by Jodi Daynard
I listened for the sound of a carriage. In those first days and weeks after I returned from Cambridge, I expected the Boylstons to come and wrest me from my home at any moment. I resolved to run to the sea and let the cold darkness take me rather than go with them.
I wandered slowly into the dairy. Within, the numerous tools of my trade lay neatly arranged or hung by hooks: a brass kettle, a sieve, a gourd, a pair of tongs, several galley pots, a cork, pewter spoons, two strainers, a small cauldron, an iron mortar and pestle, a small tin funnel, a pair of shears, a press, and many vials in a wooden box. A neat and clean slate sink stood in readiness for either cheese- or medicine-making, depending upon the day and hour.
Without, the air was mild; the sun shone as if the world took no notice of my Jeb’s death. I milked the cows, fed the chickens, watered the tender young plants, saw that Thaxter was at his chores, and hauled water from the well. It still had not rained, and while I was tempted to let everything on the farm die with Jeb, I had made him a promise. I thus suffered through the risings and settings, the waterings and feedings of life, though I neither ate, nor slept, nor drank much myself.
While I had not the energy to walk the near two miles to the Adams’s farm, I did send a message to Abigail inquiring about the safe return of John’s little mare.
I received a reply the next day. Not by means of a letter, but by Abigail herself, a neat and dainty little woman who walked with great determination down the path from the road. She lifted her skirts to avoid the dust and dune grass. From my window, I saw her turn her head left and right to admire my fledgling plantings: yellow lilies, pink roses, lavender, and medicinal herbs.
I reached the door before she could knock. As I looked down upon her, I saw that she carried something in her arms covered by a cloth.
She was ready to condole, but when she looked up at me, her expression changed from sorrowful compassion to one of alarm. I reached a hand to my hair, realizing that I had not brushed it in . . . well, I could not remember when.
“You look like something I could stick in my cornfield.”
I smiled at that. Such tart and simple honesty from the mouth of such a dainty little thing! Smelling the pie, I tried but could not recall when I had last eaten a meal, and I bade her enter. My voice, unheard by me for many days, sounded strange to my ears. I moved into the kitchen and set the parcel on the table. Then I asked, “Would you like a dish of tea?”
Her bright, pale-gray eyes widened at the question. “Real tea?” she inquired.
“Yes. Quite real. My father left me a great quantity of it. Though I do realize I should dump it in the bay.”
“Oh, no,” she said, “don’t do that. I’d sell the shoes off my feet for some right now.”
And with that, this remarkable woman sat down. Together, we had tea and pie, like the real ladies we might have been in another time and place.
Abigail had come bearing not just a wonderful pie but heartening news as well: General Washington had reached Cambridge and taken command of the army. I watched her twirl her wedding band nervously around her finger as she spoke. No doubt she was thinking of John, who had been in Philadelphia since April and had been the first to suggest Washington for commander of the Continental Army.
“Do you truly think he can make the difference? Our men seem neither very willing nor very able.”
“He will make them able,” she said with conviction. “Certainly my husband believes so.” And then she smiled at her own words, as if husband were too grand a word for the ethereal memory that was John Adams.
I was gladdened by the news of Washington’s arrival for secret reasons as well: surely the great Continental Army must need such homes as that owned by the Boylstons. Surely the family would have removed to Halifax or some such place by now, and I had but a distant regret.
“You look to be very suddenly quite delighted by something, Lizzie,” mused Abigail, while staring over at me quizzically.
“Oh.” I smiled. “I was just thinking an un-Christian thought. It doesn’t bear sharing with a virtuous woman such as yourself.”
“Lizzie, please. Tell me. I will soon go mad with virtue. I am dying to hear something unrelated to children or farming.”
“All right, then.” I smiled. “I shall tell you. I have lived these weeks in daily fear that my in-laws should come and fetch me away and force me to live with them. But with Washington’s arrival, I have reason to hope that they have already departed Cambridge.”
“Know you where they might have gone?”
I shook my head uncertainly. “They spoke of going to Portsmouth.”
“England, preferably,” she offered. “I should like to send all the Tories back to England.”
I glanced at my new friend to see if Abigail spoke in earnest. Upon seeing my questioning stare, a little corner of her mouth tightened against a smile. Then we both began to laugh. Oh, it felt good to laugh!
After recovering ourselves, we spoke a little about Mr. Adams and his doings in Philadelphia. I had seen only glimpses of our illustrious citizen since my arrival that past fall. I had watched him descend from his carriage at meetings on Sundays. I recalled how he’d stood beneath the carriage to take Abigail’s arm, and I’d watched him lift his three young boys and set them safely down beside the carriage. Johnny was eight; Charles, six; and little Thomas but two. Young Nabby had climbed down last, shy of society.
The boys were a rambunctious lot, and only Abigail’s harsh stares kept them from dispersing down the road in hot pursuit of a lone turkey or groundhog instead of going into the meetinghouse. The day I recalled, the boys went chasing an opossum, and Abigail called to them to return at once.
“Oh, just let them go,” Mr. Adams said, waving his arms in the air. “They have all day to suffer through the good parson’s sermons.”
“John!” Abigail had remonstrated, looking about to see who might have overheard.
This memory brought a smile to my face.
“What makes you smile, dearest?” asked Abigail, who had been speaking about George Washington and the likely first step of the Continental Army: Would they attack the British and, if so, when would they attack? My smile, no doubt, seemed incongruous.
“Oh, I was just remembering when I first laid eyes upon your John. He was helping his children from the carriage, and I noticed how fond he was of them. I was thinking how he looked to spoil them horribly. For while his voice was loud, there was nothing stern in his entire countenance.”
“You are observant,” she said. “He’s like that with his family, if not the rest of the world. With the world he is a lion; with us, a tabby cat. He sees his children so rarely these days, he hasn’t the heart to discipline them. That falls to me.”
I grasped my new friend’s hand in silent sympathy.
Soon, Abigail stood and made to leave when she noticed the door to my dairy. “What is all this?” she asked, glancing back at me.
My medicines, my most precious commodities, sat in glass jars, alphabetized. I kept a list of them in chalk on the inside of the door, carefully marking each remaining amount:
After studying this list for some time, she moved closer to peruse my many vials and jars of powders and the odd tools that hung from various hooks.
“Know you how to use these medical tools?” she asked.
“I do.”
“And grow you these medicines yourself?”
“On the whole. Some I have been obliged to order.”
“And know you how to use them?”
I smiled, for she seemed truly astonished. “I do.”
“You must indeed have a real gift.” She gazed admiringly at me then, as if my dairy—and the story it told— had placed me in an entirely new light.
“Perhaps,” I admitted. “Though I hardly have the strength for work, even should any woman of the parish decide to tr
ust me.”
It was her turn to comfort me. “You will use them again, Lizzie, for there are no men left with time for tending mothers. And you shall find the strength, just as I have. For what choice have we?”
I looked at her earnest little face, knowing she was right but not quite believing it.
Suddenly, she started and made for the door. “My children are alone—I must go.”
“Oh, yes.”
She turned back to me. “By the way,” she said after a moment, “would you like a dog? Our bitch just had five pups. We could gladly spare one.”
“A dog? Heavens, no. What for?”
She looked through the kitchen window at the dunes and the dark sea. “It’s far too quiet here, too desolate. If a carriage should come for you, he would bark.”
This latter idea did hold my interest for a moment. But then I said, “No, I shouldn’t know what to do with a dog. It is just something else to care for.”
Abigail narrowed her eyes but said nothing. It was as if she could see right through me. I dearly loved animals, but a dog was just another thing to love and lose.
7
ABIGAIL’S WORDS TURNED out to be quite prescient, for the very next day, at around seven in the evening, I was called upon by a frantic servant of the Brown household.
The boy who stood at my door panted for breath. His freckled little face looked imploringly up at me. Susanna Brown, he announced, was “very sick.”
I told him to wait and excused myself to get my shawl and sack. I was sewing a sheet of linen I had woven to make Jeb a new shirt; now, I sewed myself a petticoat instead. I set the work aside and moved quickly to find my medical sack. I checked its contents to be certain all was there: razor, stitching quill, twine, clean rags, ties, clouts, a jar of soft soap, scissors, and several packets of medicinal tea. It was a goodly weight.
As we left, I asked, “Is this Mrs. Brown’s first child?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, her third. It was Dr. Crosby delivered the others, but he has gone to join the army.”
“Her third? Then we must hurry.”
I set off with great haste up through the dunes, the heavy bag knocking against my shoulder. But the boy called me back.
“Miss Boylston! Miss Boylston! This a’ way!” He pointed in the opposite direction.
“What can you mean, pointing there?” I ran back to him with my cumbersome load.
“She’s not at home. She’s on Grape Island. We must go on horseback to the launch at Hough’s Neck.”
“Grape Island? What on earth is she doing there?”
Grape Island had been the scene of a recent skirmish in which one of our boys had been killed.
“She received word that her husband was there and wished to see him, but when she arrived, he had already joined his regiment.”
“It’s a long way off.” I sighed. “And it grows dark.”
I looked about me. The sun had descended in the sky; it nearly touched the sea. The water looked black, foreboding. I had never liked boats. I liked nothing about the irregular rocking feeling, or the wind, or the salt on my clothes. No crisis would have induced me to go with this boy, save a woman alone and in travail. Neither had I any great desire to witness a woman and her babe just then. My own grief was too close, too pressing. I feared breaking down. But if I neglected to save this woman, how long might I be welcome in this town? Long enough to pack my things and join the Boylstons.
“All right,” I finally said.
He helped me onto his horse, and together we set off to Hough’s Neck, where a little boat, hardly more than a dinghy, awaited us. The wind was strong; my hair was swept out of its pins. The beach was empty save for a pair of young lovers who’d escaped the eyes of their relations. They pressed against each other, oblivious to the wind. When they heard us, the man disengaged himself; they then strode hand in hand down the beach in the other direction.
The boy got down first, then helped me off his horse. He steadied the boat, which rocked to and fro in the water. I set my sack in first, then lifted my skirts and stepped in. The boy took a running push and jumped in after me, soaking his poorly shod feet. Off we went through rough waves toward Grape Island. I thought I might faint, and I did something I don’t often do: I prayed.
The boy, small though he was, was a skillful rower. We arrived only slightly the worse for wear about forty minutes later. By then it was dark, and the boy had brought no torches, so we had to grope our way toward a shack in the moonlight. We heard faint moans. Within, we found Mrs. Brown and a Negro servant-girl alone in the gloom.
“Is there no fire?” I called to the girl.
“I’ve had no time to tend it, ma’am,” she said, tears in her voice. “Her illness came on so sudden.”
“Well, then, go now. Take—”
“Peter,” the boy offered, for in my distraction I had entirely forgotten to ask him his name.
“Yes, well, go. Fetch wood. Anything dry will do.”
They left the shack in haste. I heard the wind scream as they opened the door. The island felt abandoned. During the skirmish between our troops, a munitions building had been set afire, and one could still pick up blackened bits of wood. Now we were all alone with naught but screaming wind and crashing waves. What desolate music to accompany a birth!
I approached my patient. Her waters had broken and her sickness was full upon her. She lay on a bed of straw by a cold fire. No anxious husband paced the hall; no women sat chatting.
I bent down and took Mrs. Brown’s hand. “It shall be brighter in here presently,” I said.
“I care little about the ambience,” she replied.
I merely smiled at her foul mood. I was inured to foul moods in laboring women.
“Well, you may not, but I do. I can hardly be expected to work in the dark.”
The door banged open, and Peter entered with an armful of branches. When the fire was going again, I handed the girl a pouch of snakeweed and bade her make some tea of it. My mother had learned about the herb from an Indian woman of her acquaintance.
Turning back to the mother, I asked gently, “How long have you been having pains?”
“Near three hours, but they have not been regular. They don’t feel right to me. I don’t suppose you’ll be much use, light or no. They say you’re a witch. I’m like to die here with my babe.”
Here another pain came upon her. She cried out, and I shooed Peter out of the shack.
“I am not a witch. I’m a midwife,” I said smartly. “Allow me to touch you. It will relieve you to know how long you have to bear this suffering. It cannot be long now.”
I placed a cloth beneath her and felt. A moment later, I drew back with fright.
This babe was breech. I looked up into the darkness in silent entreaty. Oh, Lord, why didst thou seek to test me so?
Endeavoring to sound calm, I said, “The babe is breech. We must find a way to turn him about.”
I had never delivered a breech baby, but had seen my mother do so several times. She had spoken to me about it. But what had she said? I strained to recall that conversation now.
“Peter!” I called. “Peter!”
The boy reentered the shack at a run, his hands full of wood.
“Roll up this pallet and find a second. Quickly, please.”
To Mrs. Brown, I said, “We must use gravity to let this baby fall. I shall guide it as best I am able. Now, if you would stand over here.” I pointed to the foot of the bed.
At last, with the pallets rolled, I had the mother straddle them in a sort of crouching stand. I was obliged to kneel down on the floor at her feet. I knew that once I saw the umbilicus, I had but little time to get the baby out, as it would be pressing upon the cord and could die within moments. The mother wept silently, and when she looked down at me, it was not suspicion or anger I saw but genuine
fear.
“Have you children?” she asked me suddenly, but her pains came too quickly for me to form a reply. Then, all at once, I saw the babe’s bottom. “Now, push!” I said, and with a heroic cry from the mother, the babe came into this world.
I rose from my kneeling position with the babe, a tiny girl with a mass of dark red hair. I cleared her mouth and blew on her chest gently. She took a gulp of Grape Island air and let out another loud cry. I tied and cut the cord, then quickly cleaned her, head to little writhing toes—all present and accounted for—with my soft soap and a little butter. I applied a belly-band across the umbilicus and bundled the babe. Then I placed her directly into Mrs. Brown’s arms.
“A beautiful girl she is,” I said, willing back tears.
At the sight of her daughter seemingly alive and well, Susanna Brown burst into tears. She reached for me and touched my arm. Her eyes glistened.
“Where did she get her beautiful hair?” I asked.
“Her father has red hair. He is with Prescott’s regiment in Cambridge.”
I merely nodded.
“He’s a good man.” I saw her smile at her babe, who had found her mother’s breast as I waited for the placenta. I called for the servant, whose name was Janie, to bring me a dish of pennyroyal tea, and I gave it to my patient. Soon she delivered the placenta quite whole. I made her comfortable and sent Janie to find Peter, who was no doubt just beyond the door, attempting to clear his senses of the bloody scene of birthing.
Mrs. Brown suddenly realized she had not introduced herself. “I’m Susanna, by the way.” She smiled. “I’m not always so awfully rude. I’m sorry. I was so frightened—”