The Midwife's Revolt

by Jodi Daynard

  We worked until we grew parched and thirsty and agreed we should go inside to check on Eliza.

  As she rose, setting the last bundle wearily upon the pile, Martha said, “You must despise me now, Lizzie.” She swayed in the sun, for she had stood up too quickly. Martha passed a forearm over her eyes to shade them. The hair on her brown arm was quite golden.

  “I don’t despise you,” I said warmly. “I know not what I feel. I am still in shock, I suppose.”

  “One cannot love a murderess,” she said simply. “I love not myself, and therefore cannot expect you, or anyone else, to love me. You recall that we once discussed whether the ends justified the means.”

  “I had no idea of its being of any import whatsoever. Two bored women involved in hypotheticals. But you’ve acted in a manner consistent with your beliefs,” I said resignedly.

  “I knew not then what my task would be, but I knew all too well it would be heavy. If it helps you—the knowledge affords me little comfort—we had been given orders from the highest source”—here, Martha paused so that I might follow her—“to affect a soft, secret riddance of these men. Something that might alarm their brothers in treachery but not the general public, for that would merely steer sympathy to their side and make it easier for others in the ring to hide.

  “Thomas could not easily conceal himself among our parish, but I could. It was Colonel Quincy’s idea, when once Abigail asked his advice about a servant for you. The deception was put into play then. The colonel was highly self-congratulatory about it.’’

  “I knew you were hiding something from me. It drove me mad. But to think that I actually believed you a Tory spy . . .”

  “Yes,” she said. “Can you imagine how I felt, every moment feeling your judging eyes upon me? Believing me the enemy, a traitor to the Cause?”

  I stopped in the doorway, for I had no wish to continue this conversation within.

  “Impossible to bear!” I cried, grasping her hand in sympathy. “But Martha, did you take the belladonna? I searched, only to find it undisturbed. Not after—”

  “Mr. Holland,” she finished for me. “Yes, I took some, but such few grains you could not have noticed. The second time, I needed to avoid arousing your suspicions, for I knew you would discover the cause of death and check your stores. I thus took great pains to make some while you were in Cambridge. But I was rushed and inexperienced. It is why I was ill when you came upon me having a puke. I was not careful enough and must have swallowed a grain or two.”

  “Oh, Martha, you fool! You might have died! Indeed, you could easily have died.”

  “Lizzie, I believed my words when I spoke them those many months ago.”

  “And I came to agree with you, dearest. For sometimes fighting is necessary. But murder? My mind grows befuddled at how one justifies this.” There. I had said it. I had said the word.

  Martha nodded. “I have done it, Lizzie. I have taken life. And I am here to tell you how it feels. It is not something you can possibly know aforehand, however clever or designing you might think yourself. Having done it—twice—having taken life, I can report in no uncertain terms: it is not right. It can never be right. It is not what God intends, and when the war is over, I shall become a Quaker and endeavor to atone.”

  “You can’t be serious.” The words left my mouth immediately, for, with our upbringing, she might as well have said, “I shall become a man on Mars.”

  “Oh, I’m perfectly serious,” she said. Then she added, “If I am not hanged first.” She smiled ruefully, though this much I knew to be no joke.

  Because I loved her, I endeavored then to shore up her spirits. I said, “If it is true that you have given up your self-love, then you have given up everything a woman can give—nay, more than is right, Martha.”

  “Perhaps,” she considered. “Perhaps I have. What is to be done for it, I know not.”

  What did I feel? It was too soon to say. I dared not speak more then, for fear of saying something I would forever regret. But deep within my soul I rejoiced at Martha’s repentance. With repentance there is hope of salvation, if not in this world, then in the next. I had only one dark, chill moment as I passed through the door: were our side to lose, Martha would be hanged. I shuddered, tightened my lips, and slipped inside, grateful for the cool darkness. None of us could eat my beautiful spice cake, and I fed it to a grateful crowd of chickens.

  Later, after the sun had descended behind the hills, and I had bathed and changed into my own clothes and felt somewhat revived, I took a tankard of cider out with me and walked down through the dunes to the beach. I spoke little that evening to either Martha or Eliza. My experiences—of Star’s agonizing death, of my new knowledge of Martha and her brother, and of the anticipation of what was soon to come—seemed to me far, far beyond words. Indeed, I felt that a year’s silence would not be long enough.

  As the sun set upon me, I felt consoled by the sound of the ocean waves breaking along the shore. I heard the crickets sing among the reeds and dune grass. I saw swallows dart in and out of the shadows and ghost crabs the color of the sand scuttle sideways across the beach. And I thought: What terrible, cruel beasts we humans were. I saw us as a species of Cyclops stalking the earth in rage and hate, unworthy of our Maker’s bounty. How could I continue to live among them?

  I turned my attention back to the red glow of the departed sun and the sound of the wind, water, and gulls. I shut my eyes and let the sounds and the warm sand calm me. Then, all at once, I felt gentle hands upon me.

  I looked up to find Martha. She smiled tentatively. “May I sit by you?” she inquired. “I think Eliza comes as well.”

  “Certainly.”

  She sat down by my side and looked out toward the water.

  “Wait you for the ship? It may be quite late when it finally arrives.”

  “Not particularly,” I said. “I wait for peace. And wisdom. And the absence of pain.”

  “You may have to wait a long while yet, as will we all.”

  Eliza came up to us then; she told us that Johnny was asleep in the house. “I saw Martha leave and had no wish to be alone,” she said. “I daren’t stay long, though.”

  “Oh,” said Martha, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “I’m quite all right,” Eliza assured her. “And Johnny sleeps—for the moment.”

  A sudden gust of wind whipped my hair across my face. I pulled it back. I had no thought of telling Eliza what I knew about Martha. I saw no point in sharing the truth with her. Of the three of us, she was the most helpless, and therefore the most vulnerable. Had she known that Martha was a target for death, she could not have remained long under our roof, for Johnny’s sake if not her own. Where else had she to go?

  Martha had held herself erect as a general all afternoon. Indeed, when I recall her composure, I believe it no hyperbole to say that I considered her one of the greatest women of our generation. But though she could bear danger, retribution, exposure, and even rejection, the thought of my brother’s departure was too much for her.

  “Oh, I cannot bear it,” she said, buckling down to the sand as if seized by cramps. She curled into a ball and covered her head with her hands. “No, it is too much. I cannot bear it.”

  “Come now,” I said, lifting her hands away from her face, “you have borne far worse. He shall return, and you shall marry and have sixteen children, and Bessie shall be run off her feet, and Giles shall have to invent a new sort of carriage to seat you all.”

  She grasped my hand hard as I comforted her, stroking her head until she calmed.

  Finally, Martha opened her eyes and looked up at me. “I might be able to bear it, Lizzie, if—”

  “If what, dearest?”

  “If I knew you still loved me. It is a selfish, sinful wish. I know myself to be unworthy of love.”

  I thought about her words and e
verything I had discovered. I leaned my head on her shoulder and stared out to sea, my hand still clasping hers.

  “Who am I to judge you, Martha? There are times in the affairs of men where right and wrong are not knowable except by our Maker. I’m grieved for Star and for you, too deeply to speak of it. But I still love you. I always shall. On some long winter night, when peace comes, we shall read the story of Moses together, for he, too, had a death upon his conscience, yet went on to achieve God’s forgiveness.”

  Whether Eliza thought this conversation odd I know not, for she asked not a single question. Later, when we had all returned home, we would tell her near everything. For now, though, we sat in silence, the three of us staring out to sea, until a dusky darkness rolled across us.

  Eliza rose to leave. Not wishing her to walk the path alone, we got up and accompanied her.

  “Dear Eliza,” I began. “I hope you do not think that because so much has happened here that we have forgotten your despair. I know I do not. Not for a moment.”

  “And it is my hope, Lizzie, that you do not think my despair forbids me to rejoice in your happiness. Indeed, only knowing of your happiness shall keep me from utter despair.”

  “My what?” I suddenly turned and looked at Eliza, thinking I had not heard her correctly.

  “Your happiness, Lizzie.”

  “Oh.” I smiled, suddenly divining her drift. “I’m not built for happiness such as you speak of.”

  “Are you not?” Eliza’s eyes shone steadily through the shadows.

  48

  TIME SHALL UNFOLD WHAT PLAITED CUNNING HIDES.

  —King Lear

  AUGUST 2, 1779. “THE ship! Harry’s ship has arrived!” we cried.

  Worn out by the terrible events of the previous day, Eliza was dead to the world. We decided to let her sleep. We ran down the stairs, nearly tripping and falling on our heads, then out to the back of the house, from which we could easily see my brother’s ship—full three masts, bowsprit and jibboom, then a scurrying of silent bodies to furl the sails. I then saw four—or was it five?—men descend upon a dinghy and make their way toward us in the low moonlight. The ship, moving very slowly, crept out of sight.

  Recalling that we were still in our shifts, Martha and I ran back to the house to ready ourselves for visitors. When the men finally arrived, we were primly dressed and sitting in the kitchen with the kettle on the boil like two good little spinsters. My brother came in with four others, one of whom was Mr. Miller.

  Seeing us sitting calmly in the kitchen, Harry did not know which of us to embrace first. Martha solved his dilemma by springing up from her calm pose and running headlong toward him.

  “Oh, Harry!” she cried.

  Coming from Martha, Harry did not seem to mind the name he had, earlier that summer, thought too childish for him. He buried his head in her breast.

  Mr. Miller remained by the front door. He glanced at me, and I at him, and such was my emotion upon seeing him—the real man this time and not the poseur—that I was overcome. To my changed eyes, he now appeared tall, quite noble, and full of dangerous conviction. There was none of that levity about him that had once allowed me to dismiss him as shallow, if charming. Had he ever laughed about my mincing gait? Had he ever requested I show him how to bake a cake? Helped me stir it? Impossible.

  He may yet hang, I thought. But at least it would not be on Washington’s command. No, quite the opposite.

  Behind our brothers stood three other men, drably dressed, their faces streaked with tar, naught but their pewter buttons shining beneath their cloaks in the wavering candlelight.

  Harry introduced them. There was the Cantabrigian’s captain, Captain John Wiles; Colonel William Livingston of New York; and Colonel Joseph Palmer. This last I had known slightly in my early days in Braintree, before he had left for the South with his regiment. After the war, I would have occasion to get to know him better at his estate at Germantown. For now, I merely gawked at him: he was tall and looked every bit the haughty officer. Later, he revealed himself to be a tenderhearted lover of dogs and children. All of these men were high-ranking officers of the Continental Army, sent by Washington himself.

  “Lizzie,” began my brother, a note of apology in his voice, “we need a place to rest for what remains of this night. We dare not expose ourselves even so far as the colonel’s house.”

  “Say no more,” I replied. Martha and I busied ourselves laying pallets about. From my kitchen window, the men could take turns watching for La Sensible.

  When our distinguished guests were crowded around the kitchen table with their tea, Colonel Palmer thought to extend to us the information the men already held:

  “La Sensible approaches Boston,” he said.

  “No!” I exclaimed.

  “Is it true?” Martha asked.

  The colonel nodded. “It was sighted before we left, and it has been confirmed that John Adams and John Quincy are aboard.”

  “Dear Abigail!” I cried, involuntarily placing a hand over my mouth.

  “Not a word must come from this house,” Colonel Palmer warned. “A simple word or deed in the wrong ears could spell death for them, and ourselves.”

  “Sir, we shall not stir,” Martha affirmed, looking at me.

  Colonel Palmer nodded respectfully at Martha, for he must have known who and what she was.

  After some silence, I rose. “We should retire. Please make free to use my home as your own. Should you need us, don’t hesitate to wake us.”

  “Good night, dearest sister.” Harry embraced me. He took Martha’s hand, looked at her long and hard, and said, “Yes, you should sleep now, while you can.”

  Thomas Miller neither said a word nor glanced in our direction, but continued to stare out the window as he paced the room.

  We excused ourselves and retired together to my chamber, where Johnny lay sprawled on his back, taking up nearly the entire bed with his long, outstretched limbs. We gently righted him and piled ourselves alongside, having given up the second chamber’s bed to the men. But sleep was not to be had; I managed only to doze for a while.

  “You’re snoring.” Martha shoved me. Eliza was asleep on the other side of her. It was close and hot.

  “I certainly am not snoring,” I murmured.

  “You do not hear yourself when you are asleep,” she said and poked me.

  “Shhh. They will hear you,” I said, eyes still closed.

  “Why, is there someone you do not wish to know you snore in your sleep?”

  “Martha, hush!”

  Soon thereafter, I felt her sit up. “It is hopeless. I rise.”

  She got up, dressed, and went to feed the animals—what few were left to us after the bloodletting. Martha knew it would be some days before I could approach the barn. The poor animals were ready and waiting for her, as it was just past four and the sky over the ocean already grew light. I soon rose as well, as silently as I could, allowing Eliza to sleep.

  Previously I had been too shocked to feel, but on this early morning I stifled tears at the thought of Star out there somewhere, beyond my sight, stiffening on Mr. Billings’s cart. At least he felt no pain, I consoled myself. It was in this grieving state that I sensed someone approach from the shadows. The rustle frightened me half to death.

  “Elizabeth.”

  I turned to find Mr. Miller. “You gave me a start,” I said.

  “You’re up early.”

  From the looks of him, fully dressed, with only his face washed of its dark camouflage, I discerned that he had not slept at all.

  “Martha said I was snoring.”

  “And were you?”

  “I deny it utterly.”

  He smiled slightly and turned his head, gazing off into my fields, which were just beginning to lighten beneath the rising sun.

  “Let us walk there”—
he nodded to my garden—“for what I have to say is for your ears alone.”

  “If you like,” I said, with some trepidation. I followed him behind the barn to where the orchard boughs hung heavy with ripening fruit. Mr. Miller stopped under one such bough and stood before me. His hands hung by his sides, his head bowed.

  “There is something I cannot get out of my mind,” he began. “How you have suffered—” He paused, apparently unable to continue. He pressed his fingers against a lowered forehead. “You have suffered loss, privation, hostility, and deceit. Throughout, I have observed how you have kept your head, taught another, and given shelter to a third. Unbearable has been the thought that I—”

  Again, he was unable to continue.

  “That you—?”

  “—that I might have added to your suffering, which you’ve borne as few men could have.” Then he said, “I beg you now forgive me.”

  Reader, I had already forgiven him. I found, to my surprise, that I could bear anything quite easily, so long as I did not have to suffer my previous disdain for him. Still, I could not resist saying, “And why should a woman not suffer as much as a man during these times?”

  He did not come back with his usual rejoinder, and I was all too swiftly reminded that this was a new Thomas Miller, one whom I could not presume to know, one whose feelings I could not predict. I feared I had given offense.

  But Mr. Miller, glancing once at me, lowered his head as if to consider my question seriously. At last he replied, “Many have done, and no doubt shall continue to do so. But not all women can bear such suffering. And it is not all women that I care about. None have borne it as you have. Oh, Lizzie!” He grasped my hands in his. “I’m glad you know the truth. You think it torture to love the enemy—but you cannot know the torture it was to play the enemy, to play the fool, knowing every moment how you despised me!”

  “I wished to despise you, yes,” I considered, allowing him to keep my hands in his, “but somehow I never could. Dare I hope that the silly boy you played was not entirely an act, and that somewhere you still harbor him? For it is a rare man that retains the freedom of the boy, however infuriating. No, while I despised your politics, I could not despise him.” Here, I rolled my eyes at that ne’er-do-well who had made himself at home in my Cambridge parlor.