by Ron Carter
Margaret shoved the porridge and coffee off the stove onto the cold oven top, then trotted to bank the fire in the fireplace while she called orders to the twins.
“Get into your heavy coats. You’re going to Dorothy’s for the day.”
Three seconds later Prissy walked through the archway, eyes wide, lip trembling, sensing something was tragically wrong.
“Where’s Caleb?”
Margaret shook her head and made the hard decision. “We don’t know. We’re going to find him. Don’t you fret. You’ll be at Dorothy’s with Trudy and you’ll be fine.”
Margaret gave the twins no time to whimper. She marched them to their rooms and with deft fingers thrust their arms into their heavy coats and buttoned them tight, then jammed Adam’s knit cap down over his ears and tied Prissy’s winter bonnet under her chin. Two minutes later she had her own coat buttoned and threw the front door open, seized the children by their hands and strode out, stopping only long enough to close and lock the door before she walked rapidly up the street, the children trotting beside to keep up. Three minutes later she pushed through the gate to the small, neat, austere home of Dorothy Weems and stopped at the door, vapor rising from her face, while the children panted beside her. She rapped sharply and the door opened almost instantly.
“Margaret!” Dorothy Weems, short, blocky, plain, stood with eyebrows arched, hair covered with a scarf for her Saturday work. “Come in! It’s cold out there. I’ll set coffee.”
Margaret shook her head violently. “I can’t stop. Can I leave Adam and Prissy here for a while?”
Dorothy read the pleading and the fear in Margaret’s eyes. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong.”
“Caleb. We can’t find him.”
Dorothy caught her breath. “For how long?”
“Sometime in the night.”
Dorothy reached for the hands of the twins. “Of course. I was just setting breakfast. How long will you be gone?”
“I’ll be back before dark.”
The sound of running feet came behind Dorothy and she turned as Trudy slowed and stopped, wide-eyed at the sight of Margaret and the twins. Stocky, plain like her mother and her brother Billy, Trudy turned green eyes to Dorothy, silently inquiring, afraid to hope the twins could spend the day.
Dorothy spoke. “Set two more places for breakfast. The twins are staying.”
Trudy gasped. “Honest? All day?”
Dorothy nodded and Trudy squealed and reached to grasp Prissy’s hand and lead her inside. Adam frowned and followed.
Dorothy turned back to Margaret. “What can I do to help?”
“You’ll be doing enough to watch the twins.”
“Did he say anything? Leave a letter or note?”
Margaret shook her head and her eyes dropped. “We talked last night after supper—he and Brigitte and I. He said some hard things against the Revolution. We argued.” Margaret paused and considered for a moment. “Brigitte slapped him.”
Dorothy clapped her hand over her mouth, then dropped it. “Go find him. I’ll have supper waiting here for all of you. Go on.” Impulsively Dorothy stepped out into the freezing air and threw her arms about Margaret and for a moment they stood in the frigid sunlight in the embrace of old and understanding friends. Then Margaret turned on her heel and trotted back to the gate.
She turned northeast on Cornhill, then due east on Ann Street, towards the docks on the east side of Boston. A forest of masts stood undulating in the bay where creaking ships were anchored, rolling gently on the incoming tide, waiting their turn at the wharves where other ships were already tied, loading or unloading cargo coming from or going to ports all over the world. Their sails were furled, lashed to the great arms, with icicles hanging and beginning to melt in the brilliant winter sun. The heavy salt tang in the air carried a hint of dead things washed up under the docks on the rocks, while men of every nationality and dress moved about on the unending business of the sea. Startled ship officers paused to tip their hats at the strange sight of a handsome, middle-aged woman striding on the docks, while the seamen and dockhands stopped to stare, then continue with their work while they covertly watched her come and go.
Margaret walked directly to the gangplank of the nearest ship and stopped facing a young officer who was intently studying a manifest. He raised his eyes, instantly recoiled wide-eyed, and stammered, “Uh, ma’am, uh, do you, uh …” He recovered enough to jerk his knitted cap from his head. “Uh, DeLoy McCallister at your service, ma’am. Is there something I can help you with?” The words were strong with a thick Irish accent.
“Are you with this ship?”
“The Galway? Yes, ma’am. Third mate.”
“I’m looking for my son. He’s close to six feet tall, slender, blueeyed, brown hair. He may be wanting to sign on to a ship to get down to New York.”
“That would not be the Galway, ma’am. We passed New York five days ago. We’re about loaded to leave for Calais, ma’am. France. That’s our next port of call.”
“Have you seen a boy such as I described?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She turned to go when the young man touched her sleeve. “Uh, ma’am, might I suggest that you, uh, be aware while you’re on these docks. It would not be good for a comely woman such as yourself to be hereabouts after dark, if you know what I mean.” His eyes dropped and his face reddened.
Margaret smiled. “Thank you for your concern, sir.”
“Not at all, ma’am.” He bowed slightly at the waist as Margaret strode further north on the docks, heels clicking a determined cadence on the great, heavy, black timbers. She turned her head constantly as she walked, peering everywhere, studying the crews on the docks and on the ships, watching, waiting for anything that might lead to Caleb.
Two miles west, Brigitte slowed and stopped on the frozen, icy road at the Neck, face white from the cold, vapor billowing as she panted from her run. The Barricades were still there, but they were no longer patrolled by soldiers, either British or American. The road through the narrow passage was trampled by hundreds of feet and the hooves of countless horses and oxen, ruts cut by unnumbered carts and wagon wheels bringing farm produce to market in Boston. She leaned against one of the waist-high barricades, legs trembling, while she struggled to catch her breath.
To the west a quarter mile she saw the moving black shape of a horse and cart moving on the road in the white world. She waited as the laboring horse with long winter hair hanging from its belly approached, head rising and falling with each stride. The owner walked at the side, handling the reins and talking his horse along while a shy, spotted dog trotted at his heels, tongue lolling out. The round-shouldered, graybearded man squinted at Brigitte as he came into the Barricades, and pulled the horse to a stop. It stood with one hind leg cocked, moving its head, trying to understand the reason for stopping where it had never stopped before. The old man stared at Brigitte inquisitively, waiting.
“Sir, I’m looking for a young man—my brother—nearly six feet tall, slender, blue eyes, brown hair. Have you seen such a boy west of here this morning?”
He shook his head. “No. A soldier?”
“No.”
“He in trouble?”
“No.”
“Lost?”
Brigitte’s face fell as she spoke. “Ran away.”
The old man nodded. “How old?”
“Fifteen.”
“I haven’t seen him. Why did he run away? To join the army?”
“Maybe. We don’t know.”
The old man pursed his mouth in his heavy gray beard. “Might just let him go. He’ll be back when he learns about war. Anyway, there are others behind me. Maybe one has seen him.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded and slapped the reins on the rump of the horse. Its iron shoes dug into the snow and ice as it heaved into the horse collar, and the cartload of dried corn creaked into motion. Brigitte squinted one eye to look at the sun and g
uessed the time as approaching eleven o’clock. She shaded her eyes with one hand to peer west at another incoming black dot nearly a mile distant, and settled in to wait.
On the east docks of Boston, Margaret picked her way through the piles of freight and the working dockhands to the plain, weathered door with the peeling black lettering, “Josiah Worley & Sons.” The old brick, two-storied merchant’s countinghouse stood among the many that faced the wharves and the sea beyond. Margaret drew a deep breath, turned the brass knob, and pushed into the austere office. For a moment she stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
A tall, balding clerk in a white shirt and dark vest raised his eyes, then gaped as he realized a woman had entered a man’s world. His chair squeaked as he stood behind his desk. His movements were quick, his voice high and nervous.
“Yes, ma’am. What is it?”
“I’m looking for a young man. Not quite six feet tall, slender, blueeyed. He may have been here earlier looking for passage, perhaps to New York.”
“Picking crews is up to the ship captains. We don’t handle that here.”
“Do you have any ships leaving soon for New York, or even further down south?”
“Not New York. The British have New York shut down. The nearest friendly port to New York is Philadelphia.”
“Do you have a ship going there? Philadelphia?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“What name?”
“The Angela. Tied up right now in front of the countinghouse. She’ll finish loading sometime tonight and leave on the morning tides.”
“What is the name of the captain, and how do I find the ship?”
“Paulo Serian. Right out the front door, second one to the left.”
“Thank you.” Margaret turned and reached for the doorknob when the high voice came once more.
“Relative? The boy you’re looking for?”
“Son.”
“The Angela doesn’t take passengers.”
“We are not looking for passage.”
A knowing look crossed the man’s face. “Runaway?”
“Not if I can help it.”
He shrugged.
Margaret walked back into the frigid air with its smells and sounds of a busy harbor, once again aware of the stares and the slowing of work as she passed by the men. The second ship was more than one hundred yards north, and she stopped to read the name Angela in tall, carved letters on the bow of the large, three-masted schooner sitting low in the water, nearly loaded. The gangplank was down, and the yardarm was swinging a huge net loaded with barrels over the railing towards the black opening of the great hatch on the main deck. Sailors worked with guide ropes to hold the load stable, then position it directly above the black, gaping hole, and control it as the yardarm settled, lowering the net until it disappeared in the yawning hole.
Margaret approached the man at the end of the gangplank, who was intently counting, making marks on a sheaf of papers as seamen who were bundled against the cold moved crates and barrels up the gangplank. He raised his eyes and slowed as she stopped in front of him. She saw a controlled irritation in him at having his work interrupted by a woman.
“Ma’am. You wanted something?”
“Are you the captain of this ship?”
“No, ma’am. First mate.”
“I’m looking for a young man.”
“There’s a lot of them around. Any special one?” He continued marking the paper, watching the sailors move the cargo on board.
“Yes. Caleb Dunson. Just under six feet tall, slender, blue eyes, brown hair. He would have been here sometime early this morning, perhaps before sunrise.”
“Relative?”
“Son.”
He made more marks, then spoke to one of the sailors carrying a ten-gallon barrel marked “Lime Juice” on his shoulders. “Tell the bosun I need Cap’n Serian here.”
The sailor did not stop. “Aye, sir.”
Five minutes later a small, wiry man in a heavy black coat, wearing a black officer’s cap strode into view on the deck. He was swarthy, snapping black eyes, trimmed beard, and an aura of total control, total confidence moved with him like an invisible cloud. The loading stopped while he walked down the gangplank and eyed Margaret for a moment, then spoke to the larger man. “Mr. Orton, the bosun said you needed me.”
“Yes, sir. This lady is looking for a young man who answers the description of the one we took on this morning as your cabin boy. She wishes to speak with you.”
Margaret started, and Serian turned to appraise her. “I see.” He turned back to Orton. “First, there is another matter. Can we be loaded and have the hatches closed by ten o’clock tonight?”
“Possible, sir.”
“A storm is coming from the north. It might move inland, but I don’t want to take the chance of being locked into this harbor while it blows itself out. I would like to be clear of the harbor entrance before midnight. The tides won’t yet be running strong, but we can make it if we cast off about ten o’clock. Can we do it?”
“It will be close, sir.”
“See to it, Mr. Orton.” His voice was resonant, his words tinged with a Spanish accent, strong with the ring of authority.
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to look at Margaret and bowed stiffly from the hips. “Ma’am, I am Captain Serian of the Angela. It is unusual that we have a visitor such as yourself. I would invite you on board but some members of the crew have superstitions about women coming aboard. Could we discuss your son over here?”
Margaret returned the bow. “Thank you, sir.” She followed him twenty feet, away from the flow of sailors and cargo and they stopped, facing each other.
“I am Margaret Dunson. I am looking for my son, Caleb.”
“Could you describe him.”
“Young, tall, slender, blue eyes, brown hair.”
“Is his older brother a navigator?”
Surprise showed in Margaret’s face. “Matthew. Yes. How did you know?”
“Such a young man approached me this morning and offered to serve as my cabin boy for passage to Philadelphia. Claimed his older brother was a navigator and he wished to become the same. I accepted.”
“Is he still on board?”
“Yes.”
“May I see him?”
Serian raised a finger to stroke his beard as he pondered. “Is there something wrong?”
“He should be home.”
“Did he run away?”
“Yes.”
“You are certain you wish to have him back?”
“Yes.”
“Wait here. I will bring him and you can talk.”
Serian made his way back and again the sailors with sacks of fresh potatoes on their shoulders opened a way for him as he strode purposefully up the gangplank to the stern of the ship, and Margaret watched him disappear towards the captain’s quarters. Five minutes later the work on deck slowed as Serian came striding back, heels clicking on the hardwood deck. Behind him, head down, Caleb followed.
They came into view and Margaret’s hand flew to cover her mouth as she tensed and gasped. Orton glanced at her, then back at Serian as he descended the gangplank. Serian stepped onto the wharf and turned to wait for Caleb, who followed him to where his mother stood silent, waiting.
Margaret did not move to touch him.
Serian spoke matter-of-factly. “I presume this is your son.”
“He is.” Margaret looked into Caleb’s eyes and spoke quietly. “Come home.”
Caleb could not meet her steady gaze. “I can’t.”
Serian stood still, eyes narrowed as he studied the two of them.
Margaret did not take her eyes away from Caleb. “You can. We need you.”
“I only make trouble.”
“You didn’t make the trouble. It came on its own, to all of us. We didn’t make it.”
“No, I don’t fit anymore. Anyplace. Not home, not school. No-where.”
&n
bsp; “You fit at home. That’s where you belong.”
Caleb shook his head. “I’m going to New York.”
“To join the fighting?”
“Yes. Isn’t that what everyone wants me to do?”
“There’s time for that later. You’re not ready. Matthew was nineteen. So was Billy, and he was nearly killed. Your father had been in the war, and he was killed.”
“I know all that. I’m going anyway.”
“Caleb, you’re throwing away everything in your life that has meaning. Can’t you see that?”
“I can see that how I think only makes trouble at home.”
“We can talk.”
“We did that last night. It made things worse.”
“Caleb, I’m begging. Come home. This family has lost enough. It will kill me if I lose you.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Serian shifted his feet but remained silent, watching, listening intently.
“You thought that when you and Brigitte took the wagons. Only three of you got home. Don’t you see what you’re getting into?”
Caleb shrugged. “What difference does it make?”
“It means everything to me.”
Caleb shook his head in resignation and started back towards the gangplank. Margaret took one step, then stopped, terror in her face.
Serian cleared his throat and turned towards Caleb. “Mr. Dunson, may I ask what is your age?”
Caleb stopped and turned back. “Fifteen, sir.”
“Did you report that to Mr. Orton when you came to him?”
“He didn’t ask.”
Serian nodded. “I see. A mistake. I believe the law of the sea and this commonwealth is that unless you are sixteen you must have the written permission of your father before you go to sea. Very dangerous work. Do you have his written consent?”