The Edge of the World

THE EDGE OF THE WORLD/Alice Hoffman 1778 I. It was said that boys should go on their first sea voyage at the age of ten, but surely this notion was never put forth by anyone's mother. If thebay were to be raised one degree in temperature for everywoman who had lost the man or child she loved at sea, the water would have been boiling, throwing off steam even in the dead of winter, poaching the bluefish and herrings as they swam. Every May, the women in town gathered at the wharf. No matter how beautiful the day, scented with apple blossoms or new grass or spring onions, they found themselves wishing for snow and ice, for gray November, for December's gales and landlocked harbors, for fleets that returned safe and sound, all hands accounted for, all boys grown into men. Women who had never left Massachusetts dreamed of the Middle Banks and the Great Banks the way some men dreamed of hell: the place that could give you everything you might need and desire. The place that could take it all away. This year the fear of what might be was worse than ever, never mind gales and storms and starvation and accidents, never mind rum and arguments and empty nets. This year the British had placed an embargo on the ships of the cape. No one could go in or out of the harbor, except unlawfully, which is what the fishermen in town planned to do come May, setting off on moonless nights, a few sloops at a time, with the full knowledge that every man caught would be put to death for treason and every boy would be sent to Dartmoor Prison in England—as good as death, people in town agreed, but colder and more miserable. Most people were accounted for, those who would go and those who would stay behind to man the fort beside Long Pond if need be, a battle station that was more of a cabin than anything, but at least it was something solid to lean against should a man have to take aim and fire. John Hadley was among those who wanted to stay. He made that clear, and everyone knew he had his reasons. He had just finished the little house in the hollow that he'd been working on with his older son, Vincent, for nearly three years. During this time, he and Vincent had gone out fishing only for the month of May, searching out bluefish and halibut, fish large enough so that you could fill up your catch in a very short time. John's sloop was small, his desires few: he wanted The Missouri Review · 11 to give his wife this house, nothing fancy, but carefully made all the same, along with the acreage around it, a meadow filled with wild grapes and winterberry. Wood for building was hard to come by, so John had used old wrecked boats for the joists, deadwood he'd found in the shipyard, and when there was none of that to be had, he used fruitwood he'd culled from his property, though people insisted such apple wood and pear wouldn't last. There was no glass in the windows , only oiled paper, but the light that came through was dazzling and yellow; little flies buzzed in and out of the light, and everything seemed slow, molasses slow, lovesick slow. John Hadley felt a deep love for his wife, Coral, more so than anyone might guess. He was still tongue-tied in her presence, and he had the foolish notion that he could give her something no one else could. Something precious and lasting and hers alone. It was the house he had in mind whenever he looked at Coral. This was what love was to him: when he was at sea he could not sleep without the feel of her beside him. She was his anchor; she was his home; she was the road to everything that mattered to John Hadley. Otis West and his cousin Harris Mcquire had helped with the plans for the house—a keeping room, an attic for the boys, a...