Chesapeake (80 page)

She looked about for a chair to stand on, but then turned abruptly to Captain Turlock and said, ‘Lift me up. I must see them,’ and before anyone could protest, she had placed herself in front of the bearded waterman and drawn his arms about her. With a heave he projected her toward the ceiling, holding her aloft without difficulty, and as she traced the outline of the iron balls she cried, ‘Oh, Paul! You could indeed have been killed.’

When Captain Turlock put her down he turned to Mrs. Grimes and apologized. ‘I would not have presumed …’

‘It’s nothing,’ Penelope said. ‘Susan does as she wishes, and no harm.’

‘We’re mightily pleased that she’s to live among us,’ he said gallantly, and he was so polite, so rough and authentic, that Mrs. Grimes began to take an interest in him; all during that first dinner she talked principally to him, learning of his years at sea and of the adventures to which Paul had alluded. On their third dinner together she asked some really personal questions, but she was hardly prepared for the astonishing fact he revealed: ‘I’ve never forgotten you, Mrs. Grimes. When you left Devon for your exile in London …’

‘I hardly call it an exile, Captain.’

‘You quit your home. That’s exile.’

‘I found a new home. That’s good sense. But when did you and I ever meet?’

‘When you left for London, you sailed on my father’s ship. And I sailed too. And it was my job to care for you.’ He paused, recalling those exciting days when he and America were fledglings and everything was new. ‘I kept you in a basket, forward, and fed you and took you to the women when you cried.’ He said this so simply, and with such remembered affection, that Mrs. Grimes was moved. ‘We called you Penny then. I was eight.’

‘And so much would happen to us both,’ she said impulsively. ‘How did you lose your hand?’

‘Captain Gatch shot it off. The day he laid those eggs in the wall upstairs.’

She laughed at his expression, then asked, ‘So you’ve been fighting the English all your life?’

‘Not viciously,’ he said. ‘It was long drawn out … year after year we …’

‘But you hate Captain Gatch viciously, don’t you?’

‘I do. That war never ends.’

He took her about the bay, pointing out the plantations on Dividing Creek owned by the other branches of the Steed family, and then sailed her to Patamoke, where he showed her his clipper, the
Ariel,
on blocks at the Paxmore Boatyard. ‘Look at those clean lines. They move through the sea the way a heron moves through air.’

‘And what’s a heron?’

He started to explain when George Paxmore, tall and grave of mien, his flat hat perched on his head, came from the boatyard with a problem that obviously was serious. ‘I must talk with thee, Matthew.’

‘When I’ve finished showing Mrs. Grimes the river,’ Turlock said. ‘Her daughter’s to be the new mistress at Devon.’

‘Fortunate girl,’ Paxmore said, not removing his hat or extending his hand. ‘You’ll come back?’

‘I will.’

‘What’s a heron?’ Penelope asked again when the solemn Quaker had left.

‘Have you never seen a marsh?’

‘No, but I’ve been told you live in one. I should very much like to see it.’

So on the sail back to Devon he detoured at Turlock’s Creek and led the sloop into those narrow and exciting waters where the sparta grass grew eight feet high, creating a world of mystery, and as they sailed silently in this wonderland a heron flew past, legs dangling far behind the tail feathers, and Matthew said, ‘There he goes, the great fisherman. Our Indians called him Fishing-long-legs.’

‘Did you have Indians … in the old days?’

‘We have Indians now … in the new days.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m part Indian. Three times members of my family—far back, of course.’

‘You’re part Indian!’ She was fascinated by this exotic information and intended advising her daughter of it as soon as she got back to Devon, but before this could happen, there was a detour.

‘I used to live up there,’ Matthew said, indicating the log cabin which Turlocks had occupied for two centuries.

‘I’d love to see it. Can we walk?’

‘If you don’t prize your shoes.’

‘I don’t!’ And she was out of the sloop before he was, running up the path to the rambling house in the woods.

A Turlock woman of indeterminable character appeared as the voices drew close to her cabin, and two children kept behind her skirts. ‘Oh, it’s you, Matt,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

‘This is Mrs. Grimes. Her daughter is marrying Paul Steed.’

‘Lucky girl.’

‘Mrs. Grimes, this is one of my cousins, name of Bertha.’

Penelope tried to say something gracious, but the impact of the cabin and its occupants was too powerful. This was America, the America cartooned by British wits, and it repelled her. ‘I think we’d better go back.’

‘You wanna see inside?’ Bertha asked, kicking open the door.

‘No, thank you. They’re expecting us.’ And she retreated.

This incident should have prepared Turlock for what happened. At Mrs. Grimes’ insistence he had stayed at Devon three days, during which he had an opportunity to watch both Penelope and her daughter more carefully. Young Susan was still an unformed child; with a good husband she might become a strong woman; with an essentially weak man like Paul Steed she would probably relax and become quite ordinary. But at twenty she was beautiful and alert. He wished her well.

Penelope was a mature woman endowed with that easy charm which comes from living on four thousand pounds a year. Her hair was neat; her teeth were good; her skin was not ravaged; and she was semi-educated. Above all, she was responsive, eager for new adventures in this new world. If some of it, like the Turlock cabin, repelled her, she could still see the merit of life along the Choptank and understand the forces that had framed the various Steed captains. None was more impressive than Matthew Turlock, and by various actions she let him know she thought so.

Therefore, at the conclusion of the third day the captain went to his room, washed carefully, inspected his nails and presented himself to Mrs. Grimes. He spoke simply. ‘I’ve been thinking that you might consider remaining in America … might even have thought of … Well, the
Ariel
does belong to me … I’ve been careful with my money …’

Mrs. Grimes broke into a nervous but not disrespectful laugh. ‘Is this a proposal, Captain Turlock?’

‘It is.’

As a lady of breeding she tried to restrain her nervous laugh, but it broke through as an insulting giggle. ‘Me? Live in Maryland? For the rest of my life?’ She controlled herself, then placed her hand on his arm, saying, almost in a whisper, ‘I’m a Londoner, Captain.’ Then she added something which under more relaxed circumstances she never would have said: ‘Can you picture me in a cabin? With Bertha?’

‘I do not live in a cabin now,’ he said gravely, keeping his silver fist behind him, lest that, too, offend.

‘Dear Captain Turlock,’ she began, but then the nervous giggle returned. She felt ashamed, tried twice to compose herself, then rose and kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s quite impossible … Indians … in London …’ With a flutter of her hand she indicated that he should go, and with a deep bow he did.

As soon as he left she informed the Steeds that she would be sailing for London immediately. ‘I’ve behaved poorly, and I’m ashamed of myself.’

‘Did that Turlock embarrass you?’ Paul Steed asked menacingly, as if he might conceivably run after the captain and thrash him.

‘No. He paid me the honor of proposing.’

‘Proposing?’ When the household was informed of this gaucherie the laughter was general, except for Susan, who said, ‘I’d love to have him for my daddy. That great silver fist hammering on the table, laying down the law.’

‘He’s a waterman,’ Paul said, and the packing began, but before Mrs. Grimes could sail, old Isham Steed died, and after his funeral, when his papers were inspected lest promissory notes of value be overlooked, Paul came upon a copy of his letter to President Jefferson, and when this was circulated within the family, Mrs. Grimes gained a better picture of the Indians her daughter’s new family had known in previous centuries:

If Matt Turlock was disgruntled when he sailed away from Penelope Grimes, her nervous laughter rankling in his memory, he was enraged when he left George Paxmore. He had sailed directly to the boatyard to inspect repairs to the
Ariel,
but found the clipper back in the water without having been touched.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Everything,’ Paxmore said, and when he showed no signs of further explanation, Matt grabbed him harshly and asked, ‘Where’s the carpenters?’

‘They’re not working. They won’t be working.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because they went below, Matt. We all went below.’

‘And what happened below?’