Time Enough for Drums

by Ann Rinaldi

  “I’ll tell Mother of your concern, yes.”

  “Good. That’s all I ask. She listens to you and respects your opinion. Now the day is turning cold. You should get your sister home. God be with you, Daniel. I hope to see you again before you go away.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Dan said not a word when we were back in the chaise and headed in the direction of the Moores’. I wrapped my cloak around me and huddled in an extra blanket. All I could think of was the conversation I’d overheard.

  Mama was doing something that was treason! It wasn’t liberty teas and spinning anymore. It was letters in support of our army! Letters good enough to be reprinted in other papers! A thrill went through me. How courageous of Mama! And all this while we thought she was spending those hours in her room writing to dotty old Aunt Grace. No wonder Aunt Grace wasn’t receiving any letters.

  “Dan?”

  “What?”

  “I want to tell you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I hope you won’t get angry.”

  “I do too. I’ve had enough to try me today.”

  “Dan, I heard what Grandfather told you. When you two were alone in the library. About Mama and the letters.”

  “How did you hear?”

  “I was listening. I just happened to be in the hall and—”

  “You eavesdropped?”

  “Well, heavens, how could I help it? He was all but shouting.”

  “You could help it. You listened when you weren’t supposed to. Damn, Jem, I’m beginning to think John Reid is right in some of the things he says about you. You had no right to listen!”

  “Don’t scold, Dan.”

  “I’ll scold all I want to. It’s a rotten habit, listening to other people’s conversations. You’ve got some rotten habits, Jem.”

  “Dan, is it true that what Mother is doing is treason?”

  “I refuse to discuss it with you.”

  “Please tell me. I don’t want Mother to be hanged.” I started to cry. And it wasn’t difficult, concerned about Mother as I was and with the cold wind in my face.

  “Now, stop that sniffling. Mother isn’t going to be hanged.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They don’t hang women.”

  “What do they do to them?”

  “How do I know what they do to them? She won’t be caught anyway. Grandfather is just trying to frighten me into making her stop.”

  “Will you, Dan? Will you talk to her and make her stop?”

  “I’ll tell her the old man knows. She’ll have to change her pseudonym.”

  “What’s a pseudonym?”

  “It’s a name you write under to conceal your own. She’ll have to find another so Grandfather thinks she’s stopped. You know very well that nobody can talk Mother out of anything once she sets her mind to it. I don’t know as I want to talk her out of it anyway.”

  “She’s very brave, isn’t she, Dan?”

  “Damned if I know. I don’t know what brave is. I’ve yet to find out.”

  “Is she foolish?”

  “No. A person has to take a stand sometime if they’re any kind of a person. She’s doing a lot of good for our cause. We need the money and arms and clothing. We’re poor, Jem, poor as church mice, our army.”

  “Will you tell Father?”

  “No. The less he knows the better. He has enough on his mind. And you’re not to either, you hear? If I find out that you told him, or anybody, I’ll shake you until your teeth fall out. And I mean it.”

  He looked at me so fiercely that I shriveled up inside. “Promise me that you won’t tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. Now straighten yourself up. The Moore farm is just down the road.”

  “Well, so thee’s come to claim my Betsy, has thee?”

  Mrs. Moore stood in the doorway of the white frame house, hands on her hips. Dan stood in front of her, holding his hat. “I would hope so, Mrs. Moore.”

  “How many times have I told thee to call me Ruth?”

  “Ruth.”

  “Look me in the eye, Daniel Emerson. If thee can fight the British, thee can look me in the eye.”

  Dan looked her in the eye.

  “Has thee been recruiting my Raymond?”

  This was the awful moment Dan had been dreading. But he stood straight before her without guilt. “No, Ruth, I haven’t recruited either of your boys. Raymond came and offered his services to me.”

  “And thee signed him on.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “It was what he wanted. He feels he wants to fight for his land. I felt he was of age and had put a good deal of thought into his decision.”

  “Thee puts it plain enough.” She sighed. “My boys have been to town several times to watch the militia drill and to exchange ideas. Isaac and I know Joseph will soon follow his brother. I’ll not hold thee responsible for Raymond’s decision.”

  “I’ll feel responsible for him just the same, Ruth.”

  She nodded. “Look at thee, Daniel Emerson. I see thee and I know that if thy convictions fit as well as thy coat, I’ll have no quarrel with thee.”

  “I’m comfortable with my convictions. I think Raymond is, too.”

  She embraced him, then me. “Isaac is in the barn. I know thee wants to speak with him. Come into the house, Jemima. We can talk.”

  “Are thy parents well?”

  “Yes, thank you, Ruth,” I answered.

  She was kneading dough in a large wooden bowl. Over the fire a chicken was on the spit. Betsy Moore sat at the wooden table cleaning vegetables. I liked Betsy, but we had never been what you would call friends. Now she would most likely be betrothed to Daniel. I looked at her as if I’d never seen her before. She was very pretty, even in her plain Quaker clothes. She had beautiful skin, rich curly hair, a narrow waist, and a full bosom, and it was not difficult to see why Dan was attracted to her. More than that, though, she was sharp of mind and devoted to Dan.

  “How are thy lessons?” Ruth asked.

  “My lessons are fine.”

  “Betsy doesn’t fare well in school. The girls taunt her because she’s a Quaker.”

  “I’m sorry, Betsy.” I looked at her. “I never did think much of the girls at Miss Rodger’s anyway.”

  “I go for the music and the lessons,” Betsy said, “not for the company. Thee is lucky to have a tutor, Jem.”

  “You wouldn’t think so if you knew how he treats me. Being tutored by him is only one step better than going to Miss Rodger’s.”

  “Thy mother says he thinks thee has much common sense and spirit,” Ruth Moore said.

  “You must be talking about somebody else, Ruth. John Reid accuses me, half the time, of being dim-witted. He’s forever scolding, and I think he hates me.”

  “Thee can be blind sometimes.” She smiled. “I think thy mother chose wisely in having thee tutored privately. I committed the sin of pride in sending Betsy to Miss Rodger’s, and now she suffers. Added to the taunts is the fact that the other girls board there, so she has no friends.”

  “Mother, I don’t want such friends,” Betsy put in.

  “Thee walks alone,” Ruth accused her. “What thee will do when Dan leaves, I cannot think.”

  “I could spend some time with Betsy, Ruth,” I offered.

  “Thee is kind, Jem. She loves to walk in town and look in the shop windows. People think Quakers are priggish, but we like our fun.”

  I could have told her that Betsy wasn’t priggish. I’d seen how she acted the few times I’d observed her with Dan, and if there was one word that I wouldn’t use to describe her, it was priggish.

  “Are thy parents still speaking of setting Lucy and Cornelius free?”

  “Yes.”

  She kneaded her dough with even more fervor. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of people we are to speak of liberty and still keep slaves. It causes much controversy
in Meeting. Isaac and I have decided to follow in thy parents’ footsteps. It will be difficult setting our two slaves free with the boys joining up, but we will manage.”

  Mr. Moore and Dan stood in the doorway. Behind them the late-afternoon winter sky was heavy and threatening. A blast of cold air followed them into the kitchen. Their faces were ruddy from tramping the farm, and Mr. Moore’s eyes were solemn. We all turned to look at him.

  “Put up some coffee, Ruth. And set out the fresh carrot pie. These two young people have something to celebrate.”

  “Oh, Papa, thank you.” Betsy ran to him, hugged him, then fell into Dan’s embrace.

  “For the most part we Quakers do not look kindly on our children marrying out,” Mr. Moore said, hanging his flat-brimmed hat on a peg. “But we have been friends with thy family so long, Jemima, and we are honored.” He took my face in his hands and kissed it. His hands were icy-cold. “Welcome into the family,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Nothing much happened in the next three weeks that would have warranted the struggle with my goose quill pen to record it. My penmanship was still abominable, anyway. Goodness knows, I tried, but I’d all but given up in my attempts to master the art. Had it not been for John Reid standing over me three days a week and browbeating me into practicing, much as he browbeat me to learn French and Latin, I would have quit the whole business and been done with it.

  We did have a fine feast at Christmas. I worked for days helping Mother and Lucy prepare the winter pea soup, sweet potato biscuits, clam pie, corn bread, cider spice cake, and venison stew. Mother said our table would be the finest she had ever prepared. She didn’t elaborate, but I knew she was thinking of the war and wondering if we’d all be together again next year.

  The table was laid in our great hall, so called because it ran down the center of the house and was wide enough for dining or dancing. Rebeckah and Grandfather Henshaw finally condescended to come. The Moores were there too, as was Reverend Panton. But the best part of all was the presence of Grandfather Emerson, my father’s father. He lived five miles outside town on his estate, Otter Hall. He was very tall and wiry, with a gentle grace about him that tall men often have. He had served with Washington and Braddock when they drove the French from their forts on the Ohio River twenty years before. He always wore frontier clothing because he’d spent years in French Canada, where he’d traded furs and pelts with the Indians.

  He entertained us with stories about General Washington. And if that wasn’t enough to make the day worth noting, Raymond Moore seated himself next to me at the table and we had the most pleasant conversation.

  “I never can thank thee enough for helping me out when I wanted to join up, Jemima.”

  “Well, goodness, we’re friends. It was the least I could do.”

  “Thee has so much more spirit than most girls I know. I hope thee won’t forget me while I’m away.”

  “Forget you? How could I? I’m not a fickle girl who forgets someone she admires.”

  “Thee admires me, Jemima?”

  “How could I not? I think I always have admired you, Raymond.”

  “I would be honored if thee said I could write to thee.”

  “Of course you can. I’ll write to you too. I’d enjoy getting your letters and corresponding. And anyway, it’s the least I can do when you’re off fighting for liberty.”

  All the while John Reid was eyeing me sternly across the table. And when the time came for giving toasts, he stood up after Father and Dan and my two grandfathers had given theirs.

  “To Sarah and James Emerson, two dear friends who have been like parents to me. To all our dear friends here assembled, whose friendship outshines politics, and”—he turned to me—“to my little charge, Jemima, who is by far the best student of Latin I have ever had.”

  I blushed. I wanted to run from the table. Everyone’s eyes were upon me, and I felt hot and cold and very much the fool—until I saw Rebeckah looking at me with pure hatred. Then I felt a surge of happiness, which confused me even more.

  I cornered him in the parlor after our meal. “Mr. Reid, you know I do poorly in Latin. What ever made you say such a thing?”

  “Ah, Jemima, you may do poorly, but you’re still by far the best student of the language I’ve ever had. You’re always accusing me of scolding. Can’t you tolerate a little praise?”

  “Not when I don’t deserve it. I’d rather be scolded than flattered unjustly for your own reasons.”

  “And what may those reasons be?”

  “You’re still fond of Rebeckah. You said it to make her jealous.”

  His good nature vanished and his face darkened. “You’re more of a child than I thought, to say such a thing. And if it’s scolding you want, you’ll get it. How can you promise to write to Raymond Moore when your penmanship is such a disgrace?”

  “What business is it of yours if I write to him?”

  “He won’t understand your chicken scratching.”

  “Why, then, you’ll just have to help me improve my penmanship, won’t you?”

  “Indeed, I will. Under the condition that no letter goes to Raymond until I approve it first to make sure it’s legible.”

  “If you think, for one minute, that I’m going to allow you to read my correspondence—”

  “That’s the only way you’ll be writing to him. I hope I’m to have some pride in my tutoring. As long as I approve your letters, you can write your little head off to him about how proud you are that he’s away fighting for liberty.”

  “At least he’ll be off fighting for what he believes in, which is more than I can say for some people!”

  He was smiling when I flounced away, showing his beautiful white teeth. Men are so vain, I thought, forever showing off what nature may have blessed them with.

  The militia was drilling once a week in Trenton by the time of the new year. Up north our army was still dug in across the Charles River from the British. One day I found David out behind the barn going through the whole manual of arms with Dan’s musket. Most likely he thought that only Chauncy the goat was watching until he saw me. Then he begged me not to tell Father. I said I wouldn’t, which gave me two secrets to keep.

  I hadn’t told anyone about Mother’s letter writing. She was still staying up late by candlelight writing at least two nights a week. She had also organized her Ladies for the Promotion of Frugality and Industry to make shirts for the army. When I didn’t have lessons I joined them twice a week.

  Then one Sunday morning in January Father produced a copy of the Pennsylvania Gazette at breakfast and announced that he would read a letter by someone called Libertus. Under the table Dan kicked me. And I knew that Mother had found her new pen name.

  Mother’s face was very white. “James, this is the Lord’s Day.”

  “My dear, the Lord Himself could have inspired this essay. It addresses the womenfolk, reminding them that their willingness to sacrifice should match the courage of the men in the field.”

  “The women in Trenton are sacrificing, James.”

  “I don’t understand your resistance to hearing this.”

  “It isn’t proper conversation for the Sabbath.”

  “As far as I know, that has never stopped us from discussing anything in this house.” Father was about to say more when Dan stood up.

  “I’d like to be excused, Father.”

  “Excused? From what? Breakfast? You not hungry? Impossible.”

  “Breakfast and services. I can’t go to church and pray for the king.”

  “Ah.” Father took off his spectacles, intrigued by the possibility of the discussion. “Nobody expects you to pray for the king.”

  “Reverend Panton always includes prayers for him in the services.”

  “So he does. And do you know why?”

  “Because Reverend Panton is a Tory.”

  “Not so simple, Dan. As a condition of his ordination in the Church of England he has taken an oath
of the king’s supremacy. To depart from that oath would be to break his solemn vows.”

  “Well, I took no such vows. My loyalties are to our Cause.”

  “As they should be. But we still belong to the Church of England. So we go to services. But we don’t have to join in the prayers for the king. Many remain silent.”

  “I know that. But I also know that the whole parish is torn. And that church is a hotbed of controversy. Why go and practice hypocrisy? You always said hypocrisy is the worst sin of mankind.”

  “Second only to rudeness, Dan. Civility is all we have left in times of war. As an officer, you should know that.”

  “As an officer in the Continental army I know one thing, Father. That I have no place in a church where prayers are said for George the Third—or any king.”

  Silence followed. At least Dan had diverted Father from his essay reading. Father took a piece of pumpkin bread and spread it liberally with butter, regarding Dan. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I can understand that. Where are you off to, then?”

  “I have a meeting.”

  “A meeting? On the Sabbath?”

  “We leave tomorrow. It can’t be helped.”

  Father nodded. “Very well, Dan, if your mother agrees, I will excuse you.”

  Of course, Mother agreed. “I’m sure you will pray in your heart, won’t you, Dan?”

  “I’ll be sure to do that, Mother.” He kissed her on the way out. How I envied him, coming and going as he pleased. I pushed my food around on my dish.

  “Eat your breakfast, Jemima,” Father ordered. “And stop slouching at the table.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “If you think that by mimicking your brother you’ll be excused from services, you’re wrong. So you might as well eat.”

  “Would you excuse me from services?” David asked.

  “Do you have problems saying prayers for the king?”

  “I’m one of the people who doesn’t say them. I keep quiet.”

  “Good. Put that into practice now and eat.”

  “John Fitch says St. Michael’s will soon be closing. Too many vestrymen are Tories.”