The Hearth and Eagle (21 page)

“In olden times in Marblehead, there was many a deed of valor—” The thought did not come clear to her, but as she led the slave-catcher from the buttery, through the larder and into the borning room, pausing in each for him to poke and pry and open cupboards, she was puzzled by a question. Why did the olden times seem so romantic—while the present never did? She had a vague realization that this night’s work would also seem romantic someday, but it didn’t now. That’s because I don’t know the ending—she thought. Things you hear of from the past, you know what’s happened, you don’t have to worry. Yet at the moment, she wasn’t worried. She felt contempt, mastery, inner excitement, not worry, as she led the slave-catcher through the rambling house, even pointing out cupboards and crannies he might overlook. They descended to the cellars; the shallow, crude excavation under the old part, the capacious dry rooms under Moses’ wing. Clarkson picked up a long stick that was used for stirring the brine in the salt-pork barrel and thrust it into the potato bin and the apple bin. He moved the spare casks of rum, and the kegs of beer. He kept a sharp eye for any suspicious marking in the masonry.

The cellars and attics of these old houses were prime choice for hiding places. He found nothing. He kept a sharp eye on Hesper too for any signs of tension, but he could see none. Queer sort of a girl with all that tumbling red hair, her squarish white face set in an expression of chill indifference. Younger than he’d first thought too, not more than sixteen, and innocent-looking for all her loftiness. His certainty that Delacort’s fugitive nigger wench was hidden in the house began to weaken, but he pursued the search.

Hesper led him up the newer cellar stairs, to the parlor, still brilliantly lit. From the other side of the door they could hear the uneasy shufflings and murmurs of the company imprisoned in the taproom. They continued to the second floor up the beautiful mahogany front staircase. She waited for him to look under the canopied beds and into paneled cupboards in the four spacious bedrooms built by Moses. They descended two steps to the back passage and the old wing. Here there were three bedrooms, her own, her parents’, and a spare room, all small and low-ceilinged, sparsely furnished with the rough pine bedsteads and rush-seated slat-back chairs they had always contained.

Clarkson shook his head and snapped, “Now the attic—if that’s all down here. House’s a regular rabbit warren—up and down, little rooms, big rooms, crazy way to build.”

Hesper said nothing, but she saw that the slave-catcher was losing hope, and her spirits rose higher.

There was a bad moment in the attic. Clarkson stumbled around amongst the accumulated lumber of centuries, the spinning wheels and flax carders, the long cradle and the wooden chests and brass-studded cowhide trunks. Hesper held the candle for him as he demanded it, and he halfheartedly opened a few lids, shook those trunks and chests which were locked. He groped around the masses of the huge central chimneys, the old one of stone, the newer one of bricks. He took the candle himself to examine the roof and the rough-hewn rafters, and did not discover so much as a cobweb, so thorough was Susan’s housekeeping. “I’ll take oath there’s nothing here—” he muttered when a strange little sound came to them, a small, choked wail.

“What’s that?” cried Clarkson, his hand flew to his pistol, he swung the candle this way and that, peering. The sound had seemed to come from the floor near the old chimney.

It’s the baby, thought Hesper petrified. Pray God it doesn’t do it again.

“I didn’t hear anything—” she said. “For the Land’s sake aren’t you through up here yet?”

“Shut up!
I
heard something. Keep quiet.”

They stood in the old attic, listening. There was no further sound. Hesper saw plain what must be going on down there, the terrified mother crouching on the pallet in the little cubicle beneath the floor muffling the baby’s mouth with her hand, or her breast.

“Very like you heard a rat, or the wind in the chimney—” said Hesper in just the right tone of boredom and impatience. Strange how easy it was to lie. Stranger yet that these lies were allowed. Ma herself, who was so strict, had been telling them all evening.

As though the slave-catcher had caught an inkling of her thought, he suddenly held the candle to her face. “Look, honey—” he said quite gently, “you people don’t act like you realized I’m only doing my duty and my job, and the law’s solid behind me, remember that. You seem like a smart nice girl. I’m going to put it to you fair and square.” His mustache lifted in an ingratiating smile, the hand that held the candle touched and pressed against her shoulder. “Have you seen, or do you know of, any fugitive slave hidden anywhere on these premises?”

“No,” said Hesper, moving her shoulder away. Clarkson made a disgusted sound through his nose. He turned and stamped down the attic stairs in glum silence. Maybe the wench was telling the truth, maybe the whole business was a mare’s nest after all. Thing to do now, was let the old graybeard loose and follow him. See what he did, come back here later, when they were off guard, maybe find a clue then.

He unlocked the taproom door. “You can all go now—” he said sulkily, entering. He had put the pistol back in its holster, and he didn’t look at anyone; not even Charity, who thought him most attractive, and had spent this imprisoned hour envying Hesper her opportunities, rambling alone all over a dark house with a handsome, sophisticated man like that. What if he was a slave-catcher! Who cared about the silly slaves anyway. Ma’d often said they were far better off on the plantations than they’d be anywhere else. Now that Mr. Clarkson had satisfied himself he wasn’t going to find whatever he’d been looking for, maybe he’d relax and enjoy the party, come and sit by her again, repeat that she was the prettiest little piece he’d laid eyes on in many a long day.

Charity’s hopes were dashed. Mr. Honeywood, who always seemed so meek and spineless, suddenly pulled himself up until his head grazed the beams, and stiff as a flagpole, pointed a long bony finger toward the door. “Your behavior has been outrageous, sir,” he said in a high quivering voice. “Get out of my house.”

And Mr. Clarkson picked up his wide-brimmed black hat and went without a word. The minute he left all the others started leaving too. Charity sighed. First to last the party’d been a failure. She’d only danced two dances, there hadn’t been any forfeits, and Johnnie Peach hadn’t been near her at all.

The sheriff left next, murmuring a sheepish apology. The others followed quickly. No one mentioned the evening’s interruption.

“Oi misloike leavin’, ma’am—” said Cap’n Lane, shaking first Susan’s hand then Roger’s—“but Oi needn’t tell ye, a seaman keeps ear-rly hours. We’ve to be abar-rd by cock-crow. Thanks for the good cheer-r.”

His wife, Cap’n Caswell, the other couples, the girls and the young fishermen all made similar farewells and filed out.

The Honeywood family was left with Johnnie Peach, and the old man who seemed to be asleep by the fire.

“Disgusting occurrence—” said Roger. “Put a hole right through the kitchen wall. Molesting innocent people. I’d like to have the law on him. That’s what comes of ever having gotten mixed up with—” He checked himself, remembering that he was not alone with his wife. He scooped a mugful of punch from the depleted bowl, and swallowed it irritably. “What’s to be done with that old tramp?” he said, pointing.

Susan had started piling the used mugs on a tray, and crumbing the table. There were mounds of gingerbread, brandy snaps, and saffron tarts still untouched.

“Never mind him, Roger,” she answered quietly. “I’ll care for him. You go to bed. Hes and Johnnie’ll help me clear up.”

Roger grunted. “Well, good night, all. If that bostard comes back, don’t let him in.” And his use of the universal Marblehead epithet marked the extent of his perturbation. He stalked out.

Susan put down the tray of mugs; she and Johnnie both looked at Hesper. “What happened, Hes? Tell us quick, from the beginning.”

Hesper complied, speaking in short, nervous whispers, while Johnnie and her mother listened anxiously.

“Now what’s to be done—” said Susan shaking her head. “How’ll we get ’em out o’ here?”

The old man raised his head, pushing off his hood. “Where’s the fiddler?” he said.

Susan jumped. “I’d clean forgot you, sir. The fiddler bolted the minute Clarkson opened the door, he looked pretty skeered.”

The old man nodded. “Too bad. He knew something of what was up. But he’ll be no use now. You got your boat ready?” he asked Johnnie.

“Aye. She’s pulled behind a rock, windward side o’ Gerry’s Island, nobody’d see her there tonight. I calc’lated we could sneak ’em down through the Honeywood lot, and across Little Harbor to the island near dry-shod before the water rises much. Row ’em over to Cat from there.”

“Good. But can you manage alone?”

“ ’Twill be hard. Tide and wind’s both against.”

“I’d help you—though I’ve a feeble back and no knowledge of the water—except that I’m worse needed for decoy.” His bearded lips lifted. “I know our friend the slave-catcher’s mind better than he knows it himself. Having drawn a blank here, he’s lurking outside to follow me. I’ll lead him a good chase, make it interesting enough to keep him with me, it’ll give you time.” He stood up and went to the table, crammed a tart into his mouth, and a handful of gingerbread into his pocket. “By your leave, ma’am.”

“O’ course—take all—you’ve got spunk, sir. I hope we’ve as much. We’ll do our best. But after this the U.G. mustn’t use us. Roger’s dead agin it. I had to diddle him tonight.”

“Yes, I saw.” He smiled his singularly sweet and warming smile. “Anyway we’re building up the overland line, westward to the border. I must hurry, but who’s to help you row, young man?” he added frowning.

“I am,” said Hesper firmly. “I’d thought of it earlier.”

Johnnie’s worried face cleared. “Gorm—I guess you could at that, Hes. You used to be right handy for a girl.”

Susan opened her mouth and shut it again. It was the only solution now, but her heart misgave her. There was always danger on the sea—who to know better than she who had lost sons, and her father too ? If anything should happen to Hes, and Roger not knowing either. Still, what was right was right and risks must be taken.

“You sure o’ the brig, sir?” she said rolling up the brandy snaps in a napkin and handing them to the old man.

He nodded. “Cap’n Nelson never fails. He’s heart and soul for the cause and well paid too. Good luck. God’ll rejoice in you for this night’s work. I daren’t shake hands, for I believe our bloodhound’s lurking by that window. Give us twenty minutes, then move fast.” He wrapped himself in his cloak and shuffled across the floor and out the taproom door.

“Hes,” said Susan briskly, handing Hesper a diluted mug of punch. “Drink this.”

Hesper obeyed, startled. Ma’d never let her touch anything stronger than dandelion wine. It tasted awful, for a second she thought she must retch, then a pleasing tingle of warmth glowed in her stomach.

“Change your clothes—I’ll give you Willy’s oilskins. Johnnie, keep watch outside, be sure he’s gone.” Susan bustled her daughter upstairs. As soon as Hesper had taken off the blue poplin, her mother reappeared with a flannel shirt and complete set of oilskins. She kept her drowned sons’ clothes in a locked sea chest in her bedroom though the fact was never mentioned.

“Good thing you’re tall—” she said grimly. She pulled down the braid of red hair and tucked it inside the stiff yellow jacket, jammed on the stiffer back-brimmed sou’wester and fastened it under Hesper’s chin. “Anybody at ten paces’d take you for a fisher boy—” and suddenly she leaned near and kissed Hesper on the cheek, an occurrence so unprecedented that they were both flooded with embarrassment.

“Well, are your feet glued to the floor—” snapped Susan. “Get moving—hurry.”

They found Johnnie pacing up and down the kitchen, also attired in his oilskins. “Gorm—” he stared at Hesper—“I’d never’ve known ye.” He chuckled and gave her shoulder a resounding thwack—“M’ hearty young fisherman!” But catching Susan’s minatory eye he went on quickly—“They’ve gone, all right. Old man stumpin’ along up Circle Street an’ the slave-catcher creepin’ through the shadows a few rods behind. Wind’s slackenin’ some—praise be—but tide’s cornin’ in fast.”

Susan pulled the window curtains tighter and opened the closet door. “Call ’em, Hes!”

The girl manipulated the panel and ascended the narrow steps, her creaking clumsy oilskins catching against the chimney’s rough stone. “Come down,” she called gently into the darkness. “It’s safe now.”

There was a soft movement in the hidey-hole, and Hesper backed down the steps. The mulatto girl followed at once. She stood crouching over the baby, and trembling. Her black eyes slid from one to the other of them, her golden-brown face was a mask of fear.

“Here now—” said Susan, “stop shaking. You’re almost free. These two’ll get you to the ship.” She doused the candle and opened the back door.

Johnnie went first, then the slave girl, then Hesper. The moonless night was overcast with heavy dark clouds, yet was not too dark for Hesper and Johnnie’s keen young eyes. They followed the familiar path between the vegetable and herb patches past the apple trees and around the great elm tree that marked the eastern boundary of the Honeywood lot. They crept in the shadow of Pitman’s fish warehouse, and Johnnie paused to inspect the cove. All the fish flakes had been covered with tarpaulin for the night, all dories beached and made fast. Their peering eyes could discern no movement in the darkness. There was no noise but the lap and suck of the water on the shingle, and then the crunch of their heavy fishing boots as Johnnie led the way over the shore pebbles to the strip of land which at low tide connected the mainland and Gerry’s Island. The slave girl glided silent as a forest doe between them. As they reached the island the rising waters wet her feet and she gasped from the sudden cold, but made no other sound.

They crossed the bare little island to the ocean side where Johnnie had hidden his new green dory between two sheltering rocks. Johnnie tugged until it floated, then guided the two girls while they clambered in. He placed the slave girl in the stern, and as she settled herself the baby woke up and gave a fretful cry. She crouched lower over it, a dark shape against the darker rocks behind, and they heard her crooning—“Hush—Hush—Hush.” Johnnie put Hesper on the forward thwart, and himself amidships. He fitted in the oars. He had set the tholepins earlier,’ then wrapped them round with sacking. “All set—Hes,” he whispered. “Pull slow and steady. Don’t get winded and don’t get skeered.”