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At sunrise on Friday morning, Mister Prince walked into the library and gave his captain an extended look. Marin had the appearance of a man who had lost a long battle with the night.
“Have ya had no sleep, then?” Jude asked.
Marin shook his head.
“Let’s get some coffee in ya.”
When Mister Prince returned with two cups of coffee, Marin asked, “Where would she go?”
Jude gave a surprised tilt of his head as he handed Marin his coffee.
“She’s been gone all night,” Marin said.
“Opaline?” Jude asked.
Phoebe wobbly waddled into the doorway of the library and steadied herself against the doorjamb.
“I don’t feel very good,” she said. “I need to see Miss Opaline.”
Jude waited for Marin to respond, but when he didn’t, he said to Phoebe, “Seems Miss Opaline has spent an evening away from home.”
“Will ya have her come to my bedside when she returns?”
“If she returns,” Marin mumbled.
“She’ll be back,” Phoebe said confidently. “She wouldn’t leave me.”
Marin felt awkwardly calmed by the statement, and asked, “Where could she have gone?” more to himself than to Jude and Phoebe.
Phoebe gave Marin a vacant stare before turning away and heading back toward the bedroom. “We may never know ...but she’ll be back,” she said, her voice trailing behind her.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Marin fired back at her.
Phoebe stopped at the threshold of Maria’s bedroom, and without turning, replied, “She’ll return, secrets and all.”
As the bedroom door clicked shut, Jude felt an urgent need to change the subject, so he asked, “Should we gather Mister Oswald before meeting with Mister Reynolds?”
Marin scowled at Jude and walked out of the library and into the foyer.
“I’ll have a word with Phoebe,” Jude offered, following along behind.
“You do that,” Marin mumbled, grabbing his coat and hat, and turning back to Jude, he asked, “Well, are you coming along or not?”
“You’d do us both a favor to take a glance at yerself before ya go. Ya look more like a dockside scruff than the Captain of the Magister Maris ...if ya don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
A smile broke through Marin’s weary crust. “I certainly do mind, ‘ya sayin’ so’, ya salty bastard,” Marin said, and went off to clean himself up.
Attempting to leave the house, they found the front door frozen shut. Marin soon discovered that two or three good leans of a strong shoulder couldn’t budge it.
“Let me try,” Jude said.
As he reared back to begin his plunge into the door, Phillipe cried out, “NO!”
Marin and Jude looked at Phillipe standing at the foot of the stairs, clad in a long cotton nightgown and stocking cap.
“That isn’t how you do it,” he told them.
He walked over to the door, turned his back to it, grabbed the door latch from behind, gave it a twist, and kicked the base of the door with the flat of his bare foot. The sound of shattering ice brought a smile of conceit to Phillipe’s lips as he pulled open the door.
“That is how you do it,” he said. “Brains, not brawn.”
The three of them stood looking out through the doorway at the ice-covered world, gleaning in the morning sunrise, giving the appearance of a world covered with glass. Even the wintry morning air seemed frozen in place. Aunt Belle emerged from the parlor where she had spent the night, and made her way between the three men.
“The front door is a passageway, not an observatory,” she said, “and you’ll have your breakfast before you leave,” she added, closing the door.
“We need to fetch Mister Oscar. We can eat at the pub,” Marin said.
“You’re not going to the pub for an hour of drinking before meeting with the Navy. You’ll need to keep your wits about you - Lord knows, they’ll bring theirs,” she said. “What time did Opaline return last night?” she asked. When no one answered, she said to Marin, “Come help me in the kitchen.”
As Marin and Aunt Belle began preparing breakfast, she spoke to Marin, although it occurred to her he may not being listening. “I don’t want you worrying about Opaline. When a woman seeks a space to herself in order to think, it is almost always by way of confirmation. She needs to be sure of something that she is already all but sure of. If her answer was ‘no’, you would have known by now. A woman knows it is always easier to change a no to a yes, than a yes to a no, and so, she needs to be sure of the sort of, ‘yes’, that is about to change her life forever.”
Marin didn’t appear to be convinced, but he didn’t offer a rebuttal either. Aunt Belle felt no need to comment further.
As they all sat down to eat, someone knocked on the door. Aunt Belle went to answer and returned with Mister Oscar in tow.
“We were about to come lookin’ for ya,” Mister Prince said.
“I was at the pub. After a while I got a little antsy, thought I’d come look you up.”
He handed Marin the morning paper. The headlines read, ‘Congress Debates War’. Marin folded the paper lengthwise and put it aside.
“They’re not so much debatin’ as waitin’,” Mister Oscar said. “Waitin’ for the British to do somethin’ stupid.”
Jude’s steel-blue eyes locked onto Marin’s as he threw his comment across the table. “Like attackin’ an unarmed American medical supply ship, floatin’ near the border?”
Everyone froze in place. Aunt Belle was the first to comment.
“Why would the British attack an unarmed American Medical ship?” she asked.
“They wouldn’t,” Jude said, still aiming at Marin.
“Well then?” Aunt Belle concluded.
Phillipe gave Aunt Belle a smile, but it melted when he turned to Marin, Jude, and Oscar. “Oh no,” he said, “I know what you three are thinking.”
“Do you?” Jude grunted.
“Yes, I think I do,” Phillipe replied.
“Then keep it to yourself,” Jude ordered. “We need to get goin’,” he said to Marin.
“Give me a few minutes,” Phillipe said, “I would like to accompany you,” and he ran up the stairs to his room.
The three sailors took the opportunity to take their leave without him.
***
The walk down to the harbor was a slippery task. Stumbling side by side, looking as if they had stayed too long at the pub, the three sailors huddled together, heads down, locked in place against the frigid air. Marin looked up first.
“There she is,” he announced.
Jude and Oscar looked up to see the three bare masts of the Magister Maris, etched into the canvas of a bright blue skyline.
“She a beautiful sight,” Jude declared.
“You have no idea,” Marin said, as he split off from the other two and began walking inland. “Opaline,” he called out.
Opaline was about forty yards off in the distance, walking toward the pier. Marin closed the distance between them as quickly as he could negotiate the slick glare ice beneath his boots.
“Where have you been?” he asked her, wrapping his arms around her. She stood inside his embrace with her arms at her side. Marin gradually released his arms from around her, and said, “Are you alright?”
Opaline nodded and tucked her right arm under his left. “Shall we have a look at your ship?” she said.
As Marin and Opaline joined Jude and Oscar, she only glanced at Jude, but Jude’s eye remained a little longer on her. As they approached the ship, two sentries blocking the entrance to the Magister Maris met them.
“I am Captain Marin Carpenter, and I am here to inspect my ship,” he informed them.
“We have orders to wait for Mister Reynolds and Captain Fairchild, sir. They will arrive at eight a.m.”
Jude checked his pocket watch and said, “It is eight a.m.”
“Not quite, sir,” the guard said, being altogether certain of himself. It was only a moment later that a carriage arrived and stopped at the foot of the gangplank. “It is eight a.m. now, sir,” the guard announced with resolve.
Mister Reynolds walked past Marin and company without acknowledgment. Captain Fairchild stopped to introduce himself.
“Which one of you gentlemen is Captain Carpenter?”
Marin stepped forward with a nod. Captain Fairchild saluted him and introduced himself. Marin did not return the salute, but stood firm with his hands on his hips.
“Perhaps you could introduce me to your entourage,” the naval captain pressed.
“This is my First Mate, Mister Jude Prince; this is my ship’s carpenter, Mister Oscar, and this...” and he paused before introducing Opaline.
She put her hand out to Captain Fairchild and said, “I am Miss Opaline Downing, Captain Carpenter’s fiancée.”
Marin tried his best to not to look surprised, as his head gave a quick turn to Opaline. Jude and Oscar made no such attempt to hide their surprise, as their heads turned to one another. The captain, having shaken her hand, extended both arms out wide, as if to gather them all together.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Captain Reynolds shouted out the warning, “Be very careful, the deck is extremely slippery.” Marin’s eyes rolled skyward, and Mister Reynolds clarified, “I was speaking to the lady.”
As they came aboard, Mister Oscar could not help but notice that none of the rigging had been replaced. Most of the stays were the same worn ropes that had needed replaced before the last voyage. The sails were all tucked away such that their condition could not be inspected. The mizzenmast had a long crack running from its base to the first yardarm. Mister Prince, noticing how clean the deck was, commented that the Navy had done a fine job of shinin’ driftwood, a comment Marin found void of humor. Marin asked why the three ‘Jollyboats’ the Magister Maris carried in her Waist Deck were missing. Neither Mister Reynolds nor Captain Fairchild had an answer for him. After the brief inspection above and below deck, Mister Oscar stood before his captain, and declared,
“Sir, this ship is not seaworthy, and she might fall shy of qualifying as a suitable museum piece.”
Marin admonished Oscar with a whisper into his ear, “You’re sailing a little too close to the wind, Mister Oscar.”
“List your objections and submit them to me by noon tomorrow,” Mister Reynolds said, and addressing Marin he asked, “And what progress have you made in obtaining a crew, Captain?”
“None what so ever,” Marin answered. “I have no intention of gathering a crew. If the Navy wants a crew for her voyage, the Navy can assemble one.”
“Very well, Captain,” Mister Reynolds replied, as if Marin had played into his hands. Captain Fairchild’s eyes darted back and forth between the two, as Mister Reynolds added, “We will load cargo tomorrow, and the ship will be off limits to anyone but Navy personnel until the day of departure, which may be delayed, since it is now the Navy which must find you a crew. We will, of course, be in touch.”
As Mister Reynolds turned and walked toward the gangplank, Captain Fairchild was slow to follow. He paused beside Marin to comment in a confidential tone, “I take it your heart is not committed to this assignment.”
“You can add my head, guts, and soul to the mix, Captain,” Marin replied.
The captain looked at Marin with a perplexed expression, but said nothing.
As they approached the gangplank, Marin saw Phillipe coming in a quick, but carefully pronounced, stride down the boardwalk. He was dressed in full bright yellow plumage: breeches, stockings, vest, waistcoat with short skirts, and a long black woolen overcoat, open full.
“You could have waited for me,” he shouted out to Marin.
When Fairchild turned a queried eye to Marin, Marin simply stated, “The ship’s mascot.”
As Mister Reynolds and Captain Fairchild got into their coach, the captain turned to Marin and saluted, and then he deliberately placed his forefinger alongside his nose as Mister Reynolds snapped the reins against the horses’ backside, and the carriage was pulled away.
“Oscar and I are going to the tavern. I’ll see you back at the house later,” Mister Prince said to Marin.
“I was hoping we could sit down and—”
“Yes, of course,” Jude interrupted Marin, “I’ll see you back at the house ...later.”
There was something half-hidden and suspicious in the tone of Jude’s voice, as well as the way Oscar’s pace gathered distance from Marin, making it quite clear Marin was not invited to join the pair. Not that he would have; Opaline had just introduced herself as his fiancée, and he was eager to have a private word with her. But of course, Phillipe would ruin the opportunity, striding alongside asking questions about the meeting with Mister Reynolds.
“So, what did he say? Are we still leaving on Sunday? Did you raise your concerns with him? Is the ship ready to go?” he asked in rapid succession.
Opaline raised her head off of Marin’s shoulder, and said, “Phillipe, ...s-h-h-h.”
***
Back at the house, Marin gave Aunt Belle and Phillipe a quick synopsis of the meeting, summing it up by saying,
“Something is definitely askew. I have a feeling we will soon be hearing from Captain Fairchild.”
Opaline emerged from the room where Phoebe lie, wringing her hands.
“Phoebe has developed a fever and is in pain. She may be close to delivering her baby, or maybe something else is happening, but regardless, I am going to need a large bowl of hot water, soap, plenty of towels and washcloths, some lard, clove, laudanum, scissors, a lantern, and some alcohol. Aunt Belle, if you could assist me. Marin and Phillipe, this could take some time and we need to keep noise and disturbance at a minimum, so ...no bickering.”
After gathering most of the needed supplies, Aunt Belle and Opaline went into Maria’s bedroom and shut the door.
“I think Opaline and I are engaged to be married,” Marin whispered to Phillipe.
“What do you mean, you think?” Phillipe whispered back.
***
As Jude and Oscar sat at a small table in the corner of the Red Boar, each drinking a cup of what the French called, ‘Gloria’, burnt coffee with brandy, Oscar quietly unfurled his plan to sink the Magister Maris in the harbor.
“Tonight, with no moon in the heavens and, according to the almanac, a covering of heavy clouds, I am going to come alongside the Magister in a dinghy and drill a few holes a couple o’ fingers above the water line in the fore and mid-ship holds. As they load the cargo and ballast tomorrow, she will take on water faster than they can unload and bail.”
“What is it you’ll have me do, then?” Jude asked.
“Stay clear. Your millin’ about would only cause suspicion.”
“I pity poor Marin,” Jude frowned. “He loves that old tub.”
“Well, it’s sink her now in the shallows, or sail her to a deep, dark grave.” Mister Oscar replied, a bit too loud.
***
“We’re going to need more hot water,” Aunt Belle said, entering the kitchen where Marin and Phillipe sat playing chess.
“If we aren’t sailing on Sunday, shouldn’t you be preparing for your hearing?” Phillipe asked Marin.
“Excuse me,” Aunt Belle said, leaning over the table and placing her head between the two of them.
“What is there to prepare?” Marin said, getting up and grabbing an empty bucket and dipping it deep into a barrel of water. “He will tell his side, I will tell mine. This barrel is almost empty.”
“Are you going to take Opaline with you as a witness?” Phillipe asked.
“I don’t see the point. It is simply his word against mine, and the burden of proof is on him,” Marin said, pouring the water into a large cauldron hanging over the fire.
“But you did assault him,” Phillipe said.
“He was the provocateur,” Marin said, “I was simply defending Miss Downing’s honor.”
“Which is why you should take her as a witness,” Phillipe said, making his next move on the chessboard.
“We are going to need more water than that, Marin,” Aunt Belle instructed. “That cauldron should be at the ready, full of hot water, until you are told otherwise.”
Marin gave Aunt Belle a single nod as he replied to Phillipe. “I won’t have Miss Downing’s character sloshed about as a subject of debate. In her absence, the Magister will have no choice but to presume the lady in question is worthy of protection against slander.”
Aunt Belle stood tense lipped with arms crossed, her eyes locked on Marin.
“I am tending to it,” he announced to her. “Phillipe, grab a bucket and help me bring in more water.”
“Marin Carpenter, you listen to me,” she scolded, one arm folded against her midriff, the other reaching out with pointed finger. “A lady’s honor is thin coinage against the riches of a family such as the Berry’s. Don’t you assume for a moment that her character will be protected by custom. Talmadge Berry and family will do everything in their power to reduce Opaline’s reputation to the status of a dockside whore, and the court is bound to listen. Let the lady speak for herself.”
“I will need someone to go outside and break up some ice and bring it to me,” Opaline called out from the bedroom.
“I’ll get the ice,” Marin responded, “Phillipe, you bring in water.”
Once Marin and Phillipe were out of doors, Opaline walked to the kitchen and said to Aunt Belle, “So, I am the one going on trial.”
“A woman’s reputation is always on trial, my dear,” Aunt Belle replied.
A few moments later, Marin came into the bedroom with a bucket full of ice. Opaline put a handful into a folded towel and placed it on Phoebe’s forehead.
“How is she?” Marin asked.
“I am concerned about her fever.”
“Should I send for Doc Myers?”
“Good Lord, no. The last person I want in the birthing room is a doctor.”
A puzzled Marin asked, “Why is that?”
“Mainly because they are not women. Male doctors tend to be careless, impatient and unnecessarily obtrusive.”
She looked down at Marin’s hands and added, “They do not even bother to wash their filthy hands ...thank you for the ice.”
Marin started for the door, but stopped and turned to her. “Opaline?” he ventured, as if he were turning to the Queen for favor.
“Not now, Marin,” she deflected.
As Marin left, Aunt Belle entered, closing the door behind her. While assisting Opaline in rolling Phoebe onto her side, she said, “You need to attend Monday’s hearing.’
“Monday is a long way off. My first priority is to the two lives lying here before me.”
“Marin’s freedom may depend upon the defense of your reputation.”
“I do not give a tinker’s dam what any of those people think of me, and if flogging my reputation results in Marin going to jail, then at least he will not have to go on this dreadful voyage,” she said, attending to Phoebe all the while.
Jude came staggering into the house, slinging a half empty bottle of whiskey, looking as mad as he was drunk. He slammed the bottle on the kitchen table and roared, “Who’s goin’ ta join me in a drink?”
“S-h-h-h,” Phillipe ordered.
“Don’t cha be shushin’ me, ya little twig,” Jude shouted.
“Mister Prince, mind your tongue,” Marin admonished, “and your volume. Phoebe is not feeling well, and Opaline has asked for quiet.”
“What’s wrong with her, then?” Jude snarled in a more subdued voice.
Aunt Belle came gusting into the kitchen and grabbed the whiskey bottle from the table, thrusting it into Jude’s face.
“Take your bottle and your gut full of whiskey and leave this house, ya drunken sot,” she said, as loud as one could whisper.
Jude stepped back as if he’s seen a snake. “I’d like ta see Phoebe,” he requested in a civil tone.
“She is not taking visitors at the moment,” Aunt Belle sniped, and left the kitchen with the bottle of whiskey still in her hand.
Jude ran all ten fingers through his hair. “Captain, what’s ailin’ Phoebe?” he asked.
“Opaline isn’t sure,” Marin said.
“Opaline? Where’s the doctor?”
Marin left the question hanging in mid-air.
“Where’s the doctor?” Jude repeated, his voice rising again. “Ya haven’t sent for a doctor?”
“Jude...” Marin began.
“I’m goin’ for a doctor,” Jude said, rushing out of the kitchen. “If anything happens to that little girl...” he warned, closing off the comment with a slam of the front door behind him.
About half an hour later, three wagons pulled up in front of the house, loaded with the equipment and supplies Opaline had ordered in Providence. Marin and Phillipe went out to help the other three deliverymen unload the wares. Each of the wagons had ‘Pritchart’s of Newport’ printed on the sides.
“I take it that all these items came from Pritchart’s,” Marin said to one of the men. The man pointed to the lettering on the side of his wagon. “I thought they were to be delivered on Monday,” Marin said.
“What’s the difference?” the man answered, pulling an item off of the wagon.
The commotion of bringing the first load of equipment into the house brought Opaline outside.
“What is all the disturbance?” she asked Marin.
“The good folks from Pritchart’s are delivering the equipment you ordered from Bernard’s. Isn’t that sweet of them?” Marin jibed.
“And not a moment too soon,” she countered. “Can we stack everything in the parlor for now?”
Marin directed the men into the parlor. As they were unloading the third wagon, Jude and Doctor Myers walked up to the house, passing by Marin and Phillipe without a word. Marin followed them into the house, running past them and standing in front of Maria’s closed bedroom door.
“You’re not to go barging in there,” Marin stated.
“Out of the way, Captain,” Jude said, in a cool, but firm, voice.
“Don’t test me, Mister Prince,” Marin said.
Doctor Myers squeezed between them and called through the door, “Miss Opaline, it is Doctor Myers. May I have a word?”
The door opened a crack, and Opaline placed one eye in the aperture.
“I have come to offer my assistance,” he said.
“Very well, wash your hands,” she instructed.
The doctor looked at his hands. “They aren’t dirty,” he responded.
“Doctor Myers, if you wish to assist me, you must first wash your hands,” she said firmly, and closed the door.
“Why would she think my hands are soiled?” he wondered aloud. “Where can I wash my hands?” he asked Marin.
Marin led him to the small room off of the kitchen and fetched him some hot water and a bar of lye soap. After the doctor had dried his hands, Marin and Jude washed their hands as well.
Returning to the bedroom, the doctor rapped upon the door. As Opaline opened the door, the doctor held up his hands, flipping them palm to back, and said, “All clean, may we enter now?”
Marin and Jude held up their hands as well.
“Doctor, you may enter. Marin, Jude, I see no need for either of you to be present.” She let the doctor pass and closed the door.
“We washed our hands for nothin’,” Jude said, “and why so secret about what’s goin’ on in there?”
“We probably wouldn’t understand if she told us,” Marin answered.
The doctor was but two steps through the door when he hurled his first criticism. “Why is she lying on her left side? She should be on her back.”
“Doctor,” Opaline began, with impatient an tone, then grabbing a deep breath of calm, she explained. “First of all, she is more comfortable in that position. Secondly, lying on her left side increases the amount of blood flow between mother and baby. It also helps to stabilize her breathing. But at the moment, I have a far greater concern.” Bending over and pressing her ear against Phoebe’s bulging bare stomach, she said in a grave and sober voice, “I am afraid I cannot detect the baby’s heartbeat.”
The doctor walked over and put his ear to Phoebe’s stomach. He stood straight up, grabbed both of his lapels and rebuked her, saying, “I can quite clearly hear the baby’s heart.”
“No,” Opaline corrected him, “you cannot. What you are hearing is the mother’s heartbeat.”
“How can you be sure?” the doctor contested, with a hint of mockery.
“In a word, experience, doctor.” Opaline shot back. “I would bow and give way to your expertise on a wide range of medical conditions, sir, but in this one, uniquely feminine arena, I outrank you. My knowledge of the female anatomy is more thorough, my experience in the birthing process more varied and extensive, and my understanding of the needs and fears of a woman who spends nine months preparing, not only to have a baby, but to be a mother for life, is far, far superior to anything you could possibly aspire to. This is more than a mere medical procedure, doctor; it is a life-altering event. I do not expect you, or any man for that matter, to understand that. But understand this: being a midwife is not just my profession, it is my raison d’être, and I would hope that you would defer to my mastery in this situation.”
“You are not a doctor, Madam,” the doctor asserted. “This young lady should be lying on her back in the lithotomic position. She is obviously experiencing a fever because the baby’s passage is blocked, and the passage is blocked because of your insistence that the mother be comfortable. Giving birth was never meant to be a matter of ‘comfort’, my dear lady. ‘In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children’, sayeth the Lord.”
“GET OUT!” Opaline shouted.
The doctor bowed low, turned toward the door and said, “If that child dies, let that death be on your head, dear lady.”
After he had left the room, Opaline lowered her head as if in defeat, and murmured, “The child is already dead.”
***
After Doctor Myers had gone, Marin, Phillipe, and Jude stood in silence facing the closed bedroom door. All three had heard the verbal scuffle between Doctor Myers and Opaline. But Opaline’s final utterance, after the doctor had departed, had not reached their ears.
Marin was thinking about Opaline’s passionate defense of her profession, and he realized that his comprehension of her raison d’être was as distant to his grasp as his call of the sea was to hers.
Phillipe’s thoughts were occupied with Genesis 3:16. He could recite the passage verbatim: ‘I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor, you will give birth to children.’ He had thought he understood the Lord’s pronouncement to Eve. But now, he had come face to face with the shadow of its reach and the full measure if its consequence.
Jude had but one voice running through his head, that of the doctor, saying, ‘If that child dies, let that death be on your head, dear lady.’ Jude crouched down against the wall, hung his head to his knees, and it wasn’t long before the whiskey in his veins rendered him null and void. With each heavy breath, he sank deeper into his own absence.
“Why would God do that?” Phillipe wondered aloud.
Marin assumed Phillipe was talking to himself, and so he ignored the question.
“Maybe ...it was to help the mother bond with the child,” Phillipe concluded, his voice swelling with inspiration and his body becoming erect, “... just as pain and suffering bring us closer to the Lord as He is waiting there to comfort us. Pain is a gift that brings us—”
“What the blazes are you going on about?” Marin remarked.
“Pain,” Phillipe said. “Pain and comfort. We must know pain if we are to understand God’s comfort. Without pain, there can be no comfort.”
“Not now, Phillipe,” Marin sighed, placing the heel of his palms into the sockets of his eyes.
“Don’t you see, Marin? Everything meaningful comes to us through struggle. Nothing of value—”
“Struggle, yes,” Marin cut him off, “but pain ... excruciating physical pain? That is something quite different, Phillipe. Every woman who has ever borne a child knows of the struggle that comes with nine months of pregnancy: the swelling of the belly and legs, the nausea and vomiting, the mood swings, the backaches and the loss of equilibrium. The constant fear that something may go terribly wrong at any given moment ...isn’t that struggle enough? Does your God have to top it off with wrenching pain?”
An agonizing moan from the other room brought Phillipe and Marin’s philosophical debate to an immediate halt, and woke Jude up from his drunken stupor. The three adjourned to the kitchen, and Phillipe immediately buried his head back into his Good Book. Marin fixed himself another pot of tea, and Jude lit his pipe and began pacing in a staggering fashion, back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom door...and so it was they waited...
Aunt Belle eventually came out of the bedroom and had no more than closed the door behind her when she found Jude standing over her saying, in a threatening tone,
“If that child dies I’ll—”
She startled him to silence by grabbing hold of his shirtsleeve and hauling him into the kitchen. She stood within a bent arm’s distance of Jude, glaring straight up into the eyes of the rough-hewn sailor towering over her, and challenged him.
“You’ll what? What is it you’ll do, Mister Prince?”
Jude held his tongue. “I’ll tell you what you’ll do, you will comfort both Phoebe and Opaline,” and turning toward Marin and Phillipe, she added, “the three of you. That young woman is in tatters having done everything she could to save that child. And poor Phoebe, she is about to face the most desolate and barren form of hell on earth a woman can endure, if she can indeed endure it.” Looking back to Jude, she concluded, “So, we’ll have no more talk of what you will do, Mister Prince. The child is dead.” Aunt Belle broke into tears, and struggled to say again, “The child is dead.”
Her face fell into Mister Prince’s chest, and he made no attempt to clear the tears forming in his own eyes. He stood immobile as if he had turned to stone.
Marin sat down at the table and covered his eyes with both hands, hiding himself from the world.
Phillipe ran to MaMa’s bedroom door, fell to his knees against the cold wood, and turning his head upward, he asked in a shattered voice, “What mercy is this?”
It was twilight when Aunt Belle returned to the bedroom, and a deepening darkness stole both light and shadow from the interior of the house. Colors washed to shades of gray before the forms that held them disappeared altogether. The gathering darkness helped articulate the subtlest of sounds, such as the footsteps of Jude as he crept out of the house, without a word as to where he was going.
Marin and Phillipe were about to retire for the evening when they heard the creak of Maria’s bedroom door and witnessed a beam of light ushering Opaline and Aunt Belle through the doorway. In Opaline’s folded arms she cradled a perfectly still child, bundled in a towel. A backlit shimmering aura surrounded her silhouette, and Phillipe almost certainly had a vision of Mary approaching with the Christ child in her arms.
Stopping short of the kitchen, she asked, “Has Mister Prince left?”
“Yes,” Marin answered from the darkness.
“Phoebe was asking for him. We have a burial to attend to at first light. I should think he would want to attend.”
Phillipe hurried to Opaline’s side. He held his hand over the bundle of still life, and said, “Dear Lord, please accept this child into your kingdom that it may know the power of your love, and live here-ever-after, in your presence. In Jesus’ name, we ask. Thy will be done. Amen.”
Marin approached and solemnly asked, “How is Phoebe?”
“She is sleeping. Her fever has reduced,” Opaline said.
“Does she know?” Phillipe asked.
Aunt Belle nodded. Her lips quivered, tears breached the wells of her eyes, and her voice struggled to add, “It was a boy.”
“I’ll find Jude,” Marin said.
Stepping out into the cold December evening, Marin braced himself against the wind and headed toward the Red Boar Tavern.
No light guided his path on this moonless night, domed by a solid layer of clouds. The crunch of his boots breaking the ice beneath his feet masked the more delicate voices in the night. Off in the distant harbor where the Magister Maris lay in waiting, a lantern swaying back and forth caught his eye. Tempted as he was to drift off course and stroll down along the docks, he folded his collar higher up around the back of his neck, and ventured on toward the tavern.
When he arrived, the early crowd was leaving and the serious drinkers were filtering in. Marin spotted Jude sitting face down at a table off into the dim distance.
He walked over and sat down across from his friend. A bottle of rum sat in the middle of the table, and the glass at Jude’s side held another swallow or two. Marin grabbed the bottle, brought it to his lips and tilted it upright, swallowing as much as he could before the burn closed his throat. He slammed the bottle down on the table, rousing Jude upright, if unsteady.
“FUCKING WHORES,” Jude bellowed.
Marin said nothing.
Jude’s unsteady eyes searched for the identity of the person sitting across from him, then fell closed. “Bitches and whores,” came his rum-soaked mumble.
“Malika?” Marin offered, above a whisper.
Jude smiled and steadied himself by leaning back in his chair.
“Marin?” he asked, without opening his eyes.
“Who else would it be?” Marin answered.
“Who else indeed?” Jude confirmed. “I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news for ya, Captain.”
“The day seems to have no bottom to it,” Marin said, staring down into the neck of the bottle of rum and swirling the dark liquid around. He took another long swig, wiped his lips with the sleeve of his coat, and asked, “Out with it, what news have you to make the dim day darker?”
Jude opened both eyes as best he could, and said, “I’m quittin’ ya, Captain,” and he burst into song, singing a line from an old sea shanty, “...and no more we’ll go a-sailin’.”
Marin said nothing, but sat in wait for Jude to explain. “I’m pushin’ off, first boat out in the mornin’.”
Marin nodded his head...waiting...
Jude thrust forward and barked, “That bitch of yours can take me place, and you should pray she’ll make you a better first mate than she did that poor little whore, a doctor.”
“So that’s what this is all about? Listen to me Jude—”
“Bitches and whores,” Jude said, pushing the table up against Marin.
Marin pushed his chair away from the table, stood up, bent over toward Jude, and planted both hands firmly on the table.
“Phoebe has suffered a loss such that you and I will never know, Jude. And it is now that the dear girl needs you most. We will be burying the boy first thing tomorrow morning, and I can only hope you will sober up in time to realize how much your absence will add to her sense of abandon. Do not forsake her, Jude.”
As Marin walked away, Jude roared, “GODDAMN WHORE.”
Marin turned, walked back to the table, picked up the bottle of rum, and poured the contents over Jude’s head.
“She’s not the whore, Jude,’ he said. “We’re the whores.”
Marin marched, sure of his footing, to Ruth’s brothel. As Sophie opened the door, he brushed by her, knocking her a little off kilter. He reached out to steady her snd, accidentally grabbed her right breast.
“That’ll cost ya a halfpenny,” she jived.
“I need to see Ruth,” he said, continuing toward her office.
“She is with someone at the moment,” Aja intervened, stepping in front of him to halt his progress.
“Phoebe’s baby was stillborn,” Marin said.
Sophie gasped.
“I see,” Aja said, her deep brown eyes void of emotion. “I will inform Miss Ruth you are here.”
A distraught Sophie came to his side and said, “Poor, poor Phoebe ...how is she takin’ it?”
Marin, having no idea how to answer her, reached out, brought her toward him, and kissed her forehead. She gave him a curious look and stepped back just as Ruth came to Marin’s side and ushered him into her office.
“Aja told me the sad news,” Ruth said. “Please give Phoebe my deepest regrets and assure her that she is welcome back as soon as she sees fit.”
“We will are buring her child tomorrow morning. I am sure your presence would be of comfort to Phoebe.
“I don’t go to funerals, Marin. I find them a maudlin display of emotions for someone who isn’t even there.”
“They are not for the dead, you know. They are for the living.”
“Yes ...again, I am sure I can count on you to tell her I send my deepest regrets, and that I look forward to seeing her soon.”
Marin looked at her as if she were a stranger. Ruth sat poker-faced, as if waiting for Marin to either raise or fold. Marin withdrew.
On his way through the lobby, Aja approached him and offered, in a business-like tone, “Should you require comfort, sir, I am at your disposal.”
Marin stopped and addressed her directly. “At such a time as this, I doubt you know the meaning of the word,” and he left her in his wake.
Returning home, he found Opaline in the parlor, unpacking boxes. Meanwhile, Aunt Belle was busy in the back room, stuffing one of Maria’s carved wooden dowry chests with padding, and tucking an ultra- marine silk covering all around the interior. The stillborn child, wrapped in a cotton muslin swaddle blanket, lay beside the makeshift casket. Marin silently watched from a quiet distance until Aunt Belle looked up to acknowledge his presence. He smiled, only with his eyes, before leaving and going to the parlor.
“How are you holding up?” he asked Opaline before entering.
She answered him with sad eyes as she continued to unpack some of the equipment she had ordered in Providence.
“Would you like for me to assist you?” he asked.
She gave a single nod of her head.
As he pulled three tall and heavy metal stands out of a large box, he asked, “What are these?”
“Those are poles from which to hang lanterns.”
He unpacked a box full of shiny metal bowls mounted on swivels. He turned one round and round in his hand before asking, “What is this called?”
“A parabolic reflector,” she said in haste.
“What is it used for?” he asked, not sensing her emerging annoyance.
“Look Marin, if you are going to ask me about every item you unpack, I would rather tend to it myself.”
Marin silently went about unpacking box after box, wondering about each of the items, but saving his curiosity for another time.
After about an hour, they filled the room with a variety of equipment, including two beds and a birthing chair. It was all Marin could do to keep from asking about the odd- looking chair that resembled a device of torture. There were bolts of various kinds of fabrics, and all sorts of bottles and jars holding who-knew-what ...but Opaline knew.
“Did you find Mister Prince?” she asked.
“Sort of,” Marin answered.
“Well, did you, or did you not?” she asked, without interrupting her sorting.
“Yes, Opaline,” Marin said, a touch of aggravation building in his voice, “I met with Mister Prince. Although I doubt he will have any memory of the meeting, I cannot say.”
Opaline stuffed a few items in a drawer and forced it shut with much more effort than was necessary.
“I also spoke with Ruth,” Marin added, the comment turning Opaline’s head toward him. “She won’t be coming to the funeral tomorrow,” he added.
Her anger was palpable, as she commented, “I must attend to Phoebe.” Marin stepped aside to let her pass, but as she was about to exit the parlor, she stopped and turned to him. Her face relaxed, giving the moment the time it needed. A gentler face reached out to Marin as she spoke. “Wait for me, Marin,” and she held her pose until she was sure he understood.
***
Marin sat by the fire in the library attempting to take an inventory of occurrences that had, one by one, already added up to more than could possibly fit into the confines of a single day.
Aunt Belle came to his side and kneeled down in front of him. “The child is laying in repose, should you care to come view it,” she said. “Such a sad little thing.”
Marin accompanied her to the back room. A candle was lit on either side of the makeshift coffin, beautifully adorned with blue and white cloth. Along the backside of the little burial box were Winter Gold and Red Sprite Winterberry twigs Aunt Belle had gathered from the side yard. A small lantern hanging from above cast waves of amber light flowing across the face of the child.
“Did she give it a name?” Marin asked.
Aunt Belle closed her eyes and shook her head softly from side to side.
“No, I don’t imagine she would have,” he said.
They returned to the library and sat in opposing chairs facing one another.
“Aunt Belle, you look tired. Why don’t you retire to my room? I can sleep here in the library.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Quite sure.”
“I will be returning to Providence either tomorrow or Sunday, and then on to Nova Scotia sometime after Christmas.”
“Christmas,” Marin said, with a note of surprise. “My God, it is almost Christmas.”
“Wednesday,” Aunt Belle reminded him.
“You must stay through Christmas.”
“I am afraid, my dear Marin, I cannot. I have too many things to take care of before I return home.”
Marin leaned in and placed his hands upon Aunt Belle’s shoulders. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened to my father?” he asked.
“Your father died as he lived ...at sea.”
Marin nodded assuredly, drew a breath and asked, “When?”
Aunt Belle looked to be deep in thought before answering. Marin watched her down-turned eyes as he patiently waited for an answer. At last, she looked up at him.
“Three years ago,” she confessed.
Marin pulled his hands from her shoulders, wove his fingers together, and sat up straight in his chair.
“Three years ago?” Marin repeated, with more composure than Aunt Belle had anticipated. “So, you’ve known all along he didn’t go down with The Coriolis?”
“No. I assumed he was lost at sea - until about ten years ago, when he simply showed up one day.”
“What did he say? Where had he been?”
“He said he had been living on Sable Island with a few of his shipmates for almost twenty years, when a sailing ship called The Francis sank just off shore. Investigators came from Nova Scotia and accused Erik and his companions of looting. They were chased off the island and brought back to Nova Scotia. I found the story too hard to believe, so I wrote the letter to The United States Revenue Marine. Turns out he may have been telling the truth.
“Your father worked in Nova Scotia for a local fisherman until he could buy his own boat. He hadn’t had it but a couple of years, when one day in April of 1808, a local fishing crew found his boat drifting empty, about five miles out.”
“So, for all we know, the son-of-a-bitch is still alive,” Marin asserted.
“I put nothing past your father.”
“I take it you had no intention of ever telling us?
“I was honoring his request. He felt it best. Your father never lover MariaHe never loved Maria, and he considered himself a detriment to the raising of you and Phillipe. He carried a great deal of regret with him for the remainder of his life. But, as I said, he felt it all for the best.”
“M-m-m ...he felt it best. Never mind what his children or his wife felt. I—”
“Marin, I am not even going to attempt to make any sort of atonement for my nephew’s behavior or lack of consideration. He was every inch a selfish man; possessing none of the qualities of a dutiful husband or father. He was a complicated man, and always adrift. He loved you, but at a distance. What is done ...is done. I am sorry for my part in all of this. That is all I have to offer, and you either accept your Great Aunt Belle’s apology, or you do not.”
Marin looked deep into her sorrowful eyes. They seem to have aged in the course of the difficult conversation.
“I forgive you, Auntie,” he offered. “Begrudgingly, ...but I forgive you.”
“And Phillipe, are you bound to tell Phillipe?” she asked.
“No,” Marin said, without hesitation.
Aunt Belle smiled, reached across and ran her hand along Marin’s cheek. “You are not your father, Marin,” she said, and she lifted herself to her feet, and with a lighter step, she walked from the room.
Marin listened as she climbed the stairs up to his room, anchoring herself with both feet on each successive step, until she had reached the top landing. He could hear her tired footsteps make their way down the long hallway. The sound of his bedroom door creaking open, then gently closing, left him with a strange sense of solace. “Great Aunt Belle, indeed,” he whispered to himself.
He put on his coat, walked out to the barn, grabbed a pick and shovel, and walked the lonesome uphill mile to the little cliff side cemetery, looking out over the Atlantic Ocean.
Maria had purchased a half-acre plot after Erik disappeared. For all her faith that Erik would return, perhaps a few doubts lingered as to the exact nature of his arrival. She had four headstones placed in a row, engraved with everything but the final date:
Erik Marin Carpenter -Born 4-1-1750 -Died
Alyce Maria Lawrence Carpenter -Born 6-6-1745 -Died -
Marin Columbus Carpenter -Born 10-12-1766 -Died
Phillipe Lawrence Carpenter -Born 5-1-1772 -Died -
Marin had walked up the road to the cemetery many times when he was younger, visiting his own tombstone. But there was something about the way the wind was always blowing out of the west, past cliff’s end, sending those clouds sailing out over the ocean, that led young Marin to believe he never would be needing that three and a half, by eight, by six-foot plot of real estate.
Marin cleared a spot under a young pine tree and dug a small grave into the frozen ground. He laid his coat over the freshly dug mound of dirt, hoping to keep it from freezing solid. Before he left, he visited Maria’s grave. As he stood there, braced against the wind, he felt he should say something, but nothing came to mind. ‘I need to hire an engraver,’ he thought. He slung his pick and shovel over his shoulder and walked a tired man’s pace back home.
By the time he arrived home, he was shivering uncontrollably, and he felt as if the very bones of his frame might shatter from the cold. He struggled to place a large log on the ebbing flames in the library fireplace, pulled his chair up close and covered himself with a thick woolen blanket. Sleep was only a few blinks of an eye away when Opaline came in and gave him a gentle nudge on his shoulder.
“Come on ...come to bed,” she murmured.
“Aunt Belle sleeps in my—”
“I know,” she said, taking his hand and leading him up the stairs and into her room.
No moon shone through the window, no lantern lit, and yet, somehow, the closing of her bedroom door gave the room a darkness all its own. Marin could hear the rustling of her clothing and what sounded like fabric falling to the floor. The sound of the covers being pulled back was unmistakable, as was the creaking of the bed itself as Opaline slid under the covers. Marin sat on the bed, removed his shoes, and lay on top of the covers beside her.
“Marin,” she whispered, “take off your clothes, get under the covers, and sleep with me.”
By the time he had slipped under the covers, Opaline was fast asleep. He rolled onto his side, laid his arm tenderly into the valley of her waist, and joined her in slumber.