Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  By ten o’clock small curls of her dark hair clung to perspiration on her forehead. She added kindling to the fire, picked up the wailing John, and went from the heat of the sun into the cool of the house. Seated in her rocking chair, she gathered her son to her, comforting him and rubbing his gums while she rocked gently, humming to him in her own little heaven. His fussing gradually ceased and his eyes closed, and she watched as his head tipped slightly forward, and he slept. She rose smoothly to her feet, walked down the hall, and laid him on his stomach in his bed. He stirred, and she placed the flat of her hand on his back and hummed for several seconds while he settled and began to breathe deeply.

  Five minutes later she was back at the big washtub, perspiration running as she worked the heavy, water-soaked sheets up and down, one section at a time. At half past noon she wrung out the last rinsed sheet, dropped it into the basket, raised her apron to wipe the perspiration from her face, and walked back into the house. She ate bread and cheese and cold mutton while she fed John, changed him, rocked him while she rubbed his gums, and at fifteen minutes past one o’clock walked squinting back into the bright sunlight and the heat and humidity waiting in the backyard. She tied the cord to the back of John’s shoulder straps and set him in the thick grass where he sat down and began pulling it and stuffing it in his mouth.

  “No, no,” she scolded, and cleaned out his mouth with her finger, then stood him on his feet. He followed her as she felt the clothes on the line—still damp—then carried the last basket load to the single line that was open and began shaking out the sheets to hang them.

  Need wind to dry these—hope wind comes—

  With her back to the kitchen door, she had set the third clothes-peg when John stopped moving and fixed his eyes on something behind her. She glanced at him, puzzled for a moment, then turned as she heard her name.

  “Kathleen.”

  Matthew stood not ten feet behind her in his white shirtsleeves, tall, feet spread slightly, long dark hair tied back with a leather thong, face glowing. For an instant Kathleen stood rooted, unable to believe he was there, and then without a word she fled to him to throw herself into his arms and clasp him to her with all her strength. For long moments they stood thus, saying nothing, while the yearning that had been denied so long rose within to drive out every thought but one.

  They were together, and they were home.

  She drew back her head and kissed him, and kissed him again. Only then did words come.

  “You’re home. You’re home.”

  He was beaming. “I’m home.”

  “Are you all right? Not hurt? Crippled?”

  He shook his head. “Fine.”

  “Oh, Matthew!” she exclaimed, “I was going to have the dining room all so beautiful, and food, and dressed in my best—”

  He reached to press two fingers against her lips to quiet her. “I don’t care about that.” He drew her to him.

  She shook her head. “I’m all wet! Perspiring! A real mess.”

  He placed one hand against her damp cheek. “Does it matter?”

  “No.”

  They stood in their embrace until John made sounds and Matthew turned his head. “Is this John?” he asked, incredulous. “I wouldn’t have known! Look how he’s grown.” He broke from Kathleen and lifted the boy into his arms, studying the square, handsome little face, watching the dark eyes that peered at him as a stranger.

  “He’s cutting his back teeth,” Kathleen said. “Fussy.”

  “He looks like Father.”

  “More every day.”

  “Is he sound? Healthy?”

  Kathleen laughed. “Yes.”

  The baby pushed himself back from Matthew and leaned toward Kathleen, and she reached for him.

  “He doesn’t remember you. It’s been two years. Give him time.”

  Suddenly Matthew looked at the clotheslines and the washtubs as though seeing them for the first time.

  “You’re washing!”

  “Monday in Boston.”

  “Let’s finish.”

  Together they hung the last of the finished sheets, and while Kathleen went into the house to nurse and tend John and put him down for his afternoon nap before she changed into dry clothing, Matthew emptied, rinsed, and stored the washtubs and kettle and the tripod. Then he quietly entered the house to gather his bags and officer’s tunic from the parlor where he had dropped them, and walked softly past John’s door to the bedroom as Kathleen was walking out. She stopped, took his tunic from his arm, and whispered, “Let me help you.”

  She was hanging his tunic in the closet when she noticed small stitches on the sleeve, and she walked back into the bedroom to hold it up in the light. It was faded, threadbare, patched in five places, and there was a small tear near the right cuff. She turned to Matthew.

  “I don’t know if this is worth mending.”

  For an instant he hesitated. “I’ll have to get another one.”

  He saw the flash of concern in her face before she turned to the closet to hang it with his other clothing. As they continued to unpack his bags, she said nothing, but he saw the anxiety rising in her eyes as she handled his shirts and trousers. They were clean, but they were thin, mended. His shoes and boots were worn, in need of soles. She watched him unfold a small tissue packet, and draw out his royal blue watch fob with the gold needlepoint lettering, “M D,” the one she had worked so long and hard to make for him when they were but youngsters. Tenderly he placed it in a drawer and was turning when he noticed her expression, soft, with eyes brimming.

  “It saw me through,” he said quietly.

  She pointed, and on her table was the small, beautifully painted snow owl he had carved for their gift exchange those many years ago.

  “I know,” she answered.

  He took an oilcloth packet in one hand, her arm in the other, and led her quietly down the hall, past the door of the sleeping child, into the dining room.

  “Cider in the root cellar?”

  “Yes. Would you prefer coffee?”

  “Too hot for coffee,” he answered. He laid the packet on the table, picked a pitcher from the kitchen cupboard, and walked out the back door to return with it half full of cool cider. Kathleen brought glasses, and they sat at the table. Matthew poured the apple juice, tasted it, and set his glass down, savoring the richness.

  “I’ve waited a long time for that,” he said.

  Kathleen nodded, and for the next half hour they were lost in small talk and laughter about everyone and everything that had been building inside each of them since their last parting. Then Matthew sobered, and Kathleen fell silent, sensing a need in him.

  Finally he spoke. “The root cellar is more than half empty.”

  A shadow crossed her face. “I know.”

  “Is there a reason?”

  She worked her glass between her hands, staring at it for a moment. “Money.”

  He drew and released a breath. “For how long have you lacked?”

  “Months. Maybe a year.”

  “I feared that would happen. How have you lived? Paid your way?”

  She shrugged. “Washing. Ironing. Sewing. Needlepoint. Caring for children of others.”

  “For whom?”

  “The military. The wealthy. Anyone.”

  “I didn’t mean to let that happen. I had nothing to send.”

  “Nothing to do with you. Half—maybe most—of the women in Boston have been forced to it. There is no money anywhere. No gold or silver. Nothing but worthless paper money. Do you know the cost of a pair of boots for you?”

  “No.”

  “Six hundred dollars. A common frying pan, one hundred twenty-five dollars. A kitchen fork, thirty-seven dollars. There’s no way to deal with it. I don’t get paid for my work in money. I get potatoes, or meat, or this cider. No one has money.”

  For a long time Matthew stared at his glass before he raised it once more, drank, then set it down.

  “Coming from the wh
arves this morning, I saw the offices of three shipping firms closed down. Out of business. Two were big ones—been there since I can remember. Bankrupt. Walking down Fruit Street there were half a dozen—maybe ten or twelve—shops closed. Doors and windows boarded. Most had court papers nailed to the doors. Bankruptcy.”

  Kathleen nodded but said nothing.

  Slowly Matthew unfolded the oilskin packet and laid two documents before Kathleen.

  “One of those is my pay for the past eighteen months. It’s a pledge by Congress that the State of Massachusetts will pay me in money if I’ll wait long enough. The other is my military discharge. What I’m telling you is I’m coming home with nothing but a promise that I will get my pay sometime in the future, and that I am now a discharged naval officer with no pension. I’m empty-handed, without employment, and from the look of things in Boston town, there is not a soul that can employ a navigator. If three shipping firms have closed down from bankruptcy, there are going to be qualified navigators and ship’s officers begging for work. Willing to accept anything they can get, at any rate of pay that’s offered.”

  He stopped and stared vacantly at his glass before he continued.

  “Maybe I can trade work of some kind for food, but what I don’t know is how we’re going to pay the property taxes on this home. That takes hard money.” Slowly he shook his head. “I don’t know where to go to get hard money.”

  She covered his hand with hers. “We’ll find a way.”

  He stared into her eyes. “Where? How?”

  “I don’t know. And it isn’t important that we stay in this house. We can sell it and that will give us some money. We can buy another smaller home. We have each other. And the baby. That’s all we need. We’ll be all right.”

  For a moment they looked at each other, him struggling to understand her blind faith, her feeling his fear at what he saw coming.

  They both started at the rap on the front door. He looked at her, inquiring, she shook her head in surprise, and Matthew started for the door when it opened. Before him stood his mother, and behind her, the twins, Adam and Priscilla, and Brigitte. For an instant they all stood in silence, and then Margaret rushed to seize him, and everyone spoke at once. Margaret clutched him to her, and she kissed him on the cheek, then she hugged him again with all her strength. She broke from him and held his arms while she inspected him, head to toe.

  “You’re all right? Not harmed?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Margaret turned to Kathleen. “We had to come. Just had to. I waited for a while to give you two a little time together, but we couldn’t wait any longer.”

  Matthew interrupted. “We’d have come down later on. How did you know I was here?”

  “Adam saw from the engraver’s. He’s apprenticed. Engraves silver. He couldn’t leave work to catch you.”

  Matthew turned to Adam and Prissy in disbelief. The twins had been eight years of age when he left eight years earlier. He had seen them twice since, the last time just two years before, but nothing had prepared him for what he now saw. Prissy had turned into a beautiful young woman, while Adam was nearing full height, close to six feet. His hands, feet, and Adam’s apple were all far too large, his arms and legs and face too long; but it was clear that when they all caught up with his growth, he was going to be a strongly built, handsome man. Prissy had been a knobby-kneed child, but now? Before him stood a demure young woman, pretty but reserved, even somewhat bashful. She was obviously different than the more outgoing Brigitte—quieter, more thoughtful, but striking in her own right.

  Matthew exclaimed, “Is this Adam? And Prissy? What happened to my little brother and sister?” Matthew shook his head. “Adam, you’ve become the man of the house!”

  Adam blushed and stared at the floor for a moment, then extended his hand and said in a voice deeper than Matthew would have imagined, “It’s good to have you home.”

  Prissy stared steadily at him, eyes glowing, and he reached to grasp her shoulders.

  “Look at you, Prissy! You’ve grown up. A beauty.”

  Prissy dropped her eyes for an instant as only a woman can, and Matthew drew her to him in an embrace, and she held him for a moment while Margaret stood to one side, beaming with the joy and pride that only a mother can know.

  Matthew turned to Brigitte, and instantly knew. She had survived the loss of her first love, endured six years of war, and faced the daily grind of worry and unending work to put food on the table. She had passed from a youth to a mature, beautiful, grown woman. He reached for her and she stepped close to embrace her brother and kiss him on the cheek.

  “Welcome home, Matthew. It’s so good to see you again.”

  “And you,” he said.

  Kathleen broke in. “Matthew, if you’ll fetch more cider, I’ll get the glasses.”

  Ten minutes later they were seated about the dining room table, working on two pitchers of apple cider in the midst of chatter. While the talk tumbled out, Matthew noticed little things. Margaret’s dress was faded, her hands red and rough. Adam’s jacket was patched at the elbows. The hem of Prissy’s dress had been undone to lengthen it. Brigitte’s dress showed wear in the sleeves and yoke, and her hands were those of a laborer. He saw it and his heart ached, but he said nothing of the years they had silently suffered the burdens of war.

  He turned to Margaret. “Have you heard from Caleb?”

  “Not recently.”

  Matthew nodded. “Might be a while. I left him at Head of Elk with about ten wagons loaded with slaves. He’s bringing them north.”

  Margaret set her glass down with a thump. “He’s what?”

  The room quieted. “We came across a slave ship at sea. It was sinking. We brought the slaves ashore, and Caleb started north with them. Nothing else we could do.”

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “How did Caleb come to be with you on a ship at sea? Are you telling me everything?”

  Matthew shook his head, grinning. “No. I’m not. That would take all night. We’ll talk it all out later.”

  Chuckles surrounded the table for a moment before Matthew continued. “What of Billy?”

  Margaret shook her head. “Expected home any time. Trudy and Dorothy are watching every day.”

  She looked at Kathleen. “Is the baby all right? Still teething?”

  “Asleep. Fine. A little fever. I’ll wake him.”

  Margaret raised a hand. “Let him sleep.”

  Adam spoke hesitantly to Matthew. “We heard about Yorktown. Were you there?”

  Talk quieted. In that instant Matthew was hearing the blasting of the big guns and seeing men maimed and killed by exploding cannonballs. He answered. “Yes.”

  “The sea battle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it bad?”

  Matthew understood the boy was asking him to describe the roar of the cannon and the shredding of the sails and shattering of the yardarms and masts of the ships; of the men who were killed and the ships that were sunk—the great drama of an historic sea battle. For a few moments Matthew studied his glass, then made his answer.

  “We won.”

  Adam somehow sensed that Matthew was going to say very little about the momentous battle that ended the Revolutionary War. He did not understand why, only that he had seen a reluctance in the eyes of his brother. He reached for his glass and said nothing.

  Kathleen spoke. “Margaret, can you stay for supper? Please? I have ham and cheese in the root cellar and—”

  Margaret raised a hand. “No, this is a time for just the three of you. We only came for a minute, but we’ll help clear your wash from the lines before we go.”

  “I can do it. Matthew and I.”

  “Oh, come on, it will only take a minute if we all—”

  Matthew cut in. “We’ll do it, Mother. You’ve no doubt got wash on your own lines.”

  Margaret frumped, “Well, we offered.” She spoke to the other children. “Come on. We’ve got work to finish and supper to pu
t on the table.”

  They all followed her to the door where she stopped and turned. Her eyes were filled with deep gratitude as she reached once more to embrace her firstborn. “Son, it’s so good to have you home. Come down later if you can.” She looked at Kathleen. “Bring the baby.”

  “I will.”

  They all walked to the large gate in the high white fence that enclosed the Thorpe home, and Matthew and Kathleen stood side by side in the late afternoon sun, each with an arm about the other as they watched and waved until the family disappeared in the afternoon traffic of the narrow, crooked, cobblestone Boston street.

  They walked arm in arm back into the house, where Kathleen stopped to listen. “John’s awake,” she said and started towards the archway into the bedroom wing. Matthew caught her by the arm, and she saw the cloud in his face.

  “How long have Mother and the others been like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Old clothing. Patched. Hands of laborers?”

  “I never thought about it. Four years. Five.”

  She saw the muscles set in Matthew’s jaw for a moment before he said, “Let me see your hands.”

  She did not move. “They’re fine.”

  He reached to raise her wrist and for the first time looked closely at her right hand. It was rough and red from five years of hot water and soap and splitting kindling with an ax and planting and nurturing a garden and doing wash and ironing and sewing and needlepoint for anyone who could trade food for her work.

  For a time Matthew stood with her hand in his, tenderly touching it, smoothing it, and then he released it and turned to walk away. Kathleen saw and felt the pain in him, and she yearned to take it away, but she did not know how.

  Notes

  The Dunson family is fictional, however, the homecoming of Matthew as described herein is typical of what the discharged soldiers experienced. Paper currency was near worthless, and coin or gold was almost non-existent. The cost of boots, a frying pan, and a fork as quoted herein are accurate. The exchange of work for food and other necessaries for living was common (Milgrim, Haym Salomon, Liberty’s Son, p. 84), and see all citations regarding the horrendous financial condition of the country as cited in the endnotes of the previous chapter.