The Midwife's Revolt

by Jodi Daynard

  I called out, but neither Giles nor Bessie replied.

  “Is there a Mrs. Boylston residing here?” The boy who stood before me looked a great deal like myself in disguise: pale, young, a slight fuzz above his unshaven lip. He even wore a dirty vest.

  “Yes?”

  “I was told to deliver this to Mrs. Boylston.”

  “Well, then, you have hit the mark.”

  The boy thrust the message at me, tipped his cap, and rode off.

  I shut the heavy door against the frigid cold, white fog following me inside. I moved toward the parlor and the warmth of the fire, where I opened the letter.

  One glance had me springing toward the kitchen. “Bessie! Bessie!”

  Bessie came out, holding a dishrag. “What is it, ma’am? Is someone ill?”

  “Bessie, kindly finish packing my things at once. And tell Giles to saddle Star. I must make for home immediately.”

  “But what’s happened?”

  “The letter is from Martha. We’ve been raided. Our provisions, my supplies—they have been smashed to bits.”

  35

  IF I HAD deluded myself previously that the danger had been to Abigail or other prominent figures alone, I could no longer. For this attack on my home, I saw at once, possessed a personal, vengeful quality. Our parlor window had been smashed through. The barrels of cider in the cellar had been cleaved with an ax. Several chickens in the yard had been beheaded, their glassy eyes glancing wistfully toward their bodies across the way. In the kitchen, my medical sack had been rifled through and many costly supplies taken. Teas and powders had been removed from their bottles and poured all in a heap.

  What a waste lay before me!

  Had it been thieves, I would have understood. But this act was conceived out of sheer spite. Most alarmingly, my vial of belladonna, marked clearly with skull and crossbones, was missing. It had not been dumped and left like the others, but removed, with what monstrous purpose I knew not.

  Martha was engaged in picking up bits of the smashed glass from the window. Eliza had Johnny on her hip in a sling, a wool cap upon his head. She was washing the kitchen floor and looked done in. Within, it was freezing despite the fire in the hearth. I could see our foggy breath.

  “Take care you don’t cut yourself,” Martha said. “There are shards everywhere.”

  Clearly my friends had passed through whatever state of rage or terror now befell me. It would be many more hours before I could share their calm.

  “Eliza, Martha, cease your labors a moment and sit with me. I must know the particulars of what has happened.”

  Eliza wearily set down her mop and approached me. Martha, who had been on hands and knees looking for the last bits of glass, stood and came forth. They both embraced me sadly.

  Looking about, I saw a farm at the brink of winter: solitary, vulnerable, bereft of men. Whatever strength we’d shared had shattered and become as invisible as the shards of glass.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” I asked. “Please, spare no detail.”

  Martha silently glanced at Eliza, and a terrible thought ripped through me. I asked at once, “He didn’t harm either of you in any way?”

  “Oh, no,” Eliza assured me, seeing that I had misunderstood their look. “It is thanks to the Maker of all things that I had been sleeping upstairs with Martha in your absence. We kept but one fire burning that way, and it is warmer for Johnny, who was sleeping between us.” She glanced at me to see if I would meet her words with reprobation. I did not. Eliza continued, “No, thank God, we were not downstairs and thus could block the door against them.”

  “Them?” I uttered in horror. I had imagined but a single culprit.

  “Yes. There were two at least. We heard their footsteps.”

  “They must have heard you upstairs. Oh—heavens!” I suddenly realized the treachery they had narrowly escaped.

  “Perhaps,” said Eliza. “But they seemed little interested in us. They made a great ruckus destroying what they could. That seemed to be their purpose, not to harm us.”

  “I wonder if they knew I was in town, and you within,” I mused.

  When I thought of the danger and terror my friends had undergone on my account, I felt deeply ashamed. I took their hands. “This is my fault and no other’s,” I said. “Someone must have seen through my excellent disguise, though how that could be I know not.”

  Thomas Miller sprang to mind. He was the only one who knew. I did not believe Thomas would knowingly endanger his sister or me; indeed, he had sworn to it. But could he have told someone, warned someone of my knowledge? I thought it likely that he had, however inadvertently, caused this devastating occurrence.

  “Who knows but that I may be the target and cause of this mayhem,” Martha blurted suddenly.

  “You?” I said. “What have you to do with anything?”

  I did not mean to be dismissive. Martha had been so brave; her courage had been a key to our survival. She flinched at my words, then said, “Perhaps there are those on our side who wish to send my brother a message.”

  I shuddered. “I do not like to think those of our own side capable of harming us in this way just to get at Mr. Miller.”

  My friends knew me too well. The way I said his name gave me away.

  “You—and Mr. Miller?” Eliza said, repeating my words, now in a wholly different sense.

  “I thought so,” Martha concluded. “Lizzie”—she was moved to grasp my arm—“you mustn’t see him. Please listen. Perhaps when the war is concluded, one way or another. Promise me!”

  “I have no need of such promises,” I replied disdainfully.

  “Nonetheless,” Martha said, her eyes narrowed. “Swear you will not.”

  I had only once before seen this ferocious aspect of my dear friend, and then it had been directed at herself.

  “All right, if you wish it. I will swear it. In any case,” I said, hiding my hurt, “there will scarce be opportunity to see him now, for I must not go abroad while danger lurks here for you.”

  Martha let the matter drop at last. I donned my cloak and mitts and went outside to round up the frozen chicken carcasses; they were too valuable to waste. While there, I fed the surviving animals and hugged my Star, who whinnied with glee to see me. Still, in the way he nuzzled my face, I felt he knew something was amiss.

  We all spent the rest of that awful day in silent labors. I made a stew of the chickens, and while the pot was on the fire, I righted what was left of my medicines, knowing I had not the means to replace anything that had been taken or destroyed. Apparently Thaxter had gone to find a glazier in Weymouth—though what we could trade in payment for so many panes of glass I knew not. The apples we had congratulated ourselves upon were all gone, as was the cider. But of all the destruction, the most hurtful had been Martha’s look! So hard and unforgiving!

  When my labors were done, it was late, and I was exhausted. Johnny developed the croup that same night and would not stop barking and crying. His unfamiliar wailing was a sound reflection of the mood that had overtaken us. I was seized with an absolute desire to lay my head upon Abigail’s breast, though it was already dark.

  Thaxter had not returned; presumably he had decided to stop the night in Weymouth. Thus, I saddled Star myself and fetched a stool. Without saying where I was going, I mounted Star and departed. I had meant to leave in silence, but at the last moment I could not refrain from calling out, “Eat the stew—it is ready!”

  Within my house, all had felt broken and violated. But the frigid air braced me, reminded me that I and my friends were whole and unharmed. I rode straight through town and down the main road, crossing no one save a few oblivious drunks reeling numbly out of Brackett’s tavern. The cold air dulled the usual acrid stench of the tannery, too, with its drying, eviscerated carcasses and vats of jellied horse bone. The church was silent a
nd dark as well. It seemed as if Braintree’s parishioners had chosen to remain by their safe hearths until the crocuses showed their purple blossoms. None of you are safe, I wanted to tell them. Not even by your hearths, surrounded by your loved ones. It is all an illusion.

  Abigail must have recognized Star’s stride, because I had no need to knock. She was at the door, and I was in her arms before a word was said. I cried as I had not allowed myself to cry in my own home.

  It was a full five minutes before she could pry a single word from my lips. However, it became apparent that she already knew of our catastrophe through Colonel Quincy.

  Abigail made me tea and insisted I drink it by the fire. She offered me cake, which I could not put to my lips.

  Nabby came into the parlor and sat placidly, consolingly, with us. She was such a docile girl. I quite liked her, although around her I was always at a loss for conversation. Thomas and Charles came running in but went running back out again when they saw the tearful scene. Weeping women were not their province, though no doubt they’d seen many such tears before.

  Abigail waited patiently. I knew she would wait all night if necessary. It took near half an hour before I had the strength to tell her all that had happened. Finally I recounted Martha’s words, and the fresh, new grief I felt I could never repair.

  She listened in utter silence. Then she replied quietly, “You must think of it in this way: she loves you enough to want to protect you, for that is what she does in speaking to you so. Martha must believe her brother to be involved in some very dangerous business.”

  “Or perhaps she believes I am dangerous to him.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said quietly. “In either case, the situation is clearly grave, and we have good reason to fear. Let us discuss what to do in the morning. Perhaps we should all repair to Weymouth—”

  I looked up in alarm at this suggestion. Abandon the farm and flee to Weymouth? Why should we concede defeat when His Excellency had not done so?

  “No, that you well know I cannot do.”

  “For now, then, hold on to this one thought, dear Lizzie: your brother lives and shall return to you.”

  Oh, a sweeter or more timely reminder could not have been bestowed upon me. It was true. Amid all else, my brother lived and was presumably breaking waves toward me at that very moment. Now I simply had to survive to greet him.

  As I rose to leave, Abigail grasped my hands in hers and whispered, “Take heart, Lizzie. You can yet do a great deal of good, even without all your witch’s potions. However, you must think no more of your snooping. Your friends need you.”

  Abigail went on to insist that I return later that week for a bushel of her own apples, which I reluctantly agreed to do, for the thought of going the winter without a morsel of fruit or bread made me feel heartily sorry for myself.

  36

  NEWS QUICKLY SPREAD of the attack upon my house. By the following day, we began to receive a steady stream of visitors giving what aid they could. Susanna Brown came by with pins. Gaius brought salt cod. Still others brought eggs or a chicken. I was moved by my neighbors’ kindness, for they had even less than I.

  Ann Quincy arrived with an entreaty to join them in the great house for the winter.

  “Elizabeth,” she said, as she always insisted upon using my Christian name, “you will be far safer with us. You cannot remain here, three women and one child, all alone.”

  Ann and Josiah Quincy had met Eliza and her child soon after the babe’s entrance into the world. Eliza had been anxious and fretful, but the two old people made a mad dash for the child, falling instantly in love, and nary a word was said either about Eliza’s matrimonial state or the dusky color of the child.

  Eliza glanced at me with longing, but I thanked Ann warmly and declined. She left us then, but only after we had promised her that, at any further hint of danger, we would hasten to her house up the hill.

  After she had gone, I heard a relieved sigh from Eliza. “Oh, Lizzie, I nearly succumbed. Just think of it: tea in a warm bed, and a real servant!”

  At that we glanced over at Martha, who was absorbed in some sewing. She was edging some cloths we would add to our stock of trade goods. She looked up, not knowing what we had said, and Eliza smiled sheepishly. Martha and I had not spoken since the previous day.

  “Far be it from me to imperil your safety.” I addressed my comments to Eliza. “Indeed, I think it an excellent idea for you to repair to the house.”

  “And leave you here? I could not be so selfish, whatever you may think.”

  Later that afternoon, Eliza and I had managed to restore some order to the dairy and were resting a moment when Martha, whom we had not seen for several hours, suddenly appeared on the stairs with a small trunk in her arms.

  We gaped at her.

  “Hello! What do you do there?” I asked.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving? For where? Is Thomas ill?” I must admit that my first thought was for him whom Martha had forbidden me to love.

  “No, he’s well. I shall go to him. It’s all arranged.”

  I approached her, little Johnny in my arms. Seeing him, her hard face softened, and she smiled. To see her smile for him but not for me was almost beyond endurance.

  “Have you sent for him?” I asked.

  “No,” she admitted. “I have not had the opportunity.”

  “Then how do you plan to go? And why?”

  “I shall find a ride upon the road to Boston.” I glanced entreatingly at Eliza.

  “Martha, there are four feet of snow about the house. You shall be frozen through before you make the road.”

  “Nonetheless, I cannot remain here.”

  “But what has happened?” I felt the tears finally release themselves.

  “I have harmed you, Lizzie. I shall continue to harm you, and perhaps Eliza and Johnny, too, if I remain here.”

  “But why? Because you told me what I already knew? That I must not love your brother? That in these times I must keep to my small circle? I know it all full well. You’ve told me nothing I have not already told myself a hundred times.”

  “But you sought solace at Abigail’s breast for something I did, and I’m mortified. I could never meet her eyes again.”

  “She defended you,” I said. “She said it is because you love me and wish to protect me.”

  “Well, that’s true,” she said. “Though I have no illusion that I can protect you. Or this little man,” she reached out to Johnny, who himself was reaching for the glint of silver about Martha’s throat. It was a locket I had not seen before, a pretty thing etched with a floral design. I presumed she wished to wear it on her person while she traveled.

  I embraced her then, Johnny between us.

  “Martha, don’t leave. I beg you. I shall be good.”

  “Good? I doubt that.” She looked up at me. When I saw her disbelieving eyebrow, I smiled, for I believed she might reconsider, if only to keep me from further mischief.

  Martha did not leave us then, but so much damage had been wrought that I was obliged to sell some furniture. I parted with my mother’s bedstead in the parlor. It was a family treasure that had sailed from England fifty years earlier. It brought tears to my eyes to see it disassembled and carted out through the snow by rough and careless men. But I now had eight pounds silver in my pocket, with which I was able to buy another cow and a sack of corn flour. With these things we would survive the winter, which was already ominously cold.

  Our spirits grew very low. Little Johnny caught a heavy cold, and for three days we took turns standing with him over a kettle of boiling water, until we were soaked and fairly boiled ourselves.

  News of the massacre at Cherry Valley sank us further. We heard of women and children scalped, and other barbarisms as well. We discussed these events among ourselves and agreed: m
ankind was capable of ungodly evil. Our conversations depressed us, and at one of our lowest moments, I reflected, “I wonder whether our species is worth saving. I doubt that even our liberty will change man’s essentially bad nature.”

  At the time, my friends did not disagree.

  I took to sleeping with Jeb’s musket by my side. All of us slept in my chamber now, my chest of drawers pulled up against the door, so as to have a fighting chance should we come under attack again.

  Babes did not cease coming into the world simply because I had lost my supplies, however. December of 1778 brought three births. Poor babes! Mothers near starved, with hardly a sniff of milk for the infants. And yet, however dire conditions might have been, the sight of a healthy baby never failed to delight its mother and bring hope into the most dejected household.

  The three births brought us material sustenance as well: we received a good bottle of rum, a fine piece of linen, and, much to our delight, a jar of apricots preserved in honey.

  The apricots put us all into a swoon. The night we received them, we did not taste them but simply sat by the fire and stared at each and every apricot within the jar, remarking on its fine qualities, savoring each one in our imaginations.

  We were staring at this same unopened apricot jar one frigid evening in late December when we heard the roll of carriage wheels upon our little road. We were in such an excited state of imagination that at first we assumed the carriage sound to be imaginary as well.

  It was not. We all ran to the window and saw a lady dressed in an admirable cloak, fur collar, and muff. She descended her carriage with the help of her coachman.

  Mrs. Boylston.

  Seeing her through the window, Eliza cried, “What punishment has my Redeemer in mind for me?” I do believe Eliza was more frightened by the sight of her own mother than she had been at the sound of the vandals’ footsteps.

  “Dearest, nothing shall happen,” I said, gently leading her away from the window. “Your mother can have no power here.”

  Eliza’s mother did look daunting, however. She was still quite beautiful and perfectly appointed, but her grim slit of a mouth told of no happy mission.