Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  It will be remembered that Kathleen Thorpe Dunson’s father, Doctor Henry Thorpe of Boston, was secretly a traitor to the American cause. While this series uses the name Henry Thorpe, the true name of the traitor was Doctor Benjamin Church, a wealthy and powerful figure in the politics of Boston. Caught in his treason, he was tried in a Massachusetts court, convicted, and his sentence was banishment from America for life. He disappeared, never to be seen again by his family. See volume 1 of this series, Our Sacred Honor, chapters 7 and 9, and the endnotes for chapter 19.

  The bellman, sometimes called the “rattle-watch,” walked the streets of New England towns through the night, accompanied by a boy apprentice, calling out the time at intervals, as well as the weather (Earle, Home Life in Colonial Days, pp. 362–63).

  In the revolutionary time period, Monday had been established as “wash day” in Boston (Earle, Home Life in Colonial Days, p. 254; Ulrich, Good Wives, p. 28).

  Boston

  Late June 1783

  CHAPTER XIII

  * * *

  Billy was yet six miles from the Boston Peninsula when he caught the strong, familiar scent of salt sea air riding the five o’clock morning Atlantic breeze, and unexpected memories came in a rush in the predawn darkness.

  The small white house that was the only home he had ever known—Mother and Trudy—the narrow, winding, cobblestone streets—the sounds of ships’ crews in the harbor—his work desk at the Potter & Wallace Counting House on King Street—the tidy white church—Reverend Silas Olmsted—Matthew—Brigitte.

  He touched his coat pocket where he kept the oilskin packet of faded, battered letters he had written to Brigitte over the past years, and once again his need to open his heart to her collided with his fear. A beautiful, accomplished woman, and a homely, common man? He shook his head, pushed away the pain, and continued his stride on the crooked dirt road leading east through the thick Massachusetts forest toward The Neck, the only ground passage connecting the peninsula to the mainland.

  Dead ahead, the black velvet of the heavens slowly yielded to a deep purple, and the earth separated from the sky. Something in the forest to Billy’s left bolted, thrashing through the thick foliage away from the road, and Billy looked, hitched his bedroll a little higher on his back, and walked on.

  The high, light rift of clouds above Boston were caught up in reds and yellows from a sun not yet risen when Billy strode past the first of the great two-wheeled carts loaded with sacked flour for the Boston markets, and within minutes there were other men driving teams of oxen and horses that leaned into their yokes or collars to move the carts loaded with winter hay, or wheat, or cider, or beef, or milk and cheese, or smoked hams and bacon, steadily on toward the buyers in town. The first arc of the sun was shining in Billy’s eyes and casting long shadows westward when he passed through The Neck.

  Half an hour later he was in the dirt streets on the western fringe of the town, and then he was into the cobblestones among the familiar sounds of iron-rimmed cart wheels clattering toward the shops and onto the docks, and the morning people calling to each other as they hurried to and from homes and shops. It struck him as odd that there seemed to be fewer of them than he remembered.

  He was more than a block away when he saw the white picket fence of home, and he broke into a trot. He hurried through the gate and up to the front door to knock twice, then open it and walk in. As always, the austere little house was spotless. For an instant he stood still, caught in the incomparable feel of being in the place of his beginnings. Then he called, “Mother!”

  There was only silence, and he walked quickly through the tiny dining room, into the kitchen, and out the back door into the small backyard. The garden was in and growing, and there were fresh, white wood chips around the chopping block, and half a cord of fresh-cut firewood stacked against the back wall of the house. He got a small piece of cheese from the root cellar, then walked back into the kitchen to take a piece of bread from the bread box, drop his bedroll on the floor, and sit down at the dining table. He finished eating, drank water dipped from the kitchen water bucket, and sat in the quiet for a time, speculating where Dorothy and Trudy would be at the hour of eight o’clock on a summer’s morn.

  He shrugged, picked up his bedroll, walked down the narrow hall to his bedroom, and opened the window curtains to let the morning sunlight flood in. As he untied and opened his bedroll, he glanced at all the little things that were the mosaic of his childhood and youth. He put his razor and razor strop on the closet shelf, and his soiled clothes and the old blanket in the wicker basket on the closet floor, and sat on the bed for a moment, leaned forward, elbows on knees, remembering the days he had lain in that bed more dead than alive with a musketball hole through his left side and a bayonet wound beside it. Matthew refused to leave him for a week, sitting at the bedside during the day, sleeping on the floor at night, until he knew Billy would survive.

  He stood, took the oilskin packet from his coat, and carefully placed it in the bottom drawer of his dresser before he hung his threadbare coat in the closet, rolled up his sleeves, and walked into the backyard to pick up the ax.

  He had cut half a cord of kindling before the kitchen door opened, and his mother and sister walked out. For a moment the three stood transfixed, and then Dorothy was holding him to her with her eyes closed, and Billy had his arms about his mother while Trudy stood nearby, not knowing what she should do.

  Dorothy’s heart was overflowing at the sight and touch of her son—home—home after six long years of not knowing if he was dead or alive, or crippled, or whether she would ever see him again. She clung to him while her soul filled with the supreme joy of knowing that he was there, and he was whole. She pushed him back, and put her hand to her mouth. For a moment, she couldn’t speak at all, her voice choked by the ache in her throat. She gazed at her son through the tears that welled up in her eyes and began spilling down her cheeks.

  “Billy. Oh, Billy. You’re home!”

  “I’m here.”

  Dorothy wiped at her cheeks, and then she laughed at the heady relief of having her firstborn safely back. “Would you look at me. Crying.” She turned to her daughter. “Trudy’s been waiting, too.”

  For a moment Billy stared at his sister in shock. The little girl of eight years before was gone. Trudy was a grown woman. He reached for her, and she stepped inside his arms to hold him, and he felt her tremble as she spoke.

  “Billy. We’ve prayed so hard. I can’t tell you . . .”

  “I know. I know. I’ve prayed too.”

  For a time they stood there, basking in the glow, and then Billy said, “I need to wash. Splitting that wood raised a sweat.”

  He drew water from the well to rinse the sweat from his face, then followed them into the kitchen for a towel before he turned to Dorothy.

  “You were gone early this morning.”

  “Had to deliver some ironing to Silas. Millie’s ailing. Can’t get out of bed. I fixed some soup for her.”

  Billy straightened. “What happened to Millie?”

  “Stroke of some kind. Affected her eyes. Some days she can hardly see. Silas spends most of his time taking care of her.”

  Concern showed in Billy’s face. “Sorry to hear that. Is Silas all right? Can he still take care of his church duties?”

  “Aging. He takes care of the Sunday services, but he doesn’t get around as much as before. I help with the shopping.” She turned to Trudy. “Fetch four eggs and that piece of ham from the root cellar, and some cheese and milk.”

  Billy interrupted. “I’ll help.”

  Talk about small things mellowed as they moved about the tiny kitchen. Billy started a fire in the stove and fed kindling while Dorothy and Trudy set a skillet to warm, then cracked the eggs, and diced ham and cheese for an omelet. Billy helped set the table, and Dorothy brought the steaming platter to the table while Trudy poured milk. They brought a loaf of bread on a cutting board, then butter and strawberry preserves. Dorothy p
ointed and Billy took his place at the head of the table—a place that had been his since the day a man in seaman’s garb appeared at their front door, working his hat in his hands, refusing to raise his eyes as he told them that Bartholomew Weems, first mate in a fishing fleet, Dorothy’s husband and Billy’s father, had been lost at sea. Too early Billy had become the man of the house. Dorothy took her place to his right, Trudy to his left. They clasped their hands beneath their chins and bowed their heads, and Billy softly returned thanks to the Almighty for the simple bounties of their table.

  Billy could not remember a meal that had tasted so good, or one that had reached so near to the very core of his soul. He spread home-churned butter on Dorothy’s bread and added her strawberry preserves and ate it in a grateful silence that bordered on reverence.

  As he ate, his mother gazed at him, seeing in his plain, homely face and sandy hair the echo of her long-lost husband. The wonder of it all nearly overcame her. Her son was home from war. Eight long years of living every day in mortal fear of receiving a letter from a Massachusetts regiment officer were ended. Billy was there at the table, sound, caught up in the love that she had put into everything in her little home.

  Trudy was dipping steaming water from the stove into the wooden dish tub when she asked, “Billy, were you in the fighting? Yorktown?”

  He didn’t immediately answer, and Dorothy saw him considering the question. A veil seemed to drop over his eyes.

  “Yes. I was there.”

  Trudy stopped. “Was it bad? Like we heard?”

  Dorothy saw the remembrance of the cannon and the muskets and the bayonets and the screams of maimed and dying men flash in Billy’s eyes, and she spoke before Billy could.

  “There’ll be time for such things later.”

  Billy looked at her for a moment, then quietly said to Trudy, “I don’t know what you heard. We did what had to be done.”

  With the gift of her mother’s intuition, Trudy sensed she had ventured into the forbidden. She stopped with the dripping dipper held poised, and said, “Billy, I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  He smiled. “It’s all right. There’ll be time later. We’ll talk.”

  Dorothy suddenly focused. “You must have clothes that need washing and mending!”

  “There are a few things in my room, but they’ll wait.” He gestured to the stacked dishes. “You wash, I’ll dry.”

  The warm talk about anything and everything flowed, with laughter and pauses, while Billy silently studied the unbelievable transformation that two years had worked in his sister. She had a round, unremarkable face, and tended to be stocky, much like their mother. She spoke from time to time, but there was much that she held inside. And like her mother, there was a gentleness and a rightness that shined through to touch all around her.

  Billy watched as Dorothy placed the dishes back in the kitchen cupboard, and said, “You must have things to do this afternoon.”

  She gestured. “Ironing. For Josiah Wiltham. Promised I’d deliver it this afternoon.”

  “I’ll get the irons.”

  Billy added wood to the stove and set the four flatirons on the plates to heat while Dorothy carried an armload of stiff, washed shirts and linens to the kitchen table. While Billy set up the ironing board, Trudy began dipping her hand into a bowl of water and flicking droplets onto the clothing, then rolling the sprinkled garments tightly to mellow. Dorothy waited for ten minutes, shook out the first shirt, reached for the first iron, moistened her fingertips and tapped the face of the iron to check the heat, and the three of them settled into the routine they had followed since Billy could remember. Billy tended the fire in the stove and rotated the irons, taking the cooled iron from his mother and handing her one that was hot in its place. Trudy kept the pile sprinkled and carefully folded and stacked the finished items as Dorothy handed them to her.

  Billy had not expected the feeling of deep satisfaction that quietly emerged as they worked together in the heat of the kitchen, saying little, exchanging glances, watching the clean, finished stack of laundry grow. It was as though chatter would have been a sacrilege. Halfway through the work, Dorothy gestured to Trudy, who picked up the flatiron and shook out a sprinkled shirt while Dorothy dampened the next one. Billy’s eyes widened in surprise as he realized that Trudy was no longer a child. Dorothy had patiently trained her, taught her to do a woman’s work, and he marveled at the skill he saw in her.

  At midafternoon Trudy finished the last tablecloth, folded it, set it on the pile, and turned to Dorothy. “I think we’re finished.”

  Billy nodded. “I’ll get the basket.”

  Ten minutes later the ironed wash was neatly stacked in the Wiltham family’s woven reed basket, with a clean cloth tucked around the top. Billy picked up the basket while Dorothy and Trudy worked with their hair for a moment before they put on their sunbonnets, and the three of them walked four blocks, through the heat and humidity of a summer’s day in Boston, to deliver their work to the home of Josiah Wiltham. Billy was startled but said nothing as Dorothy received her pay—a side of smoked bacon for the root cellar. They were walking homeward on the shady side of the street when Billy spoke.

  “You were paid with bacon?”

  Dorothy nodded. “They have so little money.”

  A twinge of concern rose inside Billy. “Is it usually that way? Trade work for food?”

  “For most of us. The only money is paper, and it’s nearly worthless.”

  “The businesses in town?”

  “The same. No money.”

  Billy opened his mouth to speak once more, then thought of Trudy, and fell silent as they wound through the narrow streets to their home. As they passed through the front gate Billy noticed for the first time that the sea air had pitted and peeled the white paint on the fence. They were in the house before he asked casually, “Any paint for the fence?”

  Dorothy shook her head.

  “Any money to buy some?”

  Again she shook her head.

  Billy read the flash of deep concern, bordering on panic, in his mother’s face as she looked at him, and his breathing slowed as the truth struck home. He had assumed the shortage of hard money was limited to the states and the Continental Congress. Only now did he realize it had reached much further. He felt a grab in the pit of his stomach but said nothing as they entered the house. In the coolness of the parlor he turned to his mother.

  “I haven’t bathed for days. Would it be all right?”

  “Of course.”

  Half an hour later the big wooden bathtub was in the center of the kitchen floor behind sheets that were hung from wires to shield it from the rest of the house, and Billy was pouring heated water from the stove into the tub. For a long time he sat with his knees under his chin, slowly working with the brown bar of strong homemade soap while he forced fearful thoughts to clarify in his mind.

  How many people were without hard money?

  How many businesses?

  How far did the lack of gold and coin reach?

  The sun had set and the supper dishes were finished when he quietly spoke to Dorothy.

  “Could you come to my room for a minute?”

  They left Trudy reading by lamplight in the parlor and made their way to his small room where they sat on his bed. For a time Billy stared at the floor, silent, before he spoke.

  “I didn’t want Trudy to be here for this.” He raised his eyes to Dorothy’s. “Do you have any money?”

  “No. None.”

  “For how long have you lived like this? Trading work to stay alive?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Fifteen months.”

  “Is there any money in Boston at all?”

  Dorothy shook her head. “Paper money. Worthless. I don’t think anyone has real money. Gold or coin.”

  There was a long pause before Billy asked the next question, and Dorothy sensed the intensity in him.

  “How about Potter & Wallace? My old employer. How i
s the counting house getting along?”

  Dorothy dropped her eyes and began working her hands together, slowly. “You knew Cyrus Wallace passed on before you left. Hubert Potter kept the business going until three years ago. Then he began losing big accounts.”

  Billy’s breathing slowed. “Why? How?”

  “His big accounts closed their doors. He lost six or eight two years ago. Another five last year. He had to let his employees go because he couldn’t pay them, and finally he closed the counting house. Potter & Wallace is gone.”

  Slowly Billy straightened. “Where is Hubert Potter?”

  “Passed on. He had a stroke eight months ago. Died the last week in January. I think the loss of his business killed him.”

  Dorothy had not raised her eyes from her hands. Billy went on.

  “Any other businesses closed?”

  Dorothy nodded. “Seems like half the town’s closed. Six or seven of the big shipping lines have closed their offices down at the docks. The little businesses that depended on them are gone. Men everywhere are looking for work. They’ll do anything they can find to stay alive. Farms all around are being taken by the banks.”

  They sat for a long time, Dorothy staring at her hands, Billy looking at the floor, before he spoke again.

  “Do you know if there are bankruptcies?”

  “Too many. Far too many.”

  “I should have known.”

  “How could you? You’ve been gone.”

  He spoke softly. “On the way home, I tried to buy food. Nobody would take the paper money the army gave me. I had to trade my musket to eat. And my bayonet. On the way into town this morning there were fewer farm carts coming in.”

  Dorothy took a deep breath and turned her face to him. “You’re home. Nothing else much matters. I don’t know what we’re going to do about all this, but I know we’ll live through it somehow. We’ll be all right.”