Coffins Read Free Page B

moored to all available docking space, often rafted five or six deep, making the air bristle with a forest of spars and masts. The citizens liked to say that a man could walk from one end of Casco Bay to the other without getting his feet wet, simply by trodding upon boats. They’re exaggerating, but not by much.
    A hackney coach conveyed me from the train station to the main wharves, where a ferry service would, I was told, provide a more direct route to White Harbor than could be had by land. My destination lay a little less than twenty miles east by sea, whereas the overland route was nearer forty, due to the curvaceous nature of the coastline. There were certain villages in these parts separated by no more than a few miles of water, whose remove by the shoreline route exceeded a hundred miles.
    All of this information, possibly quite dubious, was had from the loquacious hack driver as we bumped over the cobbles of Exchange Street, avoiding clumps of snow and ice. The Downeaster of legend may be taciturn, but the real item is far from it. The locals have, it is true, developed a slower manner of speech than is common in Boston, but they make up for it with a dry wit, and a tendency to constantly amend and improve their answers with amusing anecdotes. So it was with the hack, who, upon hearing where I was headed, assured me that my destination was home to more master mariners than in any other place on earth.
    â€œNear a hundred ship captains sail out of White Harbor, in every kind of vessel, from whalers bound for the frozen oceans to coasters that never lose sight of Portland Light. ’Tis a breeding ground for mariners, and captains in particular,” he drawled, as if delighted to have a subject on which to converse, and show off his expertise. “The cows there drink straight from the salt marsh, and everyone knows that salty milk is what makes boys take to the water. White Harbor babies are toothed on hardtack biscuits and rum, and sleep in sailor hammocks. Every house is built like a copper-bottomed ship and stinks of tar, and their privies of bilge water. The captains stand watch at home, just as they would at sea, and sail their proud little village through the universe. As to the Coffins, aye, course I’ve heard of ’em, everyone has. They’re the best of the lot, and the boss of them all is Cassius Coffin, what’s called Cash, for the very reason that he’s the richer than Croesus.”
    Cash Coffin. It was the first time I’d heard him called that. To Jeb he was always “the Captain” or, more rarely, “my dear father.” As to more specific information about the family, or any recent deaths therein, the hack had none, or if he did was not willing to share it.
    Curiously, though I’d spent many an hour in deep conversation with my diminutive friend, I had only the vaguest sort of impression about his family. A tribe of seafarers, I knew that much, of course, and that Jeb was the youngest of six brothers. But our impassioned talks had more to do with issues than with the personal, and now that I was about to invade his home territory, I felt the need to gird myself with whatever information I could gather, and so behave accordingly, with less risk of offense.
    The friendly hack left me at the ferry landing with a bit of droll advice. “If you feel the need to puke, seek the rail away from the wind.”
    A surprise awaited me in the ferry building, when a suspicious-looking fellow waylaid me, placing his gnarled hand upon my shoulder.
    â€œBe you Dr. Davis Bentwood?” he muttered, in a voice that sounded like something shaken from a bag of broken glass.
    Startled, I confessed my identity. Before me was one who might have modeled for an illustration entitled “Old Tar.” He had bandy legs and a sailor’s pigtail jutting from under a knit wool cap. As well he was dressed in a worn pea jacket of dark blue wool, knee-high boots, and a