AT 29 (17 page)

The tragedy took place three weeks into the voyage. Nathan was at his chart table in his quarters, celebrating a successful day and planning the long chug north. He sat in his chair, sipping from a pewter stein filled with the expensive scotch whiskey his mentor, the captain, had given him at his farewell from Nantucket. That morning a pod was sighted. Pygmy blues were not his prime goal, but the sailors needed practice. Under his able leadership they had performed well. After the kill he rewarded the crew by breaking out a cask of gin. He could hear the drunken revelry on deck. The music had begun. He took another long drink, letting the exquisite warmth work its way into his chest. The welcomed euphoria took hold. He eyed the fiddle on his berth. One more, he decided, rising to collect the jug and refill his stein.

A young sailor, barely sixteen, had the job of shoveling the coal that fired the steam engine. It was dirty work that kicked up clouds of black dust in the poorly vented room that served as the coal bin. The opening to the engine room was small, making the effort awkward. The area was also poorly lit, by intent, lest a stray spark accidentally ignite the billowing dust. This night, the young sailor was in a hurry to complete his task. The sun had set and he was anxious to get topside where the music had begun. Like his fellows, he was taken with the strangely beautiful repertoire that his captain brought forth from his fiddle and flutes.

Nearing the completion of his chore, the boy hoisted one final load, but as he hurriedly stepped through the entryway with the cumbersome shovel, his boot caught and he went sprawling into the small opening where the cinders glowed red. His face went into the blazing heat, stopped only by his shoulders as they slammed against the cast iron sides. Still, enormous damage was done as his hair caught fire and the searing heat blinded his eyes. Screaming in pain and panic, he staggered backwards, flailing at his burning scalp. He fell into the coal bin, clothes afire. The dust ignited instantly with a flaming explosion that engulfed the lower hold.

At the sound of the blast, Nathan dropped the stein in his hand and tore from his cabin. A sailor pointed to smoke billowing up from the hold. Nathan shouted for the boats to be lowered as he scrambled below decks.

Two sailors rushed to the boats, but lack of experience and drunkenness caused them to let the ropes slip. The crew's only chance for safety fell haphazardly to the waters. Both boats flipped awkwardly and one immediately sank before their eyes. The other floated precariously upside down, half submerged.

Nathan leapt down the ladder. Thick smoke obscured his view, but the intense flames cleared his vision just enough to see that all was lost. He tried to force his way through, feeling desperately for the limbs of the boy he knew must still be trapped. It was no use. As his clothes began to catch fire, he inched his way back, grabbed the ladder and lifted his legs, too late. Smoke filled his lungs, burning through tissues as it banished all oxygen. Nathan's arms grew weak and he slumped against the ladder, suddenly aware that he, too, was doomed. In seconds, he lost his grip and fell back. As consciousness faded, the vision of his beloved wife and son crossed before his eyes. His final emotion was overwhelming guilt, remorse so great that he cried out in anguish. He would never return to them. He would never fulfill his duties as husband and father. In minutes, the vessel was engulfed in flame. A short time later it sank beneath the ocean, all hands lost, never to reveal its fate.

***

As the months passed, Melba waited patiently for news from her husband. Letters came slowly from ships at sea, carried to and fro by other ships as they encountered one another in distant ports or sometimes on the high seas. She knew he would be in the southern seas for some time before he headed north with the whales, so she was unconcerned when no letter arrived for four months.

She did receive letters from her mother expressing concern for her well-being and keen interest in her grandson. These she responded to eagerly with page after page describing Aaron's progress along with rapturous depictions of Apollo Bay and its surrounding lands. She had grown to love this part of Australia with its hills rising high above the ocean. It was vastly different from her childhood home on Nantucket. She never realized how very confined her island life had been. Now, she could gaze across the fields and beyond to the mountain ranges that seemed endless. She was aware of Melbourne, the nearest city, not much further from the farm than Boston was from Nantucket. When Aaron was older she determined to travel there with Nathan.

When no word from her husband arrived after six months, she wrote to her father, inquiring if a silence lasting this long might be normal. Her father's reply was returned swiftly. Yes, this could be because Nathan had stayed longer on the ocean without coming to port. Her father explained that whales were becoming harder to locate. Nathan, he wrote, was very determined. He would do everything possible to assure a lucrative voyage. Too soon to worry.

After eight months Melba knew something was wrong. Each morning she left Aaron with her mother-in-law and rode into the village at Apollo Bay on horseback. There, she met with every ship that came into the bay, inquiring of the seamen for any word of her missing husband and his ship. As each day passed with no information, her heart filled with dread. She returned to the farm with tears streaming down her freckled
cheeks. Aaron was her only solace. She clung to the boy with desperation as she struggled with the notion that her husband might never return.

Equal alarm arose on Nantucket. Her father understood the import of no news from a ship at sea. In his heart he clung to the hope that his daughter's talented husband, who had learned the intricacies of the whaling life so quickly, could somehow survive a mishap at sea, but he recognized that such a lengthy silence could only mean the worst. He wrestled with the right words to put into a letter to his beautiful daughter, alone so far away. He wanted her to come home to Nantucket where she would be safe and where her family could aid her and her child as she grieved. Melba's mother also grieved. Among her friends there were many widows of men lost at sea. There was little she could do, except remain close and help them raise their children. Now, she desperately desired to do the same for her daughter. She implored her husband to do all that he could to learn of Nathan's fate, but he only shook his head, knowing that if the ship had gone down in some lonely stretch of ocean, it would be a miracle if any other ship had been near to bear witness. Still, at his wife's insistence, he put out the word. ‘Wherever you travel, among all the ships you meet, inquire of Nathan Whitehurst, the whaler from Nantucket and Apollo Bay. Seek news of his whereabouts and bring it back to me so that we, who love him, can know his fate.' When another three months passed the captain and his wife knew all hope was gone.

Melba, too, gave up hope. Her trips into Apollo Bay became less frequent. With nightly tears still streaming from her heartbreak, she turned her thoughts to the future and what she must do. The letters from her father and mother, urging her to return home, weighed heavily on her mind and she re-read them many times as she debated the best course for her son's future.

Her in-laws had bonded with Aaron and he with them. His grandmother was as much a part of his upbringing as Melba. Both she and her husband had proven to be people of character and kindness. They accepted Melba lovingly, consoling her in her grief while hiding their own for the benefit of mother and child. They made no comment, neither urging her to stay nor advising her to return to Nantucket. Instead, they warmly cared for her and her child, making certain that both were sheltered, clothed and fed with the best they could provide. When they heard sobs coming from Melba's room they knocked quietly at her door, entered slowly, and consoled her, careful to conceal the grief they, too, felt deep in their hearts.

Aaron was in his second year, showing all the curiosity of a happy, healthy child. In him, Melba found the only comfort available as she desperately sought relief from her broken heart. As her little boy commenced to speak and walk, she came to a decision that she carefully wrote in a letter to her parents. Losing Nathan to the sea terrified her. She could not bear the thought of a long voyage back to Nantucket where the perils of the ocean would keep her in a constant state of fear. She resolved to stay in Australia and raise Aaron on the farm outside Apollo Bay where they would both be safe. One day, perhaps, when he was grown and her fears had abated she would return.

Unable to accept his daughter's decision, the captain bought the cliff land overlooking the swirling Atlantic in ‘Sconset' upon which Nathan and Melba had planned to build their home. He wrote to her of his purchase in a long letter, telling her he would come to Australia to bring her safely back. Her reply was no. Her place must be at Apollo Bay with her son.

Skip wouldn't let us in the hall so we sat outside on the grass, listening to Jimmy through the back windows. That mellifluous voice worked its magic. I was carried away
.

- Alice Limoges

He didn't see George again until the end of the week. The meeting was brief and mostly devoted to Jimmy's prospects. George was encouraging as he quizzed him about the triathlon, particularly where and when it would begin and end.

The next day, a Saturday, he packed the Saab, locking the Centurion on a bike rack attached to the back of the car. He looked forward to the drive and to seeing some of the familiar sites in Vermont that held memories from his college years. Normally, he could make the trip in four hours, but he decided to take a longer route, steering clear of the highways. He was eager to take in the splendor of New Hampshire's White Mountains before he crossed into Vermont's Northeast Kingdom, equally beautiful. Four years of college, and many trips back and forth, had given him a reverence for northern New England's great mountain ranges, split by breathtaking notches and descending into long fertile valleys. The backcountry roads were sparsely traveled. He could maneuver the car with all the freedom he missed after years in Manhattan.

He arrived at Willoughby Lake just before dusk and booked a cabin on the shore of the glacier formed waterway. His plan was to take a few days canoeing and lightly training before heading west across the state to Burlington for the competition. Perhaps he would hike Willoughby Notch to the top of Mount Pisgah, the peak that gave a panoramic view of the lake and its surrounding farmlands. He looked forward to dinner at Skip's in Newport, the venue where he found his first fans. Despite his uncertain future, he felt centered in this place.

In the morning the water shimmered brilliant blue. Up from the shore there was a tiny breakfast shack just off the road. He ordered the Woodsman's Special, consisting of all the foods he had avoided over the past five months, eggs sunnyside up, pancakes, sausage, bacon, toast, hash browns, juice and several cups of coffee. He was the only customer.

Back at the cabin, he donned a tee shirt and bathing suit, his uniform for the rest of the morning as he paddled a canoe across the water and back. In the afternoon he took a short run before veering off to a trail that led to the summit of Mount Pisgah. It took an hour to reach the top, but the effort was worth it as he sat on a granite ledge and took in the vista that stretched for ten miles in every direction. When his watch showed four o'clock he reluctantly stood and made his way back down the mountain, invigorated beyond expectation by the pleasure of being alone and free in the countryside that gave reprieve to his uneasy mind.

It was nearing six when he pulled into Skip's. Vermont, and especially its more rural areas, buttoned up tight on Sunday evenings, but Skip kept his restaurant open three hundred and forty four days a year, from six in the morning for breakfast, through lunch and dinner, and on until midnight. The other twenty-one days were reserved for the last three weeks of January when Skip went to Florida for two and spent the other ice fishing on Lake Memphremagog, another serene body of water that marked the divide with Canada. Along with an old fashioned menu that featured meatloaf and traditional turkey dinners, staying open eighteen hours a day with a huge neon sign to prove it, were Skip's
trademarks. In addition to the restaurant, there were two other buildings; an ice cream stand, fronting Route 12 where teenagers took orders from behind sliding screen doors, and further back, a roadhouse on the shore of Lake Memphremagog. There was nothing fancy about Skip's complex, but it was comfortable and welcoming. It was also Jimmy's place of employment for two years, on weekends and through the summers, until his graduation from Saint Virgil's.

He sat behind the wheel, surveying the three buildings. He hadn't been back since graduation, not even when he bolted Blossom following his disagreement with Daisy's arrogant record producer. That sojourn, five years earlier, never made it beyond Burlington, where Cindy found him. He had his reasons for never coming back.

He recalled his first month onstage in front of a handful of crusty dairy farmers, drinking rye and ginger. Like now, it was late May, at the end of his sophomore year at Saint Virgil's. Skip's upright piano needed tuning. Jimmy played around the sour keys for two weeks before his boss spent the money to make it ring true. Next to the piano was a stool at center stage where he positioned himself when it was time to take up the Gibson. The disinterested locals didn't seem to care about the young kid or his music. He wanted to quit after the first week. Skip was enthusiastic in his rough-edged way.

“These ain't the people,” he said, firmly. “Farmers don't care about music, but in another month, when the season gets going, I'm expecting you to fill the place.”

So he played on, three hours a night for weeks, until the hall gradually filled with a different group of patrons. By the end of June, vacationers arrived from New York, Boston and Montreal, families, couples, a few college students home from distant schools and even seasonal farm hands and granite cutters, strong young men who gathered together for a few beers after a long day. By July fourth, word got around about the new kid playing at Skip's roadhouse. The Newport Daily Express and Caledonia Record wrote articles about him, no doubt a quid pro quo for Skip's ad revenue. Dinner goers moved from the restaurant to the roadhouse, ordered drinks and extended their evenings, just as Skip had foretold. He wondered if his old boss would be at his familiar station, waiting to escort customers to a table for dinner.