Remember Me (14 page)

Jan wondered if Menley had acted on her suggestion to ask Henry Sprague about Phoebe's research files, but as she drove down the tree-lined highway, another thought occurred to her. At the beginning of the eighteenth century it was common practice for a sea captain to take his wife and even his children with him on a long voyage. Some of those wives had kept journals that were now in the collection of the Brewster Ladies Library. She hadn't gotten around to reading them yet, but it would be interesting to browse through them now and see if by any chance Captain Freeman's wife had been one of the contributors.

It was a beautiful day, and predictably the only car in the parking lot belonged to Alana Martin, the other Monday volunteer. I'll have plenty of time to read this afternoon, Jan thought.

“Those gals got around,” she murmured to Alana an hour later as she sat at one of the long tables with a dozen handwritten journals stacked around her. “One of them wrote that she ‘was two years on board.' Went to China and India, had a baby born during an Atlantic storm and came home ‘refreshed and tranquil of spirit despite some hardships along the way.' This is the jet age, but I've never been to China.”

The journals made fascinating reading, but she could find no reference to Captain Andrew Freeman's wife. Finally she gave up. “I guess Captain Freeman's wife didn't take pen in hand, or if she did, we don't have her memoirs here.”

Alana was checking the shelves for out-of-order books. She paused and took off her glasses, a habit she had when she was trying to remember something. “Captain Freeman,” she mused. “I remember finding some stuff on him years ago for Phoebe Sprague. It
seems to me we even have a sketch of him somewhere. He grew up in Brewster.”

“I didn't know that,” Jan said. “I thought he was from Chatham.”

Alana put her glasses back on. “Let me take a look.”

A few minutes later, Jan was reading through the annals of Brewster and jotting notes. She culled from the book the fact that Andrew's mother was Elizabeth Nickerson, daughter of William Nickerson of Yarmouth, who in 1653 married Samuel Freeman, a farmer. As a wedding gift, she received from her father a grant of forty acres of upland and ten acres in Monomoil, as Chatham was then known.

I wonder if the Chatham property was where Remember House was eventually built, Jan thought.

Samuel and Elizabeth Freeman had three sons, Caleb, Samuel and Andrew. Only Andrew lived past babyhood, and at age ten he went to sea in the
Mary Lou,
a sloop under the command of Captain Nathaniel Baker.

In 1702 Andrew, age thirty-eight, now the captain of his own ship, the
Godspeed,
married Mehitabel Winslow, age sixteen, daughter of the Reverend Jonathan Winslow of Boston.

I can't wait to tell Menley Nichols I found all this, Jan exulted. Of course she may have Phoebe's files and already have come across it.

“Want to take a peek at Captain Andrew Freeman?”

Jan looked up. Alana was at her elbow, smiling triumphantly. “I knew I'd seen a sketch of him. It must have been drawn by someone on his ship. Isn't he impressive?”

The pen-and-ink drawing depicted Captain Andrew Freeman at the helm of the
Godspeed.
A large man, broad and tall, with a short dark beard, strong features,
a firm mouth, eyes that were narrowed as though he was looking into the sun. There was an air of confidence and command about him.

“He had the reputation of being fearless, and he looks the part, doesn't he?” Alana commented. “I tell you, I wouldn't want to be the wife who cheated on him and got caught.”

“Do you think it's all right if I make a copy of this?” Jan asked. “I'll be careful.”

“Sure.”

When she went home later that afternoon, Jan called Menley and told her that she had some interesting material for her. “One find is really special,” she promised. “I'll drop everything off for you tomorrow. Will you be home around four o'clock?”

“That would be fine,” Menley agreed. “I've been doing some sketching today for the illustrations, and of course Mrs. Sprague's files are glorious. Thank you for suggesting them.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you think there's any chance there might be a picture of Mehitabel anywhere?”

“I don't know,” Jan said. “But I'll certainly keep looking.”

When she hung up, Jan was lost in thought. Menley Nichols sounded genuinely glad to hear from her, but there was something in her voice that made Jan uneasy. What was it? And then the unanswered question once again ran through her mind.

Tom had suffered the heart attack at Remember House. He'd come in from working outside, clutching his chest. She'd made him lie down, then ran to phone the doctor. When she came back, he'd grabbed her hand and pointed to the fireplace. “Jan, I just saw . . .”

What had Tom seen? He didn't live long enough to finish the sentence.

M
enley had sent Amy home at two o'clock, after Hannah had been tucked in for an afternoon nap. Several times she had caught the teenager studying her and was slightly unnerved by the scrutiny. It was the same expression she so often saw on Adam's face, and it made her uncomfortable. She was relieved when she heard Amy's car start down the driveway.

Adam wouldn't be home for another hour or so, she knew. After his meeting with Scott Covey he had a golf date with three of the friends who'd been at Elaine's party. Well, maybe they'll get all the “do-you-remember's” out of their systems, she thought, then felt a little guilty. Adam loves golf and has so little opportunity to play, and it's good that he has friends here.

It's just that I'm so confused, she mused. Hearing the train, not remembering putting Hannah in the cradle, not absolutely sure I wasn't on the widow's walk when Amy thought she saw me. But I'll go mad if Adam insists on having someone here all the time. She hated thinking of that first month after Hannah was born, when she'd been having the frequent anxiety attacks and they'd had a live-in nurse. She could still hear the well-intentioned soothing, but incredibly irritating,
voice constantly urging her away from the baby. “Now Mrs. Nichols, why don't you have a nice rest? I'll take care of Hannah.”

She couldn't allow that to happen again. She went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. I've got to get over these flashbacks and lapses, she thought to herself.

Menley settled down at the refectory table and went back to Phoebe Sprague's files. The one marked
SHIPWRECKS
made fascinating reading. Sloops and packets and schooners and whaling vessels—during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries so many of them foundered in vicious ocean storms in this area, even right below this house. In those days the Monomoy strip was known as the White Graveyard of the Atlantic.

There was a reference to the
Godspeed,
which in fierce battle had overcome the “pasel of roughes on a pirate ship,” and whose captain, Andrew Freeman, personally hauled down the “bloodie flagg” the pirates had run up to the masthead.

The tough side of the captain, Menley thought. He must have been quite a guy. A mental image of him was forming in her mind. Lean face. Skin creased and roughened by the sun and wind. A close-cropped beard. Strong, irregular features dominated by piercing eyes. She reached for her sketchpad and with quick, sure strokes transferred the mental image to paper.

It was three-fifteen when she looked up again. Adam would be along soon, and Hannah was due to wake up. She had just time enough to glance through one more file. She chose the one marked
MEETING ROOMS.
On the Cape in the early days, the meeting rooms were the churches.

Phoebe Sprague had copied old records she had obviously found interesting. The pages included stories of fiery ministers who stood in the pulpit expounding
the “Appetising of God” and the “Prompt Confusion of the Devil”; timid young ministers who gratefully accepted the salary of fifty pounds per annum and “a house and land and a good supply of firewood cut and brought to the door.” Fining a member of the congregation for small violations of the Sabbath had obviously been a common occurrence. There was a long list of minor infractions, like whistling, or allowing a pig to run loose on the Lord's Day.

Then, as she was just about to close the file, Menley came across the name Mehitabel Freeman.

On December 10, 1704, at meeting, several good-wives stood up to testify that in the past month while Captain Andrew Freeman was at sea, they had observed Tobias Knight visiting Mehitabel Freeman “at unseemly hours.”

According to the account, Mehitabel, three months pregnant at the time, had jumped up to deny the charge hotly, but Tobias Knight, “humble and contrite, did confess his adultery and welcome the chance to cleanse his soul.”

The judgment of the deacons was to commend Tobias Knight for his pious renunciation of his sin and “to refuse to put him to open punishment but sentence him to pay for the said offence the sum of five pounds to the poor of the burough.” Mehitabel was given the opportunity to renounce her unchastity. Her furious refusal and scathing denunciation of both Tobias Knight and her accusers sealed her fate.

It was decreed that at the first town meeting six weeks after her delivery, “the adulteress Mehitabel Freeman would be presented to receive forty stripes save one.”

My God, Menley thought. How awful. She couldn't have been more than eighteen at the time and, to quote her husband, “of gentle size and strength.”

There was a notation in Phoebe Sprague's handwriting:
“The
Godspeed
returned from a voyage to England on March 1st and sailed again on March 15th. Was the captain present for the baby's birth? Birth registered as being on June 30th, as child of Andrew and Mehitabel, so no question seems to have been raised that he was the father. He returned mid-August, around which time her sentence would have been carried out. Sailed again immediately, taking baby, and was away nearly two years. Next record of
Godspeed
returning is August 1707.”

And all that time she didn't know where her baby was or if it was even alive, Menley thought.

“Hey, you're really into that material.”

Menley looked up, startled. “Adam!”

“That's my name.”

Clearly relaxed, he was smiling. The visor of his cap shaded his face, but his blue sports shirt was open at the neck and revealed a touch of fresh sunburn, which was also apparent on his arms and legs. He leaned over Menley and put his arms around her. “When you're this deep into research there's no point in asking if you missed me.”

Trying to pull herself back into the present, Menley leaned her head against his arm. “I counted every minute you were gone.”

“Now that's serious. How's her nibs?”

“Fast asleep.”

Menley looked up and saw him glance at the baby monitor. He's making sure it's on, she thought. A cry, passionate and heartbreaking raced through her head. “Oh, love, why can you not trust me?”

W
hen Fred Hendin pulled his car into the driveway of his modest Cape Cod home in Barnstable, he quickly learned that the man in the car parked across the street was waiting for him.

Nat Coogan, shield in hand, caught him at the door. “Mr. Hendin?”

Fred glanced at the shield. “I gave at the office.” His half smile belied the suggestion of sarcasm.

“I'm not selling tickets for the policemen's ball,” Nat said pleasantly, quickly assessing the man in front of him. Late thirties, he thought. Norwegian or Swedish background. The man was barely medium height, with strong arms and neck, faded blondish hair in need of trimming. He was wearing denim overalls and a perspiration-soaked tee shirt.

Hendin inserted his key in the lock. “Come in.” He moved and spoke deliberately, as though he thought through everything before speaking or acting.

The room they entered reminded Nat of the first house he'd bought when he and Deb were married. It was made up of essentially small rooms, but there was a compact hominess to the floor plan that always appealed to him.

Fred Hendin's living room might have been furnished
from a catalogue. Imitation leather couch and matching recliner, walnut veneer end tables, matching coffee table, artificial flower arrangement, threadbare beige carpet, prim beige curtains that didn't quite reach the windowsills.

The obviously expensive entertainment center housed in a fine cherrywood breakfront seemed out of place. It consisted of a forty-inch television set, VCR and stereo system with CD player. There were shelves of videotapes. Nat unabashedly inspected them, then whistled. “You've got a great collection of classic films,” he commented. Then he examined the cassettes and CDs. “You must like forties and fifties music. My wife and I are nuts for it too.”

“Jukebox music,” Hendin said. “I've been collecting for years.”

On the top shelves there were a half-dozen wooden sculptures of sailing vessels. “If I'm being too intrusive just say so,” Nat said as he reached up and carefully removed an exquisitely carved schooner. “You did this?”

“Uh-huh. I carve while I'm listening to the music. A good hobby. And relaxing. What do you do when you listen to it?”

Nat replaced the carving and turned to face Hendin. “Sometimes I'll be fixing something around the house or tinkering with the car. If the kids are away and we're in the mood, my wife and I dance.”

“You've got me there. I have two left feet. I'm getting myself a beer. Want one? Or a soda?”

“No thanks.”

Nat watched Hendin's back as he disappeared through the door frame. Interesting guy, he thought. He looked again at the top shelves of the breakfront, appreciating the finely carved sculptures. He's a real craftsman, he thought. Somehow he could not picture this man and Tina together as a couple.