to be tossed overboard when the hold is full?”
“That’s what he said he wanted. Plus a galley stove from Philadelphia. And then there’s the detailing for the captain’s cabin. Wait ’til you see it. Nothing but the best for you, Captain Macy. That’s what your partner said he wanted.”
Confused, Ren looked around the shipyard. “But where is Tristram? He sailed to the mainland over two weeks ago. I expected him back in Nantucket last week. With the ship.” The ship that was nowhere near complete.
The builder blinked. “Tristram Macy? He hasn’t been to the shipyard in . . . well, let’s see . . . at least a month or so. He was coming quite regularly, and then stopped, sudden like.”
Baffling. Ren followed the shipbuilder up a ladder to climb aboard the Illumine. The seaman side of him was duly impressed, particularly as they went down the companionway to the lower deck. The hold seemed enormous in size compared to the Endeavour’s narrow and cramped one.
Stooped over so he wouldn’t hit his head on the low ceiling, Jeremiah walked around the entire empty lower deck. Ren could hear his father mumble figures to himself as his experienced eyes were evaluating the space. “How many casks can it hold?”
Jeremiah pivoted to answer Ren. “More than five hundred and then some, in addition to gear and stores.”
Double the carrying capacity of the Endeavour. Ren had to hand it to Tristram—the Illumine was meant for long durations at sea.
Minding the Light Page 20