The Hearth and Eagle

by Anya Seton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  COPYRIGHT, 1948, BY ANYA SETON CHASE

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  Author’s Note

  MARBLEHEAD, Massachusetts, the background to this story, is typical of many of our New England seacoast towns in the development and decline of two out of three of the industries which have supported it through the years, and at first I had no intention of naming it specifically. But as I began research over two years ago, I soon discovered that Marblehead is far too vivid and fiercely individualistic to be flattened into a type. As I returned there again and again, and studied the material more deeply, the town itself produced the story of Hesper and her family and the old Inn. I have tried to be accurate in presenting every event which affected actual town history. There is a wealth of fine material, and I am extremely grateful to all the Marbleheaders, oldtimers and (comparative) newcomers, who have generously given me of their help and interest. I also want to thank the staff members at the Essex Institute in Salem, the Abbot Hall Library, and the Historical Society in Marblehead, for their co-operation.

  There are many published works treating of the town, but for the period I was trying to cover, the most valuable were Samuel Roads, Jr.’s History and Traditions of Marblehead and Joseph S. Robinson’s The Story of Marblehead, and, of course the files of the Marblehead Messenger and other contemporary newspapers.

  For the early part of the story I studied many fascinating source books, but I am particularly indebted to Sidney Perley’s and James Duncan Phillips’ histories of Salem, and above all to Governor Winthrop’s own careful, detailed journal in which I was able to follow the day-by-day incidents of that historic voyage.

  The Honeywood family and all the main characters are fictitious though I have made use of some of Marblehead’s typical names.

  A. S.

  CHAPTER 1

  ON THE NIGHT of the great storm, the taproom at the Hearth and Eagle was deserted. Earlier that evening men had wandered in for beers or rum flip—shore men all of them now, too old to go out with the fishing fleet. They had drunk uneasily, the pewter mugs shaking in their vein-corded hands, while they listened to the rising wind. Ever more boisterous gusts puffed down the big chimney scattering fine ash over the scrubbed boards. In the Great Harbor two hundred yards away, the mounting breakers roared up the shingle, muffling the clink of mugs on the table and the men’s sparse comments.

  Hesper, crouching on her stool in the kitchen hearth, could see into the taproom through the half-open door. She watched her mother's face. Ma stood stiffly behind the counter at the far end of the taproom, and she was listening to the storm too. Even while she made change for the beer drinkers or turned the spigot over a mug, her eyes would slide away to the windows, and her big freckled face grow glum and watchful.

  This seemed queer to Hesper, because she herself loved the storm. She luxuriated in the delicious feeling it gave her because it was safe and warm in here. The kitchen, and the whole house, closed around and held her safe the way Gran did sometimes when she was feeling good. Outside, the storm was roaring and stamping like Reed’s bull roared and stamped in the pasture over on the Neck, but the bull couldn’t get at you, nor could the storm. The house was stronger.

  Hesper pulled her stool outside of the fireplace and leaned her head against the paneled oak cupboard where Ma kept the spare pots and skillets.

  The kitchen smells lulled her. The molasses-and-pork smell from the beanpots in the brick oven, the halibut stew bubbling softly on the trivet near the blazing pine logs, the smell of beeswax that had beenrubbed into the long oak table, and the benches and hard pine settle that was dreadful old-fashioned, Ma said. The settle had been right there by the fireplace near two hundred years, an eyesore Ma said, all scarred like that from jackknives and pitted with spark burns. But Pa wouldn’t get rid of it. He liked the old things that had always been here.

  Another crash hurled itself on the house, and a new sound mixed in it. A slapping wetness. The window panes ran with water.

  “Rain’s come,” said old Simon Grubb, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Dor-r-ty weather makin’. Don’t like ’em from the sou’west. Means they start in the Carib. This is goin’ to be worser’n regular September line star-rm.” He heaved himself up from the table, slid three pennies on the counter by Ma’s arm. She picked them up and dropped them in the tin cashbox.

  “Think it’ll travel up to the Banks?” she said. Her voice was just the way it always was, quick and rough, but a quiver ran through Hesper. The fear in her mother slid across the taproom, through the door into the bright kitchen. Now Hesper saw fear in all of them, in the three silent old men who did not answer her mother’s question but filed out the door, their steps slow and careful, feeling the floor as if they were pacing a heaving, slippery deck. While the door was open to let the shoremen out the storm blew into the house with the boom of the waves just across Front Street.

  “Ma—” whispered Hesper, “I’m scared—” She ran to her mother, burying her face in the brown calico skirts. “Maybe the sea’ll get in—don’t let it get at us.”

  Susan Honeywood shoved the heavy iron bolt across the door. “It might,” she said indifferently. “But the house’ll stand.” She gave the child a brisk shove. “Get the mop. Floor’s all wet. Nothing’ll happen to us.”

  “But you was scared, Ma—” persisted the child, though already her panic had passed, the house closed around again, comforting and protecting.

  Susan wiped the beer rings from the table in the taproom, shut that door, too, and stirred the halibut stew in the iron pot before speaking. Her words when they came seemed to spring from an angry compulsion. “Have you so soon forgot Tom and Will?” she snapped over her shoulder to the puzzled child.

  Hesper stared up at her mother’s closed face, hurt by the sudden hostility, and yet she had always known Ma loved the boys better.

  “But they’re away off on the Banks with the fleet—” she whispered.

  Susan slapped the pewter plates onto the table. “And so will this storm be—tomorrow or next. It’s like the one in ’20, afore I met your Pa—” Her full lips folded themselves into a pale line. She untied the apron from around her stout waist. “Call your Pa—supper’s on. I’ll go in and see of your Gran’s got enough wit for eating tonight.”

  Hesper swallowed, listening to her mother’s heavy tread entering the kitchen bedroom. Ma didn’t like Pa’s old granny but she didn’t usually sound so angry when she spoke of her—most times when Gran acted queer, Ma’d be kind enough, feeding her from the silver porringer with the special silver spoon Gran always used, even rocking her in the long cradle when Gran got one of those fits when she’d cry and cry and think she was a baby again. Hesper loved Gran, loved her stories and her warm comforting arms on the good days, and accepted the bad days without wonder.

  Hesper walked across the kitchen and knocked on her father's door. He spent the greater part of his life in that little lean-to room that had been built f
or a loom room years before even Gran had come to the house. Only now it was just called “Pa’s room.” It had a desk and a Franklin stove, and so many books piled on the floor and up the walls that there was hardly place to stand.

  Roger Honeywood opened the door at once—sometimes he didn’t—and smiled down at the child. His near-sighted eyes puckered around the corners, and his stooping shoulders seemed too frail to hold up the long thin body.

  “It’s a wild night, Hesper.” He spoke dreamily, lingering over her name. From the moment of her birth in an April twilight he had loved this child as he loved no one else, and he had overridden his wife’s impatient objections, to name the baby Hesper, after the western star.

  He touched the child’s red curls with his bony ink-stained fingers, and shambling after her into the kitchen, sat down at the table.

  Hesper filled his plate with the steaming fish stew, which he pushed away absently, still held in the dreams that brightened his solitary hours.

  Rough wind that moanest loud

  Grief too sad for song;

  Wild wind, when sullen cloud

  Knells all the night long....

  he repeated slowly.

  Hesper was used to his quotations, and usually she liked the sound of them and the vague enchanted pictures they made in her mind, but tonight she felt sympathy with her mother, who entered the kitchen to hear the last lines.

  “God-blost it, Roger!” she cried, “I’ll not stand for that quiddling poetizing tonight. What do you know of grief, or knells, or aught else, forever shut up in your room with them books!” She shoved his plate back in front of him, and banged the coffeepot down on the table.

  Roger lifted his head and looked at her. “I merely thought, Susan, that Shelley had rather well expressed the mood of the night.” His tone strove to be sarcastic, and to show a gentlemanly reproof, though his hands trembled and he looked toward the child for the eager response she usually gave him. But Hesper was staring at her mother, who made a strange rough sound in her throat. “To hell I pitch your Shelley, whoever the bostard may be. D’you hear that storm out yonder? D’you have wit enough to know what it may mean, you buffleheaded loon?”

  Her eyes were blazing, her heavy freckled face suffused with dull red.

  Hesper saw her father retreat, seeming to shrivel into himself, but he said, “Spoken like a true Marblehead fishwife—”

  Again Susan made the sound in her throat—“'Tis what I am. I come from fisher folk and so do you for all you never set foot in a dory these thirty year—for you weren’t no good as a fisherman—nor no good at being a tavern keeper, neither—nor at being a fine gentleman at the college—”■

  Hesper saw the color leave her father’s face, and she hoped for anger to replace it—anger to match her mother’s. Why couldn’t he shout too—hit out, even strike at that flushed, furious face across the table.

  But there was silence in the kitchen except for the woman’s heavy breathing. Then outside, another gust threw itself against the house and a branch crashed off the big chestnut tree.

  Susan’s hands unclenched, she lowered her head. “Don’t mind me, Roger,” she said. “Eat your supper. I’m grouty tonight with the storm.” She walked to the fire, and poked the smoldering logs. “But they be your sons too,” she added very low.

  It seemed that Roger had not heard. He sat staring at his plate, his thin hand turning and twisting the tin fork. Around and past the child there flowed an emotion which she dimly felt. There had been anger as there often was, and now it was gone, replaced in her mother by an unexpected appeal—that carried with it no hope of an answer.

  But Roger did answer after a minute. “I see no cause for worry about the boys. The fleet’s weathered many a storm, if this should reach to the Grand Banks, which I doubt.”

  Susan carried her plate and Hesper’s to the wooden sink across the room. “I saw Old Dimond on the Burying Hill last night,” she said. “He was waving his arms and beating about the gravestones, pointing towards the Banks.”

  Hesper felt a thrill of awe. All the children knew about Old Dimond, the wizard, and his queer daughter, Moll Pitcher, who lived long ago.

  “Nonsense,” said Roger standing up. “There aren’t any ghosts. It’s not like you to be fanciful, Susan.”

  His wife pumped water into the sink and the pewter plates rattled against the spout. “He came to warn when our men’re in danger, same as he always did. You know naught about it. You’re a landsman.”

  “I’m a Marbleheader the same as you. Eight generations of Honeywoods have lived in this house. Don’t forget that, Susan.”

  The woman’s massive shoulders twitched. “I’m not like to—with you dinging at it day in, day out.”

  The child stared anxiously from one to the other. Now Ma was getting angry again. Not on account of the Honeywoods exactly—Ma was a Dolliber and her family had been here as long as any—but it was because Pa—

  Hesper went to her mother and tugged at her skirt. “I wish the boys was here at home, Ma—” she said, trying to fill the need and forestall the renewed attack.

  Susan frowned. “Well, it wouldn’t be fitting if they was. Men must go far to work and fight—and the women must bear it. Most men,” she added looking at Roger.

  The child’s hand dropped. Her impulse had done no good. Pa’s face had its cold, shut look. He walked back to his room, and the books and the pages and pages of writing that he never talked to people about. They heard the bolt slide in the door.

  Susan trod around the kitchen, placing the pewter dishes behind their racks in the old built-in dresser, adding water to the beanpot in the brick oven, scattering the embers in the great fireplace.

  “Go to bed,” she said to Hesper, who had long been expecting this command, and could measure by its tardiness the extent of her mother’s preoccupation. She obediently picked up the candle her mother had lighted. It flickered wildly in the drafts that blew down the chimney and from under the door.

  “Here, give it me. You’ll burn the house down.” The big middle-aged woman and the small red-haired girl mounted the stairs. Susan waited until the child stood in her long cotton nightgown.

  “Say your prayers.”

  The child knelt by her cot. “Now I lay me down to sleep—” and atthe end she added timidly, “Please dear God, keep Tom and Willy safe.” And looked up to her mother for approval.

  By the guttering light she saw the grim face above her soften, “Amen,” said the woman, and Hesper crept into bed comforted. Her mother bent over with a rare caress, and as she did so they heard a muffled thud below, and the house trembled a little.

  “What is it—Ma!” cried the child struggling up again. Susan went to the window and pressed her face against the small panes.

  “It’s the sea,” she said. “The water’s over the Front.” Hesper crowded to the window beside her mother; together they watched the heaving blackness outside. There was no lane, nor yard; the thin film of shiny blackness lapped up to the great chestnut tree before the house, showing here and there the jagged points of rocks pushed up from the Cove. “Ma, what’ll it do—” whispered Hesper. The woman lifted the child and put her into bed.

  “The house’ll stand,” she said. “Go to sleep.” And Hesper knew instant security. Ma was always right. Ma was strong. Strong as the house that had been here so long. Gran was strong too—even when she cried and wanted to be rocked, you felt it wasn’t really her, it was as if she was making believe. And Pa—he wasn’t strong, but he had Ma and Gran and the house—and me too, she thought.

  All night the storm blew, and sometimes waves swirled around the rock foundation of the house and poured into the cellar, but Hesper slept.

  It was three weeks before they got the news and for Hesper the night of the storm was only a shadowy memory. Driftwood had been gathered, rocks rolled off the road, and seaweed thrown back to sea. The small craft which had been blown high on shore and on the causeway to the neck had been salvaged.
At the Honeywood home no sign of the storm remained, except the scar on the big chestnut tree where the limb blew off.

  The news came to the Honeywoods first. A boy flew into the taproom crying that a schooner had been sighted off Halfway Rock. Zeke Darling, the lighthouse keeper, had sent word it looked like John Chadwick’s Hero.

  Susan shut the taproom, threw a shawl over her shoulders and ran to the nearest high ground, on the ramparts of ruined Fort Sewall. She paid no attention to Hesper, who trotted after her, much interested. All over town people were hurrying to vantage points, up to the lookout on the Burial Hill, and crowding up the steeple on the Old North. Silently the women and children watched the schooner round the Point of the Neck and glide into the Great Harbor. Some of the children started to cheer, greeting this vanguard of the overdue fleet in the traditional manner. But there was no answering cheer from the men on board. The tiny figures on the deck seemed to move about in a listless and mechanical way.

  Susan made a sound under her breath and began to walk down the path. Hesper looked up at her curiously but did not dare speak. They threaded their way around the fish flakes at Fort Beach, and up Front Street past home, and then Lovis Cove and Goodwin’s Head, and at each step others joined them, silent shawled women like Susan, excited children held in check by the tension of their elders. They reached Appleton’s wharf as the Hero made fast. No one spoke as Captain Chadwick walked solemnly down the plank, the plod of his heavy sea boots thumping like hammer strokes in the stillness.

  “It’s bad,” he said, shaking his head and not looking at anyone. “Tor-rible bad.” Above his beard his face was gray-white as a cod’s belly.

  The crowd stayed silent another minute, then Susan pressed forward into the empty space near the Captain.

  “How many’re lost?” she asked quietly, as she had been quiet since the night of the storm.

  The skipper pulled off his sou’wester. “Eleven vessels I know of, ma’am. All hands.”