The Hearth and Eagle (26 page)

When Susan came into the kitchen twenty minutes later, she found it deserted. She frowned. An acrid smoke rose from the potatoes, and the boiling coffee water made great hissing spats on the stove. “That girl”—she muttered snatching off the potatoes—“With all I have to do—and the worry...” She swung the crane and its bubbling load of fish brew back from the fire, threw an angry look at Roger’s shut door, and called “Hesper-r-!”

She opened the back door, and called again into the damp windy twilight. The branches were creaking on the old chestnut, and the nor-’easter swirled past her as she stood on the step. Behind in the Great Harbor the breakers pounded.

Susan drew back and shut the door. “She’ll not be out in this. She has
some
sense. She’s mine too, despite all you hear is of Honeywoods.”

Susan thrust a spill into the fire and lit a candle. Her fat hands shook and the freckles on them stood out like brown flies. She mounted the narrow stairs meaning to go through the second landing to the new part. The girl often shut herself into the Yellow Room. But outside Hesper’s own door, she stopped. The scowl cleared from her face, and she listened to the sound from within.

She nodded slowly. “Thank God, she’s broke down at last. She’ll stop fighting it now.” Susan rested the candle on the square hand-hewn newel post, leaned against the wall, looking at Hesper’s door with a tenderness the girl had never seen. “You get noplace by fighting it, Hes. The Good Lord knows I’ve had to learn that.”

She picked up the candle and descended the stairs.

T
HROUGHOUT
the war years Marblehead seethed with patriotism. In July of 1862, President Lincoln issued a call for additional volunteers, and sixty-nine men responded. The Marblehead band played, the church bells rang, fourteen of the town’s prettiest young ladies dressed themselves in red, white, and blue bunting and waved flags.

Fort Sewall on the south point of Little Harbor had been in ruins since the War of 1812 and the town voted four thousand dollars to add to the Government appropriation for its repair. The Government also built two new forts, one at Rivershead Beach, the other on Naugus Head, the promontory towards Salem where two hundred years before, the first settlers had had their Derby Fort and the memory of a similar promontory in England.

All three forts were garrisoned by foreigners from other parts of Massachusetts, and the Marbleheaders curbed their normal antipathy toward the outlanders and endured them as patiently as possible. This was not easy. These companies were mostly composed of homesick farm boys, distrustful of the water which surrounded them, and bored by inactive duty.

They brawled in the narrow streets, tried to seduce Marblehead girls, and made constant fun of the Marblehead speech. There were therefore reprisals.

One night in the Hearth and Eagle taproom there was a bloody fight between two old Barnegat fishermen and two Pittsfield boys who were stationed at Fort Sewall.

It began because one of the Pittsfield boys was suddenly inspired to recite Whittier’s “Skipper Ireson’s Ride”—sure spark to any Marbleheader’s tinder.

“ ‘Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his hor-rd hor-rt’ ” cried the young corporal, striking an attitude and declaiming in a taunting voice:

Torr’d and furtherr’d an’ corr’d in a corrt
By the women o’ Morble’ead!

“That’s a Gawd-dom lie!” shouted one of the fishermen, jumping up.

The corporal was delighted; things were mighty dull around this God-forsaken place, and it was seldom you could get a rise out of any of these fishy men.

Small pity for him! He sailed
away From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay—
Sailed away from a sinking wreck
With his own townspeople on her deck—

continued the corporal, encouraged by the applause of his friend.

“I tell ye—” cried the fisherman, shaking his fist, “that’s a stinkin’ whoreson lie!”

“Have done—Ned—” said Susan emerging from behind the counter, “I’ll deal with him. Look, my young cockerel—” she turned to the elocutionist. “There may be some that think that Whittier’s a poet, but I’m not one. Years ago he courted a Marblehead girl; her parents had sense enough not to let her take him, by-the-bye—because it’s evident he’d no regard for fact. Benjamin Ireson was a fine man, his trouble no fault of his own, and his family much respected here. I’ll thank ye to shut your mouth.”

But the young corporal was exhilarated by Susan’s rum, and barely waited for her voice to stop before he began to chant—

“ ‘Here’s Flud Oirson fur his hor-r-rd hor-rt—’ ” The old fisherman promptly knocked him down. The other fisherman and the remaining Pittsfield boy jumped forward, and Susan stood by grimly until they had battered and knocked each other into quiet, and broken four of her earthenware mugs as well.

After that she denied the use of her taproom to any of the garrison, and times for the Honeywoods grew hard. Prices were rocketing and with the decline of fishing the business center of town moved back from the waterfront. Only the shoe manufacturers were prosperous.

By the fall of 1864, Susan was frightened and she showed it by sharper temper and hours of glum silence. The larder was empty, her credit had run out, the last keg of beer was nearly dry. If they were not to starve there was but one thing to do. For days she had been mulling it over, but had said nothing to Roger or Hesper.

Roger had been bed-ridden, with a grippy cold and it was hopeless to talk to him anyway; there’d be nothing of help from him but a spate of poetry, and a reminder that the Honeywoods had never done such a thing.

She had not wanted to worry Hesper until it was imperative. The girl was slowly recovering, her figure had filled out a little, and she had begun to take an interest in war work. She went regularly to sew with the ladies of the Soldiers Aid Society, and she had recently been over on the Neck to a husking bee with other young people. She had unfortunately no special admirers, but then Hes had never been the type for beaux, and anyway there were mighty few young men left in town.

On the crisp October afternoon when Susan made her decision Hesper had been to the druggist’s to buy cough medicine for her father. She came into the kitchen, took off her bonnet and shawl, and counted out the change, four pennies, into Susan’s hand.

“How’s Pa?”

“Not coughing so much. Give a look in the bean pot, Hes.”

Hesper opened the brick oven at the side of the fireplace. “They’re browning but I don’t see the salt pork.”

“Isn’t any. That’s the end of the m’lasses too.”

Hesper threw a puzzled look at her mother’s back. “Didn’t you order more?”

Susan did not answer. She took a pot of thin gruel off the cookstove and poured some of it into a pewter bowl for Roger. “When I popped over to see how poor Nellie’s doing this afternoon, I ran into Amos Porterman on State Street,” she said.

“Did you?” Hesper answered indifferently. “I never could abide that man.”

“And why not? I’d like to know.” Susan whirled and advanced on her daughter. “He’s not bad looking, he does a lot for the town an’ our soldiers, an’ he speaks real civil.”

“Shoe man,” said Hesper with a lift of her lip. “Foreigner. Johnnie—Johnnie always said those shoe factories ruined the town, ruined the fishing.

Susan’s green eyes snapped, but she controlled herself. “Shoemaking
saved
the town. We’d’ve starved without it. The Embargo, back in my pa’s time ruined the fishing. Gale of ’46 that took Tom and Willy and most of our fleet ruined the fishing. This war’s ruined the fishing—not shoes.”

Hesper, startled not by her mother’s vehemence, but by the length of her rebuttal, tossed her head. “Well, anyhow—I don’t like Amos Porterman.”

“That’s too bad,” said Susan turning her back again and picking up the gruel, “because he’s coming here this afternoon.”

“Whatever for—Ma? You mean to the taproom?”

“Taproom’s closed and not likely to open. Mr. Porterman’s coming here to tea because I asked him to.” She paused at the door of the kitchen bedroom where Roger lay temporarily. “If we want to eat, Hes, I reckon we’ll have to learn how to make shoes.” She shut the door behind her.

Hesper collapsed on the settle, staring at the shut door. Irritation at her mother eclipsed everything else. How like Ma to spring a thing like that without warning. Bossy she was, always deciding things in herself and then telling people what they were supposed to do.

Things couldn’t be as bad as all that. Money was tight, was for everybody. But the Inn had always brought in enough. Would still if Ma hadn’t been so persnickety about the garrison boys.

But Hesper’s resentment, as always, was tempered by her strong sense of justice, for Ma
was
a good manager, and she had doubtless done the best she could. Hesper frowned and thought back. The taproom doorbell hardly ever tinkled lately, and long ago they’d stopped serving the beans and fishcakes or flapjacks customers used to ask for. Hesper hadn’t paid much attention, except for a vague recognition that here was another evidence of this hateful war. Lately nothing had seemed very important except keeping busy. She’d been out a good deal. Meetings at the Soldiers Aid, sewing with the older women at the Arbutus Club, even a little church work, because all the other girls did it. The Reverend Allen had been nice enough and welcomed her to Wednesday prayer meeting, never referring to the way she’d acted that day he came to comfort her. It made her hot now to think of it. But she didn’t want to think of it or anything about Johnnie. That seemed a long time ago, and only sometimes at night when she listened to the wind and the rhythmic crash of the waves on Front Street did the old intolerable pain rush at her.

The bell jangled and Hesper jumped. Susan came out of the kitchen bedroom. “That’ll be Mr. Porterman. Take off your apron and let him in. I’ve laid a fire in the parlor. Mind your manners,” Susan added, seeing resistance in the girl’s face.

Hesper compressed her lips. “You might have told me sooner. You always treat me like a child.”

Amos Porterman was a very large man, six foot two and proportionately heavy, and in his fawn-colored greatcoat he filled the little entry. Hesper stepped back into the taproom, feeling dwarfed for all her own height and resenting this, as she was prepared to resent everything about him.

“Good afternoon, Miss Honeywood—” he said, bowing. His gray-blue eyes expressed a courteous interest, but in his deep voice she detected a note of patronage.

She stood stiffly by the door. “Afternoon. Ma’s expecting you. We’ll go through to the parlor.”

In the empty taproom, she waited, unsmiling, for him to take off his outer things and place them on a chair, while she noted the ruby-eyed owl stickpin in his glossy satin cravat, the newness of his gray broadcloth suit, the massive gold watch chain which glinted across his striped waistcoat. The
shoemen
had plenty of money.

She led the way to the chilly parlor, reached to the mantel for a match.

“Permit me—” said Amos, taking the match from her. She drew back, watching him bend his bulk down to the small fireplace. There was something lumbering about him, she thought with satisfaction. Before the war a man had come to Marblehead with trained animals, little dogs in ruffs, and a bear that shuffled in time to his master’s jew’s harp. Mr. Porterman was like that bear dressed up, except his face. That was oblong, squared at the jaw, and again on the high forehead where it met his flaxen hair. He was clean-shaven, and when he raised his face, flushed from bending over, it occurred to her that he was not as old as she had thought. She had never, since the day they’d helped the slave girl and he came to inquire for rooms, had a good look at him without his hat. She had thought his hair grayish, but she saw now that it was a pale and ashy blond.

The fire crackled and glinted off Susan’s brass andirons. “Thanks,” said Hesper dryly and sat down on one of the knobby crewel-work chairs. Amos took the other and it creaked as he settled himself. He cleared his throat but did not speak. He was astonished by the hostility he saw in the girl whom he barely remembered. She seemed unwilling to talk or even look at him; instead she held her head turned and seemed to be contemplating the story of Jonah and the whale which ran in blue and white tiles around the fireplace. The long-unused parlor was dank, it smelled of mustiness and the camphor Susan kept under the cabbage rose carpeting.

Amos cleared his throat again and crossed his legs. “Is your mother coming soon?” He spoke with a mixture of amusement and irritation. This visit had been none of his doing. Mrs. Honeywood had shown such urgency in inviting him that he had canceled his late afternoon appointments at the factory. He respected Mrs. Honeywood, knew her to be a worthy woman, and was quite willing to help her out, since she had indicated a desire for work. But the girl made him feel like a clumsy intruder.

Hesper stood up again in answer to his question. “I’ll go see. I guess she’s fixing the tea things.” She went out.

Amos raised his bushy blond eyebrows, and reached in his pocket for a cigar. Couldn’t light it in a parlor, but he held it between his teeth, chewing pleasurably. Queer girl, that. Bad disposition that was supposed to go with red hair too, apparently. But he didn’t understand her being so uncordial. He had a forthright and orderly mind, and he cast about for a reason. Suddenly he remembered meeting her with that young Peach boy a couple of years ago. They’d been walking down Front Street hand in hand, and he had thought how young and happy they looked.

Amos nodded to himself, and spat into the fire. Maybe that explained it. Young John Peach’s father had been one of the strike leaders in the trouble of 1860. He remembered the black-browed vehement little man, swinging a placard and protesting the wage cut. That had been a bad time for all the shoe manufacturers in Marblehead and the thing had spread to Lynn. But we had to cut costs, Amos thought, couldn’t help ourselves.

After a while most of the strikers had seen reason and gone back to work in their little shoe shops, skiving and slicking the soles at home before delivering them at the factory to be fitted to the uppers.