'But I thought maybe you could ship me as a cabin boy.'
'And carry the captain's grog? And be brisk and useful to him? No, no, my captains want whole boys. So now—go away ... please.'
Johnny wandered off. 'I burned my hand making you a silver basin ... Now, it is "go away, please." '
He flung himself down in the shadow of a sail loft, for the late September day was warm as summer. He could hear the tap of shipwright's hammers, the creak of wooden wheels, a boatswain's whistle. Everywhere boys and men were at work. Only he was idle.
He saw picking his way delicately around barrels of molasses, bales, ox teams, a familiar, fantastic figure. It was Mr. Hancock's little black slave, Jehu. He was looking from side to side. When he saw Johnny, he went to him and said like a parrot, 'My master, Mr. John Hancock, Esquire, has commanded me to give this purse to the poor work-boy in the broken shoes who just left his counting house, and to tell him that he wishes him well.'
Johnny took the purse. It was heavy. That much copper would provide him with food for days. He opened it. It was not copper, but silver. John Hancock had not been able to look at the crippled hand—nor could he help but make this handsome present.
4
The thought of Lavinia Lyte gorging herself to death (if it pleased her) on fine foods had started the gastric juices in his stomach an hour ago. He had had no breakfast and for supper the night before only one salt alewife and a mug of milk. It was noontime and he craved food—not the mere coarse bread, cheese, ale, and apples which had always made up the large part of his diet, but rare and interesting things such as he had smelled cooking in rich people's houses and the best taverns, but had never tasted.
First he tormented his hunger by going from one tavern kitchen to the next to see which smelled the best. At the Bunch of Grapes a maid was basting a roast of beef. A spicy pudding was bubbling on the hearth. At the King's Coffee House a suckling pig was so crisp and brown it was fairly bursting. He almost drooled at this pig, but walked on. And everywhere he smelled chocolate and coffee. He had never in his life tasted either. He stopped in the kitchen of the Afric Queen. What he saw there made him feel he had swallowed a small live kitten, but he could almost enjoy these pangs, for in his pocket was Mr. Hancock's silver. Any minute he could assuage that kitten. And so to the Cromwell Head and back again to Union Street. His mind was made up. He would dine at the Afric Queen. For here he had seen maids roasting innumerable small squabs, each stuffed with fragrant dressing and wrapped in bacon. And he had seen pastries—apple, mince, pumpkin, plum tarts—coming out of the brick oven. The crust on them was an inch thick and so short and flaky it looked like scorched tissue paper.
'Well, kitten,' he said contentedly to his stomach as he took his seat humbly in the kitchen where grooms and such were fed while their betters ate in the dining rooms, 'you're going to have more than a saucer of milk today. How'd you like, say, five of those little squabs?'
But when he began to give his order to the serving maid, she giggled and ran off for the landlady.
'Now, boy,' this lady said to him firmly, 'you just show me the color of your money.'
Satisfied, she grunted, and told the maid to serve 'the little master.' This young girl was hardly older than Cilla. She could not help laughing at the things he ordered. The five little squabs, three of each kind of pastry, a wreath of jellied eels (because she said it was a specialty of the house), a tipsy parson—white bread tied into little knots, buttered and baked. And a pot of coffee and another of chocolate. When Johnny saw a dish being prepared in the kitchen for some diner in the other room, he would call for 'some of that,' and she giggled again and fetched it for him.
There was only one disappointment. The smell of coffee had always attracted him. He was disappointed at the bitter taste. The chocolate, however, was even better than he had dared to hope.
But when he came to pay, he was chagrined to find so much of his money had gone to fill and overfill his stomach. The kitten was no longer gnawing inside him, trying to get out. In fact, it was no longer a kitten. 'I feel as if I had swallowed a Newfoundland dog and it had died on me.'
What a fool he had been! He thought suddenly of Rab: that Rab wouldn't have let himself go so; and for the first time, standing in the cobbled stable yard behind the inn, he realized that the back of the little building he saw beyond the Afric Queen stables was the printing shop of the Boston Observer on Salt Lane. He wanted to cross through the back yards—go to see that Rab—but thought better of it. Not until he came as a friend and equal—not as a beggar. No.
He decided he would buy himself some shoes. His own flapped as he walked. His toes showed, but he hadn't liked it when Jehu had referred to him as 'a boy with broken shoes.'
As he left the cobbler's, his new shoes squeaking on his feet, he saw a peddler pushing a barrow of limes up Cornhill.
'Fine lemons and limes—lemons and limes.'
There was nothing in the world Isannah so craved as limes and Mrs. Lapham could not buy them for her. They were too dear. But sometimes sailors from the Indies or storekeepers would give her one—because she was so beautiful and would hug and kiss anyone who gave her a lime.
Johnny filled the pockets of his jacket and breeches with limes.
Now for Cilla. He could not buy her a gray pony, a gold necklace, nor a little sailboat. He went to a stationer's. There he found a book with the most wonderful pictures of Calvinistic martyrs, dying horrible but prayerful deaths. He glanced at the text. With his help she would soon be able to read it. Next he bought pastel crayons, but he passionately regretted all those squabs. He had no money left to get her drawing paper.
His new shoes fitted to a nicety. If the Newfoundland dog was a heavier tenant in his stomach than the kitten, it was more restful. His pockets were full of fine gifts. He whistled as he walked, and entered the Lapham kitchen ready to tell of his adventure with Mr. Hancock.
The womenfolk had spent all day paring apples, threading them on strings preparing to dry them for the winter. Even Mrs. Lapham looked tired. The lazy apprentice bursting in, happy for the first time in two months, irritated her. Then she saw his new shoes.
'Johnny Tremain,' she cried, 'what have you been up to?'
'What?'
'You wicked, wicked boy! Oh, I declare, you are going to bring disgrace on us all.'
He did not understand.
'Them shoes!' she roared. 'You never got them honestly. You've taken to thieving. I'm going to tell your master. He'll call a constable and then see if you darest not tell where you stole them. You've just gone from worse to worse. You're going to get whipped for this—set in the stocks. You're going to jail. You'll end up on the gallows.'
He let her scold, shake her wattles at him. As she flounced out of the room, Madge and Dorcas saw their chance to escape for a moment. All afternoon Frizel, Junior, the leather-dresser, had been standing outside on the street waiting for one or the other to come out. Frizel, Junior, was an accepted suitor, but no one knew whether it was Madge or Dorcas he was after. Mrs. Lapham didn't know. The girls didn't know. Frizel, Junior, himself did not seem to know. Both Madge and Dorcas were now wild to get out and after him. It looked as though whichever one was not Mrs. Frizel would end up Mrs. Tweedie.
Johnny stood before Cilla and Isannah, who had huddled together in a corner of the settle like frightened little animals as their mother accused Johnny of theft. He smiled and they smiled. He was so happy about his gifts that he forgot his misfortunes.
Cilla said happily, 'I know you didn't steal.'
'Of course not. Look, girl ... I've got crayons for you.' He put them on the table.
'For me?'
'And a book with pictures. Now, Cil, the printing is so easy I think you can almost teach yourself to read.'
'Oh, Johnny, look, look at that funny little man. See, he's got tiny little buttons on his coat. Oh, I never thought to own a book with pictures.'
He began fishing limes out of his frayed p
ockets. Isannah jumped about him like a puppy. 'Limes, limes!' she cried. They began to fall on the floor, rolling in all directions. All three children went down after them. Cilla was almost happier over Isannah's pleasure than her own. Johnny was happiest of all. For the first time he completely forgot his crippled hand. It was all as if nothing had happened and he and Cilla and Isannah were all one again.
He was pretending not to give the limes to the little girl. He was going to put them back in his pockets. But she knew they were for her. She wrapped herself about him, hugging him, kissing the front of his shirt (this was as far as she could reach). He started to pick her up in his arms, hold her over his head until she said, 'Please pretty.'
Suddenly Isannah's delighted cries changed to hysterical screams.
'Don't touch me! Don't touch me with that dreadful hand!'
Johnny stopped. It was the worst thing anyone had said to him. He stood like stone, his hand thrust back into his pocket. Cilla froze too—half under the kitchen table, a lime in her hand.
'Oh, Isannah! How could you?'
The nervous child went on screaming. 'Go away, Johnny, go away! I hate your hand.' Cilla slapped her and she burst into tears.
So he went away.
5
Now he was sure that what they all felt Isannah had been young enough to say. He felt his heart was broken. Once again he started to walk until he was so tired he could not think. The long, late-September night had already begun before he reached the town gates on the Neck. Beyond him, in the semi-darkness, running across mud flats, was the one road which connected Boston with the mainland. And here the gallows—on which Mrs. Lapham promised him to end. He turned back from the lonely place. The gallows and the graves of suicides frightened him a little. He wandered about through the salt marshes at the foot of the Common, circling until he came out on Beacon Hill. There he sat in an orchard for quite a while. It was either Mr. Lyte's or Mr. Hancock's, for the houses stood side by side. He saw the glitter of candles throughout the great mansions, guests coming and going, heard the music of a spinet. Isannah's words rang in his ears. He who had struggled hard never to cry now wished that he could. Then he walked off into sparsely settled West Boston. Behind the pesthouse by lantern light men were digging a hurried grave. He left West Boston and, skirting dirty Mill Cove, came at last into his own North Boston. On Hull Street he heard the staves of the town watch and the feet of the watchmen clumping on cobbles. By law no apprentice was allowed out so late. He slipped into Copp's Hill graveyard to hide until they were gone.
'One o'clock and a warm fair night,' called the watch.
It was indeed warm and fair and no hardship to spend such a night out under the moon and stars. Around about him everywhere lay the dead worthies of Boston. Their slate stones stood shoulder to shoulder. This was the highest land in Boston, next only to Beacon Hill.
Here, close to Hull Street, his mother was buried in an unmarked grave. He had not forgotten where and flung himself down beside the spot. Then he began to cry. He had not been able to cry before. It was as if Isannah's words had broken down the last strength in him. He cried half for himself and half because he knew how sorry his mother would be for him if she knew. I can't do decent work. I can't ever be a silversmith—not even a watchmaker. My friends don't want me to touch them with my dreadful hand.
Seemingly neither the moon nor the stars above him nor the dead about him cared.
Then he lay face down, sobbing and saying over and over that God had turned away from him. But his frenzied weeping had given him some release. He must have slept.
He sat up suddenly wide awake. The moon had seemingly come close and closer to him. He could see the coats of arms, the winged death's heads, on the slate stones about him. He was so wide awake he felt someone must have called his name. His ears were straining to hear the next words. What was it his mother had said so long ago? If there was nothing left and God Himself had turned away his face, then, and only then, Johnny was to go to Mr. Lyte. In his ears rang his mother's sweet remembered accents. Surely for one second, between sleeping and waking, he had seen her dear face, loving, gentle, intelligent, floating toward him through the moonlight on Copp's Hill.
He sat a long time with his arms hugging his knees. Now he knew what to do. This very day he would go to Merchant Lyte. When at last he lay down, he slept heavily, without a dream and without a worry.
IV. The Rising Eye
IT WAS PAST DAWN when he woke, his feeling of contentment still in him. He was no longer his own problem but Merchant Lyte's. Tomorrow at this time what would he be calling him? 'Uncle Jonathan?' 'Cousin Lyte?' Perhaps 'Grandpa,' and he laughed out loud.
Only imagine how Mrs. Lapham would come running, dropping nervous curtsies, when he drove up in that ruby coach! How Madge and Dorcas would stare! First thing he did would be to take Cilla for a drive. He'd not even invite Isannah. But how she would bawl when left behind! And then ... his imagination jumped ahead.
At the Charlestown ferry slip he washed in the cold sea water, and because the sun was warm sunned himself as he did what he could to make his shabby clothes presentable. He combed his lank, fair hair with his fingers, cleaned his nails with his teeth. Of course now he could buy Cilla that pony and cart. And Grandpa Lapham ... oh, he'd buy him a Bible with print an inch high in it. Mrs. Lapham? Not a thing, madam, not one thing.
Christ's Church said ten o'clock. He got up and started for Long Wharf where his great relative had his counting house. On his way he passed down Salt Lane. There was the comical little painted man observing Boston through his tiny spyglass. Johnny wanted to stop—tell that fellow—that Rab—of his great connections, but decided to wait until he was sure of his welcome into the Lyte family. Although half of him was leaping ahead imagining great things for himself, the other half was wary. It was quite possible he would get no welcome at all—and he knew it.
He walked half the length of Long Wharf until he saw carved over a door the familiar rising eye. The door was open, but he knocked. None of the three clerks sitting on their high stools with their backs to him, scratching in ledgers, looked up, so he stepped inside. Now that he had to speak, he found there was a barrier across his throat, something that he would have to struggle to get his voice over. He was more excited than he had realized. But he was scornful too. These three clerks would not even look up when he came in today, but tomorrow what would it be? 'Good morning, little master; I'll tell your uncle—cousin—grandfather that you are here, sir.'
Finally a well-fed, rosy youth, keeping one finger in his ledger, swung around and asked him what he wanted.
'It is a personal matter between myself and Mr. Lyte.'
'Well,' said the young man pleasantly, 'even if it is personal, you'd better tell me what it is.'
'It is a family matter. I cannot, in honor, tell anyone except Mr. Lyte.'
'Hum...'
One of the elderly clerks laughed in a mean way. 'Just another poor suitor for the hand of Miss Lavinia.'
The young clerk flushed. Johnny had seen enough of Madge and Dorcas and their suitors to know that the gibe about poor boys aspiring to Miss Lavinia had gone home.
'Tell him,' snickered the other ancient spider of a clerk, 'that Mr. Lyte is—ah—sensible of the great honor—ah—and regrets to say he has formed other plans for his daughter's future. Ah!' Evidently he mimicked Mr. Lyte.
The young clerk was scarlet. He flung down his pen. 'Can't you ever forget that?' he protested. 'Here, kid,' and turned to Johnny. 'Mr. Lyte's closeted behind that door with two of his sea captains. When they leave, you just walk in.'
Johnny sat modestly on a stool, his arrogant shabby hat in his good hand, and looked about him. The three backs were bent once more over the ledgers. The quill pens scratched. He heard the gritting of sand as they blotted their pages. There was a handsome half-model of a ship on the wall. Sea chests, doubtless full of charts, maps, invoices, were under the desks.
The door opened. Two ruddy
men with swaying walks stepped out and Mr. Lyte himself was shaking hands, bidding them success on their voyaging, and God's mercy. As he turned to go back to his sanctuary, Johnny followed him.
Mr. Lyte sat himself in a red-leather armchair beside an open window. Through that window he could watch his Western Star graving in the graving dock. He would have been a handsome man, with his fine dark eyes, bushy black brows, contrasting smartly with the white tie-wig he wore, except for the color and quality of his flesh. It was as yellow as tallow. Seemingly it had melted and run down. The lids were heavy over the remarkable eyes. The melted flesh made pouches beneath them. It hung down along his jawbone, under his jutting chin.
'What is it?' he demanded. 'Who let you in? What do you want, and who, for Heaven's sake, are you?'
'Sir,' said Johnny, 'I'm Jonathan Lyte Tremain.'
There was a long pause. The merchant's glittering black eyes did not waver, nor the tallow cheeks redden. If the name meant anything to him, he did not show it.
'Well?'
'My mother, sir.' The boy's voice shook slightly. 'She told me ... she always said...'
Mr. Lyte opened his jeweled snuffbox, took snuff, sneezed and blew his nose.
'I can go on from there, boy. Your mother on her deathbed told you you were related to the rich Boston merchant?'
Johnny was sure now Mr. Lyte knew of the relationship. 'Yes, sir, she did, but I didn't know you'd know.'
Know? I didn't need to know. It is a very old story—a very old trick, and will you be gone—or shall I have you flung out?'
'I'll stay,' Johnny said stubbornly.
'Sewall.' The merchant did not raise his voice, but instantly the young clerk was on his threshold. 'Show him out, Sewall, and happens he lands in the water, you—ah! can baptize him with my name—ah ... ha, ha!'
Mr. Lyte took up a handful of papers. The incident was over.
Sewall looked at Johnny and Johnny at Sewall. The young man was as kind as his cherubic face suggested.
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