Thirty-Six
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
The bed be blest that I lie on.
Four angels to my bed,
Four angels round my head,
One to watch and one to pray,
And two to bear my soul away.
Lydia Crowl paused. “God bless Mama, God bless Uncle Jonathon, God bless Caroline, God bless Jenny and all the servants, and please God send us the French army and liberty and kill all the lobsters. Amen.”
“You’re not supposed to say that,” Martha observed mildly, “when Sam’s here.”
“Except Sam,” Lydia quickly added to her prayer, then opened one very blue eye to peer past her clasped hands. “Hello, Sam.”
“Hello.”
“I’m going to bed.” Lydia, with all the energy of a six-year-old, suddenly scrambled under the sheets from where she solemnly watched Sam. “Caroline was here.”
“Was she now?”
“She told me about the Green Man. She said you knew all about him.”
“I do.” So Sam, urgently pressed, told of the great creaking and rustling monster that moved through the night woods in search of small American children. “He’ll come and eat you,” he said to the by now invisible Lydia.
“You’ll frighten her,” Martha said.
“Eat you all up, he will! But you can stop him!”
Two small eyes reappeared over the edge of the sheet. “How do I stop him, Sam?”
“By saying your prayers and being good.”
“I am good, aren’t I?”
“You’re wonderful.” Martha stooped and kissed her child. Curtains, soaked in vinegar and herbs to fight the stench in the city’s streets, hung at the window. “Sleep well.”
“I want a kiss. From Sam.”
Sam, who had been sent upstairs by Jenny, obliged Lydia. Outside, after she had closed the door, Martha smiled. “All the girls like you, don’t they, Sam?”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
Martha wrinkled her nose. “It’s good to see you again, even if you do need a bath.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sam grinned. “I’ve brought you the clothes for Jonathon.”
“God alone knows why you help us, Sam, but I do thank you.”
Martha led him down the back stairs to the kitchen where Jenny was admiring the naval officer’s cloak and hat. The cocked hat was edged with gold braid and bore a gold-clasped black plume on its peak.
“Dear God!” Martha picked up the hat, then tried it on. “You stole Lord Howe’s hat, Sam?”
“I expect he has another one,” Sam said sheepishly.
Martha laughed. “Jonathon will look very fine in it, won’t he?”
“He’ll have to wear a sword underneath,” Sam said, “to look right. And a white stock at his neck.”
Martha put the hat on the table. “Will it be dangerous for you, Sam?”
“No!” Sam was derisive of the risks involved in getting Jonathon past the sentries at Painter’s Wharf. “He just has to pretend to be drunk, doesn’t he? Who’d think twice about a drunken officer in Philadelphia?”
Martha sighed. “I wish Jonathon wasn’t going. The world’s going mad, Sam. Mad!” Martha sat on the opposite side of the table. “Have you seen what they’re doing at the Wharton mansion?”
“I was there this morning,” Sam said. The Wharton mansion, Walnut Grove, lay in wide gardens to the south of the city. Lawns led from the spacious house to the river. The mansion’s owner, a Patriot, had fled Philadelphia in the autumn, and now his home was to be the setting for the great Meschianza. Tables, rugs, porcelain, crystal, silverware, draperies, lanterns, chairs, tapestries, mirrors and chandeliers were being borrowed from the city’s wealthy families to decorate the extravaganza. Fireworks were being concocted by naval armourers, while cooks already planned the exotic feast.
“Lord Robert Massedene wants me to attend,” Martha said. “But I won’t dress up for him. A Turkish slave girl, indeed! I’ve never heard such nonsense!”
Jenny laughed. “You’d look good, ma’am.”
“I shall go in red and white stripes, with the word Saratoga embroidered on every seam.” Martha seemed cheered by the happy thought.
“It’ll be a good party,” Sam said wistfully.
“Sir William always gives good parties,” Martha said. “It’s his one glowing and undoubted talent. I’m sorry he’s leaving. My enemy is a kind man, as indeed are you, Sam.”
“I like Billy.” Sam avoided Martha’s compliment.
“And the dregs will take over from him.” Martha sounded bitter again. “Did you hear how they burned those prisoners at the Crooked Billet?” Sam did not reply, and Martha, sensing his evasion, rapped the table. “Well? Did you?”
“I was there, ma’am. Not at the fighting, but the next day.”
“Is it true?”
Sam paused. “I don’t know.”
“Sam!”
Sam, pressed into a corner, shrugged. “The Rangers said they did, but I don’t know.”
“It’s becoming vicious, Sam. They commit murder and say it’s war. It’ll be women and children next.”
“No!” Sam was scornful.
Martha ignored his protest. “That’s why I don’t want Jonathon to go. There’s no honour left, Sam. It’s becoming horrid. But if he has to go, and I suppose he does, I’d rather you went with him.”
“Me!” Sam sounded astonished.
Martha smiled her thanks for the inevitable cup of tea that Jenny placed on the table. “Don’t sound so surprised,” Martha said tartly. “I know Caroline asked you.”
“She did, yes,” Sam admitted, then shrugged. “But I said no.”
“Another Englishman who doesn’t want liberty?” As Martha spoke, she saw Sam’s face darken in scorn. “And don’t give me one of your sturdy English replies, Sam! There is such a thing as liberty!”
The intensity of her voice made Sam defensive. “I never said there wasn’t.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s what my brother dreamed of, isn’t it? Always over the hill. Always another pasture away.”
“You think the rebels are dying for nothing?”
“My brother Nate did! And I’ve seen your rebels, ma’am. I’ve even killed a few of them, if you’ll pardon me for saying it. And they ain’t no different to us! Just ordinary boys pushed into battle. Fighting for your liberty doesn’t make them special! There ain’t no special heaven for rebels, ma’am.”
Martha leaned back. “Liberty isn’t heaven, Sam, it isn’t a blessed reward. People will still die in sorrow and poverty when they have liberty. It’s simply, only, the freedom to choose your own life, and no one promises you success. I don’t hate the English. Some of you are even likeable. But I hate having some fat arrogant man in London telling me what I can or can’t do. I’d rather the fat arrogant man was in Philadelphia, because at least then I could throw something at him. We don’t need London any more. We’re grown up. We want liberty. You grew up, Sam, and you didn’t want your parents telling you what to do all the time. You wanted liberty, and you got it. You joined the army, which only proves that even the nicest people will misuse liberty, but it’s better to have it and misuse it than not to have it at all.” Martha shook her head ruefully. “I sound like a cheap lawyer at a town meeting.”
Sam, ashamed of his previous outburst, spoke apologetically. “I like to hear you talk, ma’am.”
Martha stuck her tongue out at him. “But I wish you would go, Sam. For Jonathon’s sake.”
“He’s all right,” Sam said stoutly.
Martha scorned the words. “Jonathon isn’t all right. He’s a cripple with a wooden leg strapped to an uncertain stump. He’s in love, which means he’s febrile, and he’s only going because he’s a stubborn fool who has to pretend he’s as good as the next man! Have you ever thought how hard it will be for Caroline to get him to Trenton? They’ll have to drag the boat past some of t
he rapids, and Jonathon won’t be any good! She’ll have to do all the work, and he’ll be limping along behind. That’s why I want you to help them. You’re capable!”
Sam shook his head slowly. “If they can’t do it by themselves, ma’am, they shouldn’t be going.”
Martha smiled sadly at the truth. “Of course they shouldn’t be going, but Jonathon’s in love. I don’t know if Caroline is, but he is.” She watched Sam for a reaction, but his face showed nothing and Martha shook her head in exasperation. “Love, love, love. Have you ever thought what a better world it would be without that inconvenience, Sam?”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
Martha shrugged at his noncommittal tone. “But if it wasn’t for Jonathon, Sam, you’d cross thai river, wouldn’t you?”
Sam said nothing. Jenny, leaning by the fire, watched him.
Martha pulled the naval hat towards her and ran a finger across the stiff bristles of its plume. “Let us think for an uncomfortable moment about Miss Caroline Fisher.”
“She’s made her promise,” Sam said stiffly.
Martha made a face at him. “You wouldn’t become an American for liberty, Sam, because you don’t think we lack it. And you wouldn’t become an American out of a republican conviction, because you can’t even spell it, but you’d become an American for Caroline. That’s what love is, Sam.”
“I didn’t say I would.” Sam was indignant. “And she wouldn’t change sides for me!”
“Of course not! She has a passion for something other than the man she loves.” Martha grimaced. “And I don’t speak of Jonathon. He’s a Patriot because she is. Caroline won’t abandon the revolution, so her man has to embrace it with her. What’s your passion, Sam? That fat German King? Do you feel as strongly for ugly George as Caroline does for General George?”
Sam stared at the table. “I couldn’t fight against my own side.”
“For mercy’s sake, whose side is that? Where do you think our families all come from?” Martha blithely disregarded Jenny’s presence. “England! Caroline’s as English as you are, except that she lives here and not there. My God, Sam! You want to stay in the army for ever?”
“I might not have to.”
“Oh, yes! Caroline told me. There’s a glimmer of a chance that you might become Sir William’s groom.” Martha’s voice had been mocking, but now she turned and pointed eastwards. “There’s a river out there, Sam, and on its other side is liberty. All you have to do is cross the water. No more floggings, no more sergeants, no more Captain Vanes.” Sam said nothing, and Martha sighed. “Do you dislike us so much, Sam?”
“You know I don’t.” Sam spoke indignantly.
Martha shrugged. “You can cross the river, Sam, and there’s a whole new world. There are more hills and valleys than you could dream of, and they’re just waiting for the touch of a man’s plough. There are rivers wider than your Thames and they still don’t even have names. There are horses waiting to be bred, and there’s grass to feed them. There’s everything a man could want here, Sam, and if we win this fight, there’ll even be liberty for everyone to misuse.”
Sam looked up. “Maybe I will cross the river.”
Martha understood his truculent tone. “But in your own time and in your own way, yes? Because you can’t have Caroline?”
“Well I can’t, can I?”
Martha paused as a wind rattled the kitchen door. “I don’t know, Sam. Maybe you can, who knows? I only know one thing …” She paused, wanting Sam to respond. He did. “Ma’am?”
Martha stared down at the gaudy hat. “My uncle will tell you that the only thing worth following is money. Money, money, money, but it never brought a moment’s peace to him. The army will tell you to follow, what? Glory? Victory? The flag? And at the end of it, Sam, there’s a grave.” She looked up at him. “I’m telling you to follow love, Sam. There’s no reason in it, and a deal of misery, but it’s the only thing that will give you happiness.”
Sam had listened carefully and, more than anything he desired, he wanted to follow that advice. “But someone will get hurt, ma’am.”
“And it most probably will be you,” Martha said, “because you’re all three impossibly young and impossibly honourable, but it’s still the only thing to do. And it does hurt, Sam, I know!” There was such a sudden pain in Martha’s voice that Sam frowned, and Martha, sensing his pity, hurried on. “Follow love, Sam, say your prayers and be a good boy. Then the Green Man won’t gobble you up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled, stood, then plucked at his red coat. “But there’s this.”
“It’s only a red coat, Sam, badly dyed and very ill cut.”
“But I took an oath for it.”
“To throw prisoners into flames?” Martha saw the hurt on his face, and smiled. “I’m sorry, Sam. I know it wasn’t you. But if you stay in the army, you’ll change!”
Sam remembered how, before his brother’s death, he had so admired Sergeant Scammell and had wanted to be like him. Now he blushed at the memory. “I won’t, ma’am.”
“I do hope not, Sam. I even pray not.”
Later, when Sam was gone, Martha went upstairs and stared at her sleeping child. Lydia’s face was so peaceful, so smooth, so pure, yet Martha felt as if a great presence threatened the city. The Green Man, she thought, had crossed an ocean to haunt dreams and bring fear. Martha told herself there was nothing to fear, but the terror, as inchoate, shapeless and unreasonable as any forest monster, was upon her. She feared for the future. She feared for her child and for the madness that was coming to the seaboard. She feared Sir William’s departure because the man who replaced him might believe, like Captain Vane, in victory. She feared and, because she feared, Martha wept in the Philadelphia night.
Thirty-Seven
The Deirdre-Ann dropped down river under topsails, staysails and driversail alone. The great mainsails which would power her across the Atlantic stayed furled on the yards. Captain Carroll, who seemed disposed to be friendly, explained to Jonathon that too much sail was dangerous in such shoaling waters and that the Deirdre-Ann would creep her way downstream and anchor at nightfall in the lee of Billings Island. Then, at dawn, they would be guided through the remains of the rebel obstructions that were still not entirely cleared from the river bed. “Open sea by noon tomorrow, Mister Jonathon, and then you’ll see her lean to the wind.”
Jonathon, cloaked against the evening cold, rested on the barrel of a small cannon that was lashed to the poopdeck. The American pilot stood by the helmsman, while Captain Oscar Carroll, contentedly smoking his pipe, stood with Jonathon. “Your uncle,” the Englishman said, “tells me you’re not overjoyed about this voyage?”
“No, sir. I can’t say I am.”
“You’ll be homesick, no doubt, but London’s a grand city.” The captain’s tic distorted his face in a grotesque series of flickering winks. “There’s temptation there, but it’s a grand city, especially for a young man of means.”
“I’m sure, sir.” Jonathon was staring at the low, greasy shoreline that slipped past in the fading light. Duck punts were being poled in the shallows, while, closer to the merchantman, oyster boats loaded with rakes and baskets beat upstream past the battered and blackened walls of Fort Mifflin. A British garrison manned Fort Mifflin now, its soldiers ever staring towards the stark ribs of the sunken Augusta which showed on the Deirdre-Ann’s port quarter. Beyond the sunken frigate, on a small and reedy island, an upturned boat had been made into a cabin for a fisherman’s family. A wisp of smoke drifted seaward from a squat metal chimney that protruded through the old keel. The island was so close that Jonathon could smell the fish that cooked in the tiny shanty. Tarred nets were hung to dry beside a shabby, weather-beaten shallop in which a child shucked oysters. Captain Carroll grimaced. “I warrant they had a cold winter.”
“It was bitter, sir.”
Carroll saw Jonathon’s wistful expression. “Thinking of swimming, lad?”
“No, sir,”
Jonathon lied. He was determined to escape, and it had to be this night, for tomorrow the Deirdre-Ann would dip her bows into the open sea.
Carroll’s face twitched as he tapped out his pipe on the leeward rail. “You’re no prisoner, lad, not on my ship. I said as how I’d take you to England, and take you I will, but not as a captive. But there’s not one of my men that’ll stand by and watch as you try to drown yourself.”
Jonathon wondered what kind of message was being delivered in the contradictory statements. “If I want to go ashore, will you let me?”
“I won’t help you,” Carroll said, “so don’t ask.”
“So I am a prisoner?”
“You’ll be my guest for supper, I hope. Perhaps we can have a game of chess afterwards?”
Night fell dark. The Deirdre-Ann was the last of a dozen anchored merchantmen that waited by Billings Island for the dawn passage past the half-sunken obstacles. The river lapped and gurgled at the ship’s waterline, and reflected the lamps from the other moored ships in wavering darts of light on the black water. Captain Carroll offered a supper of bacon and lentils, followed by three games of chess, all of which Jonathon lost. He played badly, thinking only of Caroline and of the shoreline that, in the dusk and beneath the evening star, had seemed so tantalizingly close.
At midnight Captain Carroll checkmated Jonathon for the last time. “You’ll have to practise, lad.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Captain peered into the darkness. “Tide’s flooding. Time for bed.” He reached for his bible and opened its well-thumbed pages. “Sleep well, lad, and count your blessings!”
Jonathon limped to his cabin which was nothing more than a tiny cubbyhole in front of Carroll’s more spacious quarters. There was no window, just a wooden bunk crammed beneath the poopdeck’s hanging knees. Jonathon stooped inside and sat on the bunk. His dunnage, two sea bags, took up all the floor space. There was no light.
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