The Figurehead
Bartholomew McNabb woke one chilly October morning, walked into his woodcarving shop and fueled the furnace that provided heat to both the workroom and his living quarters. Then he went to his kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, which he drank as he nibbled on the scones the Widow Abernathy had baked for him the day before. The widow, whose spouse had been killed five years earlier, had hoped to make McNabb husband number two. Hence, the baked goods and pots of stew that regularly arrived at his doorstop.
An unexpected noise from outside momentarily startled him.
"It's probably nothing but a cat," he said as he washed out his teacup.
His simple but satisfying breakfast over, Bartholomew sat down at his workbench, picked up a piece of charcoal and a sheet of paper and began sketching the outline of a female form. He had recently completed a ship's figurehead of a local Massachusetts patriot and was ready to begin his next carving.
Again, there was a noise from outside; only this time it was much louder. Curious, McNabb put down his charcoal stick and opened the shop door to investigate.
"Who goes there?" he called out.
Receiving no answer, he was about to close the door, when he saw someone huddled beside his pile of scrap wood.
"You there! Who are you? What are you doing on my property?"
The figure that had been crouching down, barely visible, raised its head and peeked at him over a large, knotted plank. It was a delicate face framed by reddish gold hair.
"I'm sorry, sir. I haven't done anything wrong, have I?"
At first glance, McNabb assumed it was a child whose face was smudged with soot, but on closer examination he realized it was a young woman, her attractive countenance marred by bruises.
"You've injured yourself. Can you walk?" the woodcarver asked solicitously.
"Yes," the diminutive young woman replied, and stood up.
She was barely five feet tall and could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds.
McNabb led the waif of a girl back into his workshop where he offered her a cup of hot tea and some of Mrs. Abernathy's scones, which she gobbled down as though she was famished.
"How long has it been since you've had a decent meal?" McNabb asked.
"The day before yesterday."
Ever since she had entered Bartholomew's home, the young woman kept her head averted, not wanting him to see her bruises.
"Let me have a look at your face," he said.
The woodcarver examined the contusions and concluded from their size and shape that the woman had been soundly slapped several times, most likely by a strong man.
"Who did this to you? Your father?" McNabb asked, reaching under his workbench for the ointments and bandages he kept there.
The girl shook her head.
"Your husband, then?"
She nodded and turned away in shame.
"The bastard!" McNabb swore, and then quickly apologized for his use of profanity. "I'm sorry. I just can't abide a man who hurts women, children or animals."
"You really needn't fuss over me, sir. You've done more than enough already," the young woman said as the kind woodcarver put a poultice on her swollen cheek.
"Don't be silly. You looked like you needed help. By the way, my name is Bartholomew McNabb. What's yours?"
"Kathleen Kilpatrick."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kilpatrick. May I ask what you were doing huddling behind my scrap pile?"
Kathleen waited a moment before speaking and then replied sheepishly, "I was hiding from my husband."
"This isn't the first time he's hit you, is it?"
She shook her head.
"Whenever he has too much to drink he gets angry, and if I say or do the wrong thing—well, he loses his temper."
"Tell me. Do you always run away after he hits you?"
"No. This is the first time I've had the courage to leave. It was foolish of me to run since I'll have to go back anyway."
"Why? Do you think his temper will likely improve if you return?"
"No. I think he will be furious with me for running away, and I'll probably get a good beating for my trouble."
"Then why in God's name do you want to go back to him? Do you love him that much?"
Kathleen's blue eyes blazed. It was the first spark of spirit the woodcarver had seen in her.
"Love him?" she echoed with bitter laughter. "I hate him! If I had the courage and the strength, I would kill him even if it meant facing a hanging and eternal damnation thereafter. But I have nowhere else to go."
McNabb, always a soft-hearted man, took pity on the young woman.
"You can stay here. I have a spare room."
"I thank you for your offer, but it wouldn't be right to take your charity."
"It wouldn't be considered charity if you earned your keep. I could use some help with the cooking and cleaning."
Kathleen smiled, and then winced because the gesture proved painful to her bruised face.
"But what if my husband comes here looking for me?"
"Then I'll have a strong talk with him. Men like him usually don't want to tangle with another man. They much prefer taking out their anger on those who can't fight back."
* * *
In the months that followed, Bartholomew McNabb and Kathleen Kilpatrick became quite close. When the young woman was not busy with domestic chores, she would pull a wooden stool up beside the woodcarver and watch him work. Once the day was over, the two would sit for hours in front of the fire and discuss all sorts of things.
"It's a shame a good man like you isn't married," Kathleen commented one evening as she was clearing away the supper dishes.
"I was married once," he said wistfully, "to the most beautiful woman in all of New England. Not only was she fair of face and form, but she was also an angel, the best wife a man could ever want, and I loved her dearly."
"What happened?"
"She died in childbirth," he replied, his eyes misting. "Along with our baby."
"And you never remarried?"
"I didn't see the point. No one could ever take my darling Sara's place."
Kathleen turned away and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hands. She thought it a terrible shame that such a kind, generous man as Bartholomew McNabb should spend most of his adult life alone.
"Why don't you go relax by the fire?" she suggested. "And when I'm done washing the dishes, I'll make us both a cup of tea."
"I'd like that very much," the woodcarver said, heading toward his favorite chair.
While Kathleen was busy in the kitchen, McNabb picked up a piece of charcoal and a sheet of paper and began to sketch.
"What's that you're drawing?" the young woman asked as she put a cup of hot tea on the windowsill beside him.
"It's you," he replied, showing her the sheet of paper.
"Why would you want to waste your time drawing a picture of me?" she asked with a deep blush after viewing the flattering portrait.
"Because you're a beautiful young woman, and in the past few months I've grown to love you like a daughter."
"And I love you like a father, or rather like the father I never had. My dad died at sea before I was born."
"Do you know what?" Bartholomew asked, getting a sudden—and to his mind brilliant—idea. "I should create my next figurehead in your likeness. What do you say to that?"
"You mean you want to put my face on the bow of a ship?"
"Yes. Just think of it. People as far away as India and China will see how beautiful you are!"
Kathleen giggled like a schoolgirl, and McNabb's heart warmed at the sight of her happiness.
* * *
Three weeks later, on a warm April morning, a team of nearly a dozen strong lumbermen dragged a massive oak trunk into McNabb's yard, and work on the new figurehead commenced. It was the first time Kathleen had ever seen Bartholomew's carving process from inception, and she was fascinated by his every step.
"It's a great gift you've got," she said, admiring his craftsmanship.
"I don't know that I'd call it a gift," McNabb replied humbly. "I learned how to carve from my father, and he from his father."
"About the only thing I learned from my mother was how to cook."
"For which I am eternally grateful, for I've enjoyed every meal you've ever made me."
"I wish I'd known my father," Kathleen declared, watching Bartholomew chip away large chunks of wood from the tree trunk with a hammer and chisel. "I like to think he would be a man like you."
"And I like to think my child, had she lived, would have grown up to be very much like you."
"I believe it was God's will that I chose to hide behind the woodpile outside your house and that you found me there. I think he meant for us to comfort each other."
Bartholomew put his large, calloused hand over Kathleen's small, delicate one and gently squeezed it. He did not want to destroy her innocent ideals by telling her that he had lost all faith in God after his wife and daughter died. Still, whatever unknown force had brought the young woman into his life had benefitted both of them.
Work on the figurehead progressed through the summer and autumn months. As winter neared so did the completion of the carving. McNabb had only to finish the fine details in the face.
"If I keep up at this pace, I'll probably be done by the start of the new year," he announced one chilly December morning. "Then all I'll have to do is paint it."
"You've been working seven days a week. I do hope you're not planning on working on Christmas day, too."
"Why not? Except for the few times I took sick, I've worked every day since my dear Sara died. Besides, there's no point in celebrating a holiday when you have no family."
"But you're not alone anymore, Bartholomew. I'm going to cook us a wonderful dinner, and then you and I are going to celebrate Christmas together."
"I would like that," he admitted. "But now I must get back to work."
* * *
Kathleen woke early on Christmas Eve morning, anxious to complete her routine chores so that she could concentrate on preparations for the holiday celebration. Once the cleaning and laundry were done, she put on her coat and pocketed the wallet of money Bartholomew had set aside for the household expenses.
"Going somewhere?" the woodcarver asked when he saw her bundled up against the cold.
"I want to buy a few things for tomorrow's dinner."
"Do you need any extra money?"
Thriftiness being one of Kathleen's strong points, she had saved more than enough money over the past several weeks to afford the special treats she had planned for their Christmas dinner. Assuring McNabb that she did not require any additional funds, she hurried out the door and headed up Gloucester Street toward the market, blissfully unaware of the cruel fate that awaited her.
* * *
McNabb was so intent on getting the shape of Kathleen's mouth just right, that he failed to notice the passage of time. It was only when the shadows began to gather in his workshop that he realized how late it was.
That's it for today, he thought, putting away his tools.
The stillness of the house disturbed him. Kathleen was still not home.
She's been gone for hours.
Fighting growing apprehension, Bartholomew put on his coat and headed out the door in search of the young woman.
"She was here earlier this afternoon," the butcher told him. "She bought some of my fresh mincemeat, said she was going to bake a pie."
"Do you know where she might have gone after she left your shop?" McNabb asked hopefully.
"Sorry, but no. I had a store full of customers to wait on, it being Christmas Eve."
The woodcarver walked into every shop along Essex Street, but no one could tell him where Kathleen had gone. Finally, he headed back down Gloucester Street, praying that the young woman would be at home when he got there. But as he neared his workshop, he saw the dark windows and knew the house was empty.
Ironically, it was the following afternoon, when he and Kathleen would have been sitting down to Christmas dinner that McNabb received the news.
"We found a young woman's body on the rocks near the lighthouse," a police officer informed him. "We believe it might be that of Kathleen Kilpatrick. We realize it's a holiday, but we would like you to try to identify the body."
"Try to identify it?" the woodcarver echoed.
"Her face is ...."
The police officer paled and his speech faltered.
"What happened to her?" McNabb asked, not certain he wanted to know the answer.
"She was beaten—badly."
"Her husband ...."
"We tried to locate him, but it looks as though he left town rather suddenly."
"I'll bet he did," McNabb said angrily, preferring to let his hatred for the wife-beater temporarily override his abject grief over the death of his young friend.
Sooner or later, however, the heartache and sorrow would surface, and the terrible grief and emptiness he had felt after his wife died would once again consume him.
As he had in the past, McNabb turned to his craft for solace. He worked long into the night, perfecting the features of the figurehead that had, for all intents and purposes, already been finished. When it was finally completed to his satisfaction, he felt a fierce pride rise in his breast. It was the best work he had ever done.
"Beautiful as it is, it's still nothing more than wood," he groaned, wishing Kathleen were there to see his masterpiece.
But she wasn't. Her broken body lay buried in the small graveyard behind the Puritan Falls Church.
* * *
In the years following the young woman's death, there were many advancements in shipbuilding. The reign of the wooden sailing vessels came to an end. Ships made of metal ruled the seas, and there was no longer a need for figureheads.
Although McNabb had more than enough money to meet his needs, he refused to retire. Woodworking had become his reason for living—only now it was furniture, not figureheads, that he carved.
"This is a beautiful armoire, if I do say so myself," the old man said to his silent companion: a full-sized, extremely lifelike figurehead that was firmly secured to the ceiling of his workshop. "I'm sure Mrs. Prescott will be pleased when she sees it."
He put down his paintbrush and turned to look up into the carved face of Kathleen Kilpatrick that stared down at him with its painted eyes. The figurehead had looked so much like the deceased woman that McNabb couldn't bear to part with it once it was completed. Instead, he had kept it as a permanent memorial to the young girl who was brutally murdered by the man who once vowed to protect her.
Like the shipping industry, the village of Puritan Falls changed, too. The Civil War had taken the majority of its young men. There was not a single family that had not lost a loved one in the conflict. After Appomattox, many of the remaining townspeople moved to Boston or New York, while others headed west. McNabb was one of the few natives that remained in the village.
Eventually new people moved into the town. Most of them were decent, hardworking people, but there were also a few hooligans who hoped to get rich quick by breaking the law. Two such men heard of McNabb's wealth and decided to rob him. The would-be thieves waited until midnight and then forced their way into the workshop. The noise woke the old woodcarver who had fallen asleep at his workbench.
"Who's there?" he called.
One of the men panicked, picked up a table leg and struck McNabb over the head.
"Look what you've done, you fool!" his cohort cried. "You've gone and killed him. If we're caught, we'll be charged with murder, a hanging offense."
"Forget about the money," the first man said, throwing down the bloody block of wood. "Let's just get out of here."
They turned to flee, but at that moment the figurehead broke free from the bolts that held it fastened to the ceiling. It fell down with a crash, pinning both men under its weight and knocking over a burning oil lamp that had been on the workbench. As the oil spilled, the flames travelled. Within the hour, both the workshop and Bartholomew McNabb's living quarters were consumed in the conflagration.
* * *
Ensign Robert Mulhearn decided to walk the deck of the Coast Guard cutter one last time before going below deck to watch the Red Sox-Yankees game on the ship's satellite television. He had fifty dollars riding on the outcome, and wanted to cheer the Yankees on to victory.
Suddenly he spied a vessel on the port side of the ship and put his binoculars up to his eyes.
"What the ...?"
Ensign Mulhearn stared at the white billowing sails of the clipper ship. Transfixed, he watched, speechless, as the tall ship came abreast of the cutter. He lowered his binoculars, for the mysterious vessel came within twenty feet of him. At close range, the young officer could see the exquisite workmanship of the figurehead at the ship's bow.
Standing at the helm of the archaic ship was a strong young man flanked by two women, one of whom was cradling a tiny infant in her arms. The other, her delicate features framed by reddish gold hair, bore a strong resemblance to the figurehead. All three adults were wearing clothing that had gone out of fashion more than a century and a half earlier.
A strong gust of wind blew, and Ensign Mulhearn, fearing the clipper would collide with the cutter, braced himself for the impact. But the collision was avoided when the ghostly ship vanished without a trace.
The startled seaman rubbed his eyes and looked again. There was nothing on the port side of the ship but the unbroken horizon. Shaken, Robert hurried below deck, making it just in time to see Josh Beckett throw his first pitch. The ensign did not bother reporting the incident, for he sincerely doubted anyone would believe him.
No, Salem, I don't believe you came over on the Mayflower, especially not as the figurehead.
