Thoreau in Love (4 page)

“No, no,” said Susan. “It’s two cabins. I told Mrs. Hawke.”

Henry’s tiny cabin was on their right, Susan’s across the narrow wooden hall. Henry set his duffel bag on the lower bunk. The young sailor, exiting Susan’s room, closed her door.

“I’m Henry. Henry Thoreau.”

“Ben Wickham.”

“I thought the captain said Somers.”

“He calls me that to get my goat. I’m Ben. Well, George is my first name, but I’ve never been called George.”

“I used to be David, but I changed it. I was David Henry Thoreau, and now I’m Henry David Thoreau.”

“Really?” Ben pulled his chin into his neck, distorting his face. “I didn’t know you were allowed to change your name.”

“I did. And who’s to say I can’t?”

“Exactly. Who’s to say?” Ben pointed under the lower bunk. “Hope you don’t mind my sea bag there. I sleep in here when there’s no passengers.”

“There are two bunks,” said Henry.

“Captain won’t allow it when there’s passengers. I’m not a sailor like the rest. This is an adventure for me. Before I go to Harvard.”

“I went to Harvard,” said Henry.

Ben flushed, recovered. “I want to learn about the world first.”

“Like Richard Dana.”

“Exactly. These are my
Two Years Before the Mast
. But you’ll have to excuse me. Duty calls.”

“Wait. May I ask you a question, Ben Wickham?”

Ben’s crescent smile grew to fill his face. “No need to ask if you may ask, Henry Thoreau.” He stood, waiting for Henry to continue. “Ask away.”

There were a thousand things Henry wanted to say, but his mind was blank. Embarrassed at his lack of words, he shrugged and smiled. “Oh, I know. How long till we sail? That’s it. That’s what I wanted to ask.”

“Oh,” said Ben, “is that what you wanted to ask? Well, if that’s all you wanted to know, an hour at most. Or else we’ll have to wait for the tide to turn.”

“Oh, right. Time and tide wait for no man,” said Henry. “Do you always go from Boston to New York?”

“Me?” Ben sucked in his mouth and shook his head. “Oh, you mean
Dahlia
. She travels the coast, Savannah to Maine. Every three weeks she’s back again. That’s what Cook says. He talks in rhymes.” Henry nodded and smiled as they digested how close they were standing, then Ben made a smaller, smirky face, gently took Henry’s left arm and said quietly, “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time for us. Takes four days to New York.” He gave Henry’s arm a squeeze and backed into the hall.

Henry stood happily stunned for a moment, then he followed Ben, who turned, smiled and then bounded down the hall and up the stairs. Henry watched Ben’s blue pant legs disappear from sight, then he looked to where Ben had taken his arm, amazed at what had just happened.

Susan opened her door a crack, and Henry, feeling guilty, said, “You look lovely.”

“Thank you. I like being flattered. I don’t get enough of it. But I’m going to lie down for a bit. As soon as I can get out of this dress.”

“We should leave within the hour.”

“If I’m up, I’m up. Two hours I had to stand for my fitting this morning. What we women go through.”

Henry backed out of Susan’s cabin. “You really do look lovely.”

“Thank you. But now you have to go.”

In his cabin, Henry patted the horsehair mat in the upper bunk and thought, I should have asked which bunk he slept in. Then, because he’d never been in an upper bunk, he climbed up and tried to sit straight, but there wasn’t enough headroom, so he climbed down to the lower bunk, sure that was where Ben Wickham slept, and sat with his ankles crossed, his knees out. He reached for his bag, took out his journal and opened to a nearly blank page. From his pocket he took his knife and whittled one of the pencils his father had given him. He thought back to something Susan had said and wrote, “A quiet desperation.” And, pondering that, he said, “Don’t most men lead lives of quiet desperation?” and wrote that in his journal. His attention strayed to his open doorway; he listened and hoped for sounds of someone coming into the hallway. And when he realized he was watching and listening for Ben, and that his watching and listening wouldn’t make him appear, he put down his pencil and set to controlling his breathing, Hindu-style.

Unfortunately, the cargo hold was on the other side of the plank wall, and with barrels rolling, crates banging and sailors oof’ing, it may as well have been right there in his cabin. He picked up his pencil and wrote
Nauta Juvenis
, then, remembering the advice Emerson had given him, said, “The rude truth, Henry,” and wrote,
I’ve just met a young sailor named Ben Wickham
.

Henry paused, thought, What is it about this Ben Wickham? Why can’t I stop thinking about him? Henry became lost in thought as he saw Ben’s eyes. What color are they? “Hazel. Or brown? No, hazel. And pouched, like lizard eyes.” And then he remembered how he was sure he’d seen Ben’s tree grow a bit in his trousers.

No, no. Don’t think about that, Henry. It’s not normal. That’s what brings insanity. We connect on a higher plane, a Transcendental plane. He put pencil to page, but lacking the courage to record what had burst from his heart, he had nothing to say. No, he thought. There must be something I can write. Let me start at the beginning. He conjured his day, but all that seemed important enough to write about was Ben Wickham. Why is his face all I can see, all I want to describe? Those daggers of soft hair running down his cheeks. That turned-up nose. I’ve never seen a nose quite like that. Henry smiled. And the way he distorts his face with rubbery expressions. Henry tried to distort his face the way Ben had. Couldn’t. Snickered. His face is so thin. And those perfectly arched, ladylike eyebrows. The way his lower lip sticks out a little, so he’s always smiling. I can’t write that. Fifty years from now, if someone reads it, they’ll know. Margaret’s voice came into his head: “It’s a love poem to a boy.” Waldo’s again: “The rude truth, Henry. Write the rude truth.” But he couldn’t. He put down his pencil, shut his book and went up on deck.

Red-shirted sailors were securing the hatches and the cargo that wouldn’t fit in the hold. But no Ben. Two other sailors in horizontally striped blue-and-white shirts pulled in the gangplank. “We’re about to go!” He thought to get Susan, but stopped himself and instead found an out-of-the-way spot on the starboard side by the mainmast, where he leaned back against the gunwale and took in the sights and sounds.

From the poop deck, the baby-faced captain called out, “Release the sails,” and several red-shirted sailors let loose the sails. The mainsail drooped from its boom onto the deck. “Sails clear!”

“Bring her along now.” Two along-shore men untethered the schooner but held fast the lines. Mrs. Hawke looked over the port side and after a few tense moments called out, “We got sea room!” Excitement quivered from stem to stern. Captain Hawke’s voice cracked as, still with the stub of cigar in his mouth, he called orders. The along-shore men pulled
Dahlia
out of her dock, while sailors onboard grabbed lines and hoisted the narrow foresail, which fluttered, then whump, caught the wind.

Henry looked over the side;
Dahlia
seemed dead in the water. Not dead, drifting, and now drifting quickly, scarily, toward the boats and ships sailing every which way in the harbor. Wanting assurance that this was the way it normally happened, he looked around for Ben. Then, feeling the slightest forward progress, he leaned over the cold water and saw tiny whirlpools forming. “We’re underway!” he exclaimed.

“It’s great, ain’t it?” It was Ben.

“I was just looking for you,” said Henry, thrilled to see him. “Where were you?”

“Belowdecks,” said Ben, pointing to a hatch in front of the mainmast.

Henry caught himself staring into Ben’s hazel eyes, and, nervous that someone had seen, and, not knowing what else to do, he said, “My friend Stearns, when he sailed for Europe, waved and danced as if he’d lost his mind. Stearns on the stern. Now I know why.”

“I never get tired of it. Every port we leave I get excited, never knowing what’s ahead. You’re very handsome.”

Once more the sailor’s directness surprised him. “What?”

“I said, You’re very handsome.”

“Why did you say that?”

“Because you are.”

Henry had never been flattered like that in his life. It filled him with joy. “So are you,” he said, then felt a foolish parrot for saying it, until Ben smiled his perfect crescent smile.

“Come on,” said Ben. “You better get to the bow.” Ben was taller than Henry but thin as could be; his shoulders were narrow, and he had no butt to speak of. His height was in his long legs, whereas Henry’s, what height he had, was in his torso. Ben pointed where to sit.

“Wickham!” a voice called from below. “Slick ’em and dick ’em, where’s Wickham?”

“Coming! That’s Cook. I have to go.” Ben lowered himself through the open hatch, and Henry settled into the bow, out of the wind and warmed by the sun. Several gulls circled overhead. Henry peered over the bow, so he could see where they were going, but soon, sure they weren’t going to crash, he sat facing backward, so he could watch sailors pull lines, the captain call orders, the workings of the ship. The hoisted sails caught the chill wind. The bow cutting the water made the same choo, choo, choo as a steam locomotive starting its journey: rhythmic, deliberate, powerful.
Dahlia
picked up speed, steered through the cluster of sails, past the breakwater and out to sea. The few gulls still escorting them peeled off and returned to the harbor. Henry was ecstatic—until, on the open water,
Dahlia
’s fairly smooth journey turned to a rising and falling and rising and falling over the clear, rolling swells. Henry stood and faced forward, sturdy on his short legs, and found himself rising high with the bow. For a moment, as
Dahlia
’s bow plunged into the trough between waves, he rose off the deck. At first he was thrilled with the way this rising and falling left him airborne and tickled his stomach, but then with each descent of
Dahlia
his stomach rose to his throat, and sank to his innards when the bow rose again.

Standing to the wind, he said, “I’m nauseated and numb—no, chilled to the bone—tossed this way and that, yet still on my feet.” Henry was determined to stay on the bow and not get sick, and for a few minutes he succeeded. But then he saw Susan burst from the cabin hatch, clutching her mouth. At the side rail she emptied her insides overboard. Henry snickered—but then his lunch rose to his throat, and he, too, dived for the rail.

Henry was lucky. His stomach soon settled into the rhythm of the pitching ship, and he was able to lean over the gunwale and watch the monotonous beauty of the bow splash skittering foamy-white out onto the clear, undulant sea.

When the roar of the cold wind made his ears ache so he couldn’t stand it any longer, he lodged himself again in the crook of the bow and held his aching ears. Facing backwards brought thoughts about what he’d left behind. The captain called, “Ready about!” The ship turned hard and the sails lost wind and began to flutter. Henry went to get up, and Ben, rising out of the hatch, screamed, “Stay down!” Shaken, Henry dropped. Ben scrambled on all fours and crouched beside him. The mainsail fluttered, then flapped so loudly and with such force it terrified Henry. “Don’t worry,” said Ben. “We’ll be okay.”

Excited to have Ben leaning into him, Henry didn’t feel at all afraid, until the old schooner rolled deep into the turn. Sure they’d be tossed overboard, Henry braced himself between Ben and the bow. Smiling, Ben said, “Don’t worry, this happens.”

All forward motion then seemed to stop; the rolling sea rose up, and just as it was about to swamp them, the mainsail flew across the deck and with a thunderous clap snapped to the wind. And the ship rolled the other way.

“I think I’m going to be ill,” said Henry. He heaved, but it was dry.

“Don’t look down,” said Ben. “Look at the horizon.” Henry lifted his gaze. Little by little his nausea subsided. Ben said, “Got to go,” and disappeared down the hatch.

Exhausted, Henry, staying low to the deck, returned to his cabin and flopped onto the bottom bunk. Images of Ben filled his mind. Ben making faces, his bright hazel eyes, his wavy, uncontrollable locks. The rocking of the ship lulled him, and as he began to doze, a song came into his head. Softly he sang,

Rock’d in the cradle of the deep

I lay me down in peace to sleep

Secure I rest upon the wave
.

And fell into deep slumber.

2

While he slept, someone closed his door, so when Henry bolted up in terror from a horrible dream, shivering with the cold, he was in total dark and had no idea where he was. A wave slapped the side of the boat. What was that? Is this a dream? Oh Lord, am I in a dream? Another wave splashed, and the creaking of the cargo and the gentle pitching of the ship and the cold and the darkness began to make sense and Henry remembered that he was aboard
Dahlia
. He wiped his eyes and shook out his head, relieved to be out of the dream. He focused on the sliver of dim yellow glowing under the door, which didn’t illuminate even a bit of the floor. His cabin was so pitch black the only way he could see his hand was to hold it between his eyes and the sliver of light. The details of the nightmare slapped like a wave against his gut, disturbing him deeply. In the dream, he was back in the Sewells’ dining room in Scituate. With Edmund and Ellen Sewell, Reverend and Mrs. Sewell, his brother John and Aunt Pru. “Could that really be the way it happened? How could I have forgotten that, and for all this time?” Henry fumbled for the door, found the latch and pulled open the cabin door. The dream fled.

Across the lighted hall, Susan sat with a bucket between her legs, vomiting. Henry heaved. No, he thought, I won’t get sick again. I’ve paid Neptune his due. He asked Susan if she needed anything; she waved him away. Realizing he needed to relieve himself, he went up on deck.

The deck was in shadow. The eastern sky was darkening, but it was a clear darkness, not like the black cloak of Puritanism hanging over Concord. And there was Ben leaning against the starboard gunwale. “Hey,” said Henry. “Where do I pee?”