The Midwife's Revolt

by Jodi Daynard

  “Calm yourself, Lizzie,” said Abigail, shaking her head. “We have it on greatest assurance that Cleverly is in the service of our General Sullivan. We made inquiries after you told us of meeting him in Boston. Here, see for yourself.”

  With this, she handed me a letter. It was in the tiny, neat handwriting of a learned and cautious man.

  To the honorable JQ.

  Be it known to you that upon the question of Mr. C. about whom you have lately written to me, you have my every assurance that he is a Good and Loyal servant to our Cause. He has served in various capacities of importance to myself and others these past two years.

  Your obedient, T.S.

  I can hardly describe my incredulity at reading this letter. I sank down by Abigail’s side in a wing chair. I could not alter the impression so vividly and recently made on my mind regarding Mr. Cleverly.

  “But are you sure?” I looked at Abigail.

  “Most sure,” she said. “Only imagine the care someone of General Sullivan’s status would take with his closest allies.”

  As the relief began to quiet my pounding heart, another emotion took the place of the terror I had felt: humiliation. So humbled, so utterly foolish did I feel, that for several minutes I could say nothing. Tears pooled in my eyes and tumbled down my cheeks. When I finally found my voice, it was only to say, “I am very sorry. I am sorry for alarming you all.”

  “Oh, Lizzie,” said Abigail, coming to embrace me. “You’re a brave soul. But perhaps now you must admit that it serves no purpose to go about endangering yourself as you have.”

  “I was convinced of it, Abigail.”

  “Convinced of what, dearest?” She placed her hand on mine.

  “That this man Cleverly is our Mr. Thompson.”

  “But you have just heard—”

  “No, listen. My apple orchard. His invention—do you not recall? He has a pale line across his left ring finger. He has worn a wedding band, Abigail. And in our conversation together he said that love and war were an unhappy equation. Is that not the mind of a philosopher?”

  Richard, who had been silent for some minutes, interrupted. His face was as grave and sorrowful as I’ve ever seen it.

  “Lizzie, I have further information that belies your conviction regarding Mr. Cleverly. We have just now had a visit from the colonel with irrefutable proof.”

  Richard pulled his chair closer to us, the better to whisper. “The existence of a treacherous ring has been discovered. We are told that these men now plot to kill not just patriots such as Dr. Flynt and Mr. Thayer, but our major leaders—Jefferson, Adams, and Washington himself.”

  I shivered. Still I could not let go of my idea. “That does not mean that Cleverly is not involved,” I asserted.

  Richard was silent, as was Abigail. Suddenly I realized that they were looking at me pityingly.

  “Why do you stare at me so?” I cried. “Does this news have to do with me in particular?”

  Glancing at our friends, Abigail spoke first. “It’s best if I speak to Lizzie alone.” She then took me by the arm. “Let us repair to another room.”

  Richard nodded. Mary kissed me tearfully and said she would call for a chaise to take me home. She would not allow me to travel again on horseback that day.

  Once we were alone in the spare bedroom, Abigail sat herself down on the bed and said, “You may deceive yourself, but you do not deceive me. I know you are in love with Mr. Miller. I have no wish to break your heart, for I know you have one to break, beneath all your clever costumes. But I must tell you: Thomas Miller is involved. More than that I dare not say.”

  I was silent for several moments. Then I said, “I cannot believe it. To be sure, he has led a pampered, thoughtless life. He lacks true conviction, perhaps. But to plot the deaths of our great men—of John Adams? That I cannot—will not—believe.”

  I recalled my encounter with Mr. Miller in Boston on the night he kissed me. “He promised no harm would come to us. He swore it, Abigail.”

  “Men swear many things that they do not mean.”

  Abigail then fell silent, and from this silence I felt she had yet more against Thomas Miller. Exhausted and deeply shaken, I desperately wished to keep that small light of hope burning within me. For, were it to flicker out—oh, I would find myself in the most lonely, lonely darkness! Surely I could not have been so thoroughly deceived.

  She waited patiently. “We have obtained this news from General Sullivan himself, Lizzie. Our Provincial Congress has sent word to the Continental Congress. They await but a signed letter from Washington sanctioning Mr. Miller’s arrest. I’m most grievously sorry for you. But you will love one day. You will love and be loved, of that I have no doubt. For those who can love deeply always draw love to them.”

  Abigail placed a warm hand on my arm, but my guiding light flickered out then. I had no more strength to believe in anything. I wept before my friend. The love in my heart drained away like blood from a mortal wound. I was as Abraham before the burning bush, aware of my sacrifice. I cried and cried, for I had held back the depth of my love from everyone, even from myself.

  39

  HE HAD PROMISED me, and I had believed him. But then, I had nearly accepted Mr. Cleverly as well, whose devotion turned out to be as shallow as a vernal pond. In Mr. Miller, my eyes saw a rather careless man. My ears heard a very thoughtless man. But I had also thought him a man who was serious and not unkind. I felt he had a genuine regard for me.

  Now I no longer trusted my own opinion. I could no longer tell right from wrong, good from evil. Perhaps I never could. Perhaps I had labored beneath a false sense of my own worth all these years. Had I not struggled to be independent, to be useful? Thank God I had not yet killed anyone, I told myself.

  I said nothing to Eliza of my conversation with Abigail, but I felt it necessary to reveal the news to Martha. Perhaps she already knew that her brother might soon be arrested, and that is why she had warned me against him.

  “Martha,” I took her aside upon returning from Abigail’s. “I know you only mean the best for me,” I began.

  “I do.”

  “And I have heard just now from Abigail that your brother—may not be safe. That he may soon . . .”

  “I know.”

  “Well, if you know,” I said, my voice rising in frustration, “why do you not run to him? Why do you not urge him to flee?”

  “He does precisely what he wishes. There is nothing either you or I can do.” With these hopeless words, Martha turned away from me and made as if to tend to an errand.

  I had borne cold, hunger, illness, and death. But the loss of hope I could not bear. Silence grew around me. I had no words for anyone, not even for little Johnny. Martha knew my despair, yet I was far from believing that she shared it. Indeed, she seemed oddly resigned to her brother’s fate.

  Eliza grieved for me but dared not raise the subject. My dark, dark soul brought long shadows into our world. Soon, all three of us glided about the cottage like voiceless, unhappy spirits.

  It is a known fact that parents will always try to save their helpless children. Sometimes, they succeed. But it is a lesser-known fact that children can save their parents, too. Johnny saved us then. I truly believe that, had he not been with us, we would all have succumbed to illness and never seen the warming light of spring.

  Only little Johnny was oblivious to the unworthy world into which he had been born. Each morning he brought his laughter and good cheer into our dejected home. To Johnny, every object possessed fascination and delight. By March, he was sitting up, plump and jolly, his gold-brown hair forming tight curls about his head. His eyes were a warm aqua color, the color of our sky on certain summer days. When Johnny’s first teeth came in, he did not cry, but merely frowned and tucked in his chin as if puzzled by the discomfort, having known so very little pain or discomfort in his life. I rub
bed a numbing salve upon his gums that provided him some relief.

  Eliza was justly proud of her bright child. But, though she never spoke of it, I knew well her despair of ever seeing John Watkins again. Hopeless for ourselves, Martha and I found a purpose to life in contriving a way for John Watkins to see his son.

  At the end of January 1779, our selectmen finally voted to procure grain for the town, but it was to be another four months before we tasted of it. By March, butcher’s meat sold for one dollar per pound. Corn was twenty-five dollars per bushel. To aid our farmers, the town now offered six shillings per old crow and two per young. I took no pleasure in the sport of killing animals, but it needed to be done.

  Martha and I took turns putting the musket to use. Every time he heard a shot, Johnny’s green eyes opened wide, and his mouth formed a large O. One day we heard shots and went running out to find Eliza aiming at a crow on our fence.

  “You know how to use a musket?” Martha asked Eliza, disbelief plain on her face.

  “Yes,” she said simply. “An old Portsmouth friend taught me.”

  “Are you certain?” I asked. “I should not like you to shoot yourself or one of us, with that thing.”

  “Should we be afraid?” Martha asked.

  Eliza smiled. “Only if you’re a crow.”

  “You say you had need of it in Portsmouth?” I inquired.

  “I nearly did,” she replied. “There was a scoundrel who sorely needed a lesson in . . . manners.”

  “Did you correct his manners, then?” Martha asked as Eliza slowly moved toward the fence and took aim.

  “I did, indeed,” said Eliza.

  We began to think perhaps we had sorely underestimated Eliza.

  At the end of March, the last of the snow finally melted, and we began to see the stirrings of life. Upon seeing our first crocus in the dooryard, I nearly wept for joy, so bleak had been our winter.

  “Martha, Eliza, come look,” I said. They raced to the door and gawked at the purple flower. We couldn’t have been more grateful had the ground sprouted gold.

  As if to signal the new fecundity in the air, I assisted at three deliveries on three consecutive days. Martha helped me, of course. I could not have stayed awake to perform my duties otherwise. Only one father was present, the other two being off at war. We were glad to receive real coin for two of these births, and a ham for the third.

  In April and May of that year, I found that there had been far too much damage done during the previous year to leave off my farming for any purpose, patriotic or otherwise. It required all three of us to work from dawn to well beyond dusk, Eliza breaking only to care for her babe. We fashioned for him a mobile crib so that he could be close to her on fair days. As long as Johnny had her within his sight, he was quite content to play alone with some spoons or banging a pot.

  In addition to readying the sandy soil, hauling manure, and planting, there were candles to be made, cloth to be dyed, and babies to be brought into the world. Finally, in May, such was the rage of our poor citizens at the grain situation that the price for an old crow rose to thirty shillings. Thus, there was more shooting to do as well.

  All that spring, we spoke not a word about our unhappy business of the year before, taking solace in nature and in Johnny’s growth. However, I did at one point beg Abigail to write to her husband about our situation.

  “Lizzie,” she said firmly, “you must see that I will on no account have John return home before his work is complete, merely on my behalf. You know that is what he would do, and that is precisely what our enemies wish him to do. He has daily feared assassination. My letter could not protect him. Quite the contrary.”

  I knew her to be correct in her assessment. “Forgive me, Abigail. I suppose I’ve grown desperate.”

  “We have all grown desperate,” she said, embracing me, “but we will bear—”

  “—that which we must bear.” I finished our well-worn sentence for her, and we both laughed.

  By June, our flax and corn had taken fine root. Our heavenly Redeemer had seen fit to bless us with sunny days and rainy days in equal measure, and our hearts lifted. One hot morning, however, after Eliza had worked hard by our sides all week, she went to suckle John and no milk came out. We fed him a little vegetable mash, which he ate reluctantly.

  I got busy with my arts: I had Eliza suckle Johnny every hour upon the hour, milk or no. She was forbidden to work in the fields with us. I gave her near all our cow’s milk, and cheeses besides, till she complained that she was so bloated she would float off to sea. After a week of such rest and feeding, Eliza’s milk flowed once more, and she was so grateful she wept.

  40

  IT WAS A hot day the following week when Martha and I came from the fields to discover Eliza, doubled over in pain in the kitchen garden. At first, I thought it to be some illness. But then I noticed a letter upon the ground at her feet. She could not speak, so I picked it up.

  “May I?” I asked, meaning the letter.

  She nodded.

  The letter was from Colonel John Langdon, Watkins’s overseer at the shipyard, and a great patriot. He wrote to inform Eliza that her uncle Robert Chase had been forced to flee, and that Watkins had been sold—to a most vicious man by the name of Mr. Richards, in Kittery.

  “Oh, this is terrible, indeed,” I said.

  “But look here. Look what he says,” I pointed to a passage in the letter, for I was certain that in her haste Eliza had not seen it:

  “But if perchance you are able to come to Portsmouth, Eliza, I may . . . be able to arrange something. I have the means, though it involve some danger. If you do decide to come, tell only those you would trust with your own life, for his may be at stake . . .”

  Not seeming to hear me, Eliza said, “I knew this would happen. John warned me. I must go.” She moved toward the house.

  “When did John warn you? You told us nothing of it.”

  “When I was in Cambridge. I received a letter from him, through Colonel Langdon. I had no wish to share my misery with others. Oh, let me go!”

  “A moment. A moment,” I forestalled her. “Let us think.”

  Just then, Martha joined us from the fields, and I shared Eliza’s news with her.

  “At least he remains in the area and has not been shipped elsewhere,” Martha said.

  “Yes, thank God for that,” murmured Eliza.

  Eliza said she would reply to Colonel Langdon immediately, letting him know of her intended arrival in Portsmouth. I offered to accompany her.

  Martha wanted to come as well, but I objected.

  “We cannot both go. Someone needs to tend the farm.”

  “Of course,” Martha said, though we could see that she was disappointed.

  We prevailed upon Eliza to wait until the morning to leave, to give her letter a chance to precede her. Strange as it may seem, this same morning, Thaxter came knocking on our kitchen door with the news that he was leaving us. He looked a great deal abashed, but said he had family in New Hampshire what had procured him a good house job with a very fine family.

  I had long expected his departure, but I doubted whether he had found a better situation elsewhere. More likely, he had simply tired of Braintree and its unresolved terrors.

  “Whereabouts are you headed?” Eliza inquired, not looking up as she finished her packing.

  “Portsmouth,” Thaxter replied.

  “Portsmouth!” Eliza cried. “Why, we go there this very day!”

  Thaxter readily agreed to accompany us, and we were vastly contented to have a man we knew join us. We set off a few hours later.

  Abigail was already sitting in her uncle’s carriage when it came ’round, having decided to accompany us as far as her sister Betsy’s house in Exeter.

  The carriage was crowded, what with Abigail, Eliza, Johnny, myself, and Thaxter, and u
nfortunately required two stops, the first being at my home in Cambridge.

  Eliza was loath to stop there, fearing that somehow her mother would get wind of our presence. But I assured her that I would trust Bessie and Giles with my life. Indeed, Bessie was so overjoyed to see me, to meet my friends, and to hear the sound of a babe echo through the old house once more that she rustled up a veritable feast for us.

  Giles glanced at Johnny with a questioning brow now and then, but years of training kept him silent on the subject.

  Bessie, on the other hand, bouncing a gleeful Johnny on her knee, blurted, “He’s a dark little one, isn’t he!”

  “Bessie!” I exclaimed.

  “Well,” Bessie continued, glancing quickly about us to ascertain that Eliza was out of earshot, “it won’t do for our races to be mixin’ blood. That poor babe don’t know he’s in a heap of trouble.”

  Abigail and I stared mutely at each other; we neither of us were able to disagree.

  The following morning, we continued our journey, and it was quite late when we arrived at Betsy and Parson Peabody’s in Exeter. Betsy came running out to greet us, her candelabra trailing swathes of light in the darkness. She was in her bedclothes, and her loose, wavy hair fell all about her shoulders. I instantly liked her; she appeared warm and kind, if slightly frazzled. A keen intelligence shone from her eyes. Secretly I thought Betsy ill-suited to be a parson’s wife.

  After bidding Abigail good-bye, we set off, arriving at Stavers’s, a Portsmouth tavern of good repute, at noon the following day. Here Thaxter took his leave of us, and we curtsied politely, though I was not distraught to see him go. He had been an indifferent field hand at best. Upon entering the tavern, Eliza and I learned that there was but one chamber available, so we agreed to share it. As soon as we reached the chamber, I undid my gown and stays and fell upon the bed. Eliza, however, could not rest. She stood and looked out the window, her heart no doubt aching.

  “Lizzie,” she turned to me, “would you kindly walk over to the Whipple house, to inform Dinah and Prince Whipple that I have returned? It is but three streets away. Perhaps Dinah can take word to Colonel Langdon that I am arrived.”