The Midwife's Revolt

by Jodi Daynard

  “It’s all right,” I assured her.

  “No, please. Allow me to apologize. I’m sincerely sorry. Forgive me.”

  She took my hand and I nodded silently. Then she gazed at the babe sleeping upon her breast. “She has the look of vigorous life about her. I’ll name her Anna, for my husband’s mother.”

  I nodded my agreement. Often, parents held off naming their children—for days or even, sometimes, months—for fear of growing too attached to them.

  “And you are Mrs. Boylston?” she asked shyly.

  “Elizabeth. But you can call me Lizzie.”

  “People say you’re related to our Mrs. Adams. Is it true?”

  “Only distantly,” I said, “through my husband.”

  “And is your husband in Braintree or has he gone off like all the others?”

  “He has—” I began but struggled to continue. “He is dead. On Breed’s Hill. Three weeks ago.”

  “Oh.” Her wan face looked stricken. “I have been doubly cruel, then.”

  “You may rest easy for your man,” I said. “Washington is there now.” I smiled as reassuringly as I could, willing the tears to stay at bay a little longer. But grief has a will of its own, and the tears came. I sobbed, a hand over my face.

  “Dear girl,” she said, placing her hand on my back. “Rest yourself. You must be exhausted, too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Please, sit yourself down. We shall both rest.”

  Indeed, there was no question of leaving my patient so soon, and in any case my strength had left me. When Peter returned and had tended the fire, I bade him fetch some straw to make us pallets.

  We—Peter, Janie, and I—slept in the shack alongside mother and babe. There were no more blankets, though Susanna offered me one of hers, which I refused. I was cold all night and slept very ill.

  I awoke the next morning to find Susanna up and around, the baby in her arms. She was not a new mother and was accustomed to getting on her feet after the birth of a child. I would have preferred she remain in bed, but she seemed eager to be active.

  When she saw I was awake, she smiled warmly and said, “Here. Have something. Do.”

  I thanked her and took a morsel of biscuit and a dish of tea.

  “Who minds your household?” I asked.

  “My mother. She will be in a panic by now, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, you are right,” I said. “We shall tell her directly.”

  “I admit it would ease my mind greatly, though I have no great desire for you to leave, Elizabeth.”

  Oh, the way she looked at me then—it was worth every moment of my previous terror!

  Susanna would have liked to leave with us, but I told her she should heal another day before endeavoring to travel. I would send Peter back with the boat to fetch her. In bidding her good-bye, I let her go no farther than the shack door, as there was a fierce wind. But she embraced me tenderly; her reserve and suspicion had vanished. Her precious child dozed in her arms. I gently touched Anna’s cheek, which was soft as corn silk.

  “I will pray for your husband,” I said. “I’m sure he cannot be long from you. And I will visit you at home in two days’ time.”

  “Oh, do. Please.” She grasped my hand. Her gray eyes looked at me with earnest entreaty. “I should love to see you, Lizzie. And you shall meet my other children. They’re spirited, but not wholly bad.”

  “I’m sure they’re not.” I smiled.

  “And you shall meet some neighbors, too. It is high time. Our women are busy, but not cold. Rough, but not heartless. I imagine they shall even invite you to quilt with them.”

  Here Susanna rolled her eyes, telling me she shared my dread of quilting and the hours of vicious gossip such parties often entailed. Then she burst into giggles, showing two missing teeth, which in part explained why she had not smiled previously.

  I walked down to the shore, where Peter held the little boat for me in the strong wind. I threw my sack in first, then lifted my dirty petticoats and stepped in. I felt damp and chilled, but my spirit was light as I nestled myself in my shawl. I had done some good in the world and felt myself no longer quite so entirely alone.

  8

  NEWS OF MY having worked some “witchery” out at Grape Island spread quickly in our small parish. Colonel Quincy and his wife mentioned it the very next day, when they had me to dine at the great house.

  I have not, I realize, mentioned the Quincys or their extreme kindness to me during my period of mourning, and I would be remiss if I did not.

  Colonel Quincy was a blustery man of about fifty with a growing paunch and a large red nose. His wife, Ann, was far more genteel, younger than her husband, and nearly a head taller.

  For the first two weeks after Jeb’s death, the Quincys thought it prudent to leave me be. Ann sent a servant with baskets of provisions to set at my door. I greatly appreciated these gifts, though I hardly touched them—dried apricots, preserves of various kinds, and an assortment of breads. But by the third week, the Quincys clearly felt I might be ready for company, and thus I found myself invited to their great house upon the hill the day after Susanna’s delivery.

  As I approached through the dunes, I came upon a family walking up the circular path toward the front door. At once I felt ashamed of making my way like a vagabond, emerging as I did through the tall grass. But upon seeing me, the couple came quickly toward me with smiles.

  “Elizabeth Boylston?” asked the man, warmly shaking my hand. Suddenly I realized I knew these people: they were the Cranches, Richard and Mary. Mary was Abigail’s older sister.

  “Yes. It is I.” I smiled. “I live just there, in a cottage. That’s why—”

  “Of course.” Mr. Cranch forestalled my apology. “You need no carriage to make your way a stone’s throw through the dunes.”

  “And I’m Mary. We’ve seen you at meeting, though not for some time now.”

  “No,” I replied.

  “We are most sorry for your loss,” Mr. Cranch said as we approached the door.

  “Yes, most sorry,” Mary agreed, and by her pained face, I knew her to be in earnest.

  Two children, a tall boy and his little sister, came running round the bend, out of breath.

  “Children!” Mary scolded. “Stop running at once!”

  “But Mommy!” the little boy, Will, objected. “We saw a porcupine!”

  “Will poked it with a stick!” cried the girl.

  “You foolish boy,” Mary admonished. “Come here.” She hugged him tightly.

  I smiled. A normal family with normal children. Gazing upon them, I doubly mourned my loss.

  Twice before I had been in the great house, when Jeb and I had first moved to our cottage. It had been autumn and the leaves had all gone from the trees, making the large house feel forlorn. But it was mid-summer now, and it seemed that Mrs. Quincy had ordered more furniture or taken some out of storage, because I felt within a warmth of color and texture I had not noticed previously.

  We sat in the north parlor, and a servant brought us some refreshment. Sherry, I believe it was. I admired the imported tiles surrounding the fireplace and at first did not join the conversation between Colonel Quincy and the Cranches. Mr. Cranch, a judge, spoke of a new case. I nearly offered the information that my father had been a judge but then thought better of it. I knew the Cranches to be ardent patriots, and my father had been a loyal servant of the Crown. In his last year, however, he had begun to have doubts . . .

  There was a sudden knock on the door, and when the butler opened it, I saw Abigail Adams and her children. Oh, was I glad of it! For while the Cranches were amiable, I found I could not speak of trivialities in the usual way and so sat there quite silent, unable to contribute.

  Seeing me, Abigail grinned and came up at once to embrace me. Her children were ushered off to
another part of the house, perhaps to the kitchen. Her lively presence changed the course of the evening for the better, for she seemed to sense that I could speak but little, and she took up the lion’s share of that task, unconsciously leaving her hand in mine the entire time. I loved her greatly at that moment!

  We were soon called for dinner, which was delicate and delicious and consisted of five courses beginning with aspic of fish. Over dinner, I found something to talk about with Richard Cranch, and Mary’s warm looks in my direction made me feel safe in my grief. Her glance seemed to say, You need not pretend for our sakes.

  And so I did not. But, as one must eat at a dinner party and have at least some conversation, Mary began by asking whether I needed anything for my home.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mr. Cranch added gladly. “I would be happy to loan you my Shakespeare collection.”

  Mary frowned at her husband. “Shakespeare? I had in mind some chickens or a flax loom.” She sounded so serious that suddenly Colonel Quincy guffawed, and everyone laughed.

  “But Mr. Cranch,” I cut in, “how could you know that I love Shakespeare? Indeed, I have a volume of Tragedies from my father’s collection, which is very precious to me.”

  “Then allow me to loan you the Comedies.”

  At this solecism Mary nudged her husband with her foot. I know because it was my foot she nudged beneath the table. Richard Cranch meant no harm. I thanked him and said, “At some point, I shall love to borrow them.”

  “Then let us agree,” he said, to close the conversation on Shakespeare, “that we shall discuss one of his plays on another occasion.”

  “Oh, yes, let’s,” Abigail joined in. “I am heartily tired of farming and chores and long for ten minutes of intelligent conversation.”

  “Mrs. Adams, you shall have it.” Mr. Cranch smiled. “For it seems that such conversation might prove medicinal. I shall leave you to choose the subject. Shakespeare, Virgil, or perhaps Pliny—”

  “Oh, no government,” Abigail quickly objected. “Please, no government.”

  The dinner passed pleasantly after that. Just as we were about to take to our separate parlors, the colonel raised his glass and announced, “I would like to congratulate our esteemed lodger on certain patriotic activities of her own yesterday.”

  Ann looked at her husband as if he were mad. She was used to his loud, unreserved ways and was clearly anxious lest this should be some new faux pas.

  Mary inquired, “Lizzie, what activity might that have been?”

  I felt my face grow hot. “Oh, it is hardly worth mentioning, but I was called to the side of a woman in travail. She was safe delivered of a little girl.”

  “Balderdash!” bellowed the colonel. “The woman would have died without you. It is said the baby was breech, and the poor foolish mother was stranded on Grape Island, all alone.”

  I glanced quickly at the colonel, amazed by the fact that a man of such great stature should so enjoy the gossip of servants.

  “Grape Island?” asked Richard, looking at me with new interest.

  “Dear, do you think this is really the time and place . . . ?” Ann began.

  But the colonel would not be gainsaid. He told the entire story as he had heard it from a servant, who apparently had heard it from a friend of the Brown family.

  “After all,” he concluded, “we must have babes to populate our new country, mustn’t we?”

  “Josiah!” Ann finally put her foot down. “You are mortifying this poor woman. Can you not see?”

  Indeed, I must have looked beet red, for Ann quickly asked a servant to bring me a glass of water.

  Abigail came to my rescue. “Lizzie is indeed to be commended, but I suggest we save our praise of her for others’ ears.”

  “Well, Lizzie,” said Mary kindly, “if news spreads as quickly as I think it does around this parish, you shall soon be run quite off your feet.”

  Abigail closed the discussion by adding, “Yes, and I truly believe she will need help if she is to stay with us.”

  “Stay?” Ann asked. “Is there even a question of that?”

  “Indeed there is,” Abigail replied. “Her in-laws, staunch Tories, mean to remove her from our midst.”

  “Well, that won’t do,” said the colonel. He sat erect in his chair and leaned across the table to Abigail, bellowing, “She needs a servant, you mean?”

  “A servant or an apprentice. Yes, that is exactly what I mean, Colonel Quincy,” Abigail answered.

  “Oh, no, no,” I began to object.

  “Well, then, you shall have one as soon as may be.”

  With that, the master of the house bade us leave the table for our separate parlors.

  9

  THE PROSPECT OF having a servant in my house was not a welcome one. It would take a frightening event, which would befall me later that autumn, before I would accept not only the idea of a servant but also the servant herself. Still, as I fell asleep later that night, I felt it had done my wounded soul good to dine with caring friends. I had liked the Cranches at once, and Abigail had shown great tact in suggesting they all spread the word about my midwifery. The colonel, too, had proved a loving father in his readiness to help me.

  I had little time to congratulate myself, however, for the very next morning I was awakened by a knock at the door. It was Abigail, come to tell me that old Deacon Williams had fallen ill with the bloody flux, and two others besides.

  “I’m terrified, Lizzie,” she said, grasping my arm. “This must be some new calamity the Lord has seen fit to try us with.”

  “Nonsense.” I moved to dress myself. I never could believe our Maker would force us to suffer on purpose. “It’s those filthy soldiers marching to and from town. They bring sickness on their clothing, on their boots.”

  I asked her did the deacon wish me to attend him, but she said no. She had only stopped in to warn me of things to come.

  “Well, I hope you won’t hesitate to send for me, Abigail, if I am needed.” Then I blushed. I was, after all, but twenty years old, and she was a worldly thirty.

  “Never fear, Dr. Boylston. I shall call upon you at the slightest sign of a sniffle.”

  I shall always remember Abigail’s ironic tone. From nearly our first meeting, she evinced an almost uncanny ability to see all my flaws. She remarked upon my tendency to self-pity; she laughed at my occasional grandiosity; and she could always put me in my place with a well-timed joke. But always, always, her prods were blunted by the tender restraint of love.

  As July went on, the air grew even hotter, and more people sickened and died. Disease acquired a lusty taste for us. So many men were gone that women were left to suffer alone with only ignorant child-servants to help. The youngest and oldest died first. In August, our own Parson Wibird fell gravely ill, and as a result there was no meeting on the Sabbath during August or September.

  God had abandoned us, it seemed. From our homes, rivers of blood and feces ran such that no one dared step anywhere. Houses, hot and filthy, stank. I shrank from going inside them, and yet I did. Though people will say I was brave to do so, I will say it was the path I took back to life, for nothing eases one’s own pain more than to ease that of others.

  This same month I delivered my second newborn, having been called to the bedside of the tanner’s wife, Hannah Baxter. And on the eleventh, I was called in the middle of the night to tend a young farmer, Elisha Niles, who seemed to be expiring. When I arrived, he was conscious but very low. His skin was hot to the touch and dry. I cooled him down as best I could, but I knew he was near his end. There was nothing I could do but hold his hand. At dawn, he shut his eyes and departed this life without struggle.

  I stayed to wash his body and, with a servant’s help, got poor Elisha into his burial clothes. After I had finished my work, the sun was just rising above the sea. It had never cooled during the night; the a
ir was still warm. Greatly fatigued, I hurried home and went to bed after stripping down to my skin, so close and hot was it in the house. I left all the doors wide open for the breeze. An Indian or a king’s soldier could have entered quite easily, and yet I slept without fear.

  I should have been afraid. Indians lurked about the perimeter of our parish. British soldiers trawled the coast road, looking for women. Bears, wolves, and thieves roamed the land, taking advantage of our chaos. And wayward sailors, whom I could see beyond my kitchen window, stared at the shore, longing for one night in a warm bed. I should have been afraid, but I was not. Not of strangers, anyway. Only of the Boylstons, for to live with them would have been a living death.

  August of the year of our Lord 1775 wore on, with no abatement of disease. Indeed, it seemed to grow worse. I did what I could, glad to be too busy to think of myself. Abigail fell ill, followed by Tommy, and I gave them every comfort I could, though medicine was in short supply. By now, word had spread that I was a goodly midwife, and the women of the North Parish began to call upon me to tend their sick children, which I did to the best of my abilities.

  By the middle of September, the bloody flux had seized the neighboring village of Weymouth. Every last household contained the sick and dying. Abigail’s mother fell ill with it. After several days, it seemed as if the crisis had passed. But then, on September 30, she had a relapse and fell unconscious.

  I knew that Abigail had removed to Weymouth to be with her mother, but did not know how gravely ill the elder woman was until I received a panicked boy at my door. He spoke so quickly that I could hardly understand him. He asked could I come quickly to the parsonage in Weymouth—but as for the rest, I could not make it out. Abigail’s mother had either expired or was thought to be expiring.

  “Well, which is it, child?” I asked with ill-concealed impatience. The poor flustered boy could not say. The first indeed required haste; the other, none at all.

  For Abigail I would summon my energy. I had Thaxter saddle Star, and once again, I set off astride him. I resolved to gaze neither left nor right as I passed through town, imagining that if I did not see them, the people of the parish could not see me. This time riding Star, the thought occurred to me how much easier it would be if I were a man. I’d heard of women dressing up to go to battle as recently as in our war with the French and the Indians. Such thoughts fled when I arrived in Weymouth, however, and Abigail espied me from the dooryard of her father’s parsonage.