When the Paxmores returned to Peace Cliff, Ruth Brinton warned her husband, “Edward, we must get rid of thy slaves.”
“They’re on the edge of showing a profit.”
“Profit? Dear Edward, what profits a man if he gain the world and lose his own soul?”
“But the slaves are my property. The whole success of the boatyard depends—”
“Then quit the boatyard.”
“You mean, give up everything we’ve worked for? Ruth, these men are just beginning to master their trade. They’ll prove invaluable.”
“Every day thee holds those people in slavery, thee endangers thy soul. Edward, get rid of them, now!”
“Others have begun buying slaves, seeing how well ours work. James Lamb—”
“We are not governed by what others do. We set our standards, and we are against slavery.”
“Thee may be, but I’m not. I worked for other men and found nothing wrong. Now other men work for me, and I feed them better than I was fed.”
Ruth Brinton became so angry that she shook her obstinate husband and cried, “Doesn’t thee see that this ownership is contaminating thy soul?”
“It’s not contaminating Lamb’s soul, nor Fry’s, nor Hull’s.”
She looked at her husband in disbelief and said no more, but that week she compiled a few notes to set her thoughts in order, and on First Day, at the Patamoke meeting house built by her husband, she delivered her historic address, the first anti-slavery message spoken in any church in America, but even these remembered words cannot convey the cold passion she used in uttering them:
“I see a day when the members of any Christian church will be ashamed to hold another man or woman in bondage. They will know without being told that so long as they keep one slave in their possession they are acting outside the will of God ...
“I see a day when every member of this meeting will voluntarily award freedom to any slave within his or her possession. There will be no talk of selling them to gain a small profit, nor any talk of manumission after death. The freedom will be granted now, and totally, and without reservation, and on the day this is done every master will tell his wife, ‘On this day we did a good thing.’
“I see a day when every black human being along this river is taught to read the Bible, and write his or her name, when families are held together and children are educated, and every man works for an honest wage. And this river will be a happier place when that day of freedom comes.
“God has sent us Quakers to Patamoke Meeting to give testimony on this fundamental point, and it may take years or decades or even centuries before we are competent to discharge our duties as leaders in this field, but the duty will always be here, silently, deeply, gnawing in our breasts, and the day will come when we shall ask in horror, ‘How could our ancestors have held other men in bondage?’
“I charge you now, ‘Go home from this place and set your slaves free.’ I command you in God’s name, ‘Set them free and hire them for a wage.’ I call upon you, ‘Stop using black men and women to earn a profit. Start embracing them as brothers and sisters in God, endowed with every right you have ...’
“We are a little gathering, a few people among many, but let us show the way to all.”
On Thursday following her homily Patamoke Meeting held its annual session for the governance of those Quakers who lived along the Choptank, and Ruth Brinton Paxmore’s suggestion that slavery be condemned was put before the members in four proposals. Votes were never taken in Quaker assemblies; what was sought was the general “sense of the meeting,” and discussion continued until this was uncovered and agreed upon. On this occasion consensus was quickly reached on Ruth Brinton’s four concerns: “That the Bible condemns slavery.” Not so, because too many passages in Holy Writ condone it. “That no man or woman can be a good Quaker and hold slaves.” Not so, because too many fine Quaker families do just that. “That those Quakers who do own slaves must set them free immediately.” Not so, because the Bible states specifically that men are entitled to ownership of their property. “That Patamoke Meeting should speak out against slavery.” Not so, because it is not the business of any religion to reverse principles long established and accepted by good men and women everywhere.
When Ruth Brinton was thus rebuffed, her husband expected her to rage; she did not. As the other Quakers left the meeting house she nodded primly to each, and if occasion permitted, said a few gentle words. But when she reached home she assembled the black women who had been working for her and told them, “From now on, thee works for wages. Each week I shall enter on this page the amount I owe thee, and on the day not far distant when all blacks are set free, I shall hand thee thy wages.” And that afternoon she began to teach them to read.
For some years England had been at war with Holland, a fact borne home to Marylanders when a Dutch fleet had sailed boldly into the Chesapeake, ravaging tobacco plantations and setting fire to shipping. When an attack was launched against Devon, Birgitta Turlock was certain that the Dutch had come to claim her as a runaway, but a group of colonial ships hastily assembled in Virginia, took after the Dutch, and they retreated.
To protect the valuable tobacco plantations from such depredation, London dispatched a forty-six-gun frigate to stand guard at the lower end of the Chesapeake, but the gallant Dutch, best seamen in the world at this time, sailed boldly back, captured the watch ship, and raided Devon once more.
These were troubled times, with strange alarms at sea, so there was little surprise one Sunday morning when a lone ship entered the Choptank, anchored in Patamoke harbor and set its entire crew on the wharf: a large-framed, grizzled Englishman, obviously the captain, and a young, alert Frenchman who could have been first mate. But there was surprise when they announced themselves as Quakers seeking the Patamoke meeting house, which they entered in time to hear Ruth Brinton deliver her arguments against slavery.
When prayer ended, they talked freely with the local Quakers. “I joined thy faith in London when I heard George Fox preach. His logic would convert any man. My name is Griscom. This is my companion, Henri Bonfleur of Paris.”
The younger man said charmingly, “There are many Quakers in France, thee knows,” pronouncing the first word as zere and the third as men-ny. He told Ruth Brinton that her message was inspired and must soon become general doctrine.
Then Griscom said, “I’m looking for Paxmore, the shipbuilder,” and Ruth Brinton said, “He’s my husband,” and she summoned him. “Our ship needs some repairs,” Griscom said, and Paxmore replied, “We can’t discuss that on First Day.” So on Monday he and the two visitors surveyed the repairs needed by the docked ship and decided that it would have to be sailed down the Choptank and up the creek to where the Martha Keene was about to be launched.
When they saw the stout ship that Paxmore was about to finish, they expressed their admiration: “Better than most they build in London.” Without preliminaries they offered to buy it, but Paxmore dismissed such ideas, pointing out that it had always been intended for the Steeds. “Ah yes!” Bonfleur said, “we’ve heard of that great family.”
Griscom changed the subject by saying, “If thee can rush our repairs, Paxmore, we’re prepared to pay in coins.” Such an offer had never been made before, and the Quaker wondered if these strangers owned any coins, but Griscom settled that. From a pouch tied to his belt he produced an exciting jingle, then gave Paxmore a handful of Spanish dolares. “Could we have the ship in two weeks?” he asked.
“That might be impossible. We have to launch this one first, and take it on runs ... to see where it leaks.”
“Thy work won’t leak,” Griscom replied with icy irritation. It was Bonfleur who suggested brightly that the delay might be profitable: it would allow them to explore the possibility of picking up cargo from an area of which they had heard so many fine reports.
“All our tobacco sails to Europe in ships already scheduled,” Paxmore pointed out. “And in this one ... when it’s
launched.”
The visiting Quakers ingratiated themselves with the local people, attending each First Day meeting and listening with careful attention if members spoke. They helped launch the new ship, suggesting useful tricks whereby the eighty-seven-ton craft could be eased into the water. During the first run out into the bay, they served as crew, working the sheets and watching with approval as the lateen mainsail took the wind. It was Griscom who suggested that a square mainsail might be better, and it was he who rigged it when the ship returned.
The new Quakers charmed everyone but Ruth Brinton, and this was curious, because it was on her that they spent their most obvious energies. They praised her talks in meeting and her cooking at Peace Cliff, but the more they tried to gain her approval, the more she resisted. “No one seems to ask,” she whispered to her husband one night as the strangers slept on blankets in the kitchen, “but where are their sailors? Surely they didn’t sail that big ship of theirs alone.”
So next morning she asked Griscom, “Where is thy crew?” and he explained, “We knew repairs would take time. We hired the men out as husbandmen. At the York River.”
“Which plantation?” she asked, and without hesitation Griscom replied, “Ashford.”
That night she whispered, “Edward, they don’t look like Quakers,” and her husband, chuckling, said, “Are we so few that we must all look alike?” But at next meeting she kept her gaze on the strangers and reported, “Edward, those men were not meditating.”
Her husband decided to ignore such speculation and directed all his attention to speeding up work on the strangers’ ship, but the more he urged his slaves to hurry, the less inclined the new Quakers were to leave. They kept talking about the Martha Keene, which had departed on an exploratory voyage to Barbados under the command of Earl Steed, son of Henry and well versed in trade and ships.
On his return young Steed had much to discuss with Paxmore; as with even the most professional new ship, many minor things required correction, but because this was the first naval venture of a house carpenter, fundamental errors of some gravity had shown up, so it became imperative that Paxmore accompany Captain Steed on his next trial voyage, and rarely has a man taken a sadder sail.
The Martha Keene was sturdy; its keel was strong; and it was honestly built. But it could hardly be called a ship. From bowsprit to rudder nothing was right: the former had been incorrectly joined to withstand vertical pressures, the latter was improperly hung if maximum movement was desired. The tiller was not long enough; the boom was too loosely attached; the cleats were not properly positioned; and as anticipated, the mast leaked.
Paxmore took patient note of every complaint and added some of his own; when the list seemed complete he said quietly, “Only sensible thing is to start over.”
“You mean ... a new ship?”
“This one can never be mended.” He hesitated. “It was built by a man who knew nothing.” Then he added firmly, “But now I know.”
“No,” said Steed reflectively, “this ship can be cured.”
“Never the mast.”
“Even that,” Steed assured him, and when they returned he worked as diligently as Paxmore to salvage his family’s investment: a new jib boom was affixed to the bowsprit and joined properly; loose caulking was gouged out and hammered home correctly; additional knees were introduced; and all items on deck were so located as to provide easy access without hampering movement. Paxmore even proposed cutting a new pine from which a properly graded mast could be adzed, but this extravagance Steed would not permit: “It will float.”
But when Paxmore saw his handiwork on the Choptank, he wanted to look away with shame, for it was a botch. Dumpy, heavy in the bow, slow to respond and with a creaking mast, it should not have been called a ship. A thing corrected was a thing weakened, and he wanted to rip it apart, board by board, and redo it properly. But even as it lay there, listing to port, he could see that within its misshapen body there lurked the concept of a true ship, and given another chance, he would bring that concept to reality. When the Martha Keene set forth on its next trial Henry Steed assured its builder, “When it returns, make a few additional changes, and we’ll take ownership,” but Paxmore gritted his teeth as he saw her lumber away from the wharf and muttered, “I hope she sinks.”
If the colonies were impeded by lack of coinage, they were nearly destroyed by a lack of salt. Along the entire eastern coast there had been found no substantial salt deposits, and imports from the various mines of Europe were either prohibitive or unavailable. Every kitchen in Maryland suffered from this lack, and children could be seen dipping their hands into the bay in hopes of satisfying their hunger for this essential item. Men and women would sometimes dream of tasting a truly salted dish; their bodies suffered strange rashes; perspiration became acid and biting, much worse than the sting of mosquitoes.
Almost every infant industry at one time or another felt the need for salt, and because none was available, occupations that should have prospered never got started or withered. Henry Steed wrote to Fithians:
We perish for lack of salt. Never has the bay produced a better catch of fish. Barrels of the best shad stand on our wharf. But because we have no salt, we cannot lay them aside for winter, and in February we shall go hungry when we could have dined like kings. Tears came into my eyes when I ordered my slaves to throw fish already caught back into the bay and to seek no more.
When our fine new ship the Martha Keene crosses the Atlantic, could you find me a cargo of salt from the Polish mines? Regardless of cost? And will you please send documents explaining how best to evaporate salt from sea water?
When the instructions arrived, Henry Steed saw that here at last was an occupation ideally suited for the Turlocks. It required no great capital, little ingenuity and not much work. But when he went to the marsh, he uncovered a situation which he could not fully understand. Timothy Turlock, old and filthy and with no teeth at all, was in command of a hut as disordered as he. In one corner the blowzy Swedish girl Birgitta sat, apparently drunk. Her seven-year-old daughter Flora could have been a beautiful child had her hair been combed and her face visible; as it was, she seemed a sly little animal with all of her father’s worst characteristics. It was the presence of a third female, James Lamb’s servant girl Nancy, that disturbed Steed; she should have been at work, and here she was, a saucy little slattern idling her time with the Turlocks. The only inhabitant who seemed even remotely responsible was Stooby; since Steed had last seen him the young man had suffered a savage case of smallpox and was deeply marked.
“I want you to start a salt bed,” Steed began.
“What?” The grunt came from Timothy and indicated his suspicion of anything a Steed might propose.
“A flat place into which you lead salt water. It’s covered to keep out new rain, and after most of the water has evaporated, you boil the rest and we have salt.”
“Who wants salt?”
“Everybody.”
“I don’t.”
“But can’t you see? This would help us all, and you’d be able to sell it for whatever you need.”
“No needs.”
“But the others? Our fish industry. We have to have salt.”
“You make it.”
“No, Timothy. Our land is too high. Your land, here beside the marsh, it’s just right.”
“You use our land.”
“No, we need someone to watch it constantly. Timothy, this would be so much easier than hunting wolves.”
“We like hunting.” He appealed to Stooby, who nodded.
“Stooby,” Steed pleaded. “Can’t you explain to your father that he’s getting old? He can’t go into the woods—”
“Better’n me,” Stooby said, sitting on his haunches as if that ended the conversation.
So Steed turned reluctantly to Nancy, asking her to convince the Turlocks that they should man the salt works, and she understood. In a semi-literate jargon she argued with them, explaining how easy
the work would be and how rewarding the results. She made no headway with Timothy, but she did force Stooby to listen, and after a while he began to appreciate the possibilities.
“What?” he asked stolidly, implying by this single word his willingness to listen to the plan.
Steed, delighted that he had at last penetrated the indifference of this clan, took them all to the shore, where he sketched, in conformance to his instructions from London, a salt bed, in which water would be led from the Choptank onto a flat area for preliminary evaporation, then into successive beds for concentration, the last one being covered by a shed, beneath which the boiling would occur.
“Who pays?” Timothy wanted to know.
“I’ll build the shed,” Steed said, so during the latter half of 1669 the Turlocks went into the salt business.
It was an aggravating affair. Water at the Turlock marsh contained only fourteen parts of salt per thousand, whereas at the mouth of the bay it contained twenty-nine, which meant that trying to make salt at the marsh was more than twice as difficult as it would have been in southern Virginia. The marsh also got more than its share of rain, so that constant additions of fresh water were diluting the process; and the raininess meant fewer hours of strong sunlight. And when in the last flat, under the shed, a pitiful amount of salt was finally made, it was not of a good coarse grain but was filled with sand.
“Hell with salt,” Turlock growled, and it was now that the trouble with Stooby began; it concerned Nancy.
When she fled from the Lambs she could, of course, have been apprehended by the court, and a magistrate wanted to do this, but Prudence Lamb said compassionately, “It is better that she work out her own destiny.”
“With Timothy Turlock? She’s been whipped twice for lying with him.”
“We have been able to do little for her,” Prudence said.
“But she owes you—what is it?—three years.”
“She owes us little.”
“You sign no warrant?”