NOVEMBER 2

B. is off to the registry office this morning. Sophy’s teeth kept her (and us) awake half the night, but now she is napping peacefully. I had hopes of some shopping and visiting here, as the loading progresses and B. is less occupied with paperwork, but alas there is horse disease in the city and the horse cars aren’t running. One can hire a carriage but the price is prohibitive, so it looks as though Sophy and I shall be thoroughly familiar with our quarters well before we sail.

As the present is without event, I’m thinking of the past, and especially of my dear father, who passed away two months ago today, and also of B.’s father, Captain Nathan, who, having weathered a lifetime of perilous voyages at sea, departed this life in his own parlor, struck by a lightning bolt that came through the window. On past voyages we wrote letters to these progenitors, but now we are without them and the world feels smaller, and duller.

They were both proud, occasionally thunderous men, willing and eager to cast the pearls of their wisdom widely. They were solid friends and enjoyed each other’s company until the war came and they fell out for its duration. Captain Nathan thought all wars were a waste of daylight and energy, as well as human lives, and recommended that the government could save the nation untold grief if they would simply purchase all the slaves and set them free. My father advocated a complex blend of Old Testament justice and New Testament mercy. This “quarrel of the patriarchs,” as Olie called it, was resolved once the slaves were freed and the union reunited. One summer morning Father vowed he would no longer live in enmity with his brother‑in‑law. He marched over to Rose Cottage and knocked boldly on the door. Captain Nathan, who was standing on the piazza – which he calls the “quarterdeck”–saw him there. He came down, threw the door open, glowered at Father for a moment, and said commandingly, “Walk in, sir.” And that was that.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 683