Aloha Moon
an excerpt

Aloha Moon
Table of Contents

PART I – UNCLE NOAH

Chapter 1 Merry Christmas – December 24, 1813
Chapter 2 Sweet Sixteen – 2 1/2 years later - April 15, 1816

PART II – SERENITY COVE

Chapter 3 Lost & Found – 3 1/2 years later - December 24, 1819
Chapter 4 Weddings -- 2 years and 9 months later – September 22, 1822

PART III – LIBERTY

Chapter 5 Missionaries -- three weeks later October 15, 1822
Chapter 6 The Cook & The Captain -- five weeks later -- November 24, 1822
Chapter 7 Omens 3 ½ months later --- April 15, 1823

PART IV – ISLAND

Chapter 8 Survival -- five days later April 20, 1823
Chapter 9 Alii – two months later -- June 20, 1823

PART V -- RETURN

Chapter 10 Honolulu – one month later -- July 20, 1823
Chapter 11 Thanksgiving -- four months later -- November 23, 1823

EPILOGUE

May 24, 1825 – A year and a half later

PART I – UNCLE NOAH

Chapter 1: Merry Christmas

Boston Weekly Messenger, December 24, 1813.
Captain Noah Ellez’s ship, “Enterprise,” is now three weeks overdue. Will he run the British blockade of Boston and be home in time for Stuart Manor’s annual Christmas Eve dinner? Or will he dock in New York harbor and travel over land? If he is delayed much longer, all of Beacon Hill will certainly miss the esteemed captain’s presence at this season’s social event of the year. Come home soon, Captain Ellez.”

# # #

“Who’s that big brown girl on the stairs, Johnny boy?” chides Michael O’Neill, striding into the ornate foyer of Stuart Manor. His retinue of five brothers and several tittering female admirers trail in his wake. “Do you allow your servants’ offspring the run of the house?”

Mortified, Johnny Stuart spots his younger sister sitting on the bottom step of the elegant staircase, hugging her knees, attempting to be invisible. He throws a look at her so menacing in its energy that it practically pushes her back up the staircase. He points to the top of the stairs and hisses “Leah, get back to your room, now!”

“I thought it might be Uncle! “ she pouts, defending herself, as she inches her way up the stairs as slowly as she possibly can without actually stopping.

At 24, brother Johnny is ten years older than his “little” sister, Leah, at least fifteen pounds lighter, and six inches shorter than she. His skin is pallid and blue-veined. His eyes are pale blue and close together, as if one didn’t trust the other. His hair is fashioned in the latest style, carefully tousled, with carved, sparse sideburns. Like both his mother and father, his face is small-featured, except for a nose like a granite outcropping crammed into the center of it. He has unfortunately inherited his father’s grim set mouth with its chicken lips and his mother’s receding chin, a delightful combination that more than one portrait painter has struggled with. He has no wit to speak of, and often laughs the loudest at jests that he doesn’t understand the point of.

The Stuart’s elegant guests shed their snow-covered topcoats, mufflers and other protective winter accoutrement to reveal the shimmer, sparkle and skin which represent the height of fashion in 1813 Boston.

Best friends, scrawny Johnny Stuart and ginger-haired Michael O’Neill compete to boast the most impressive wardrobes in Boston, and the Boston Messenger society writer faithfully reports on every style change. Their lace jabots are fashioned from the most delicate Belgian goods available and their stockings are the finest Chinese silk with brocaded rosettes accenting bony knees and spindly calves.

They are beloved by Boston society as prime “catches” and the two most eligible bachelors, due to their status as heirs to the Stuart and O’Neill families shipping fortunes.

“Unfortunately, my sister’s a bit slow, you know.” mutters Johnny to Michael, embarrassed.

“Yes, I understand, Michael whispers in Johnny’s ear, , “we have one of those too! indicating a shy, solitary blond boy among the O’Neill red-heads shrinking into the background. “ Brother Timmy - soft and stupid. The O’Neill bloodline had grown weak by the time he came along! They both laugh.

Johnny claps him on the back—“We should have been brothers, Michael, old man!”

Johnny gleefully takes Michael’s arm and leads him into the drawing room, where the other guests are already drinking, playing cards and gossiping. The room is typical of the uber-wealthy of Boston brahmin class. All flocked velvet and French silks; Bavarian crystal and gilt-edged furniture highly crafted by cunning American artisans.

All eyes turn to the two dandies as they enter the room in all their pomp and circumstance.

Michael, old son, you are welcome! The senior John Stuart pumps Michael’s puny hand. I see you have brought some admirers, indicating the group of be-ribboned ladies giggling like a gaggle of geese.

Where’s that father of yours?

Oh he and mother will be along soon. They enjoy being fashionably late, you know.

But never late for dinner…Stuart retorts loud enough for all to hear.

They all laugh at John Stuart’s prodigious display of wit.

Mrs. Stuart appears from the dining room, and before she’s had a chance to greet her guests,
Stuart grasps his wife’s skinny arm through her ruffled leghorn sleeve and rasps in her ear “Take the girl upstairs and either make her presentable or keep her out of sight, do you understand”

Mrs. Stuart nods and they both enter the foyer, where the Senior O’Neills are arriving.

John Stuart greets Mr. And Mrs. O’Neill with an affluent host’s grin, all the time watching the stairs to make sure that Leah doesn’t make another unwarranted appearance.

But he needn’t have been concerned because Leah has already given up on her mission, abandoned the staircase, and run into her bed chamber, throwing herself on the bed, her lip jutting and chest heaving with sobs.

“Oh why do they hate me so?” she cries into her lacy pillow.

Her mother enters and sits on the bed, back erect, seemingly unable or unwilling to touch Leah or comfort her.

What were you thinking, coming downstairs without your cap? Look at that hair, it’s all come out of the braid and you look like a beggar girl.

No I don’t mother. Uncle ...

“Leah, do you want to come down to dinner or not?” she inquires coldly.

“Can I?” Leah answers, between sobs.

You know what you need to do, my girl.” Her mother answers.

Leah’s sobs subside somewhat, and she turns to look at her mother, her eyes red and swollen with heartbreak.

“Oh, mother, please do not make me wear it. It hurts so!” she protests with her most persuasive tone.

Do you want to go to dinner with everyone else?” her mother repeats, unmoved.

Leah turns over onto her back, her long body stretched out over the bed, her long arms at right angles to her body. She sighs and surrenders with a muffled “All right.”

“What did you say? her mother inquires harshly.

“I said all right—bring the damn thing out.”

“Leah, such language. Where did you hear that?

From Johnny, of course – when he cursed the tailor for making his sleeves too short —remember?”

“Well, it’s not lady-like and I never want to hear you say it again. If you are to appear in public, you must behave. Do you understand? We want our friends to know that you are a presentable young lady, despite the gossip.”

“Yes, mother,” she replies dejectedly.

Leah crawls off the bed, removes her simple gray cotton day dress, and stands by her dressing table, in her pantaloons and chemise, arms out, resigned to the inevitable.

Her mother opens a drawer in the intricately carved burlwood chest and pulls out a crème-colored woolen corset with elaborate embroidered pink roses and green vines edged with stiff lace. It has many layers, with linen linings, twill-woven wool and kid leather on the tops and bottom of the rows of stays.

With that body, you should have started this when you were 10, you know. You haven’t even reached fourteen and your body is beyond hope now. Mother says, surveying her daughter’s plump and already curvaceous olive-skinned figure.

“What gossip, mother?

“What do you mean?

“Despite what gossip?”

“You know how tongues wag. People who don’t know better say that we keep you from society because you are deformed or have some mental defect. You know very well, Leah, we want to protect you from the British war pillagers and that is why you are not often seen out.”

“Except church on Easter and Christmas” she reminds her mother.

Yes. It’s better for all that you are considered “delicate.”

Looking at herself in the mirror on her dressing table, she sees nothing delicate in her visage and suppresses a laugh.

At almost 14, and 5’10” tall, Leah is a half a head taller than everyone else in her family. Her hair is thick and black and with unruly curls that her mother stuffs beneath a cap. Her eyes are large, brown and wide set with thick black lashes. Leah’s features are broad, her high-boned cheeks glow with roses and her lips full and naturally pink with white teeth and a quick smile. Her hands are olive-skinned and square, her arms long, shapely, and strong.

Her mother wraps the dreaded corset around Leah’s waist, fitting it to her pubescent breasts. It is a very old-fashioned garment, heavily boned, in a very constricting style that Grace Stuart feels is the only solution to her daughter’s figure problems. Good breeding is shown in ones erect posture and correct deportment, and training of the body through the stiff whalebone stays is the primary method of achieving it.

Leah’s mother starts cinching the laces in the back, working them from top to bottom and bottom to top until she can’t get it any tighter.

“I can’t breathe, and it’s poking me, whines Leah, her ribs immoveable in the wire cage, and the stiff whalebone stays jabbing her plump flesh.

“Hush, we all pay in some way or another,” her mother admonishes her as she slips Leah’s pink satin gown over her head and fastens it up the back.

The seeming acres of shiny fabric skirt and masses of petticoats engulf Leah’s tall body. In the Empire style, Leah’s skirt falls from just below her breasts, which are quite too full for the style,
to the floor, accentuated by a large ruffle at the bottom.

“I look like a bed with a pink bedspread,” Leah blurts out, looking at herself in the billowing skirt in the mirror.

“Never mind that, just stay seated and out of the light, Leah. And for God’s sake, “Keep your gloves on” “your hands look like they are made for servant work.”

“How am I to eat, mother?”

“Don’t be impertinent, girl. You will eat as little as possible, and say nothing. Do you understand? Attract no attention to yourself.”

Leah and her mother enter the dining room. Leah tiptoes to her father’s chair, mumbles “Good evening, father” and then shrinks away, but not soon enough.

Her Father looks her up and down and snickers with derisive laughter.

“Oh God. That girl gets taller every day.” He says loudly, frowning at his daughter over his spectacles, “It’s one thing if a girl has grace and is tall, but to be tall and graceless that is quite another thing.” He screws up his face as if an unpleasant odor had just assaulted his nostrils, and waves her away. Leah casts down her eyes, returns to her mother’s side and sinks heavily into her chair.

“Do you not agree my dear Michael?” he queries O’Neill sitting to his left.

“But of course, “the O’Neill heir responds quickly, winking at the row of beautiful girls at the table, who all giggle and blush at the attention.

“Not only grace, but good breeding is so important these days,” Michael O’Neill continues. “Families such as ours must lead the way in culture, the arts, and politics since we carry the best of the British Protestant bloodlines. Johnny and I will see to that, won’t we Johnny-boy?

But of course, Johnny responds, not quite sure what O’Neill wants from him, but most happy to comply.

We O’Neills descend from the actual loins of the founders of Boston, you know. We didn’t marry into it through trade, like so many … there’s an uncomfortable cough and an embarrassed silence at the table ...”not that trade is to be put down, oh no, I do not mean to imply that. We all profit greatly from the voyages of our sailing vessels, do we not?” Relieved, all around the table murmur agreement with the self-confident O’Neill.

“We Stuarts of course, can be traced back to the English kings.” John Stuart proclaims. “Johnny here might as well be a prince, for he has royal blood in his veins,” he proudly claps his son on the back.

The ladies and gentlemen in attendance are impressed, but no more so than Johnny who preens and blushes with false modesty.

Father Stuart fixes his eye upon his wife, who is hiding discretely in the shadows next to Leah at the far end of the enormous dining table.

“Now the Ellez family history is quite another story. Stuart looks pointedly at the far end of the table at his wife, who lowers her eyes, her mouth working silently, as if in prayer...

“Don’t...” her mouth seems to silently say.

My wife’s bloodline comes from Brittany -- in the Monts d’Arrees near Yeun Ellez. The Ellez River is unhappily called the river of the damned and the valley it lies in is known as the Gates of Hell. It was where the priests cast out demons that possessed humans by exorcising them into the body of a black dog and then throwing the dog into the marshes of the gates of Hell.

The dozen or so ladies at the table murmur with alarm.

“It was a known gathering place for gypsies, also,” he continues, staring her down.

“You would not want to go walking anywhere near Yeun Ellez, unless you are asking for it.” He continues in an ominous tone, winking at Johnny, who bursts out in mocking laughter.

Relieved that someone is laughing, the girls all begin to laugh too, followed by their escorts.

Leah observes her mother’s pained expression and tear-filled eyes and blurts out,” Father you have made mother cry!”

Grace Stuart rises and grabs Leah firmly by the arm.

“Nonsense girl,“ she smiles wanly at the gathering. “Come now, you tire easily - it’s time for you to be in bed.”

“Oh please mother, let me stay just a bit longer, I promise I will be quiet, she tries to resist her mother’s grasp.

Her mother’s grip just tightens and she demands softly through an iron jaw “Come with me, Leah.” Leah gives in, and her mother escorts her out of the dining room into the foyer.

As they pass the front door on their way up the staircase, the butler opens the door to a tall and elegantly uniformed seaman with a splendid tri-cornered captain’s hat.

“Good evening, Captain Poe.” The butler greets him, “Dinner has concluded. Would you care to join the gentlemen in the library? Or cook can prepare a bite to eat, if you are so inclined.”

“No, Marshman, I think a smoke and some brandy will do. I know my own way, he smiles at the butler as he hands off his greatcoat and hat to the butler, and strides down the hall to the library, opening the carved double door into a room smelling of leather bound books and cigar smoke.

Poe, my good man,” welcomes John Stuart. “How good to see you again!” Hands are shaken all around the room, and Captain Poe is provided with a fat cigar and a slightly warm brandy snifter, and sinks into a brown leather chaise.

“Ah, the pleasures of the landlubber,” he says contentedly pulling at the cigar

“Do tell, Leo, what news from the Pacific?” his host inquires

The news, men? The news is sandalwood. Sandalwood trees might as well be gold for the value they are given by the Chinese. They can’t get enough of it. The demand increases faster than the damned trees can grow.

The more they want it, the more we can charge for it, boasts John Stuart. I’ve re-routed many of my vessels from Atlantic to Pacific voyages. There’s more money in sandalwood than in American textiles, that’s for certain. Maybe even more than whales, Mark my words!

The group of men marvels at Stuart’s wisdom, nodding and murmuring in agreement.

Do you recall John Palmer Parker? Poe continues.

All nod, recalling their fellow Bostonian.

Excellent man and even better sailor. He’s married a Hawaiian princess and has started domesticating the wild horses and cattle on the biggest of the Hawaiian Islands.

A princess, you say. My, my. Their ruling class is not known for their beauty, O’Neill laughs derisively. I wonder how big and dark this princess is. Do you think she’s worth a few wild horses and cows?

The Hawaiian royalty are really quite beautiful in their own way, Poe admonishes gently, – and very athletic. Big doesn’t necessarily mean graceless. Several of their royal women can beat the men at athletic events. It is said that Kamehameha's wife Ka’ahumanu is a more accomplished paddler then he is.

Paddler? an O’Neill brother asks inquisitively,

Their primary mode of transportation is a double hulled vessel called a catamaran – it has a small sail, and it is powered by the expert paddlers that man it.

Have you ever met the King of Hawaii?

Yes. This last trip, I had dinner with him and his retinue.

The men grow closer to Poe, hanging on his casual description.

A mountain of a man – all muscle with great regality. He managed to unite all the islands three years ago, which was a great feat considering the family politics and war-like rulers of the other islands. He’s been very open to trade, has put down crime and oppression and is beloved by his people. He’s quite intelligent, and speaks fairly good English already.

Poe rises and goes to the bar to refresh his snifter of brandy. And I am happy to report that coffee is now available at his table. Don Francisco de Paula y Marin, a Spanish advisor to the king has introduced it along with the pineapple. So the islands are becoming quite civilized under their new ruler.

How many islands are there? A minor O’Neill brother inquires.

Well, the major trade goes through the island of Oahu, where Honolulu is. Some years back, King Kamehameha moved his royal court to Honolulu harbor so he can monitor and control the trade goods flowing in and out of the harbor. He’s quite an intelligent businessman as well as politician. He pauses in his story to draw on his cigar and take a healthy draught of the brandy, and then continues.

“Hawaii, the island where he was born, is the biggest of all the islands. In fact, it is about twice as big as all the other islands put together, and still only about half the size of our state of Massachusetts. It’s where John Parker has set up housekeeping with his princess.”

There are two volcanic mountains in the center of it that are so big, they can be seen for miles away at sea. Both belch cinders and hot liquid rocks when the “gods” are angry.

Ha, ha. These native cultures. Such children. John Stuart comments scornfully.

Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to demean, John, Poe defends amicably, the Hawaiians are the finest sailors I have ever seen – they made their way from Tahiti hundreds of years ago to a handful of tiny islands in the middle of the Pacific on rough rafts with no navigational tools or charts. No one knows how they even knew that those islands were there.

Touche, sir. Point taken, Stuart replies, clapping Poe on the back in feigned friendship.

There are several other islands that are also inhabited: Kauai, Maui, Molokai, and Lanai, and a few that have limited resources, so are merely ports in a storm. All are blessed with very fertile soil from the breakdown of the volcanic rock from which the islands were originally constructed.
The trade winds bring soaking rains that cause everything to grow twice as fast as here – so they are truly tropical paradises where the sandalwood grows in abundance.

I hear the w-women run around n-n-naked and offer themselves to sailors, is that t-true? one of the younger men inquires curiously, blushing bright red.

It is very warm in the islands – both the air and the water. And sexual intercourse is often seen as hospitality in their culture. So nakedness is the usual, and our sailors have often availed themselves of the girls’ hospitality with the blessings of the girls’ families!

All the men murmur incredulously, shaking their heads in amazement.

“Unbelievable! Perhaps we should venture there, Johnny,” Michael winks at the Stuart scion, elbowing him manfully.

No doubt about it, Johnny responds, playing the role, but secretly hoping he never has to set foot on any of his father’s smelly old boats.

Upstairs, Leah’s mother completes the un-cinching of the corset and leaves to join the ladies in the sitting room. Leah strips the dreadful thing from her body, kicks it across the room and falls on her bed crying softly into her pillow.

Oh, how I wish I could just sail away on Uncle’s ship. Please, uncle, please come home soon and take me away from here.

# # #

Park Street Church Bulletin, December 20, 1813: At our upcoming Christmas Eve service, our congregation will be blessed with the presence of two of our leading families, the John Stuarts and Michael O’Neills of Beacon Hill. Following the service, we invite our esteemed guests to a reception in their honor in the sanctuary. And a Happy Christmas to all!

The elegant Park Street Church, built in 1809, is located at the intersection of Park and Tremont streets at the northeast corner of Boston Common. Although only a few blocks away from Stuart Manor on Irving St., the Stuarts always leave an hour before the service and take their closed carriage so Leah will not present a public display of her shortcomings on the walk to the church. The evening service is their preference, since it is more sparsely attended.

The Stuart family exits the carriage, and enters the empty church, arriving even before the assigned greeters have taken their positions in the foyer. Leah is trotted out by her family twice a year to attend church on Christmas Eve and Easter morning, primarily to show Boston society that their daughter is still alive, and is not in an institution … yet.

Leah is covered from head to toe. A large-brimmed black hat with a thick veil falls across her face and onto her shoulders. A thick black mantelet-style cloak, fur-lined with large wide sleeves hangs to her ankles and man-size black kid gloves cover her large, square hands.

All other arriving female parishioners wear stylish leghorn bonnets and exotic turbans trimmed with ribbons, feathers, frills and flowers or all colors. . Highly decorated reticules and other drawstring handbags made of soft rich cloth or hard leather grace their arms, and they hold small fans, and parasols of shot silk or taffeta with ivory handles, which offer little protection against the snow, but increase the wearer’s stock in fashion immensely. Light leather boots are now in fashion, a different color and a different pair for each event and matching dress.

Small fur, feathered or shirred silk round muffs and delicate gloves protect feminine hands from the Boston winter. Earbobs are popular, and tightly curled hair, tucked up and hidden under elegant caps and bonnets in paper-tied ringlets, that are taken out in the evening for the myriad of holiday parties. Tippets, long slender scarves made of fur or swans down graced many a pretty neck of the female church-goers. The church is a veritable rainbow of colors save Leah, a dark island languishing in its midst.

The men show shapely calves through tight-fitting hose beneath their breeches and sport longish tousled hair and ornate sideburns. Johnny is particularly proud of his ensemble; a highly fashionable waistcoat with fur shawl collar, an elaborate brocade vest with embroidered red cherries on it, and a shiny tall, flat-crowned, broad-brimmed top hat contrived of felt made from beaver fur.

John Stuart Senior sports elegant dark wool breeches and tailcoat, with a full-length Spencer jacket with a Pelisse-style jacket on top of that to ward against the cold. His dark green overcoat has a fur-trimmed cape-like collar, long sleeves, adorned with military frogging on the collar, and the chest, and ornate decorative braids and tassels at the shoulders and on the sleeves.

Grace Stuart wears a gray silk taffeta dress, unadorned, no jewelry, with a hat as plain as plain can be. She wears no rouge to color her gray cheeks or ribbons to tie up her thin blond hair. Her only luxury is a beautiful fur mantle, a gift from her brother, which is the envy of every woman in the church.

The Stuarts sit in their pew in the front row, a family gray and hard, despite their fashion finery. Leah is constantly reminded by her mother on one side and her brother on the other to slink down in the pew so she doesn’t appear so tall to the congregation occupying the pews behind them.

As she sits slumping in the pew, the whalebone stay in her corset is mercilessly grinding a bruise into her right breast, and she squirms, attempting to shift her weight to shift her tender skin away from the prodding stay.

“Sit still” her mother hisses in her ear, gripping her wrist, digging her talons into Leah’s skin. Johnny shoots her a mean glance as well.

Leah closes her eyes and retreats into a dream world where her darling Uncle Noah is the king, and she the queen. A seafaring king, he returns to Boston between voyages, his sea chest packed with treasures from exotic ports, many of them gifts for Leah, the apple of his eye. Leah wonders in her reverie what he has brought her this time...perhaps a Shakespeare play, a pretty new bonnet, verses by Samuel Taylor Coleridge or Wordsworth? She hopes he will bring her many wonderful sketches to share of odd beasts and insects and people that he finds in his travels. But above all, she prays every two years that he will be home for more than a few precious days this time.

About ready to cry toward the end of the service, Leah smells a familiar pipe tobacco and feels a familiar squeeze of her hand, and finds her beloved uncle sliding into the pew beside her, supplanting her brother. Suddenly all feels right in her world.

Captain Noah Ellez, the well-known and very well-off merchant ship captain used to travel the world, especially the exotic islands of the east, but now primarily voyages to Europe and the West Indies. Leo has the same black curly hair as Leah but wears it close cropped, and it’s beginning to gray. His eyes are Ellez blue and his face round and sea-worn. Leah is as tall as he is at 14.He takes Leah’s hand in his, and she can feel the warmth even through her glove.

The service concludes, and over the tight-jawed protestations of her family, Leah is allowed to accompany her uncle home.

As they exit the church, Leah turns up her nose and holds her nostrils closed with her gloved hand.

It used to smell lovely in church, uncle. Like bread baking. How it smells like the outhouse when it needs to be cleaned out.

Uncle Noah laughs. You’ve a good nose, Leah. The church stands on the former site of the Old Granary, a large barn where the town previously kept wheat and other grains to distribute to the poor.

Why does it smell so bad now?

The odor you smell is sulfur. The church elders refer to it privately as “Brimstone Corner,” because, now don’t tell anyone, but, gunpowder is secretly stored beneath the church, as a potential defense against the British who are blockading our harbor. They fear our city is threatened with attack every day.

Brimstone? Are we safe?

Yes dear, no need to worry, he replies surveying the clear starry winter sky.

“Would you care to walk by the wharf, my dear? It’s a fair night, and you seem to be bundled up.

Leah laughs as she removes the heavy veil and large bonnet, revealing the lace cap that wrangles her unruly locks.

They make their way down the sloping hill on State Street until they can see the dark water and the glinting reflections of city lights in the harbor.

Even from three blocks away, they can hear the ships in the night, straining at their lines, creaking and moaning for their freedom.

“Listen to the ships singing, Leah, they are ready for sea. Were it not for the British blockade, they would be riding the mighty waves and filling their sails with boisterous winds and their holds with valuable cargo.

You talk as if they were human, uncle.

When you spend as much time with them as I do, you feel they are human. You know just how far you can push each vessel—how much stress it will take - how much wind it can handle.

An elegant couple approaches them as they stand gazing at the tall ships anchored near the Long Wharf. The gentleman wears a captain’s tri-cornered hat and the lady is one of the loveliest Leah has ever seen.

Chevalier! How good to run into you. And my dear Francoise, how lovely you look this evening. He takes her hand and kisses it. Your beauty rivals the stars this evening.

Noah, vous etre toujour un rogue! Francoise Chevalier responds, teasing him, her laugh like tinkling bells.

The three friends begin speaking in French, so Leah wanders off along the harbor wharfs, until she hears odd sounds like grunts and singing.

She catches sight of an illumination in the sky just over a low brick warehouse near the Long Wharf. As she comes closer, through the cracked door, she can see a dull light flickering from within. The building has no windows and appears to have been a smokehouse in an earlier life.

As she grows closer, the grunts became rhythmic and she realizes they are a percussive kind of song, like a chant. Through the low door, an orange glow draws her curiosity irresistibly to see what is going on inside.

Hardly breathing, she peeks through the smoky half light to see six large men, whom she first takes to be Negroes, sitting in a circle around a crackling fire.

As her eyes become accustomed to the light, she realizes they are not Negroes at all, but some kind of native with caramel skin and longish black coarse hair. As one stands to sing, he is so tall that his head grazes the ceiling beams of the squat building.

The men’s eyes appear to be closed, and one keeps time by slapping the heel of his hand against a beautiful painted gourd decorated with colorful feathers that dance in the firelight.

As they all join in the chanting, their mellifluous music washes over Leah as she stands quiet and still, resisting the impulse to sneeze, the smoke irritating her nose as it escapes through the open door.

The men are shirtless and shoeless, with tight stylish breeches that barely contain their large muscular frames. Even in the semi-darkness, she can see their white teeth and full lips, and the sweat beading on their faces and bodies.

Leah feels herself falling under the spell of the hypnotic music, its seductive rhythms and the voices of the six beautiful men. Something within her stirs and she reaches for the door handle.

Suddenly, she feels a hand upon her shoulder that draws her away from the door and the ritual taking place within.

“This is not a place for a young girl, Leah, “ her uncle scolds her. “You must not wander away... remember I am responsible for you. Your parents would have my hide if you were harmed on my watch.”

“I doubt it,” mumbles Leah, a bit miffed that she couldn’t partake in the mysteries in the smokehouse.

“Hmmmm?,” uncle inquires, as he bustles her along the cobblestones heading for the lights of the city.

“Oh, nothing, Uncle. Did you see those men? Who are they? What was that they were singing? It was beautiful, uncle.”

“Never mind about them – they are from Owayee. The American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions brought them over from the Pacific islands. They are studying English, learning to be Christians and will be ministers to their people when they go home.”

They didn’t look like any ministers I’ve ever seen, “ chortles Leah.

“Yes, it doesn’t seem like they are taking to it, does it,” uncle laughs, in spite of himself. But I told you, Leah, never mind them. They are not for you to think about, he admonishes.

But think about them she does, and is uncharacteristically quiet on the rest of the walk home.

As Leah and Uncle are almost at the front steps of Stuart Manor, a huge moon comes into sight behind the church steeple.

“Leah, look!” Uncle points to the enormous orb setting in the dark sky.

“It’s the Aloha Moon” he smiles.

“What do you mean, uncle?”

Do you see how the new crescent moon seems to be cradling the old full moon?

“Yes.

It’s a phase of the moon when the Earth’s shiny oceans reflect the sunlight, and in turn illuminates the Moon’s surface. It doesn’t happen that often, and mostly I’ve seen it in the Springtime.

How do you know this, uncle?

The great Italian scientist Leonardo Da Vinci wrote about it hundreds of years ago, and Shakespeare called the phenomenon the “new moon with the old moon in its arms.” The ancient Scottish sailors consider it a very bad omen because it’s the time of the highest and most powerful and dangerous tides”

Why do you call it aloha moon?

Well, that goes back to my early days at sea. On my very first billet, on a whaling vessel, there was a Tahitian sailor named Mea Ono Kuki, who took me under his wing and helped me adjust to life at sea.

He had been drafted by Captain Cook on the famous explorer’s third voyage in 1778 to the Pacific islands when Mea Ono was 16, and gave up his future as a kahuna to his people to journey the world. He called it the aloha moon because “aloha,” in the Hawaiian language means love and greetings and forgiveness, pretty much all things good! So the aloha moon represents the loving embrace of the young man holding his lover, the baby in its mother’s arms, and the young generation embracing the old one with love. It also resembles the Hawaiian lei - which is a hand woven necklace of fragrant flowers that is given to all guests and visitors as a symbol of welcome and love.

What’s a kuhuna?

Hmmmm, a kahuna is a kind of a native doctor. And as there are doctors who become experts in different aspects of medicine, kahunas also specialize. Mea Ono Kuki was a sea kahuna, that’s why he had such a hard time resisting the lure of Cook’s ship. He told me the sea’s waves called to him in his dreams, and the trade winds sang songs in his heart.

So he’s a sea doctor?

Uncle laughs heartily. You might say that. Mea Ono Kuki could dip his fingers in the sea, look at the sky and taste the wind, and tell how far we are from land or whether there was a storm coming or which way we should go to avoid fog banks, or how to find the wind in doldrums.

Honestly, uncle?

Keep this a secret, Leah, but I have seen Mea Ono control clouds and rain.

You are teasing me uncle.

No, Leah, I am not. As Shakespeare says, “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy- or something like that ... don’t hold me to a direct quote, dear, I know how well you know your Shakespeare.

How could he do that?

I asked him, but he really couldn’t tell me. He called it a “knowing” – when he “became one” with the elements around him. I’d swear I’ve seen him talking with dolphins too.

No!

Yes! He asks the dolphins for directions.

Leah bursts out in laughter. Oh Uncle! You are teasing me.

Not at all! He protests, I’ve seen him and heard him.

Did he talk to the whales?

Uncle’s face becomes suddenly serious. Yes, and after that first voyage, neither of us signed on to whalers again. Whaling makes the most money for both company and crew, but seeing those great beasts through Mea Ono’s eyes, and feeling their intelligence, I just couldn’t do it again.

I’m glad, Uncle. I don’t like these awful corset stays anyway! She replies, squirming in her corset, teeth audibly chattering and body shivering beneath her great cloak in the Boston night air.

I don’t blame you, my dear. Come now—it’s too cold to stay out here any longer – and don’t you want to open your gifts? Marshman has put them on your bed, I believe.

I forgot! Oh Uncle! Leah gathers up her skirts and runs up the grand steps to Stuart Manor pulling her uncle behind her. No sooner does Marshman open the great carved door with its ornate leaded glass windows, than she runs up the stairway to the second floor,

She jumps unceremoniously on the bed and first picks up a rectangular gift wrapped in iridescent silk fabric with a grosgrain French ribbon. She pulls off the ribbon and wraps it around her head, tying in a bow on her crown. Is this a book, uncle? She asks excitedly.

Well, you must open it and see! He settles into the maple rocker next to her bed.

She unwraps the fabric and reads “The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe,” by Daniel Defoe. What’s it about uncle?

It’s based on a true occurrence – it happened to a man named Alexander Selkirk. Crusoe is shipwrecked on an island in the Pacific. And although it was written nearly 100 years ago, there are still lessons to be learned from his trials. I think you’ll enjoy it, my dear since you love sea-going tales so much.

Oh thank you, uncle! She leans to hug her uncle affectionately.

Yes, I have read every single book in father’s library… and the ones about sea captains more than once. She spots another gift that may be a book and picks it up.

Could this be another?

Yes, my dear. And this one is very special. I bought it for you in England before the war. It was written by “A lady,” but in actuality, I am told it was written by an English woman who lives in Bath named Jane Austen. It is called ‘Sense and Sensibility’ and is all the rage in London. I read it on my way home this voyage—it is quite charming – I think you will enjoy it very much!

Of course I will! If only because you gave it me! I think I shall write novels and be a novelist when I grow up! You know the book of poems by Samuel Taylor Coleridge that you brought me for my birthday?

Yes, the Lyrical Ballads.

I have “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by memory.

No you do not! He teases.

Yes I do! Here are my favorite stanzas.

She stands, the fabric and ribbon in her lap falling to the floor, and assumes a pose, reciting with grand gestures.

“Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.”

My dear, that is most impressive! But I don’t think we have time for the entire poem…wouldn’t you like to open the rest of your gifts?

I do know it, Uncle.

I have no doubt you do—and you recite quite well, my dear. Very clear and loud.

Her forehead wrinkles—Oh, not too loud, uncle?”

Not at all! Here open this one. He hands her a large, soft bundle wrapped in exquisite ivory linen. Pulling open the fabric, a shawl with intricate silk embroidery on it, an ivory and silver hairbrush, and a sandalwood fan fall out onto her coverlet.

The shawl is very special, Leah, made from Kashmir wool from the country of India. These beautiful shawls are very prized by ladies of quality in England.

Oh uncle, it is so soft and warm – she wraps the shawl around her body and picks up the fan, dancing around the room.

Uncle! The fan is perfumed is it not? It smells heavenly. She fans herself rapidly sniffing its exotic fragrance.

It is made from sandalwood, Leah. Sandalwood trees grow in Hawaii and then are shipped to China to be carved into fans and tables and chairs and other beautiful things.

The hairbrush is from right here in Massachusetts. I commissioned it from the silversmiths at Paul Revere’s smithy in Canton, a small town near here.

Paul Revere?

Yes, dear, do you know who Paul Revere is?

Yes, of course! He was a hero of the revolution, was he not?

Yes, you are right, you clever girl! Revere very cunningly created an alarm system and group of spies to keep watch on the British military. The British had begun a march from Boston to Lexington. His famous ride in April of 1775 from Boston to Lexington warned John Hancock and Samuel Adams of the British troop movements he and his spies had observed.

See, it has your name engraved upon it.

Oh, uncle, I will treasure it always! I don’t know how to thank you!

She continues her dance, fan in one hand and hairbrush in the other, fanning and brushing her hair, wrapped in the beautifully embroidered shawl, humming to herself.

I have one more gift for you, Leah.

Oh uncle, so many? She sits down beside him.

He retrieves a small velvet pouch from his waistcoat pocket and hands it to his niece. I hope you like it.

She opens the pouch to find a beautiful hand-chased silver locket on a long silver chain.

Oh uncle, it has my initials on it! L.E.S.

Look on the other side

“To darling Leah from Uncle Noah, she reads.

Revere made this for you himself. Open it.

She opens the locket and her uncle’s visage peers back at her from within. There is his round face, curly graying hair, jolly red apple cheeks, warm smile and twinkling blue eyes.

Tears well up in Leah’s eyes.

It is a miniature, my dear, as close to this homely face as an artist can get, I’m afraid.

Oh uncle, she begins to cry outright. I can have you with me all the time now! Thank you, thank you! This is my most favorite gift of all you have ever given me!

He takes the locket from her hands, puts it over her head, and envelopes her in a deep hug.

I love you, my dear.

I love you so much uncle. I wish you didn’t have to go away all the time.

Yes, dear, I know. Someday, I will become a landlubber, Leah.

Promise?

Yes, dear.

Now it is very late, and I must be up very early to visit my new house. I am meeting my contractor tomorrow.

May I accompany you, uncle? Please?

Yes, dear, if you go to sleep right now!

Leah closes her eyes, falls limply to the bed with her head on the pillow and pretends to snore. She opens one eye and whispers, “I am asleep, uncle”

Chuckling, Noah kisses her on the forehead and leaves her bedroom, with a brandy on his mind.

This night, Leah dreams about huge naked men dancing under an aloha moon, all wearing silver lockets and carrying fragrant sandalwood fans.

# # #

Boston Weekly Messenger, December 26, 1813.
Construction has begun on Captain Noah Ellez’s four-story Georgian mansion on Bowdoin Street on Beacon Hill. It is sure to be one of Boston’s premiere residences. The entire top floor is modeled after the captain’s cabin on the good ship Enterprise, and will command an extensive library and extraordinary view of our fair harbor. Now all our captain needs is a lady of the house … ”

Her first thought, as she opens her eyes in the morning is “was it all a dream?” until she feels the chain of the locket around her neck. She opens it to see the beaming face of her beloved uncle, and hops out of bed, dressing quickly, hoping that he has not yet left.

Johnny is already at the breakfast table, his plate heaped with sausages, poached eggs, French toast, cheeses, bacon, boiled potatoes, pasties, cookies and various breads.

He talks with his mouth seemingly full of all of the above.

“But why can’t we move up to Bowdoin Street also, Father? We can afford it, can we not? If we started this year, a house could be built by our Christmas Party next year. And it needs to be five stories, father, not just four.

Circumstances force me to say ‘no’ to you at this time, Johnny, replies his father, pushing away his coffee cup and folding up his newspaper. I’ve just invested in five more whaling ships, and three warehouses, my son. Whaling continues to line our pockets and there are just so many fish in the sea. The more ships we have, the better chance we will get our share. Mark my words, Johnny, a prudent businessman must strike while the iron is hot.

But my iron is hot now, Father. We are on the wrong side of Beacon Hill. You have to admit that. All we see is the damnable river and all the hoi polloi out on the common. And our great room is much too small for a ball. How am I to compete with O’Neill for the best girls? Really, father. You just do not understand the pressures of being in my position.

Oh, I think I do, my son. You mark my words. we’ll turn a quick fortune on the backs of those big fish. Between the whaling and sandalwood markets, O’Neill and I have a good portion of the business. I’m talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars, Johnny. You will have as many houses as you want.

He rises and greets Captain Ellez entering the breakfast room.

Noah, good fellow, what plans today?

Before he can answer, Leah bursts into the room and answers,

“We are going to look at Uncle’s house today, and then we are going to a melodrama at the Federal Street Theatre.

Federal Street? interjects Johnny scornfully, You better hope it’s not one of those dreadful English actors who pretend they’re Americans so they can continue to act in plays here despite their Navy parked in the harbor. It makes me sick: they are such snobs about our American actors and playhouses. I say, “Go home if you don’t like our theater. He punctuates his statement by tossing his linen napkin on the table, his nose in the air as he passes Stuart and Ellez leaving the room.

Leah looks perplexed. Uncle, are we seeing an English actor?

I don’t know my dear, I personally do not see much difference between the two. I’m sure we will enjoy ourselves no matter what the actors’ allegiances.

Let’s have a little breakfast and start our walk.

Stuart says “it looks like disagreeable weather today—I would take a carriage if I were you, Noah.

Leah looks at Noah with a pleading expression and she replies, smiling at her “Oh, I think we’ll take our chances.

Of course, Stuart says as he exits the room.

I’ll bet he’s going to tell mother to make sure I’m dressed properly.

I wouldn’t take that bet, my dear. He smiles at Leah over his coffee cup.

Having finished breakfast and passed her mother’s inspection to receive her reluctant permission to be seen in public, Leah and her uncle walk out Stuart Manor’s front door into Beacon Hill, Boston. They make their way through its narrow, picturesque cobblestone streets with newly built brick row homes, boasting ornately carved doors, wrought iron railings, and the traditional red brick walls with write trim.

Turning the corner at Cambridge St., Uncle’s property comes into view.

Carpenters, masons and plasterers crawl over the structure like ants constructing an anthill.
Noah can see the beginnings of classic Georgian architecture take shape as his home rises from the foundation

He unrolls the sheath of plans and lays them on a saw horse, smoothing them out flat.

You see, Leah, this portico with the graceful round window in the front, and the fireplaces with their tall chimneys on either side of the building, and these large nine-pane windows between?

Yes, uncle, it’s really lovely.

“This design provides the building with a symmetry of proportion and balance. I have also added a stone parapet here surrounding the hipped roof which is sometimes called a widow’s walk.

That perapet looks like the house is wearing a crown, uncle!

Hmmm, yes. I suppose it does, doesn’t it. You have a wonderful imagination, Leah!

Why is it called a widow’s walk?

Ship Master’s homes often have them – so their wives can keep watch on the harbor when their husbands are expected to sail home. Unfortunately many do not return, but the widows still walk the parapet, hoping that their husband’s are still alive on a beach or in a city somewhere in the world and their ships will eventually sail into the harbor and return their beloved husbands to them.

So from the parapet you will not only be able to see the harbor to the east from the back of the house, but the Charles and the Commons from the west side of the house. It’s quite a commanding view of Boston, especially from the fourth floor, where my rooms will be.

Where will my room be, uncle?

Wherever you want my dear.

Then I want to be in your rooms too!

Well, let’s say you pick out your own bedroom, and then we can share my private study when I am in port, how about that?

You promise you’ll be in port many more days at as time now?

That’s my plan! He consults his gold pocket watch, points out several changes he has inked in on the plans to his contractor, and rolls them up . Come Leah, we don’t want to be late for the play.

The odd-looking couple makes their way down Bowdoin Street, past the Park Street Church, up Fremont to Bromfield, and then to Franklin until it crosses Federal where at the corner of Franklin Avenue and Federal Street stands the impressive Federal Street Theatre. Catering to the cultural classes of Boston, the beautiful building boasts a covered entryway large enough to shelter arriving carriages, as well as massive saloons and Corinthian columns throughout its interior.

You know, Leah, Boston originally did not allow public theatre performances. It wasn’t until 1794 when they lifted their official ban that this theatre could be built.

Why ever not, uncle?

Oh, many reasons I suppose – the plays could put thoughts in the minds of the people that the town fathers do not want there – then there’s the worrisome matter of diseases spreading whenever many members of the public gather together – and, theatre is an import from our enemies, the British. No one wanted to be associated with them.

What kinds of thoughts?

Thoughts that our Puritan ancestors may find offensive ...

Like sex thoughts?

Leah! You must not talk about such things.

She opens her mouth to protest, but uncle gives her a raised eyebrow that commands her to hold her curious tongue.

They enter the theatre arm in arm and find their seats in charming velvet covered gilt chairs just a few rows from the stage.

Oh uncle, we can see every little thing from here!

And before she knows it, the curtain parts to reveal a colorful painted skillfully backdrop of a charming little cottage surrounded by a delightful garden of multi-colored silk flowers. A tiny, beautiful blond-haired girl with thick ringlets and French ribbons adorning her hair, wearing a green plaid taffeta dress dances onto the stage, and begins to sing in the sweetest voice that Leah has ever heard.

“edit: (Lyrics to Home Sweet Home)No matter where I shall roam, Be it ever so humble, she warbles, there’s no place like home.

Leah gasps and squeezes her uncle’s arm. Is she not splendid, uncle?

Then the actress performs a charming little dance, all by herself upon the stage. He little feet skip and hands flutter as the orchestra urges her on with ever-quickening rhythms. When she completes her dance, she is red-faced and panting- and with a huge grin on her face she curtseys to the audience.

They respond by rising, almost as one, including Leah and Noah, in thunderous applause.

She straightens her curls and steps back.

A very tall skinny man enters from stage right. He has an exaggerated tall black stovepipe hat, a long false black mustache, and a black cape that he swings around the stage as if he owned it.

As soon as the audience sees him, a large BOO envelopes the theatre.

Leah involuntarily jumps in surprise.

He is the villain, Leah, Noah whispers.

He certainly looks like one, Leah whispers back.

Considering the number of novels that Leah had read and re-read, the plot becomes obvious to her not ten minutes into the play. The mean villain has a hold on the blond heroine because of a mistake her father made before he died. The blond heroine sees no comfort, and must give herself to the mean villain. Oh woe! But wait, the handsome hero will have none of it, and rescues the fair heroine in the last moments of the play, to the audience’s great relief.

At the end of the play, the hero and heroine sing “Home, Sweet Home” in harmony together as they walk into the beautiful little cottage, audience members howling with approval.

Leah stays in her seat, entranced, until the very last person has left the theatre.

Come, Leah, uncle rises from his seat, we must go now.

Leah is trying hard to remember all the words to “Home Sweet Home, singing it over and over until she gets it all in her head.

They emerge from the theatre into a lovely Boston winter afternoon.

On their way back to Stuart Manor, Leah can’t stop talking about every aspect of the performance, and acts out every part, mimicking the characters to the delight of her uncle.

Leah, how do you remember all those words? My dear, you are a born actress.

She has never felt so free and happy.

As they make their way home, uncle points out the very Meeting House where the Boston tea party was planned, on Edit: __________ Street, __________Street where the Boston Massacre took place during the Revolutionary War, and the Old North Church – where the lantern hung.

I remember uncle, she recites, one if by land and two if by sea!

Yes, dear, you are correct. As they reach the top of Beacon Hill, they stop at the Massachusetts State House.

Do you see the sun shining on that State House dome, Leah?

Yes, uncle. It looks beautiful!

That’s because it is covered with 23 1/2 carat gold leaf.

Really?

Yes, and guess who made it?

Leah scrunches up her face trying to remember what she may never have learned in the first place.

Give up?

Yes, she sighs, disappointed she let he uncle down by not knowing the right answer.

Paul Revere helped build it in 1795!

Leah’s hand automatically goes to her locket. Paul Revere who made my locket?

Yes, dear. The very same.

Oh uncle, how I wish all your voyages were done and we were living at your house.

In due time, Leah, in due time. Now look at this view -- Isn’t it wonderful? This will be the same vantage as my rooms.

They look out over the sloping city with its graceful winding, tree-lined streets and long elegant thoroughfares that all seem to lead inevitably down to the harbor and its protruding docks. The harbor, a natural refuge for tall ships, is deep and surrounded by small islands. The Long Wharf alone, extends a third of a mile out into the water.

Uncle points out the dozens of useless American vessels, decks empty of seaman and masts bereft of sail, decks with no cargo, wallowing in the water.

They are trapped at the docks by the British warships guarding the entrance. If we had my spyglass we could see the masts of the British vessels out here beyond the first island.

Leah shades her eyes with he hand and strains in vain to see the invaders on the horizon.

Come, dear, we must get back now. I do have business to take care of before I can return to New York to start my next voyage.

Oh, uncle...

Now Leah, you know the rules. No tears, he admonishes.

She bucks up her feelings and smiles as big as she can—“” No tears, she says bravely, as they well up in her throat, waiting there in vain to express themselves.

The whole rest of the day, Leah does not see Uncle at all. She stays in her room, making do with her recollections of the melodrama, rehearsing all parts over and over, making up what she can’t remember.

Finally, sleep irresistibly engages her mind and she reluctantly slips into bed. Just as she’s beginning to drift off, there’s a soft knock at her door.

Come in, she answers sleepily, and sits up in bed, as her uncle enters her room.

Did I wake you Leah?

Oh, no uncle. I was still thinking about the play today. Thank you so much for taking me! I had the best time!

I did too. I just want to say good night my dear and sweet dreams, he kisses her on her forehead. Now you go to sleep.

The next thing Leah knows, she is dancing and singing around a charming little cottage, in a beautiful green plaid taffeta costume with red rouge on her cheeks and lips, and masses of ribbons streaming from her hair and wrists. The nasty villain enters the stage in her dream, looking suspiciously like her very own father. He grabs her arm viciously; she wakes up with a start.

She sits up in her bed, breathing deeply to calm herself, aware of the tiny beads of sweat that had formed on her brow.

She tries to go back to sleep, but is restless, and cannot.

She lights a candle and begins to read her new novel. A fast reader, she ravenously consumes the first third of the book in an hour. Becoming thirsty, she puts on a robe and creeps downstairs, heading for the kitchen. Once there, as she tips the milk jug to fill a cup, she can hear muffled voices seeming to come from the potato bin where cook keeps the onions and garlic and potatoes.

Now fully awake, and unable to assuage her curiosity, she opens the little bin door and listens. The kitchen, a one-story addition, had been constructed after the house was built to abut the gentlemen’s study on the first floor. Leah realizes that the voices she is hearing are her father’s guests. Uncle Noah, and several captains who are in port are all gathered in the study, talking.

She contains a squeal of delight, and stuffs her large body into the little space on top of a pile of earthy-smelling potatoes to hear them. Better yet, she spies a little screen at the top of the wall which is opens onto the room. From it, she can just barely see the group of captains sitting and standing, smoking and drinking. She sits crammed in the dark, dank potato bin, her thin nightgown plastered to her long-limbed frame. Her arms encircle her knees, and her ears and eyes alternately plastered to the grate.

Among the men, she can identify her father and brother, Uncle Noah, O'Neill and his three eldest red-headed sons Michael, William and Patrick, Captain Poe and Captain Hastings. The other men she either can’t see or doesn’t recognize.

As the smoke wafts through the grate, she closes her eyes tightly, holds her nose and scrunches up her face to avoid sneezing and giving away her hiding place.

Oh yes, the future looks bright for all of us, gentlemen. John Stuart is speechifying, did you hear that this year Francis Cabot Lowell and his fellow merchants have built a power loom right here in Boston that will revolutionize the manufacture of textiles? That alone tightens our hold on the whole industry. Can you imagine the opportunities that this presents to us? There is no end of the supply of willing farmer’s daughters or indentured servants to work the mills, so labor will be no problem.

Plus, when we add whaling and the sandalwood trade to our current markets in tea, spices, ship bread, and all the other goods that fill our holds, the whole of the civilized world will be in our pocket. To us, gentlemen—to lives of refinement and luxury!

The men raise their snifters in a toast.

Patrick O’Neill pipes up; “Why is there such a passion for sandalwood?

Noah, you are the botanist among us, tell young Patrick why sandalwood and whales will most likely build Johnny’s new house on Beacon Hill, he winks at his son.

Sandalwood, what the Hawaiians call ‘iliahi, is actually a parasite that grows from the roots of another tree. Explains Noah Ellez.

Like mistletoe? William O’Neill asks

Precisely, William. It becomes a very hard wood, but its value is that it is naturally very fragrant. There are ages old traditions in China and other Asian countries that call for the wood to be used as incense and in perfumes and medicines, and in the temples carvings and for hand-made boxes, not to mention the ubiquitous sandalwood fan.

Last year, Jonathan and Nathan Winship and William Davis ...

I am acquainted with Nathan Winship, Patrick O’Neill interrupts enthusiastically ... the Winships live over on __________ St. very sharp fellow, I must say...

Well, Noah continues, these three gentlemen made a deal with Kamemehaha.

The giant King of the Sandwich Islands? Inquires Johnny, showing off his knowledge,

Yes, nephew, however, the country is now generally referred to as the Hawaiian Islands. Kamehameha signed a ten year contract to export the wood to China and other markets exclusively through these gentlemen. Kamehameha’s role was to have the sandalwood cut and delivered to the docks, and would receive 25% of the net profits, much of it in western goods.

What could the savages want of our goods? inquires Michael O’Neill.

Kamehameha and his court were fascinated by everything western.

A tall, dark, and previously silent captain enters the conversation., When I was last in Honolulu, adds Captain Leo Poe, I had the occasion to see the warehouse where Kamehameha holds his goods. I saw many ribboned hats, textiles, rich silks and furs heaped in piles and growing moldy in the tropical humidity.

Why would they want fur, then if it’s so hot there.? Patrick inquires.

They want anything that makes them feel more connected to the Western culture ... even if it sits in storage. I saw crystal chandeliers and goblets, rosewood writing tables, mirrors, canon, ammunition, stovepipe hats, there was even a billiard table!

A billiard table? I can’t imagine!” Patrick O’Neill declares.

And although Kamehameha has tried very hard to keep a firm grip on the trade, it is rumored that other Americans have managed to develop a sandalwood trade outside the purview of Kamehameha, Poe continues.

You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Stuart? The tall captain slyly inquires of his host.

Stuart chokes a little with surprise, but quickly recovers his composure.

Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do. O’Neill?

Well, John it seems that we have been discovered! You may as well tell them the good news.

Several years ago, our ship Bounteous Maiden had the occasion to trade with one of the major chiefs of Kauai. Captain Marsten and his first mate had just returned from Shanghai, and were well-aware of the trade value of the sandalwood trees that lined the shore in this port.

At a dinner aboard the maiden with the Governor and several of the Kauai chiefs, their hungar for Western goods made it very easy to arrange for the sandalwood to be cut, transported to their ship and stacked in their cargo hold.

O’Neill adds, We acquired several thousand dollars in sandalwood in one afternoon, and do you know what Marsten paid for it?

Anticipatory silence fills the room.

O’Neill puffs up his chest and counts off on his fingers, 6 bottles of wine, four hatchets and three muskets with ammunition.

Is that all? Asks Johnny, amazed.

Stuart and O’Neill grin with pride.

Yes, son, Stuart says. And we have been able to arrange for the same deal with several of the other island chiefs. We have whole populations of several ports at our disposal now ...

And right under the big brown nose of the King! boasts O’Neill.

All the gentlemen in the study celebrate the two men’s success, toasting them and clapping them on the back ... except Leo and Noah, who sit at a small table nearby, their mouths grim and set.

Stuart continues, Now, if we can just get the damnable British off our backs, there will be no limit to our trade opportunities. Do you know there was an incident just last week? One of O’Neill’s warehouses was looted, and three of his seamen were taken hostage, and probably impressed into their navy.

The cads. They can’t accept that we are now free, says Johnny.

By now, Leah can hardly keep her eyes open. Stifling a yawn, she gathers up her nightgown and gingerly slips out of the bin, closing the little door behind her. She sneaks up the stairs to her room, thanking her lucky stars that she has found a listening place that allows her access to everything these men say and do.

Father, if you only knew! She smiles to herself, as she falls into a deep sleep.

# # #

Early the next morning, Leah awakens before dawn and runs barefoot in her nightdress to her uncle’s room. She flings open his door, and finds his bed already stripped and his luggage gone.
Her arms fall to her sides and she stands there staring at the bare bed for several minutes.

“He went to New York, her mother’s voice intrudes harshly from behind her.

You won’t be going out much now, Leah” she states matter-of-factly. Go get your chamber pot and leave it outside your door. I’ll send the scullery maid up with your breakfast.

“Yes, mother,” Leah answers defeated. “Outside my door.”