John Finn

by Vincent McCaffrey

  ​James Stevens left only the one slight note of his passing through ‘Notemy.’ That was better than the Diary of Amos Farnsworth, a young farmer who marched from Groton:

  ​“Wednsday morning, April 19, 1775. Was Alarmd with the news of the Regulars Firin At Our men At Concoord Marched and came thare whare Some had Bin ciled Puled on and Came to Lexington whare much hurt was Done to the houses thare by braking glas And Burning Many Houses: but thay was forsed to retret tho thay was more numerous then we And I saw many Ded Regulars by the way. Went into a house whare Blud was half over Shoes.”

  Mr. Farnsworth passed through Menotomy thinking he was still in Lexington.

  But Elisabeth Cutter, whose house in Menotomy stood close to the Concord Road, had been schooled beyond the shortened education of a farmer or a carpenter. Most probably at home. That both her uncles were Harvard educated ministers might have played a role in that. Her father, Stephen Lawrence, had died of small pox at Medford when she was a child. I suspect her letter was written to a close relative, perhaps a sister. I see in my notes that there is a Paris Lawrence who had married a Charles Browne. There were members of the Lawrence and Cutter and Browne families scattered throughout the Boston area well before the Revolution began.

  One member of the Cutters owned the largest saw mill on the Mill Brook at the heart of Menotomy, but Elisabeth’s husband Thomas is listed only as ‘farmer’ on the rolls. It was not uncommon for the women in such circumstance to be educated as well, if for no other purpose than to pass that education on to the young at a time when there were few schools. And I had already paid special attention to her family, knowing they had been the Andrews neighbors.

  I read the remaining portion of this letter twice through from that first broken sentence without a pause:

  “was a tatter demalion mob. They swarmd about the house like bees and bade us leave. I lookd upon their faces in passin out the door knowin my own sons must be along the road causin havoc elsewhere. We had no choice by the time. The sun was well up and the Regulars was on the return from the rapine at Concord. There could be no tellin where they might stop again. The news was every where that shots was heard. There was some men dead.

  “As I lookd at the faces of our young company my belief was these are not men at all. Just boys. Their shoes was unbuckld and muddyd where they stood the floor. Old fabric linin showd through at the edges at their cuffs. Many wore their fathers coats to give them selfs substance. Two had guns that ought better be suitd to huntin squirls. I worryd then for my own sons and the spoilin of their inocence.

  “One boy had a yellow curl of hair at his brow just like my Joseph. He said ‘We must see the houses are clear ma’am. There is mischief’ But his eyes were not on mine. They had more interest for my Alice and Emily. They had come especial to our house like flys to butter. All a them wishin to be seen as brave and at the ready.

  “We hurryd from there with little to carry away but a sack from the cellar and a portion of meat. No more than a few clothes and my mothers cameo in a sack. We let the chickens run. Alice and Emily took their turns pullin the sow or usin the stick. I led the cow.”

  Here the printed letter was broken by the editorial comment. “The presumed author, Elisabeth Cutter, is known to have lived in Arlington during the period in question.” Of course, I knew the author immediately, just as I knew there were two other portions of this letter in existence held in other collections, and I had already read them without making the connection.

  How did these parts eventually come to be separated? Perhaps a division of treasured relics amongst the children, or simply careless handling at some early date during a move from house to house. This probably mattered very little now. What was important was to finally join the parts.

  After the short editorial a second portion of the letter was printed, but I knew that it did not follow the first part immediately. On my computer I have copies of the two other parts and they fit perfectly.

  From the Essex Institute Historical Collections available on-line I had copied a letter written by an unknown author assumed to be in Lexington on the great night. This was part of the Beale family collection in Salem at the time and it was reprinted in 1912:

  “After the first rider was past in the night with his warnin Thomas left then to his company with caution to us to stay alert. Shortly after I took this chance to lower the silver in to the well. It was then that I myself was caught in the yard by another rider as I was at my task. The same wind that did chase the rain away was in my ears and I heard him not nor saw him through the dark from afar until he was close upon the yard. He frightnd me with the speed of his approach. A lather of foam trimmd his bridle in white and this gaily caught the moon but his purpose was humor less. Clear I could see that he was a soldier with the Regulars. He asked what I was about? As if he had some right to ask this in my own yard. I told him my children need the drink. The horse fussd for breath against this sudden restraynt. I could see the eyes of both William and Joseph in the dark beneath the eve and hopd they would keep a hold of their bravery and stay back. The rider determined my situation and only made command for me to seek safety indoors. He went then on his way. I saw that he then joind another just after on the road. This was my singular encounter with our new foes.

  “We all sat up then without so much as a candel and in such quiet you could hear the first passin of the Regulars on their march. William wanted to go out and watch but I kept him back. The regulars were orderly and their march silently done. I could see the shadows of the ranks but no single figure from my window. I will say that the passing of this infantry seemed to go on fore ever. So many soldiers come to take our few stores. What sense was there to that?

  “Little was heard after but we could not sleep again. Even so I had nappd in my chair and when I awoke both Joseph and William had gone from us. I can not explain my distress. After this the other boy’s came and conveyd their orders. I have learned since that mine was hidin at the outside step to avoid my complaint.”

  And from the Lawrence family collection at the Massachusetts Historical Society I had more:

  “We was well ready and quick to set out on the Watertown road to the Harris house just as Thomas had pland with me. As others were afoot also we had some company then. There we stayd the day. I saw nothin of the disturbances that occurd in the vicinity of our own house after my leavin. Several times we heard the report of shots in the distance that made us each stand with our private concern.

  “Anne Harris was very kind to us. She cookt a great large stew of the sundrys we brung and much bread and used all her coffee for us. Most our small band had been awake the night and we were truly weary. I will tell you that I do like coffee now better than tea.

  “There was 18 of us, wives and daughters and grandmothers, and grandfather Harris who can no longer stand. Notheless John Harris kept his musket at the ready across thin legs. The few boys left with us were all less than ten years. Their older brothers could not be restraynt any better than mine and were off amidst peril.

  “Knowing you have heard enough of that, I hesitate to report any more of greater events, for it would only be hearsay. Which acounts are true?

  “It was near to dark again that Thomas came at last to bring us home. He was be draggld and as tatter demalion as those boys we had seen the previous night. His first news was that our own were safe and home before us. There was many briers stitched in his britches. His Christmas coat was muddyd. With the walk so slow we left the sow and cow behind for the morrow.

  “I do witness I found blood in my yard. No more than if a chicken were kilt, but I expect it more likely spoke to the suffering of some soul. Several of the glazzins was broke in the windows. The door was off the henge. A chair was broke on the kitchen table. The table was only turnd aside as it was built by Thomas to hold a hog. My boys was asleep by the hearth in the soild cloths they had worn all the day.

  “Thomas refused to stay longer but to take the cup of broth I b
oilt. I wishd I had any coffee then to give him. He had drawn the lot of night watch at the bridge and was soon gone again. As we had all tired the girls pestered the boys to sort the chaos with them and this was the cause of much quarele and compleynt. Notheless the girls was still with fear through the night and napd only with terrible imagins. I confess I slept sound until Thomas returnd.

  “Thomas was out with one other, Deacon Adams—until near after midnight. When last he come home again he fell asleep in his cloths beside me. He is not the young man any more. I pulled the thorns from his cloths without his waking. He looked as battered as the boys.”

  To this I could now add the remaining portion of the copied letter that Rebecca had left for me:

  ​“Though severl friends have visited today in passing most are filled with rumors. Thomas has the only shure news I can say. At the least 19 are dead in Menotomy. Many of the unfortunate are buried together yesterday eve with little service. There is much fear of retribution for the Regulars we have killt. The names of the ones who are known to us was read. I did not attend. My boy Williams good employer Jabez Wyman was among them and Jason Russell and Jason Winship also. The good Mr. Russell you know. I can add more good words for Mr. Winship. May God hold them all in the palm of his hand. I do not know the others. William said there was tears and quick prayers but most did not wish to prolong the misery in the event havin other worries. The familys of those we did not know bein not close enough to come or perhaps do not yet understand their own loss.

  “This morning I spoke shortly with Mary Winship. Capturd as she was by her own grief there was few details offerd. I think I was little comfort in the event. All mine had returned safe to home.

  “Dr. Tufts is with several of the livin victims even now. Against all expectation, our Mr. Whittemore still lives. You have heard his story. It is much told at every visit. He is our foolish Hero now. Those men of the oldr generation have no soft parts. Thomas has ofen spokn before that they are a greatr lot than his own. Perhaps.

  “As I writ this I hav ben with my girls makin bandages through the day and fear we have no sheets left for the beddin. Alice will not speak. Emily speaks with out a stop. She is her mother twice over.

  “Our near neighbors have not returnd. Our suspisuns have been confirmd by this. There was word that Mr. Andrews was seen by the College 2 days ago. His wife went away to the Medford road on that day with her family. All but Mary the oldest.

  “The wagon was much over filld and drawn by the same ancient horse you have seen and made comment on. The horse was held by the servant boy to lead the way. Her young daughters all cryd with the pity of the circumstance. I suppos Mary has gone off to friends as she oft does.

  “Thomas saw Cary the servant boy on the road last night again. He returnd to keep watch on the house at the command of his mistress. Thomas told him to stay close and keep a lamp in the window for safe keepin but saw no light there when he latr passd that way. On my return from speakin with Mary Winship this morning I lookd in for news of the family. The boy was not there. The house stands empty. It is still clutterd with the abuse of the previous day. Perhaps young Cary has run away.

  “I have heard there are many who are loos now on the roads. Not with good purpose I fear. It is dangers to be out alone. That boy is big enough to care for himself but my Alice worys for him. I think she had set her eye on him. She denys this as you would expect.

  “I saw there is blood in the Andrews yard as there is in my own I suppose it best that all the Andrews family had gone for the time of this conflict no matter their sympathy. But with his prejudice Izaak Andrews may not be quick to return. He was a generous neighbor at all. William Andrews the father saved Thomas from the river when he was a boy. Notheless, it is not good that the house stand empty so close to our own. There are vandals about. Alice thinks there was noises in the night. She watches for a light that way even now.

  “You should not expect a visit from me until things have settld.

  “May Almighty God watch over us and bless us each.

  ​E.”

  ​So, the fabrication of events for my novel had fallen apart again. In tatters. I have a good lot of pieces but need to sew them together one more time, just as much as the parts of Elisabeth Cutter’s letter needed to be joined. Cary Peet had been seen on the road the night of the 19th, well after all the first hostilities were over. His murder must have been shortly after his return that night. And that could place the murder of Mary Andrews as well.

  ​Rebecca called as soon as her first class was over. In the way she does, she said, “So?” without any greeting.

  ​I said, “What?”

  ​It was very mean of me. She was clearly proud of her find. I had no idea what she must have done to discover that letter. I would have kissed her if she was beside me. As it was, I was full of my giddiness and wanted to play. I had spoiled her surprise the night before by getting her to bed too quickly and then again this morning by sleeping in. But I was not going to apologize.

  ​I said, “If Elisabeth Cutter wrote letters as long as that, I wonder how much she might have had to say in person. I wonder what it must have been like to be married to her.”

  ​Rebecca was not entertained.

  “Chauvinist!”

  ​I told her, “There was no such word then. I think they would have just called me a lout.”

  26. Thoreau again

  ​“The thunder had rumbled at my heels all the way, but the shower had passed off in another direction; though if it had not, I half believed that I should get above it. I at length reached the last house but one, where the path to the summit diverged to the right, while the summit itself rose directly in front. But I determined to follow up the valley to its head, and then finding my own route up the steep as the shorter and more adventurous way. I had thought of returning to the house, which was well kept and so nobly placed, the next day, and perhaps remaining a week there if I could find entertainment. Its mistress was a frank and hospitable young woman, who stood before me in a dishabille, busily and unconcernedly combing her long black hair while she kept talking, giving her head the necessary toss with each sweep of the comb, with her lively, sparkling eyes full of interest in that lower world from which I had come, talking all the while as familiarly as if she had known me for years, and reminding me of a cousin of mine. She at first had taken me for a student from Williamstown, for they went by in parties, she said, either riding or waking, almost every pleasant day, and were a pretty wild set of fellows; but they never went by the way I was going.”

  ​It was that short bit, only a small fragment of recollection within the larger work, which had inspired me to write an entire novel about the young Thoreau. I had wanted to know more about that black-haired young woman, but the Thoreau of the journal pressed on.

  ​There was no sleep to be had. Not this night. So, I sat on my bed and scrolled through my notes.

  ​The letter of Elisabeth Cutter had changed my understanding of the murder of Mary Andrews, more for the simple circumstance than the fact, just as that small portion of Thoreau’s journal had once completely changed my understanding of that man.

  ​Had our philosopher found entertainment there, with the black-haired woman? Thoreau had destroyed or lost most of the journals he had made over his too short life. And I am already five years older now than he ever was. But then he is still alive, isn’t he? The few journals that remain have made him immortal. Would a full account of his stay with the woman he had found in dishabille have changed this for the better or the worse?

  But there are several reasons why Thoreau’s name has come up again.

  James had reminded me of my unfinished novel about the “pencil pusher” as he calls him. That started the thought process. Then there are the many unfinished stories Thoreau told—the unconnected bits and pieces that are the better clues to the man. That one encounter with the frank and hospitable young woman on the mountain was the genesis of my failed novel. But it wa
s my failure to finish the book that bothered James so much to start with, and now that I have my own batch of unfinished tales, Thoreau’s problems seem to offer something else that I have not yet gotten a handle on. So many things are left undone. And it feels as if the unfinished parts are the more important.

  Another reason to be thinking about Thoreau is that week in August when everything turned around on me. I had stayed home and yet still got into as much trouble as I ever have. That has happened to me more than once before. And I can blame my previous debacle of August on Thoreau, as well, at least indirectly.

  I think it was the little adventure with my brother years ago that was the beginning of the end of a lot of things for me.

  And again, there are Thoreau’s comments on keeping a journal. I have them written on the inside cover of my notebook.

  “Unfortunately, many things have been omitted which should have been recorded in our journal for though we made it a rule to set down all our experience therein, yet such a resolution is very hard to keep, for the important experience rarely allows us to remember such obligations, and so, indifferent things get recorded, while what is important is frequently neglected. It is not easy to write in a journal what interests us at any time, because to write it is not what interests us.”

  The royal ‘we.’ The second person plural. The north country ‘us.’ All of it making the universal from the singular thoughts of a strange man.

  But the matter that keeps the ‘pencil pusher’ on my mind most, right now, is that he has become my ready resource—the equivalent to those old clip-art books popularly used for cheap illustration before the internet. After all, I am writing a book about an incident that took place in what is now Arlington, Massachusetts, in 1775. What was it actually like in the Menotomy of the time? We have histories full of dates and names and events but little description of the place. No photographs. No smells. No sounds. But we do have Mr. Thoreau. Seventy-five years later he was living twelve miles away in a world changed only by some rude technology (most of which he ignored), and by a density of population he abhorred, and by sentiments he refused. If you want to know what Menotomy looked like in 1775, you can read Henry David Thoreau in 1849.