by Anya Seton
“Aye—” she squeezed his hand, quieting his restless fingers, “it was bad, bad as I always feared. But I got through it—and the babe. We’re strong.”
He was humbled by the triumphant pride in her last words. He saw her exalted, and far from him. Nor did he know that above the natural triumph of accomplished childbirth, she had private cause to exult. Though her next words might have given him clue.
“You won’t mind, Mark, if we name him Isaac?”
“Isaac?” he repeated. He had thought, in the few times he thought of it at all, that the baby if a boy would be Mark again, or perhaps for her father—Joseph. Isaac? Isaac Allerton. His frown cleared. It would be fine compliment to the man who had settled them here, it would increase his interest in them when he finally arrived himself.
“For Master Johnson,” she said softly. “Please.” During the hours past, the pain had wiped out all thought of anything but itself. She had not thought of her mother, she had not thought of God. She had been as beastlike as Goody Carson on the ship. But now she knew that did not matter. And since it had finished she had felt the Lady Arbella near her, smiling a happy smile.
Mark was not pleased, but he could deny her nothing now. And later, if he cautioned her to silence, Mr. Allerton would believe the boy named for him. Mark bent over and kissed Phebe on the mouth.
In the September of 1636, Phebe, dressed in her crimson farrandine and bridal cap and neckwear of the Mechlin lace, hurried along the Harbor Lane to Redstone Cove, as eager as little Isaac for the day’s festivity. The child danced with excitement and she held him tightly by the hand or he would have darted on ahead and maybe soiled the new suit she had made him from her blue serge gown. Yet, were it not for the cooing baby she carried on her left arm Phebe felt she might have run and danced like Isaac.
The sun warm and golden as brandy poured down from an azure sky, but it was not too hot. A small crisp breeze blew down the harbor, and the Neck had moved so near in the September air, it seemed a reaching hand might touch the massed green trees across the water.
“There she be—there’s the ship!” shouted the child. Phebe nodded and smiled, and paused to look a moment before scrambling down among the rocks to find a sitting place for the launching.
There she was, finished at last, the pride of all Marblehead. A great fair ship, one hundred and twenty tons burden, the largest yet built in the colony as Mark so often boasted. Fully rigged, she poised lightly on the ways like a black swan, and across her stern ran her name in glowing red letters, Desire. Ah yes—well named, thought Phebe, settling herself on a rock and spreading her crimson skirts. For more than a year the village had centered its hopes and dreams upon this ship. And Mark more than any of the others.
She saw him now leaning against the taffrail on the high poop deck, talking to Jemmie White and John Bennet, and they all held mugs in their hands. He waved to her and shouted—“Hulloa—Phebe, I’ll be right down to you. Does the boy know his part?”
She waved back, and made little Isaac wave. As the first child born in Marblehead, he had been appointed to christen the vessel. As the son of a man of consequence too, thought Phebe proudly. Mark had thrown himself heart and soul into this venture, and contributed every penny he had and labor too, working day after day with the other men on the sturdy oak hull. He dreamed of his share of the profits from her cargoes, and he announced that he had found his real profession at last. He would be shipwright and owner.
He had, during these six years of their settlement here, done fairly well at the fishing; he had his own shallop and his own fish flakes at the foot of his land on Little Harbor, but Isaac Allerton’s larger projects had never been realized. True, Allerton came to Marblehead and established his fishing stage, but soon the remote little settlement bored him, there was small scope for his ambitions, and then misfortunes beset him, his house burned down, and the White Angel was lost with all her cargo. He became morose and restless, and in 1635, having deeded all his Marblehead property to his son-in-law, Moses Maverick, Master Allerton disappeared in the direction of the New Haven Colony, and Massachusetts knew him no more. Then Mark had said “Good riddance,” feeling that he had misjudged Allerton’s worth, and having in any case small interest in working for someone else.
How many changes here, in how short a time, thought Phebe. Eleven women now in Marblehead besides herself, and twenty-eight men, and the children. She looked down at the sleeping baby on her lap, small Mark. His birthing had been aided by Dorcas Peach, a jolly stout widow from Saugus, suddenly and surprisingly married by the melancholy young fisherman, John Peach. And the birthing had been easy, very different from that of Isaac.
And there were other houses now in Marblehead, huts and cabins strung along the waterfront all the way from John Peach’s Point to Bartol’s Head, but no house except Mr. Maverick’s so fine as the Honeywoods’.
Aye, I’m content, thought Phebe, watching Mark clamber down the ladder from the ship and come toward her. How handsome he looked as he swaggered along the shingle, taller and stronger than all the other men, and how boyish still for all his thirty years. He had a streak of pitch across his cheek, and some of the points on his doublet hung loose.
“You’re heedless as the boy is—” she scolded fondly, wiping at his cheek. “Nay—don’t tumble him about.” For Mark had seized his elder son and thrown him high in the air. “You’d not have him queasy for the launching.”
“God blast it—No!” cried Mark with a boisterous laugh. “But he’s no get of mine, trollop, if he hasn’t a strong stomach.” He lowered the delighted child in a great swoop, then stumbled and caught himself.
“Oh Mark—” cried Phebe between reproach and amusement—“not tipsy so soon! Had you nothing better to do up there on the ship than guzzle.”
“No. All’s ready and waiting for high water, and I’ll drink as I please. Come, Phebe, no long face. This is the day to rejoice. I’m happy as I never thought to be.” He put his arm around her waist and squeezed it hard. “All goes well for us, at last.”
“Aye, for sure it does—” she said, smiling back at him. For whence but from womanish cowardice had come that little moment of foreboding? A chill that crept along her spine and vanished in the brightness around her. Mark patted his wife’s shoulder, poked a finger at the baby, then drawn as by a lodestone, walked back to the ship and climbed aboard.
The cove was filling now, in the village all work had ceased, and they came over the cliff and down the rocky path, each dressed in best attire, the Marblehead women and the children and the few men who were not about the ship. Some were shouting, some singing, and all elated by the completion of their community project.
Young Remember Maverick, Moses’ bride, radiant in her green paragon ran toward Phebe, crying, “What here already, Phebe?—Look d’you see up there upon the ledge ? I vow those are Salem men.”
Phebe followed the girl’s gaze to see two peering figures in sad-colored clothes. They were approaching the cove tentatively.
“They’ve sailed over to view the launching, no doubt—” said Phebe, laughing. “Just so they keep their distance. They’ll get short shrift if Mark sees them.”
“Or any of our men—ah, I thought so.” For Tom Gray reeled down the path, and stopped short at the sight of the strangers.
“We want no foreigners here—” he shouted. “Sniveling whoreson spies. Get ye back to your psalm-whining and your magistrating. Ye couldna build a ship like thisun, if ye strained till your arses burst.”
And he picked up a large stone. The Salemites retreated hastily behind a tree. “Oh hush, Tom—” whispered Phebe, not for disapproval of his sentiments, but because he would certainly be hauled up before the Salem Court again. Salem considered this rocky outpost of its own tight community to be a godless and intractable stepchild, and concerned itself with the renegade only for purposes of discipline. There was as yet no meeting house in Marblehead, nor preacher, and few who felt the need of either.
> Tom let fly the rock, which bounced off the tree, and would have thrown another, but Mr. Maverick appeared, and taking in the situation shrugged his shoulders, saying, “Let them be, Tom, we’ve better matters to be about.”
The tide was nearly high. There were shouts from the men on the ship, and the half-dozen who remained on shore swarmed over the ways and began to knock at the retaining planks. The women clustered together staring at the ship, their hearts beating with pride and expectancy.
They stared at the oak hull made from their own trees, at the two towering masts cut from the finest stand of spruce in Essex County, the quarter-mile of rope in the rigging, all imported from Bristol, the shining paint on her hull, tediously mined from the Indian paint mine back of Beverley, and the furled sails—their cloth had come from England too, and for its purchase there had been many a sacrifice made.
How many feet of cloth, thought Phebe, were represented by the sale of poor Betsey’s only calf? But every Marbleheader there had had part in the building of the Desire; poor as they were—and even the Mavericks were poor by Salem or Boston standards—they had willingly pooled their hard-won shillings.
They had done it all by themselves with the fierce independence which had drawn them here, men and women from Cornwall and the other West Counties, and from the Channel Islands—disparate beings, some as rough and uncouth as the savages, some of tenderer stamp, but held together by a dual bond, the love of freedom and the sea.
The harbor water lapped up to the pitch mark they had made upon a rock. The hammering increased in volume. Little Isaac tugged at his mother’s skirt. “See Dada—” he cried shrilly, pointing his plump finger and hopping up and down. Phebe tilted her head high to see Mark, foremost of three young men who were swarming up the rigging on the mainmast. Phebe caught her breath but smiled. How like Mark! He would never submit to standing tamely on the deck while the beloved ship was launched. But the others stopped at the crows-nest, while Mark went on, until he perched astride the yard of the top-gallants’l, and waved his cap in exultant gesture. Again a chill touched her. Why must he always be reckless, in everything excessive, and trying to best the others? Why could he not...
“Well, Mistress Honey wood, is the boy ready?” Moses Maverick stood before her, holding out the uncorked flask of wine.
“Oh yes,” she said quickly. “Go with him, dear.”
Isaac’s chubby fist closed on the bottle’s neck, and while Maverick held him up on the platform he obediently lisped—“I christen thee Desire ” and sprinkled wine on the great wooden wall of the stern.
The ship started, she slid gently down the greased ways, and the tide leapt up to meet her, but as she settled into the blue harbor waters she gave one sideways lurch, and from the watching crowd there came a hissing gasp of horror. The ship righted herself at once, but Mark who had leaned far out to see his son perform the triumphant ceremony, lost his balance on the yard and came hurtling down to the deck below.
Mark was unconscious for many days and after he came to himself his mind was clouded, and he could move neither of his legs. Moses Maverick sent a shallop to Salem and brought back a physician, but that worthy gentleman, after examining Mark, shook his head, said he believed the backbone was crushed. He could do nothing.
Phebe received this verdict in silence. Her brown eyes took on a chill and stony look; she neither prayed nor lamented, and the physician thought her unfeeling. So did others who, stopping at the door to give sympathy and food, were received with tight-lipped thanks.
Dorcas Peach, who helped her with the nursing, and Tom Gray, who neglected his own livelihood to save Phebe from the rougher tasks—these knew better.
They saw the unfailing tenderness which she showed to Mark, who was often fretful and sometimes swept by violent rages in which he cursed Phebe or little Isaac, making of them objects to be battered for his helpless rage at fate. While his mind was clouded from the fearful pain he babbled incessantly about the ship, thinking himself on board, and it was Phebe, who—indifferent to the ridicule of some of the townspeople—asked Tom to fashion a giant-sized cradle. And after he had done so and they had lifted Mark’s shrunken body into it, Phebe rocked it very slowly, and the gentle motion mingling in his thoughts with the motion of a ship, did bring him relief from the pain.
After a while as he grew stronger the pain receded, and he no longer needed the cradle: then he would lie propped up in bed silent for a day at a time, and once when Phebe came to feed him the evening meal his brilliant hazel eyes sought hers with a violent determination. And he commanded her to bring him his gun. “Bring it to me, Phebe! I can’t live like this—” and he struck down at his wizening nerveless legs. “Half a man. No man.” His face contorted and he clutched at her arm. “Phebe, bring me the gun, and when you’re widowed there’ll be plenty of men to take you and the children....”
Then she slipped her arms around his neck, and held his heavy head against her breast, whispering to him as she did to the little ones, sooth' ing him with a hundred gentle words. “Nay, darling, hush. We’ll manage, I know we will. You’ll get better. Why, I warrant by spring you’ll be back in your shallop fishing the Bay.”
But she knew he would not. Nor for some months, while they lived off the neighbors’ offerings, did she know how the black future was to be endured.
The Desire’s first voyage had been successful. Spain and Portugal welcomed the cargo of salt fish, cured by the New England sun, and tastier than the native bacalao. The Desire returned with oil, wine, and salt—and a moderate profit. Mark’s share was small, and in it he had now no interest. Phebe dared not mention the ship, for all reminders of his accident provoked attacks of pain and violence far worse than the dull apathy into which he had gradually lapsed.
Phebe spent many days in hesitation and nervous anxiety, all the more acute since she must hide it from Mark, and many nights—she slept now in the loft with the children—she lay till dawn staring up at the black outlines of the rafters. Then she awoke one bleak February morning with her decision made.
She hurried through her tasks fearful of losing that moment of certainty. She nursed the baby and bundled him in his cradle, she replenished the kitchen fire, and heated the porridge for their breakfast, she tended Mark who lay heavy as a log of yew. He would neither open his eyes nor speak, but he ate a little when she coaxed him, and when she said she must go out for a while, he seized her hand and held it tight—as though in fear to have her leave him.
When Dorcas Peach came over to help, as she did each day, being warmhearted and having no children of her own as yet, Phebe was waiting already cloaked. She left her household in Dorcas’ care and set out northward along the icy rutted lane until she came to Moses Maverick’s.
Mr. Maverick was at home, sitting at a writing table near to the kitchen fire, for the day was bitter cold. He received Phebe kindly, but she saw the corners of his mouth sink in, and in his eyes a wariness. This did not surprise her. She well knew that her problem was a burdensome one to the settlement.
“And how is your good man today, Mistress Honeywood?” he asked, pulling up a chair for her and seating himself again at the table which was covered with sheets of foolscap.
Phebe’s hand twisted itself into a fold of her homespun skirt, but she spoke quietly, seeming to consider the matter. “Why, he’s neitherbetter nor worse. His mind is no longer much clouded, but he cannot move his legs. Nor do I think he ever will.”
Maverick shook his head. “That’s bad. Bad—And he so tall and strong he used to do the work of two. Had he only not been so rash...”
He had spoken his thought without regard to the listener, for he was one of those to whom Phebe’s composure had always seemed unwomanly. He was therefore shocked to see a spasm cross her face, as a stone convulses the still waters of a pool, and in that instant grief looked nakedly from her brown eyes.
“Pardon, mistress!” he cried. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain. It does no good to think of the pas
t.”
“No,” she said, controlled again. “It’s because of the future that I came to you.”
He drew back into his chair. The wariness returned to his gaze, and he sighed. His young wife, Remember, was fond of Mistress Honeywood, and had much troubled him with questions and speculations as to what would become of the stricken family. Food was not so plentiful that anyone should be asked to provide for four extra mouths. Mark Honeywood’s affliction was indeed a cruel drag on the struggling little settlement which could ill afford to have one of its strongest assets reverse the ledger and become a debit. Far better had he died, thought Maverick; women were scarce and she might then find a man to take her, for all she was so small and thin and reserved in her ways.
“I think there is but one solution, mistress.” He spoke with exasperation and decision. “Return to England! You have people there to care for you?”
Phebe lowered her head and stared at the fire. She was silent so long that he began to feel discomfited. Then she spoke very low, so that he leaned forward to catch the words.
“I’ve thought of it many times. Many times—” she repeated slowly.
Then she raised her head and looked at him. “But I cannot go back—Nay—” she added with a faint smile, seeing that he thought there was some discreditable reason, “my family would welcome us. They’d care for Mark, and provide for me and the children.”
“Then why—” he began, frowning. “You’ve no puritan scruples.”
She shook her head. “But I can’t go. Two things prevent.” He waited, still frowning, and tapping on the table. After a moment she went on with difficulty, loath to bare her heart.
“I can’t go because Mark, the real Mark, wouldn’t wish it. He’s lost courage now, but I can’t take advantage of his weakness. This place was his choice. Our children were born here. We’ve endured much—and Marblehead has become—home.” She paused a moment, then went on swiftly. “The other reason is a promise.”