Thanks to favorable winds we were making excellent time on the return voyage and it was, I think, the ninth day of the trip . . . at around midnight . . . when I ventured down to the galley and brewed some tea for the men keeping the night watch. I felt like a grandmother as I was bringing it up on deck to them, and they laughed at the unusual service I was rendering . . . but they took the tea. I then drifted over to the railing and looked out at the ocean.
Sailing at night is different. The sea is calmer and the wind . . . if there is any . . . is normally gentle. On that night, the sky was clear and the moon was up high . . . and mostly full. The only sound was the slapping of the waves against the side of the ship. The moon was lighting up the water’s surface with a soft light that was easy on the eyes, with the tips of the waves catching hold of that light . . . then losing it . . . then catching it again . . . like so many candles flashing. And here I was, taking it all in . . . frittering my life away, just frittering it all away.
When the ship docked in Boston I collected my pay, said my farewells, and hired a “hack” to cart me and my trunks to Paul Matthew’s shop . . . as had been prearranged. Paul was a little busy, but he managed some banter none-the-less:
Paul: Glad to see you weren’t Shang-haied.
I: Paul . . . you would have loved it.
Paul: Bring me back anything?
I: I did.
And I presented him with three of the flat rolls of silk. He was . . . moved by the gesture and became speechless. He then tried to pay me something, but I wouldn’t hear of it. And besides, I had to hustle. I had to make the rounds to all the shops and unload my merchandise before that shipload of cargo . . . my competition . . . made its way abroad.
I did very well bargaining with the shop owners. The merchandise practically sold itself, and when the final tally was taken, I had made more than ten times my original investment. I had wanted to keep my Chinese-made trunk, but, upon consideration, decided to sell it also. I did, however, keep the cloak and straw hat as mementos of my excellent time in China.
I deposited all the money . . . the sales receipts, my sea wages, and the gold pieces I had left over . . . at The Bank of Boston. It was better for them to worry about it than me.
I now very much wanted to return to my old routine. I hadn’t realized it before, but it was a sort-of nest I had been building for myself . . . something to provide me with comfort, protection, and security . . . and I was glad to see that I was welcomed back. I gave Levi Hart an ivory statuette of a man with his son, I gave Robbie a porcelain tea set and a mirror, and to Mary Coleridge, the barmaid, I gave a lacquered box.
These old familiar acquaintances of mine now, generally, treated me as if I had risen up in the world. Even Mary . . . who now spoke to me without me having spoken to her first . . . regarded me in a brighter light. And I was uncomfortable with it.
You see, I sort-of liked being a nobody and was content with having a social standing of no great consequence. I think the lowest station is best. You are free to go where-ever you want and free to talk to whomever you please.
And there’s a humbleness inherent with being the lowest . . . a humbleness people can see and often respond to in a pleased manner. And, what is more, a humble heart protects a person against the intrusions of pride . . . a slippery and hard-to-see adversary. Life is easier . . . and safer . . . at the bottom.