The Hearth and Eagle (19 page)

“It is Lot Honeywood’s recipe—Moses’ father—” said Roger, gratified, never doubting that his listeners would know which ancestor he referred to, as indeed they did in a general way. Most of the old Marbleheaders knew the names of each other’s grandsirs and great-grandsirs, and they shared many in common.

“Lot wrote the punch recipe down up there—” continued Roger, pointing to some lines of crooked letters which ran along the great “summer” beam athwart the taproom, and quite oblivious to his hearers’ interest proceeded to recite—“Punch.”

The name consists of letters five
By five ingredients ’tis kept alive
To purest water, sugar must be joined
With these the grateful lemon is combined
When now these three are mixed with care
Then added be of spirit a good share
And that you may the drink quite perfect see
Atop the musky nut must grated be.

And that’s exactly how it’s made here to this day a hundred and fifty years later—” he finished with pride.

Hesper heard this from her seat on a hassock in the big parlor near her mother, and was touched and amused. Poor Pa, he didn’t know Ma didn’t make the punch that way at all. She used tea instead of water and molasses instead of sugar and a whole bottle of port wine as well as the rum. But Pa didn’t know lots of things, and he didn’t see that he’d checked all the easy talk there’d been amongst the seamen. The two skippers and those of their men who had arrived stood now in a stiff row waiting for his precise voice to stop.

She sighed. He doesn’t know how to get on with people, and I guess I don’t either. But there wasn’t anything for her to do right now, except wait. It wasn’t seemly for her to go into the taproom where the men were until the dancing began, and anyway Johnnie hadn’t come yet; she kept watching through the door. So she sat bleakly on her hassock and listened to her mother and Mrs. Cap’n Lane discuss the church supper and the Ladies’ Fancy Work Sale.

Susan and Mrs. Lane sat upon the long horsehair sofa, their somber bombazine skirts arranged in decorous folds, their voices subdued as befitted the dignity of the seldom-opened parlor.

This large square parlor was Susan’s great pride, and compensation for the rest of the house. The parlor was quite up to date and elegant. None of its furnishings were earlier than Moses Honeywood’s time, and of those only the French wallpaper, with its hunting scenes in faded maroon, the spinet, and the biblical tiles around the fireplace. The what-not, loaded with shell work, scrimshaw, and china figures, had been acquired by Roger’s father, as had the horsehair chairs and sofa, while the bright green and cabbage-rose carpeting, Susan had scrimped to buy herself. There was a center table with fringed yellow-plush throw, and on top of that the Bible, and the Family Album, flanking a large oil lamp with a white globe chimney frosted in ferns. There were candles too, in sconces along the wall, and in china candlesticks on the mantelpiece, though Susan always preferred lamps when possible. Candles dripped wax and made a mess.

At a quarter to seven Charity Trevercombe arrived with her mother. They entered by the formal front door on the harbor side of Moses’ wing, and Hesper hurrying to greet them felt a new despondency. Charity wore a dress of ruffled cherry-colored taffeta, her chestnut hair fell over her shoulders in soft perfect ringlets, from her ears dangled little gold earrings shaped like butterflies, and she looked extraordinarily pretty.

Nor could Hesper help seeing the quiver of attention that ran through the men in the taproom, a sort of kindling; even old Cap’n Lane patted his tie and shifted position at the punch bowl so he could watch the little cherry-colored figure.

“Oh Hessie—isn’t this a lark!” trilled Charity, flitting around the parlor and settling as near the men as she dared. “I do love dancing. What other girls are coming?”

“Why, I guess Nellie Higgins and Bessie Bowen, and I think Ma asked the Selmans and the Picketts—” She broke off, staring into the taproom.

“There’s Johnnie Peach!” cried Charity. “My, he looks almost handsome. Haven’t seen him in ages. Guess he’ll ask me for the first reel.”

She dimpled and fluttered her eyelashes as Johnnie walked into the parlor, but though he grinned at the girls and made them a mock salute he went past them to the horsehair sofa. “Evenin’, ma’ams—” he said bowing to Susan, Mrs. Cap’n Lane, and Mrs. Trevercombe. “Fine night for a party. It’s blowin’ up a bit outside though. Wind’s shifted.”

Hesper watching and straining to hear, saw her mother’s eyes meet Johnnie’s for a thoughtful second. “I hope ’twon’t blow hard enough to hold you in the harbor—tomorrow.” The pause before the last word was obvious only to Hesper and Johnnie.

“Why no, ma’am, I don’t doubt we’ll get out.”

Mrs. Lane bridled; after all her husband was master of the
Diana
and Johnnie only one of the crew. “That’s for Cap’n Lane to say—John Peach. He’ll do as he thinks best.”

“Yes’um,” said Johnnie submissively. Mrs. Trevercombe rearranged her bonnet strings and looked bored. Johnnie Peach was a nice enough boy for a fisherman, but she hadn’t missed her daughter’s flutters and dimplings as he came in. She doubted the wisdom of letting Charity come tonight; not likely to meet any of the few really eligible young men in Marblehead.

Now the two large rooms began to fill; Nellie Higgins and Bessie Bowen arrived together with their families, then the Selmans and the Picketts from up Franklin Street. The men, having fortified themselves, temporarily abandoned the punch bowl and mingled with the ladies. Ambrose, the fiddler, arrived promptly at seven and was stationed on a box in a corner of the taproom, where he set up a premonitory squeaking and scraping, upon which Roger, feeling that he need do no more in the interests of hospitality, vanished to his study.

The girls clustered together in the parlor by the spinet, trying to look unconscious as the young seamen began to edge towards them.

“Here he comes—” whispered Charity, referring to Johnnie, of course. But Johnnie looked right over her head to Hesper, who had drawn back to the wall, miserably conscious of her height and the inadequacies of her blue poplin.

“Come on, Hes—” said Johnnie, holding out his hand, “we’ll start ’em off.”

Charity said “Oh” under her breath, tossed her head, and accepted Willy Bowen, who was mate on the
Ceres.
Hesper found herself still clinging to Johnnie’s square brown hand, and dropped it with a furious blush. “I don’t know many steps—” she murmured, “I—”

“It doesn’t matter, no more do I. But I wanted a word with you.”

They took their positions at the head of the seat, and while the other couples formed beside them, Johnnie muttered out of the corner of his mouth—“Where’s Peg-Leg?”

“Sick. Couldn’t come,” she whispered back.

Johnnie frowned, while he seized her hands and they galloped down the aisle of jigging, clapping young bodies, and said, “This job’ll take a bit of doin’. Is your ma keepin’ watch?”

She nodded, for Susan had seated herself in the parlor so that she might see through the west window which overlooked the street. “ ’Tisn’t time yet.” And I wish it never would be, Hesper thought.

This business tonight now seemed to her an unwelcome and foolish interruption. She was happy with Johnnie, leading the set and dancing better than she had hoped to. The music was exciting, “Money Musk,” “Sir Roger de Coverley”; Ambrose was a good fiddler, the round mellow notes winged from his fiddle and filled the old taproom with the essence of gaiety. The light from a dozen candles flickered on smiling faces, the oak planks, glistening with a fresh coat of beeswax, resounded under stamping exuberant feet. Later there’d be forfeits—maybe Johnnie’d still be her partner, and if the forfeit was a kiss—

She completed a left and right around the circle, stood again before him, panting a little—her eyes shining, but Johnnie didn’t see her. He stared past her toward the entry, his lips tight. She followed his gaze and saw Nat Cubby with a strange man. Oh dear, she thought, for Johnnie muttered and dropped out of the dancing; she tagged along behind him as he sauntered up to the newcomers. “I was wonderin’ if you was cornin’ tonight,” he said to Nat, and raised his eyebrows toward the stranger.

This was a lanky man with a black mustache, a flowered waistcoat, gray pantaloons, and a broad silk belt from which protruded the handle of a revolver. “Good evening—” the stranger said easily—“Hope I’m not intruding. Happened to have a bit of business in Marblehead tonight. Ran into my young friend here on the pier, asked him where I could find a little drink, so he brought me along.” The black mustache lifted in an ingratiating smile.

“Taproom’s closed to the public,” said a sharp voice. Susan had squeezed past the dancers, and she stood behind Hesper and Johnnie, arms folded across her black silk bosom.

“Why, I’m sorry for that, ma’am—” drawled the stranger bowing to her, “but you’d not turn away a weary traveler, would you? It’s been a long journey, first and last—from Carolina I started, but there’s been many a stop since.” He smiled again. “At Swansea—” he added, “at Medford—and last night at Lynn. You see, ma’am, you might say I’ve been searching for something.”

No muscle moved in Susan’s broad freckled face, as she heard the insinuating drawl tick off the nearest stations on the “Underground.” Hesper, for a moment not understanding, felt Johnnie beside her take a quick breath. Why, it’s a slave-catcher, she thought suddenly enlightened. She stared at the revolver. The stranger gently buttoned up his coat. Nat leaned against the wall, watching all of them from his sardonic yellowish eyes, his mouth lifted in the lifeless smile.

The music stopped with a flourish of twirling dancers, and a burst of clapping.

“You’re welcome to a mug o’ punch,” said Susan, “since you’ve come so far, and Nat brought you, but—”

“I’m glad of that, ma’am—” interrupted the stranger, “for I’m expecting my friend, your sheriff, to join me here. A convenient meeting place you might say.”

“Aye—to be sure—” Susan said, with perfect calm. “Here’s Jeff now.” She walked forward to greet the weedy, apologetic little sheriff, who came sidling in, torn between the necessity of upholding the law and embarrassment at affronting the Honeywoods. “Nat—” Susan went on smoothly, “you ’n’ Johnnie take care of the sheriff and Mr.—”

“Clarkson, Harry Clarkson—” supplied the stranger.

“and Mr. Clarkson, see they get acquainted ’n’ have some punch. I’ll fetch some more spices from the kitchen.”

“Wouldn’t dream of troubling you, ma’am—” said Mr. Clarkson, “unless I went with you and helped you. Down South we don’t let our ladies lift a finger, ’deed we don’t. Besides I don’t like my punch too spicy.” He stood squarely in front of Susan. The sheriff gave an embarrassed cough and moved away.

The situation was now quite clear. The slave-catcher had no intention of letting Susan out of his sight. During the course of his work he had become a shrewd judge of character, had often encountered her type during his raids on underground stations—forceful, steely-eyed women fanatical in their determination to meddle with other people’s property. She’d be the ringleader, all right. But he had to go slow, no evidence that this was a station, nothing but a rumor that had reached him in Lynn after his disappointment last night. He’d been sure the nigger wench and her brat were heading to Lynn, but he hadn’t been able to find them there. It had been good luck at last to meet up with this young Cubby on the wharves. He’d been quite friendly and helpful, though with that snarl on his face you couldn’t tell what he was thinking; anyway he’d led the way here.

The slave-catcher’s sharp suspicious eyes darted over the faces while he accepted a glass of punch. Lot of rough fishermen jabbering away in that crazy brogue most of ’em talked; some old women, and a handful of gawky country girls. It was then that he discovered Charity, who had withdrawn to the far corner of the taproom to giggle with Willy Bowen until the music started again, and she could make Johnnie dance with her.

Charity decided that Johnnie had lost interest in Hesper, since he was lounging glumly near the parlor door, and Hesper was standing in back of her ma near the interesting-looking stranger. As a matter of fact the stranger was staring in her direction, and Charity arched her neck and gave him a sidelong glance. The slave-catcher’s eyes gleamed. He sauntered across the room, not neglecting to keep Mrs. Honeywood in sight with the corner of one eye. But this gave Susan a needed opportunity. “Hes—” she whispered under cover of stirring the punch, “he’s not watching you. Go to the kitchen and wait for ’em. You know what to do. I’ll keep him in here. Hurry, slip out while he’s talking to Charity.”

“Oh Ma—I can’t.” Leave the fun and dancing, leave Johnnie to Charity’s wiles, just when things were going so well. And what for? Some old niggers who probably wouldn’t come, and in whom she didn’t actually believe. This wasn’t an adventure at all, it was unpleasant and stupid, and she heartily agreed with her father. Except that the whole thing seemed unreal, everyone playing a part like Bible charades. The slave-catcher and his pistol didn’t seem any more convincing than Old Pharaoh and his spear when Willy Bowen had played it. “You’ll go
now
—" whispered Susan savagely. “I knew you wasn’t fit to be trusted.” If they’d been alone she would have slapped the girl, shilly-shallying like her father.

Just then Johnnie turned in the doorway where he had been watching both rooms, Nat in the parlor and the slave-catcher in the taproom. Johnnie saw Hesper’s unhappy face beyond her mother’s flushed and angry one, and he caught something of the situation. He smiled at Hesper, a smile of warm encouragement, and his lips formed the words “Good Luck!” Then he turned his back again.

So that was different. Johnnie expected her to go. Hesper backed quickly and noiselessly toward the wall behind her, where a door led to the buttery passage. Ambrose the fiddler had sat silent on his box since he had stopped playing, his fiddle resting on his knee, his dark face expressionless, staring up at the beams. Yet at the moment when Hesper opened the buttery door and slipped through he lifted his fiddle and brought the bow across it in a crescendo crash tearing into “Pop Goes the Weasel.” So that nobody noticed Hesper’s departure.