Chesapeake (38 page)

But always he lacked the essential tool without which the workman can never attain true mastery: he did not know the names of any of the parts he was building, and without the name he was artistically incomplete. It was not by accident that doctors and lawyers and butchers invented specific but secret names for the things they did; to possess the name was to know the secret. With correct names one entered into a new world of proficiency, became the member of an arcane brotherhood, a
sharer of mysteries, and in the end a performer of merit. Without the names one remained a bumbler or, in the case of boatbuilding, a mere house carpenter.

Paxmore would always remember the July morning on which a two-masted Bristol tobacco trader put into Devon, and the joy with which he scrambled through all parts of the ship, asking the ship’s carpenter what the various parts were. It was then that he began to unravel the mystery of names.

‘Trunnels
we calls ’em,’ the man said of the tree nails Paxmore had been carving, and as trunnels they acquired added value, for this meant that they were part of an ancient heritage.

‘It ain’t
backbone.
It’s
keel.
And the plank we attach on top for tying into is
keelson.
’ But the word which pleased him most was the one the Englishman used for the bent roots upon which the stability of the ship depended. ‘Them’s
knees,
and you best cut ’em from hackmatack. Better’n oak.’

The measurements of a cut board were the
scantlings,
the squared-off rear was the
transom,
the piece of timber used to extend the bowsprit a
jib boom,
and the splice of timbers a
scarph.
But what astonished him was the fact that
floor
meant not an extended flat area, as in a house, but the small, rugged timber jammed up against the keel, on which the inner bottom of the ship was framed.

On this visit Paxmore picked up a hundred words, and with each, a new insight to his task, but none of his new knowledge disturbed him so much as what he discovered about the mast. For his ship he had trimmed a very tall pine tree into a perfect cylinder, and had erected it in an arbitrary manner at an arbitrary spot. Now he learned that he had done everything wrong.

‘No! No!’ the English carpenter admonished. ‘Never a rounded base! Because if it’s rounded at the bottom, how are you going to wedge it fast where it stands in its step upon the keelson? And if it’s rounded where it passes through the deck, how can you caulk it to prevent leaks?’

He took Paxmore to the lowest section of his ship and showed him how the shipbuilders of the world stepped their masts. ‘At the bottom, keep the tree a square. Then it can be set into this box, and knees can be thrown against it, and it can be wedged along straight lines, and no wind can move it.’

What a difference between a real mast and the one Paxmore had devised! The true one stood firm, wedged powerfully on all sides, foursquare with the keel. His wobbled because its circular base provided no secure line for wedging.

‘Now, at this height, as she approaches the hole through the deck, trim her to the octagonal,’ and the Englishman showed what a handsome job the Bristol shipbuilders had done in modulating a square base into an
octagonal riser; the eye could scarcely see where the shift had been made, and as the mast passed through the deck, a vital transit, it provided eight solid sides which could be wedged and waterproofed. Paxmore’s was a leaky mess.

‘It’s only when we get up here,’ the Bristol man said as they stood on deck, ‘that you allow the octagon to become a circle,’ and again the shift from one geometrical form to the other had been achieved with a lovely delicacy. ‘You know why we want ’em round above deck?’

‘No.’

‘She don’t fight the wind. And another thing, if your mast is truly seated and properly wedged, it’ll stand of itself. The weight of the wind on the sail will push her down into the step and hold her there. Paxmore, don’t let anyone guy your mast so tight it sings like a harp. The shrouds should be loose, always loose. They’re not there to wrench the mast into position, only to give it help if a gale strikes.’ And he led Paxmore to each of the shrouds protecting the mast and demonstrated how loose they were, bearing no pressure in times of calm but available in time of sudden stress.

And then he said something which quite staggered the novice. ‘’Course you placed your mast properly?’

‘I centered it on the backbone … the keel … I mean the keelson.’

‘’Course. But I mean fore and aft.’

‘I put it …’ The vague look that came into Paxmore’s eyes betrayed the fact that he knew nothing of sail capacity, or balance, or the moment of forces acting upon a ship under way, or the intricate problem of placing a mast so that winds upon the sail did not lift the bow or depress it or cause it to yaw.

‘You know nothing of placing masts, do you?’ the Bristol man asked.

‘No.’

‘Well, caulk her strong and pray she floats. Improvements come with experience.’

In December 1668 a pinnace crossed the bay, bringing to Devon Island a visitor who gladdened the hearts of everyone. He was Father Ralph Steed, fifty-two years old and gray from his labors throughout Maryland. He rested on the wharf to survey the impressive changes made at Devon since his prior visit: the substantial wharf, the broad paths leading to the constantly growing wooden house, the glassed-in windows, the second chimney bespeaking the added rooms, and above all, the sense of serene accomplishment. In his youth this had been a precarious foothold in the wilderness; now it was becoming the seat of country gentlefolk.

‘I am especially pleased to see that you have got hold of some slaves,’ he told his brothers. ‘Properly utilized, they can be of great assistance
to a plantation, and contact with their white masters does much to save their souls.’

It was a privilege to renew acquaintance with his brothers, and he was astounded by the fecundity of their wives: Henry had two sons and a daughter, Paul three boys and two girls, and this third generation already contained eleven grandchildren, not counting the many infants who had died. But the gem of the collection was a blond boy of seven, roguish and unfairly handsome, who took an immediate liking to his great-uncle and bowed with exaggerated politeness as he said, ‘We are glad to see you in Devon again, Uncle Ralph.’

‘That’s Fitzhugh,’ Henry said proudly, ‘my grandson.’

‘He’ll be counselor-of-state, with his winning ways,’ the priest said, holding the child by the hand as he told the brothers, ‘It’s remarkable and a thing pleasing to God that our family has always been able to find Catholic girls to marry.’ But as he said this he winced and had to drop Fitzhugh’s hand.

‘Your hip?’

‘Fell from a horse. It’s nothing.’ He made no complaints about his harsh life, but he did lodge one protest, and that most sternly. ‘You haven’t rebuilt the chapel!’

‘It was too conspicuous,’ Henry said, shrugging his shoulders in self-justification.

‘I was conspicuous on every river,’ Ralph chided, and no more was said about the chapel. But as soon as he reached the house with its handsome new porch he asked that the family be convened for the reading of a Mass, and when the brood was collected and he had greeted each new acquaintance, he offered a family celebration. Afterward he pointed to the corner cupboard containing the pewter and told his brothers, ‘I like that. We had stern days and it’s good to remember them.’

He was voracious in his desire for details regarding the operation of the plantation, and told Henry, ‘It’s a shame the Eastern Shore cannot grow sweet-scented leaf like Virginia. The Oronoco you grow over here always brings less in London.’

‘It does well in France,’ Henry said. ‘They seem to like our heartier flavor.’

‘I’ve brought with me some seeds of a tougher strain of sweet-scented. We should see if it will prosper in our soil.’

‘It won’t. We’ve tried all possible strains, and it’s perverse. Sweet-scented, like beautiful ladies, grows only in Virginia. Oronoco, like real men, grows in Maryland.’

Father Steed also wanted to know how negotiations with Fithian were progressing, and Paul said, ‘I visited him in London last year. He’s older now and his sons are handling our affairs. Admirably, too.’

‘He took possession of two plantations along the James last year,’ the
priest said. ‘There was ugly talk, and I feared for our relations with him.’

‘That’s always been the story of the Virginia planters,’ Paul said defensively. ‘They earn a thousand pounds with their sweet-scented and order eleven hundred pounds’ worth of goods. If they do this long enough, Fithian owns their land.’

‘Are we in debt to him?’

‘The other way around. We keep a cash balance in our favor.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘We’ve opened a warehouse at Patamoke Landing. People up and down the river come there to trade with us.’ And he called for a bateau to take Ralph to the growing settlement. ‘The long low building is ours,’ he said as the boat entered the harbor. ‘And that place by the wharf is a tavern. Only three houses so far, but I’ve deeded thirty acres to Lord Baltimore for the settling of a town, and he’s promised to issue an ordinance appointing Oxford and Patamoke Landing ports of entry for ships in general trade.’

‘Any industry?’

‘None yet, but I’ve been contemplating giving that land over there to Edward Paxmore for a boatyard.’

‘You’ve spoken of him several times,’ the priest said. ‘Who is he?’

‘One of the best carpenters in England. Came to settle on our river. He’s a Quaker.’

‘He is?’ the priest said. ‘Oh, I should like to meet him. Wherever I go I hear of this new sect. Most contradictory reports. I’d like to meet one face-to-face.’

‘That’s easy. His boatyard is on the way home. He’s building a ship for us, you know.’

‘A real ship?’

‘Wait till you see!’ And on the way back the bateau diverted to the creek on whose banks Paxmore was completing his assignment.

‘It’s enormous!’ the priest said as he looked up at the huge construction. ‘How will you get it into the water?’

‘From the stern we’ll run ropes around pulleys attached to those oak trees,’ Paxmore explained. ‘Then we’ll get all the men available, and while they pull in this direction, we’ll knock out those timbers and the ship will edge forward in that direction … to the water.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘It must.’

Father Steed spent more than an hour inspecting the work, and he could not hide his wonder over the fact that his brothers were building a ship that could sail to London, but when he voiced this surprise, Henry quickly corrected him, ‘It’s not us. It’s Paxmore.’

‘I like that man,’ Ralph said. ‘Couldn’t we meet with him?’

Henry took this question to the carpenter, who said, ‘I couldn’t leave now. I sleep here to be certain …’

‘I meant, when the job permits,’ Father Steed said quickly.

‘Yes,’ Paxmore said. ‘I’m sure Ruth Brinton would want to talk with thee.’

‘And who is she?’ the priest asked.

‘My wife.’

‘Oh?’ Ralph hesitated. ‘It wouldn’t really be necessary …’

‘She talks much better than me.’

‘I’m sure she does,’ Ralph said, ‘but I wanted to talk with you about Quakers.’

‘It’s about Quakers that she talks best,’ Paxmore said, and it was arranged that when work permitted, he would sail with Ruth Brinton for a few days at Devon.

It was a visit which created a powerful impression on two families. The multiple Steeds had known Paxmore as a workman of high quality, while the Quakers had thought of the Steeds as business people on whom fortune had smiled; they were roused by Father Steed’s stories of the repression experienced by his family, and when he spoke of the fire that had destroyed the chapel, Paxmore said impulsively, ‘I could rebuild it. I’ve already built a Quaker meeting house.’

‘What makes you a Quaker?’ the priest asked.

Paxmore deferred to his wife, and the long dialogue was joined. It took place in the formal sitting room, with Father Steed, a wise, battle-worn, fat old man sprawled in an easy chair, representing the world’s oldest Christian religion, and Ruth Brinton, a prim, bonneted woman in gray, perched on the forward edge of a straight-backed chair her husband had built, representing the newest. During parts of the conversation Henry Steed and Paxmore were present, but they did not interrupt, for they perceived that here were two theologians of high purpose comparing experiences after lifetimes spent in religious speculation.

QUAKER
: You ask how I became what I am. When I was eighteen I heard George Fox preach, and he vouchsafed such an illumination that all distress vanished. His simplicity overcame me.

CATHOLIC
: The world entertains many visionaries. Our church provides two or three a year, right down the centuries. And each has some one good idea, which prudent men should listen to. But rarely more than one. And that one can be fitted into the structure of the church. What was so special about George Fox?

QUAKER
: His simplicity stripped away the unnecessary accretions of centuries.

CATHOLIC
: Such as?

QUAKER
: Thee asks. I would prefer not to embarrass thee, but thee did ask.

CATHOLIC
: Because I feel a need to know. What unnecessaries?

QUAKER
: Since God maintains direct accessibility with every human life and offers instant and uncomplicated guidance, the intervention of
priests and ministers is unnecessary. The intercession of saints is not required. Musical chanting and pretentious prayers fulfill no need. God is not attracted by incense or ostentation or robes or colorful garments or hierarchies.

CATHOLIC
: You pretty well abolish my church.

QUAKER
: Oh, no! There are many in the world, perhaps a majority, who require forms and feel easier with rituals, and if this is the manner in which they approach God, then forms and rituals are essential, and thee would be delinquent if thee deprived them of that avenue to God.