by Ron Carter
“Hungry?”
Matthew shrugged, and Margaret opened the oven and set a plate of hot roast beef and potatoes and gravy on the table, then sat down.
“Tell me about it.”
Matthew sat, said grace, and reached for knife and fork.
“Marsden is in a little valley not far north. Town’s gone. Indians burned it after they killed everybody. Just a few foundations left. Overgrown with grass. I found what must have been the church, and from there I had to guess where Tom’s house should have been. I buried him where I was told his wife and son are at rest, but there was no way to be sure.”
“A stream? John said there was a stream.”
“It’s there. Runs through the center of the valley. Beautiful. A raccoon and her young, and a doe and a fawn—right out in the open—weren’t afraid.”
He hesitated a moment. “Tom was there. I felt it. He’s at peace. After twenty-five years, he’s finally at peace with his wife and son. What was her name? Elizabeth? Elizabeth and Jacob? I think they were there with him.”
Margaret wiped at her eyes. “I’m so glad.” She waited until Matthew finished eating, then sighed and stood. “Well, tomorrow’s the Sabbath. It’s late. We’d better get to bed.”
They knelt together for their evening prayer, and then walked through the archway to their bedrooms.
In the glow of the single lamp on the table next to his bed, Matthew lifted his wallet from his coat and opened it. Carefully he removed and unfolded a paper, and tenderly laid a small, royal blue watch fob on his pillow. His initials, M.D., glowed in delicate yellow needlepoint, with a tiny heart stitched beneath. He touched it gently, and thoughts came.
It’s been three years. Where is she? Her family? Are they safe? Warm?
He was seeing Kathleen, tall, dark eyes, dark hair, beautiful, and he bit down on the anguish that rose in his heart. For a moment he saw her as she was those years ago when they were just emerging from their childhood years. He was intense, all knees and elbows, feet too large, and he loved her. She was just beginning the mysterious metamorphosis from girl to young woman, unsure of herself, knowing in her heart that she loved Matthew with all her heart.
In their thirteenth year, she had worked for days to make the watch fob to surprise him, just as he had labored for two weeks to carve and paint a tiny, wooden snow owl to surprise her.
Their surprises were complete. On a late summer evening, beneath the great tree in the backyard of the Dunson home, she clasped the little carving to her breast, vowing to treasure it forever, while he stood staring at the watch fob, knowing it was the most wonderful creation on the face of the earth. Without thought he kissed her a fleeting peck and for five seconds they stood facing each other in silence, shocked beyond words, thrilled to the very core of their beings. When she could collect her reeling senses she searched for something—anything—to say, found nothing, and not knowing what to do, she turned on her heel to walk away with Matthew struck mute, unable to believe he had actually kissed her.
From that day, both knew their hearts were bound together forever.
Matthew laid the small watch fob in his hand and turned it to the light, studying the tiny stitches that formed the letters.
His face clouded with the black remembrance of seeing the light in Kathleen’s eyes die when it was discovered that her father, Doctor Henry Thorpe, sworn Patriot, respected member of the Boston Committee of Safety to fight the British, was a traitor! A Judas! A betrayer of his family, his city, his country! The undeniable accusations, the trial, and the devastating decision by the court—banishment from the United States forever. Kathleen dead inside, her mother, Phoebe, rapidly disintegrating into a world of fantasy, the two younger children, Charles and Faith, floundering to understand, Kathleen taking it on her shoulders to hold them together.
Then came the day that would burn in his memory as long as he lived. She came to him and stared steadily into his eyes. Her mother had written to King George seeking a British pension for services rendered by her traitor husband to the Crown, and the King had granted it. Kathleen would not bring the shame of the Thorpe family on him.
They were leaving America for England. They would not return.
He had carefully wrapped the small watch fob in stiff paper, packed it in his wallet, and carried it with him for three long years. How many times in the stillness of the night had he taken it out to look once more, and let the memories run, and feel the hot pain in his heart once more.
He carefully rewrapped it, pushed the wallet back into his coat, and turned out the lamp as he slipped into his bed.
Dawn found Margaret humming as she stirred the banked coals in the fireplace and added wood shavings, then kindling, and transferred fire to the oven in the kitchen. Brigitte helped with hot oatmeal porridge for breakfast while Matthew brought squash from the root cellar and Margaret worked cloves into the pork roast they would have for dinner.
The family stood for Matthew’s inspection before they walked out into the street, into a beautiful, exhilarating October day, the air clear and still in the warm sunshine, and colored leaves so brilliant they nearly hurt one’s eyes. Greetings were called and chatter abounded as they walked with their neighbors to the familiar, old white church with its steeple, and the bell calling the congregation.
They took the Dunson pew, and Matthew turned to the Weems pew where Dorothy was beaming, with Billy and Trudy on either side.
The Reverend Silas Olmsted, hawk-faced, gray-haired, bearded, shoulders hunched forward, led them in song and sermon, then closed with prayer, and the congregation emerged again into the bright sunlight to gather in small groups, feeling the touch of magic in the fall air, needing release, eager to talk and laugh, reluctant to leave. Billy and Dorothy stood with Matthew and Margaret and Brigitte while Adam and Prissy sought their own, to tease and run on the thick grass.
It was Matthew who saw Silas approach, and he saw the concern in the old man’s eyes as he spoke.
“Matthew, may I have a word with you?”
Matthew looked at Margaret, then Billy, then back at Silas. “Something wrong?
The old eyes were firm. “I don’t wish to alarm you, but do you have a moment?”
“Of course.”
He followed Silas back into the now-empty chapel, where the sun streamed through the stained-glass windows to transform the sparse room into a kaleidoscope of color.
Silas led him to one corner and spoke quietly. “I’m deeply concerned about Kathleen.”
Matthew started, instantly tense, focused. Kathleen? Gone three years? Has Silas heard from her? “Kathleen? What’s happened?”
“I received a letter from her the last week in September. It was written ten months ago, in January. I have no idea why it was so long getting here.”
Matthew struggled to control his racing fears. “What was in the letter?”
Silas looked toward the door, then reached inside his robe. “Read it. Maybe you’ll understand.”
Matthew opened the frayed envelope and silently read the letter.
Tuesday, December 29th, 1778
Dear Reverend Olmsted:
With heavy heart I write to inform you that my mother, Phoebe Thorpe, left us on Christmas Day, Friday, December 25th, 1778, and went to her final resting place in the cemetery at the village of Bexley, England.
Things are not well with the children, or myself, as long as we remain here. For that reason I write to tell you that I am making preparation to return to Boston in about eight months on a Dutch ship named the Van Otten. The captain is Jacob Schaumann. If you have not sold the home which I inherited, would you please not do so pending my return. It is my intention to sell it myself for whatever price I can get, and use the money to begin a new life somewhere in America. I also beg of you, tell no one of this, since there is much time between now and my return, and too much can happen.
I am unable to find words to thank you for your kindnesses to myself and my family.
/> With kindest regards,
Kathleen Thorpe
Matthew’s breath caught, and for a moment everything inside of him went dead. “This is the last you heard from her?”
“Yes. Now do you see my concern?”
“She said she would be here in eight months. That was ten months ago. Is that it?”
“Yes. You know about ships and the ocean. What could be wrong?”
For a moment Matthew’s eyes closed and his head tipped back. “Too many things. Storms, shipwreck, white slavers, high-seas pirates, a lying captain—too many things. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“You’ve been home only a few days, and she said she wanted no one to know. You read it. What can be done?”
Matthew skimmed the letter once more. “Captain Jacob Schaumann, of the Van Otten. I’ll go to the docks and find out what I can about the ship and the captain, everything I can learn about the weather in the North Atlantic for the past two months. October is bad for storms.”
“Will you do it?”
“I’ll need this letter.”
“Take it.”
Matthew refolded the letter and tucked it into his coat pocket and had started for the door when Silas grasped his arm.
“Don’t make this generally known.”
“I’ll have to tell Mother, and probably Billy. He can help.”
“Do what you have to do. If that poor child is gone . . .” Silas’s eyes were pleading.
Matthew said nothing as he walked out the door, directly to the waiting families. “Something’s come up. Billy, can you come with me now? Maybe for the rest of the day.”
Billy’s eyes opened wide. “Yes. What’s happened?”
Matthew turned to Margaret. “Mother, will you take the family home and finish the day without me. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
Margaret’s face paled. “What’s happened? What kind of trouble?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as I can. You’re not to worry. Understand?” He turned to Dorothy. “I’m sorry to take Billy. I’ll explain when I can.”
Dorothy shrugged. “Any danger?”
“No. We’ll be at the docks.”
The two left the churchyard, and Matthew handed the letter to Billy. They slowed while Billy read it, then both broke into a trot northeast onto Franklin, then east to India Street, and down to the east docks of the Boston Peninsula.
Billy asked, “She’s two months late?”
“Yes. I’ve got to know why.”
They went south on the docks to the first ship tied up unloading, strode up the gangplank, and faced the officer of the deck. With Billy at his shoulder, Matthew spoke, “Sir, I’m Matthew Dunson. I’m a navigator. I’ve just received news of an overdue ship from either Holland or London. Have you come in from the North Atlantic?”
The officer held his distance, eyes suspicious. “Yes.”
“What was your port of origin?”
“Cherbourg.”
“What was the weather?”
“Bad. Delayed four weeks.”
“Hear of any ships lost?”
“Three.”
“Any of Dutch registry?”
“One.”
“What name?”
“The Amsterdam. Went down with all hands one hundred twenty miles northwest of La Coruna. Hurricane. We turned back, but she didn’t. Have you lost someone?” The suspicious eyes softened.
“Maybe. Heard anything of a Dutch ship named the Van Otten?”
The officer pondered for a moment. “Heard of her, but nothing this trip.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man watched as Matthew led Billy back to the heavy oak planking of the docks and stopped.
“If we separate we can cover twice as many ships. The Dutch flag is three bars, red on top, white, blue on the bottom. Watch for it. You work south, I’ll go north. Meet back here at six o’clock.”
The docks ran for four miles, from the Colony Depot on the east side of the peninsula to Fruit Street on the west, with ships moored on one side of the street, and on the other, weathered warehouses of brick or frame and office buildings with names of national and international shipping companies printed in square letters across the windows or on signs above. Separately, the two men walked the gangplanks of the ships that were loading or unloading and entered the doors of shipping companies when lights showed inside. The day wore on, and as the sun dipped to the west and set, they each retraced their steps to meet back at Indian Street.
“Anything?” Matthew asked, and Billy shook his head.
“Can you help again tomorrow?”
Billy pondered for a moment. “I offered to work on some books of account for my old employer. The Bingham Foundry—one of his biggest clients. I’ll finish about noon.”
“Your mother will need to know about this, but try to not let it go further.”
Billy nodded.
At full dark Matthew closed the front door behind him and walked into the kitchen. Margaret and Brigitte were waiting. Margaret set a hot supper on the table, and they sat own, the women silent, waiting. Matthew laid Kathleen’s letter on the table in front of them and began eating.
Margaret read silently, gasped, and put her hand over her mouth. “Phoebe’s gone!” she exclaimed softly. Brigitte started, then settled, and Margaret finished reading and handed her the letter.
“You and Billy went down to the docks to find out about that ship?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“There was bad weather in the North Atlantic—hurricane—three ships went down. We’ll go back tomorrow. I’ve got to know what happened.”
Dawn came clear and calm, and the Boston docks were alive with tall ships moving in and out. Dock workers dressed in woolen sweaters were going to and coming from the vessels being loaded or unloaded. Matthew worked his way through the crowds and continued the search. At one o’clock Billy found him and they separated.
At three-forty p.m. Billy studied a ship newly arrived under a flag he did not recognize, tied to the Aspinwall Wharf, next to the landing of the Winnisimmet Ferry. He walked up the gangplank and stopped before the deck officer.
“Sir, I’m Billy Weems. I have need to inquire about a ship that is long overdue. Do you come from Europe?”
“Lisbon. Portugal.”
Billy was aware of the strong Spanish-Portuguese accent.
“Do you know anything of the Van Otten? Dutch registry?”
The small, bearded officer thought for a moment. “Sailed from London three months ago?”
Billy came to instant focus. “Yes.”
“Hurricane in the North Sea—she was damaged—put in at Lisbon for repairs. I saw her.”
“Is she still there?”
“No. She sailed the day we sailed.”
“Has she arrived here yet?”
“No. We distanced her. One day, maybe two days behind us.”
“What ship is this?”
“Ferdinand.”
“Thank you.” Billy spun and ran thumping down the gangplank onto the dock and turned west, working his way through the stacks of crates and cargo and the milling throng. At four-thirty p.m., panting and breathless, he caught up with Matthew.
“There’s a Portuguese ship—the Ferdinand—at Aspinwall Wharf. They saw the Van Otten.”
With the sun casting long shadows from the masts of the tall ships, Matthew trotted up the gangplank of the Ferdinand, rising and falling gently on the incoming tide, and faced the deck officer.
“I’m Matthew Dunson, a navigator. Do you have knowledge of the Van Otten?”
The man glanced at Matthew, then studied Billy for a moment before recognition showed. “The Van Otten should be in tomorrow or the next day.”
“Do you know which company her captain trades with?”
The man pursed his mouth for a moment. “DePriest, I think.”
“Thank you.”
Matthew spun
and Billy followed him trotting, three hundred yards south, stopping before a square, weathered brick building with a peeling sign across the front, DEPRIEST INT’L TRADING, LTD. Inside, a man in black tie and shirtsleeves had just locked the door, and Matthew banged.
Irritated, the man opened the door a foot. “Yes?”
“Are you expecting the Van Otten?”
The man sobered. “Yes. Have you heard something?”
“The deck officer of the Ferdiand says she’ll probably be in within two days.”
“He told us.”
“Do you know Captain Jacob Schaumann?”
“We know him.”
“Is he reliable?”
“Been fair with us. What’s your interest in this?”
“Does Schaumann take on passengers?”
“Sometimes. Are you expecting someone?”
“Maybe. Thank you. Very much.”
The man locked the door and disappeared in the office.
Hope surged through Matthew. He turned to face Billy. “She might be on it. Kathleen might be coming home.” He looked east, toward the mouth of the harbor, to the open sea. “You go on home. I’m going to stay. She could arrive yet today. Tell Mother I’ll be home after dark.”
“Want me to wait with you?”
“I’ve taken you away from home too much the past two days. You go on.”
It was past ten o’clock when Matthew pushed through the door into the parlor, and minutes later Margaret set a bowl of steaming beef broth before him while they talked.
At five-thirty a.m. Matthew was back on the docks, his telescope in his coat pocket, peering intently eastward into the gray dawn, watching the mists swirl on the sea. As the morning progressed, the mists gradually cleared, revealing a clear sky and bright sunshine. Matthew stood with his telescope extended, moving constantly back and forth, searching for any speck that might appear on the horizon. He paid no heed to the pungent odors and incessant sounds and bustle around him as the merchantmen were being unloaded of their cargoes of tea, silk, and spices from the East or porcelain and wool from Europe.
Three times before noon he stiffened and tracked a fleck on the horizon until it became sails and then a ship and then a schooner or a frigate from New York or the West Indies. He was unaware when the sun reached its zenith and began its slide toward the western horizon, nor did he care that he had not eaten. In his heart and mind was but one thought. She might be coming—she might be coming. It repeated like an unending chant, and he could hear nothing else.