Last Pages. Oscar Mandel

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СКАЧАТЬ the last essay in this volume should give away the meaning of “Last Pages,” which, in turn, may suggest why the contents of my book are so shockingly heterogeneous in genres, in matter and in tone. I emptied my drawer and poured out what lay in it. Apology is useless. The voices are many. The author is one.

       STORIES

       TWO GENTLEMEN OF NANTUCKET

       A Romantic Episode of the American Revolution

      1

      A BROKEN WINDOWPANE was the only blemish on the Weamish residence in Sherburne, one of the finest houses on the island—certainly the finest on Main Street, and one of the few in town made entirely of brick. As he sat that morning in his upper-story library writing a letter to his widowed mother, Judge Thomas Weamish frowned in anger and pain each time he looked up at the glassy wound. To be sure, rosy-cheeked and chubby in his morning robe and slippers, he appeared more like a man accustomed, at the lovely age of forty, to cheer than to distress. Yet these were distressful times, and Weamish was conscious of them as he concluded his letter, written in a consciously elegant hand, with frequent dippings of the pen into the inkwell. “For the rest, my dearest mamma, the weather today is all radiant sun, as if to invite a swift return from the mainland of one whom not a few among the natives of the island call the queen-mother of Nantucket. Speed, speed to these shores again, for our human storms require a hand such as yours that knoweth how to chide the weak and chastise the guilty. Ever your devoted son, Thomas. Mailed at Sherburne, Nantucket. Tuesday, the 20th of June, 1775.”

      He dried the letter and rang a little silver bell. Jenny the motherly housekeeper came up from the kitchen.

      “Jenny, when the post boy comes by, tell him I have a letter for him,” said Weamish.

      “I will, Mr. Weamish. And I thought you’d like to know, sir, that I saw Josh Mamack dragging down the street.”

      “It’s about time! Catch him and send him up at once.”

      When she was gone, Weamish rose from his chair, letter in hand, and took it to an unbroken window for a better light. He was rather proud of his epistolary skills and unwilling to fold and seal the letter without re-reading it. This he did, half aloud, with subdued but eloquent gestures.

      “Dearest mamma,” said the letter; “God grant that this missive find you in the full enjoyment of your customary health and cheerful spirits. Need I tell you how sorely you are missed by all your friends in town? To fly to an ailing sister, a despondent and helpless brother-in-law, in the midst of an embattled Boston, within hearing of cannon fire, insulted daily by a rabble of treacherous and unprincipled villains, who, like froward children, dare to question the mild authority of a monarch beloved of all his rational subjects; to rush, I say, to a sister and brother cruelly expelled from their ancestral home at Cambridge; to nurse them in their affliction; to comfort them for the loss of property, familiar grounds and acquaintances; all this proves you a Saltonstall, the proud daughter of a governor, and sister-in-law to a royal Councillor of Massachusetts. But let me descend from these heights and commend myself to Dr. Brattle and to your dear sister, my aunt. Pray tell them they acted wisely in taking shelter at Boston under the victorious wings of his Excellency our governor and general, who, if reports tell true, hath recently beaten the impudent rebels out of Charlestown, and will now drum them handily out of the entire province. Alas, how I wish that I myself could wield a sword in these stirring times, rise to defend my king, and scourge the contumacious mob! But the robe enjoins its own duties, the law hath its own heroes. My sphere, at the moment, is our dear county of Nantucket, and here I mean to sustain his Majesty’s mild rule and enforce his just decrees. What if you and I, my dear mamma, permit ourselves, in the intimacy of our household, to nurse the virtuous hope that Governor Gage will see fit presently to call me to his side, perhaps into his Council, to serve my king in a wider and nobler field of activity? I make no secret of my feelings. I do not care if a hint should come to the governor’s ear that Thomas Weamish, who suffered for his king in the time of the Stamp Act, and who now once again beholds his windows shattered as the reward of his loyalty, that this same Thomas Weamish burns with a noble ambition to sacrifice his repose on the altar of our cherished colony. But you, my dear mamma, will know better than anyone how to convey these not unworthy sentiments to General Gage. Speak to him apart at the next assembly, when music hath made him cheerful. For is it fitting that a son of yours should pine away in a rude colonial outpost, among uncouth whalemen and Quakers, distant from elegant society—”

      But the door opened again at that moment and Jenny entered, followed by Joshua Mamack, carrying tools and a sack. “Here’s Josh, Mr. Weamish.”

      The Indian took off his cap with a respectfully cheerful “Good day to you, sir.”

      Weamish gave the man in return a sarcastic “Well well, Mr. Mamack; very good of you I’m sure to call on us at last.”

      The Indian looked dumb and scratched his head. “Never mind,” said the Judge; “I’ll attend to you in a moment.”

      He sat down to fold and seal his letter, which he handed to Jenny. After she had left, he turned to the Indian and pointed tragically at the broken window-pane, the sharp edges of which remained as if to bear witness. “Here, Mr. Mamack, here.”

      “Yah. I seen it,” said the Indian. “Near same one they break nine years ago. Mamack good memory. I seen it from the street days ago and I brung the replacement. Here.”

      Mamack produced the bright new pane from his sack. The Judge examined it.

      “Very well, Mr. Mamack, but why has it taken you four days to find your way here?”

      Mamack had learned long ago that this looking dumb of his was the canniest way to cope with the white world. “Find my way?” he asked.

      “To answer my summons, Mamack,” Weamish shouted. “Am I to sit in this room for an entire week while the wind whistles through a broken window?”

      “I mean to come right away quickly, Judge—”

      “But?”

      “Well—”

      “Well well well! Well what?”

      “Well—I got five kids to feed, I got a position in the community—”

      The Judge’s cheeks puffed and went from his customary rosy to red.

      “A position in the—! A carpenter—a glazer—a jack Indian with a position in the community! So this is the new spirit blowing over the land! And what has your precious position in the community to do with my broken window, Mr. Mamack?”

      “Yah, I was only talking, Judge. I fix that window fast.”

      “I insist that you tell me!”

      “Well—”

      “Well?”

      Up to this moment, Mamack had been looking down and sideways as though interested in the Judge’s carpet, but now he gazed slyly into the Judge’s face: “Well, the folks around here see you comfy cozy with Sergeant Cuff and Mr. Applegate—”

      “Aha!”

      Just then, in the distance, came the sound of a fife and drum. СКАЧАТЬ