Johnny Tremain (4 page)

Johnny was not listening. He sat with the pitcher in his hand. To think the poor, humble old fellow
once
had been able to make things like that! Well, he was going to turn the trick again before he died—even if Johnny had to stand over him and make him.

The sun stood directly overhead, pressing its heat down upon the town as though it held an enormous brass basin. There was not wind enough to take a catboat from Hancock's Wharf to Noddle Island.

In the Lapham shop windows and doors were left open to catch what breeze might come up the wharf, but there wasn't any breeze.

Old Mr. Lapham had worked well in the morning. He said if Johnny could do the handles, he himself could get the basin done in time, but after dinner he had gone down to the old willow behind the coal house, put a basket over his head, and gone to sleep. Dove and Dusty had, therefore, left to go swimming. Johnny was making out of wax an exact replica of the pitcher handle, only enlarging it. He tried again and again, never quite satisfied with his work, but confident that he could do it.

It was long past dinner hour when he crossed the entry into the kitchen. The fire was out. The table cleared except for his place. Cilla had evidently been left to wait on him whenever he felt like eating. The success of Mr. Hancock's order was so dependent upon him, no one would scold him today because he chose to be an hour late. Johnny took his seat and Cilla put down the slate she had been drawing on. She gave him a piece of cold meat pie, a flat loaf of rye bread, dried apples, and ran down cellar to fetch him a flagon of cold ale. He drank the ale, and then more leisurely began on the pie.

With hardly a word Cilla went back to the settle where Isannah was sprawled and picked up her slate. She drew very well. It would be just about nothing, Johnny thought, to teach that girl to write.

'She's doing it for you, Johnny,' Isannah said at last.

'What are you doing for me, Cil?'

'She's designing you a beautiful mark so when you are man-grown and master smith you can stamp your silver with it.'

'I've five more years to go. No matter how good my work may be, I have to mark it with your grandpa's old pellets and "L's." '

'Johnny's forgotten morning prayers and all those wonderful humble people,' said Cilla. 'Look, I've got your "J" and "T" sort of entwined.'

'Too hard to read. Then, too' (he could not imagine why he came out with this secret), 'when I'm master smith I'm going to use all three of my initials.'

All
three?
'

'J. L. T.'

Neither of the girls had ever heard of a poor working boy with three names. 'You're not making up?' Cilla asked, almost respectfully. 'I've heard tell of folk with three names, but I never saw one before.'

'Look at me, my girl.' He got up to go back to the shop.

'Wait, Johnny. What is that middle name? It begins with "L." '

'As far as you are concerned, it ends with "L" too.'

'I'll bet it's something so awful you are ashamed of it, like "Ladybug" or "Leapfrog." I'll bet it's "Lamentable." '

Johnny grinned, untempted by her insults.

In the shop it was so hot he could not handle the wax. The solitude in which he worked depressed him a little. For the first time he was afraid he could not get the handles right. All the shops had stopped work because of the heat. He could hear the other boys running and splashing, diving off the wharf into the cold water. He locked the shop. Now even Mr. Lapham would have to ask him if he wanted to get in, and he ran off to swim. Later, after sunset, he could get on with the model, even if he had to work by lamplight.

When at last he blew out his lamp, Johnny had made an exact replica of the winged woman, only larger. He looked at it and knew that it was not, for some reason, quite right. Instead of going up to the attic to sleep, he crossed into the kitchen and got an old mattress. The clock struck midnight and he was asleep.

He woke and it was still dark night. Someone was in the room with him and he thought of thieves.

'Who's there!' he yelled roughly.

'It's me. Johnny, I wasn't going to wake you up, if you were already asleep, but...'

'What's wrong, Cilla?'

'Johnny ... it's Isannah. She's sick again.'

'What does her mother say?'

Cilla began to cry. 'I don't want to tell her. She'd just say p-p-p-oor Ba-a-Baby wasn't worth raising.'

Johnny was tired. At the moment he had a sneaking sympathy with Mrs. Lapham's point of view.

'What seems to be wrong?'

'She's so hot. She says if she can't get a breath of air, she'll throw up.' This was a very old, but dire threat.

'There might be a little down at the end of the wharf. Fetch her down.'

Seemed it was always like this. Whenever things went wrong and he was tired, Cilla was after him to help her nurse Isannah. Nevertheless he carried her in his thin, strong arms. She was a tiny child for eight. The white-gold hair that he secretly admired so much got into his mouth and he wished she was bald. Isannah giggled. On one side of the deserted wharf were warehouses, on the other were ships. Not a person was abroad except themselves. The child grew heavier and heavier.

'Want to walk now, Isannah? You'd be cooler walking.'

'I like to ride.'

'Well—just so
you
are satisfied.'

'Johnny,' said Cilla crossly, 'are you being sarcastic to baby?'

'Yes.'

'How do you feel, dear?'

'I feel like I'm going to throw up.'

'Oh, you get down, then,' said Johnny. 'That settles it.' But he carried her to the very end of the wharf.

Suddenly he felt cool fingers of air lifting the wet, fair hair on his forehead. The perspiration under his arms, dripping down his chest, evaporated and the prickly sensation was delightful.

Isannah cried, 'The wind, the wind! Blow, wind, blow!'

It did not blow, but flowed over them and cooled them. The three sat in a row, their feet dangling over the water below. They sat well apart at first, with arms outstretched, soaking themselves in the freshness of the sea air.

For a long time they sat and said nothing, then Isannah put her head in Cilla's lap. Cilla leaned against Johnny. The two girls were almost asleep. Johnny was wide awake.

'Johnny,' murmured Isannah, 'tell us a story?'

'I don't know any.'

'Johnny,' said Cilla, 'tell us the story of your middle name?'

'It isn't a story; it's just a fact.'

'What is it?'

Although by daytime and if Cilla had teased him, he never would have told, the darkness of the night, the remoteness of the place where they sat, an affection he felt for the girls and they for him, made everything seem different.

After a long pause he said, 'It is Lyte.'

'So you are really John Lyte Tremain?'

'No. My baptized Bible name is Jonathan. I've always been called Johnny. That's the way my papers were made out to your grandpa. I am Jonathan Lyte Tremain.'

'Why, that's just like Merchant Lyte?'

'Just like.'

'You don't suppose you are related?'

'I do suppose. But I don't know. Lyte's not a common name. And we are both Jonathan. Of course I've thought about it ... some—When I see him rolling around in his coach, strutting about with his laces and gold-headed canes. But I don't aim
ever
to think too much about it.'

Isannah was almost asleep. 'Tell more, Johnny,' she murmured.

'Merchant Lyte is so very rich...'

'How rich? Like Mr. Hancock?'

'Not quite. Almost. He's so rich gold and silver are like dust to him.'

'You mean at Lyte Mansion Mrs. Lyte sweeps up gold and silver in a dustpan?'

'Mrs. Lyte doesn't sweep, you silly, not with her own fair hands. For one thing, she's dead, and for another, if she weren't she'd just snap her fingers and maids would come running—in frilly starched caps. They'd curtsy and squeak, "Yes, ma'am," "No, ma'am," and "If it please you, ma'am." Then Mrs. Lyte would say, "You dirty sluts, look at that gold dust under the bed! I could write my name in the silver dust on the mirror over that mantel. Fetch your mops and rags, you bow-legged, cross-eyed, chattering monkeys." '

'Diamonds, too?'

'To clean up diamonds they need brooms.'

'Oh, Johnny! Tell more.'

'Once the rubies spilled and the cook (a monstrous fine woman—I've seen her) thought they were currants. She put them in a fruit cake, and Merchant Lyte broke a front tooth on one.'

'A fact, Johnny?'

'Well, it's a fact that Merchant Lyte's got a broken front tooth. I saw it as I stood watching him.'

Cilla said, 'You watch him much?'

He answered, a little miserably, 'It's just like I can't help it. I don't mean ever to think of him.'

Isannah murmured, 'What do they do with their pearls?'

'They drink their pearls.'

'What?'

'Like a queen of Egypt my mother told me of—before she died. She drank her pearls in vinegar—just to show off. That Lavinia Lyte is always showing off too.'

Isannah was asleep.

'You never speak of your mother, Johnny. She hadn't been dead more'n a few weeks when you first came here. You never talked about her at all. Was that because you liked her so much—or not at all.'

There was a long pause. 'Liked her so much,' he said at last. 'We had been living at Townsend, Maine. She got a living for us both by sewing. But when she knew she had to die (she had death inside of her and she knew it), she wanted me taught skilled work, and all I wanted was to be a silversmith. That's why we came to Boston, so's to get me a proper master. She could still sew, but she coughed all the time. Even when she was so weak she could hardly hold a needle, she kept on and on, teaching me reading and writing and all that. She was determined I shouldn't grow up untaught—like Dove and Dusty. She wanted me to be something.'

'That's why you work so hard?'

'That's why. Mrs. Lapham promised your grandpa would take me on just as soon as she was buried. She died—and he did. That's all.'

'What was her name? And how come she—a poor sewing woman—was so well learned?'

"Roundabout here she called herself just Mrs. Tremain, but she was born Lavinia Lyte. She came of gentlefolk.'

'Just like Mr. Lyte's daughter?'

'Yes. She told me once that for over a hundred years Lytes have favored Jonathan and Lavinia as names.'

'Johnny, didn't she ever go to those rich relatives and say, "Here I am"?'

'No. And she told me not to—ever. Unless ... only, if I'd got to the end of everything. She'd say, "Johnny, if there is not one thing left for you and you have no trade and no health, and God Himself has turned away His face from you, then go to Merchant Lyte and show him your cup and tell him your mother told you before she died that you are kin to him. He will know the kinship, she said, and in pity he may help you." '

'Your cup?'

'She said I wasn't to sell it—ever. I was to go hungry and cold first.'

'Where is your cup?'

'In my sea chest in the attic. That's why I keep it locked.'

'Will you show me your cup?'

'If you swear by your hope of Heaven and your fear of Hell never, never to mention any of this to anyone. Never tell my true name, nor that I have a cup.'

'But Isannah?'

'If she's heard anything, she'll think it was a story I made up—like those rubies in the fruit cake.'

Now it was close to morning. Far off a cock crew. Near-by another answered. The dawn breeze came up from off the sea and the black night turned gray. Cilla was shivering and stood up. Johnny shouldered Isannah.

He kept his word to Cilla, and, as he was putting the little girl back to bed, he slipped to the attic, unlocked his chest, and brought down the cup in the flannel bag his mother had made. He opened the door from the shop to the wharf. Although still dark inside the house, outside it was growing lighter and lighter.

Gulls flew in from the islands looking for food.

Cilla joined him and he motioned her to follow him out into the twilight of the new day. He drew his cup from its bag.

As a small child he had thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. It was the reason why he had begged his mother to apprentice him to a silversmith (and there were none in Townsend, Maine). Now he was more critical of the cup. He thought it too chunky. On one side was engraved the crest of the Lytes. This was an eye rising up from the sea. From it rays of light (or lashes) streamed out, half-covering the surface of the cup. It was this emblem Merchant Lyte had on everything he owned—carved above his counting house on Long Wharf, engraved on all his silver—even on dog collars and harnesses. Miss Lavinia had it stamped on her Spanish-leather gloves. Johnny knew it was cut on the slate gravestones of the Lyte family on Copp's Hill.

'The same as his,' said Cilla in wonder.

'And the same motto. Look!'

She read the words in her halting manner: 'Let there be Lyte.'

And miraculously, as she stumbled over these words, there was light, for the sun came up out of the sea.

The children stood and looked at each other. The girl's face showed her excitement—and her fatigue. It was a pointed, sweet little face, her eyes a lighter brown than Isannah's and her hair not so strikingly pale.

Johnny whispered, 'Just like the sun coming up yonder out of the sea, pushing rays of light ahead of it.'

Cilla (evidently thinking Johnny was getting beyond himself) said, 'Might it not just as well be a
setting
eye?' It was the first sour remark she had made to him all the night.

'No, no. My mother said it is a rising eye. But I was to keep whist and mum about it—unless even God has turned away His face. And Cilla ... you promised.'

'By my hope of Heaven and my fear of Hell.'