by Ron Carter
“He’s dead.”
Serian turned to Margaret. “Ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
He turned back to Caleb. “Then you must have the written permission of your mother or of a court. Do you have either?”
Caleb’s face grew red with anger. “No. You know I don’t.”
Serian clasped his hands behind his back. “I could be arrested for taking you on as my cabin boy. This ship could be seized. Do you see my position?”
“I see you’re sending me home.”
“I am a man of my word. I took you on as my cabin boy because you showed promise. I am also obedient to the laws of my profession, and they prevent me from keeping you on.” He dug coins from a purse and thumped them into Caleb’s hand. “There are two shillings—a week’s pay—and a lesson to me for not asking your age. As to whether or not you leave with your mother is entirely up to you. You may find other captains on these docks that will risk taking you on without the proper papers, but I will not. I wish you well.”
He stood with his feet slightly spread, and turned his eyes to Margaret, probing, waiting to see if she understood. She returned his frank stare and realized he had purposely forced Caleb from his ship. Her nod was perceptible only to Serian, and he turned his eyes to Caleb’s, waiting.
For ten seconds Caleb stood staring silently at the two small silver coins in the palm of his hand, not knowing what else to do. Then Margaret moved to his side and slid her arm inside his. She said nothing as she started walking, and slowly Caleb took his first steps to go with her.
Serian watched them move away and called, “Ma’am, I will leave his sailor’s kit of clothing at the office of the harbormaster.”
Margaret paused long enough to turn. “Give the clothing to a needy sailor.” Her voice wavered and cracked as she finished. “God bless you, sir. God bless you.”
In silence the two of them walked slowly, steadily back west on Ann Street, then angled southwest on Cornhill, on down to where the white picket fences and the prim white houses lined the cobblestoned streets. Their feet crunched on the snow and ice, and their faces were white from the cold as they came to the gate at the home of Dorothy Weems. They entered the yard and Margaret rapped at the door. Dorothy opened it and relief flooded as she saw Caleb.
Margaret spoke. “I can take the twins. Thank you so much.”
“Oh, no,” Dorothy exclaimed. “I’ve set out ham for supper. Please stay.”
“We can’t. Brigitte is down at the Neck and she’s due home soon. I think it would be best for the family to be together tonight. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It was my blessing.”
The two women bundled the twins in their winter wraps, and Trudy said her good-bye to Prissy as Margaret led them back towards the gate. The twins held a respectful silence as they walked on home, through the gate, to the front door. They waited while Margaret twisted the key, then entered and began working with their mittens and heavy coats. Margaret fed kindling to the banked coals in the fireplace and the firebox in the kitchen stove while Caleb walked to his room and closed the door.
A stark, colorless winter sunset passed, and the gray of twilight was settling over Boston when Margaret glanced at the clock. It was twenty minutes past five o’clock. She went to the front window and moved the shade to peer outside, searching for Brigitte in the street. She returned to the kitchen to finish the deep-dish beef pies when she heard the gate close. She trotted to the front door and threw it open as Brigitte stomped snow and ice from her heavy shoes.
She raised her eyes to Margaret’s, holding her breath, waiting.
“He’s home.”
Brigitte’s eyes closed as utter relief surged within, and her head dropped forward for a moment. “Oohhhhh.” The sound was quiet, spontaneous.
She stepped into the house and unwound her scarf from her head, then quickly unbuttoned her coat. “Where is he?”
“In his room.”
Brigitte started for the archway and Margaret grasped her arm. “Give him time. Go about getting the table ready for supper. Have you been at the Neck all day?”
“Yes.”
“You must be starved. We have beef pies baking. Help the children get washed for supper. They can help set the table. Act normal. I’ll take his supper to him in his room. He needs time. He has to find a way to get back to us and at the same time save his male pride.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Aboard a ship. Cabin boy.”
“You went on the ship?”
“No. The captain brought him off.” Margaret paused. “The captain was a good man. He’s the one who got Caleb to come with me. I shall forever be grateful to him.”
The mantel clock read half past six when they knelt beside their chairs and Brigitte said grace over supper. They ate in silence, the twins afraid to ask why Caleb’s chair was empty, Brigitte and Margaret lost in their own thoughts. While the twins helped clear the table, Margaret set a beef pie, sliced bread, and a glass of milk on a tray and walked to Caleb’s door. She stood in the hallway but did not knock.
“Supper’s here.” She waited, but there was no sound. “Caleb, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I have your supper.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I’ll leave it by the door.”
She waited for a few moments, but there was no sound. She set the tray on the floor beside the door and silently walked back to the parlor.
“Time for bed.”
The twins quickly went to their rooms, relieved to be away from the tension and the mystery of where Caleb had been and why he had not come to supper but was still in his room with his beef pie growing cold in the hall. Brigitte helped them into their nightshirts and they came to Margaret’s room to kneel for prayer. Margaret walked them to Prissy’s room and sat them on the bed, wide-eyed, fearful.
“Caleb needs time to think about some things. You were both good today, the way we had to go and leave you at Dorothy’s. And you were good tonight when you didn’t ask questions. Just be normal around Caleb.”
She leaned to hug them, and then tucked them into their beds, turned the lamp down, and left the door open a few inches as she walked back into the hallway. Brigitte was waiting on the sofa in the parlor and Margaret sat in her rocking chair.
“Did he take his supper?”
Margaret shook her head. “It’s still in the hall.”
For a time they sat in silence, each lost in her own thoughts, and then Margaret suddenly turned her head to the fireplace and sat up. “There’s not enough firewood for tomorrow.” She sat for a moment, then rose. “Boston would never recover if we were seen splitting kindling on the Sabbath. I’ll have to do it now.”
Brigitte stood. “It’s freezing out there. Let me. I’ll do it.”
Margaret shrugged into her coat. “I’ll do it. I need to do some-thing.”
It was after nine o’clock when they lighted two lanterns and Margaret walked out to the wood yard by the back door and set the lights on the stacked logs. She jerked the axe handle upward to loosen the blade from the chopping block, set the first log upright and swung hard. The axe bit deep but the wood did not split. She lifted the axe blade with the wood hanging, and slammed it down hard and the wood cracked. Two more times and it split into two pieces. She set half of it back on the chopping block and split it, then split each piece one more time, and reached for the other half of the log while Brigitte gathered and stacked the kindling sticks.
In the yellow glow of the lanterns the women hit a rhythm. By ninethirty the stack of white sticks of split pine was growing, and they traded jobs: Brigitte swinging the axe, Margaret gathering. At nine-forty the back door opened and they both straightened to look as Caleb, dressed in his heavy work coat, closed the door.
He walked to the chopping block and without a word took the axe from Brigitte. He set the nex
t log on the chopping block and swung the axe angrily, with a vengeance. The wood split, half on each side of the chopping block, and he reached for one half, split it, split the quarters, and Brigitte reached to gather it. He pushed her aside, then grasped the axe and set the other half of the log on the chopping block and turned his face to Margaret.
“I’ll do it. You go inside.”
Without a word Margaret gave Brigitte a head signal and they walked back into the house. Margaret unbuttoned her coat.
Brigitte spoke. “I want to help him.”
“No. He needs to be left alone, and he needs that work. Get ready for bed.” She walked down the hall to return with the tray and slip Caleb’s beef pie back into the oven.
For a long time they sat in silence, listening to the muffled sounds of the axe, and then the kindling being dumped onto the stack. They said nothing, nor did they move, each deep in their own thoughts, their own fears. At eleven o’clock Brigitte went to her room, closed the door, changed into her nightshirt, blew out the lamp, and slipped between the sheets.
At midnight Margaret quietly stole to the back door and listened for a time. There was no letup in the steady sound of the axe and the stacking of the kindling. She returned to the parlor to sit in her rocking chair and began rocking gently back and forth, listening to the sounds from the wood yard. She did not remember slipping into sleep. At fifteen minutes before one o’clock she suddenly started, and turned her head to listen. The sounds of the axe and the stacking of kindling continued, and she settled for a few moments, then rose to walk to the kitchen stove. She opened the oven door and lightly tapped the top of Caleb’s beef pie. It was cooling, and she gave the firebox grate a shake to revive the coals, then added two more sticks of kindling. At one fifteen she again stood at the back door, listening. She heard the axe thump into the chopping block, and then the sound of kindling being gathered and stacked, and then silence.
Quickly she set the steaming beef pie on the dining table with the milk and bread, and had barely passed through the archway to the bedroom wing when the back door opened and she heard Caleb work his feet on the mat, then walk to add kindling to the woodbox in the kitchen. He made three more trips to fill the kitchen woodbox and the fireplace woodbox before he hung his work coat on the wall peg beside the door. Margaret stood by her bedroom door in the darkness of the hall and held her breath, hoping desperately, and then she heard a chair scrape at the dining table, followed by the sounds of a spoon working with the beef pie.
She silently entered her bedroom and sat on her bed in the total blackness, listening and waiting. Fifteen minutes later she heard quiet footsteps in the hall and then silence. She waited for a time, then lighted a lantern and silently stole back to the dining table. The beef pie and glass were gone. She stepped into the kitchen, lantern held high. The dirty dishes were carefully stacked on the cupboard. She opened the back door and held the lantern over her head to peer at the wood yard. More than a cord of freshly split kindling was stacked against the back wall. She walked back to her bedroom, cupped her hand over the lantern chimney to blow it out, then slipped into bed. For a long time she lay staring into the blackness before her eyes closed and she slept.
In the gray before sunrise, a fresh pork roast with carrots and potatoes was already simmering in a pot on an arm in the great fireplace, and a custard was already set in the root cellar before Brigitte walked into the parlor with her robe wrapped tightly about her. She walked to the back door and opened it to lean out into the freezing air to look at the wood, then closed the door and turned to Margaret.
“Did you see what Caleb did last night?”
“More than a cord cut and stacked. He was up past one o’clock.”
“Is he awake yet?”
“I don’t know. Help me with breakfast.”
At twenty minutes before ten o’clock Margaret gathered Brigitte and the twins at the front door for the required Sunday morning inspection before leaving for church. She straightened Prissy’s winter bonnet and nodded approval at Adam.
Hesitantly Prissy asked. “Is Caleb coming?”
“He has some things he wants to think about. He might come later.”
Adam narrowed his eyes in doubt. “What things?”
“Young man things.” She opened the door and Brigitte led the twins out into a gray, overcast world with a heavy breeze moving storm clouds to the west. Margaret remembered Captain Paolo Serian’s remarks to First Mate Orton—a northeaster coming—might move inland—and she wondered if his ship had made it clear of Boston Harbor before the wind set in. For his sake she hoped he had succeeded.
Brigitte led them north to the church, up the brick walkway with the snow shoveled to either side, into the chill air inside the old building. Without sunlight, the high, stained-glass windows were dull, and the heavy overcast outside provided little light inside the church. The Dunson’s took their usual bench and waited in the gloom. At ten o’clock Reverend Silas Olmsted, sparse, hawk-nosed, round-shouldered, entered from the door behind the pulpit and took his place. His black robe somehow seemed too large and hung too loosely from his pinched shoulders.
Olmsted’s high, nasal voice reached out over the congregation. “We shall sing from page four of the hymnal.”
Brigitte lifted the worn hymnal from its pocket in the bench ahead and opened it and they sang, Margaret joining in without thought as she worked with growing apprehension of what Caleb was doing at home. Silas’s sermon was lost on her as she struggled to rise above her worst fears that Caleb would be gone when they reached home. She rose with Sila’s “Amen” still echoing in the high ceiling and was out the door and in the breeze and overcast walking rapidly down the street, the twins following at a trot, Brigitte behind. She pushed through the gate without slowing, then the front door and breathed with relief at the sounds of Caleb in the kitchen.
At half past one, Margaret turned to Brigitte. “Tell the children to come to dinner.” They had knelt at their chairs to say grace when they heard the quiet steps in the hallway and Caleb entered to kneel beside his chair and bow his head. Dinner was quiet, subdued, with only brief exchanges of conversation that were conspicuous in their avoidance of the single question that filled the thoughts, the hearts of everyone at the table: What’s happening with Caleb?
A knock came at the door while Brigitte was washing, Margaret drying the dishes in the kitchen. Adam trotted to the door. Margaret glanced at Brigitte in surprise, then laid the towel on the cupboard and walked to the door as Adam swung it open. She slowed slightly at the sight of Reverend Olmsted standing in the door frame, hat in his hand, his heavy winter coat reaching nearly to his shoe tops.
“Reverend Olmsted,” she exclaimed. “What a surprise. Do come in from the cold.”
“Thank you.” He stepped inside and Adam closed the door.
“Can I get you some dinner? We still have some warm pork roast.”
“Thank you, Margaret, but I do not intend to stay. I’ve come to see Caleb. Is he home?”
For a moment Margaret stared. “Caleb? Yes, he’s home. Is something wrong?”
Olmsted pursed his mouth. “I don’t know. I noticed he was not with you in church today. Is he ill?”
“No.”
“May I speak with him for a moment?”
Margaret nodded. Two minutes later she returned from the hallway with Caleb following. Silas studied him as he approached, searching for an impression, a feeling, and it came.
He did not waste words. “Caleb, could you come visit me at the church?”
With narrowed, accusing eyes Caleb glanced at Margaret, and she looked steadily back at him.
Silas continued. “Your mother didn’t know about this.”
Caleb stood silently while a sense of defensive withdrawal crept into his eyes.
Silas smiled as though nothing were happening. “In half an hour? Would that be all right?”
The wind had died and deep dusk had settled before Caleb walked out the doo
r, buttoning his heavy winter coat as he pushed through the gate. Lights came on dull behind drawn shades as he walked east towards the church, shoes crunching the frozen ice and snow. He walked to the rear of the church and rapped on the door of the entrance to the living quarters of Silas and Mattie Olmsted. Minutes later he was seated in the small, square, spartan room, yellow in the light of two lamps, where Silas conducted much of his private counseling. He came directly to it.
“Thank you for coming. You missed church with your family this morning. You aren’t sick. Is something happening?”
Caleb shrugged but did not raise his eyes. “No.”
“You’re getting on with your mother? Family?”
Caleb hesitated. “Well, yes.”
Silas saw the opening. “What’s the trouble at home?”
For the first time Caleb’s eyes came to Silas’s. “What trouble?”
“I’m asking you. You aren’t getting along with your mother. Why?”
“She told you that?”
“She hasn’t said a word.”
“How did you know?”
“You told me. What’s wrong?”
Caleb straightened. “I told you?”
“Yes. That’s unimportant. Caleb, come to it. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. We argued. It was nothing.”
“Argued about what?”
“The war.”
Silas paused to peer intently at Caleb’s face, at the discolored place by his right eye. “How did you get hurt?”
Caleb’s hand darted to touch his cheek. “At school.”
“How at school?”
“A fight.”
“The war?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your argument with your mother about the war.”
Caleb took a deep breath and his resentment surged. He released the breath and spoke, too loud, too high. “Mother thinks this war is something holy—God’s war. I don’t. My father’s dead. My brother’s gone and we don’t know if we’ll ever see him again. Billy’s gone. Brigitte and I tried to do something good and we got eleven people killed. Nearly killed us. Our army got beaten so bad at New York that they’re hiding clear over in Pennsylvania.” He was gesturing, then pointing an accusing finger at Silas. “God’s war? Where was He when all this was happening? If this is His war, then how come we’re the ones getting killed and beaten?”