by Ron Carter
“Done.”
At fifteen minutes past one o’clock, Eli finished reading the carefully written paper while Strand sat facing him across his desk in his small office.
Eli turned to Billy. “I think it will do.”
Billy concentrated as he read it. “It’s all there.” He turned to Strand. “Do you have a quill?”
At half past one o’clock Billy and Eli walked back out of Strand’s office, onto the black, weathered timbers of the waterfront, and turned west toward the shipping office. Eli raised his voice to be heard over the clamor of the gulls and the sounds of ships and sailors and dockhands.
“I have one more thing to ask of you. Would you write a letter? A big one?”
Billy slowed, puzzled. “To who?”
“George Washington.”
Billy stopped. “General Washington?”
“Yes. There are some things he needs to know.”
“What?”
They pushed through the office door and through the gate to Billy’s desk. Covington watched them, then went on with his paperwork. Eli laid the leather satchel with all the paperwork on the desk.
“Things are happening up in Vermont. Canada. The general should know.”
“What things?”
“Coming down here, I ran onto an old friend named Ormond Sykes. Been in the mountains as long as I can remember. He hears things. He heard the British were gathering the Loyalists up in Canada for an attack on the United States, so he went up into the big lakes country and spent two months on snowshoes to find out. There is no such gathering up there. But he did see that the British have not abandoned all the forts up there like they agreed in the surrender treaty. They’re still up there, and they’re stopping the Americans from entering the rivers and mountains for trading. They’re stirring up the French against us, and doing about all they can to give us trouble. There’s also talk that the State of Vermont is negotiating with the British about becoming one of their Canadian provinces. The Americans up there are getting irritated. Short-tempered. There could be trouble.”
“Vermont? British?”
“Vermont has been in trouble with New York for years over the question of whether New York owns Vermont, or whether Vermont is an independent state. Making a deal with the British would take care of the New York question, but it would make serious problems for the United States. Sykes thought Washington should know, and I promised I’d see that he heard about it. Would you help write a letter?”
“Yes. I’ll need to know more detail.”
“I’ll give it to you.”
“Good.” Billy raised a hand. “You’re coming to supper at my home.”
“I don’t want to interfere.”
“You won’t. Do you need a bed for the night?”
Eli shook his head. “That ship leaves at four in the morning. I’ll take a room at a waterfront tavern. Maybe just sleep on the docks. I’ll be fine.”
“But you’ll have supper with us?”
“I’d like that.”
Eli eased back in his chair. “One last thing. Did you give those letters to the Dunson girl?”
Billy nodded. “Yes. I did. She’s going through them now.”
“She said anything?”
“Not yet. That was the only thing I asked of her. Read them, and talk to me.”
“Does Matthew know?”
“I told him before I told her.”
“What did he say?”
“Give them to her.”
They remained in silence until Billy looked at his watch. “A little before three o’clock. Might be enough time to write that letter you want.”
Eli shrugged. “Got something to write on? And a quill?”
Notes
For support of the disastrous condition of the various states in regard to hard money, border disputes, tariffs, etc., as well as the problems with conflicting claims of states bordering on a common river, see the endnotes for chapter 29.
Boston
Late April 1784
CHAPTER XXXI
* * *
A warm, heavy spring rain came drumming in the quiet hour before dawn to wash Boston town sparkling and set tiny rivulets working their way through the cobblestone streets to the bay. In the black of her room, Margaret Dunson slowly came from the fog of sleep enough to understand the sound, and for a time she lay with her eyes closed, listening in the darkness, letting her thoughts run as they would.
Matthew and Billy in trouble—can’t save their business—Caleb turning his back on the Almighty—how did it happen—what did I do wrong—John John John I need you—Brigitte hurting inside over what to do about Billy—what can I do about it?—nothing—nothing.
She moved and opened her eyes, staring in the darkness.
What do we do if the shipping business is lost—no work for the men—how do we pay for food, taxes—what do we do, what do we do?
Fear rose in her heart and she sat up in bed, wide awake. There are demons in the dark—don’t decide things in the dark—get up and get a light—and do something with your hands.
She struck light to her lamp, put on her robe and slippers, and walked to the parlor with her single, long braid swaying down her back. She raked the banked coals in the fireplace, set shavings and kindling, and pumped the old leather bellows until flames came licking. She glanced at the clock on the mantel—twenty minutes past four o’clock—and was walking toward the kitchen when a quiet sound from behind turned her.
“Caleb. What are you doing up?”
“Rain woke me. Better get some wood in before its soaked.”
“We have more than a cord under the shelter.”
“Not enough if it rains again soon. If it gets too wet it’ll be days getting dry enough to burn. Better do it now while we can.”
Margaret shrugged. “Get a coat on. It’s chilly out there, and you’ll get wet.”
Caleb buttoned on his coat, the kitchen door closed, and Margaret listened for a moment to the sound of kindling sticks being stacked against the back wall before she lighted the kitchen lamp and kindled a fire in the stove. She dipped water from the kitchen bucket into a black iron pot and set it on the stove to heat, then measured out one pint of oatmeal and set it on the cupboard. She was setting bowls and glasses and spoons on the dining table when Caleb walked back in. He took off his muddy shoes and shook his coat before he hung it on its peg.
“You going back to bed for an hour?” Margaret asked.
“Hadn’t thought about it.”
She gestured to the dining table. “Sit down. I need to talk.”
They sat down next to each other, chairs turned until they were facing, and Margaret spoke.
“I’m worried sick about Matthew and Billy. Will they lose the shipping company?”
“They could. Right now no one knows what to expect. Depends on what Matthew says when he gets back.”
“Isn’t he due today?”
“Yes. Or tomorrow.”
“If the news is bad?”
“The bank forecloses. It’s all over.”
The single lamp cast both their faces in sharply contrasting light and shadow.
“Then how do we pay the bills?”
Caleb shook his head. “I don’t know. I know there’s eleven dollars left in the jar, and a little food left in the root cellar. The money and food might get us through the next three weeks if we’re careful. From there, I have no idea.”
Margaret struggled with the panic that rose within. “There’s no work on the docks? Anywhere?”
“None. Good men lined up waiting.”
“What are we going to do?”
Caleb tossed one hand in the air and let it fall, but remained silent. The only sounds were the quiet, steady pelting of the rain and the popping of pine pitch in the fireplace. Margaret began rubbing her hands together, looking at the cracks and the roughness. Her words were nearly a whisper. “I’ve prayed so hard. Every day. So hard.”
Caleb spoke wit
hout looking at her. “What answer?”
She stopped working with her hands, and there was an edge to her voice. “He hasn’t answered yet. But He will!”
Again Caleb did not look at her. “I don’t think I’ll spend much time waiting.”
Margaret dropped her hands into her lap. “Be careful what you say!”
Caleb looked her full in the face. “I was careful when they shot father, but he’s dead all the same. I was careful when Matthew left, but he left anyway. I was careful when I had to kill men, but they’re dead. I stopped being careful, and it didn’t seem to make much difference. The killing went on and on.”
For the first time since his homecoming, he was opening up, and Margaret leaned forward, pleading in her voice.
“Caleb, you were so young! It wasn’t fair! You couldn’t understand.”
Caleb’s voice was rising. “Understand what? Everybody was praying to a God that didn’t care? Didn’t answer? That was eight years ago. I’m not young any more, and I’m still hearing prayers that aren’t being answered. Either he’s not there, or he doesn’t care. And it doesn’t make much difference which it is, because in the end it’s all the same. People die. Starve. Can’t get work. They pray and then make excuses when their god doesn’t answer.”
“He does answer! In His own good time.”
“After all the killing? After father is dead? Explain to me ‘his own good time’!”
Margaret bit down on her flare of anger, but could not hide it, and her words came hot, too loud. “None of us can comprehend the mind of the Almighty! His ways are not those of man.” She caught herself and softened. “Caleb, don’t offend the Creator. We need you. I need you in this house. Adam is talking. He doesn’t know why you will not take your turn in saying grace at the table. Or evening prayers. He’s starting to ask questions. Help him.”
Caleb drew a deep breath. “Would it be better if I left?”
Margaret recoiled. “No! I didn’t say that. I don’t know what we’d do here without you. All I ask is that you do what you’ve always been taught. Respect the Almighty. Take your responsibility. Talk to Adam. Help him.”
Caleb swallowed and took time to order his thoughts. His voice was low, penetrating. “How do I respect an almighty when I do not believe he exists?”
His disbelief struck into Margaret like a knife blade. She blanched white and clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a cry and stared into Caleb’s face, unable to speak. He looked at her steadily, unmoving, unrelenting, and then he rose, and Margaret reached to seize his arm.
“You didn’t mean that! You were taught better. Don’t say such a thing again!”
His eyes dropped for a moment, and he gently touched Margaret’s hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean to cause pain. But I can’t live a lie. I won’t.” He turned and walked toward the archway, then slowed when Brigitte appeared in her robe, hair tied back, arms folded. She walked into the parlor as he passed, and she turned to watch him go, then looked at Margaret.
“I heard you talking. What’s going on?” She saw the pain in her mother’s face.
“Nothing. The rain woke me. He got up to keep the firewood dry.”
Brigitte sat down facing Margaret. “There’s more. Tell me.”
“It’s nothing. He’s not himself. Worried about Matthew and Billy and what will happen if they can’t get things worked out with the ships.”
Brigitte sat back in her chair studying Margaret critically. “What else?”
Margaret shrugged. “Nothing. He’s just not himself.”
Brigitte shook her head. “There’s more. You look terrible.”
“No, that’s all. He just needs time to think.”
“About the business, or about . . . other things?”
“Both.” Margaret drew a long breath. “Well, we’re not going to solve anything for him by sitting here.” She started to rise, then settled back onto her chair. “There is one thing I would like to know. Have you decided about Billy?”
For several seconds Brigitte sat still with the lamplight on the planes of her face. “No. Not finally.”
Margaret leaned forward, and Brigitte could not miss the intense need. “Anything? Have you decided anything?”
Brigitte spoke slowly, ordering her thoughts, selecting her words. “I think I’ve gotten over the shock. I had never thought of Billy that way—a husband. And I think I’ve gotten past his appearance.” She paused for a moment. “That sounds terrible. I don’t mean Billy’s ugly. I never really thought about how he looked. He was always just Billy. I know that appearance means something, but there are so many other things in a person that mean so much more. And I’m starting to see many of them in him. Maybe most of them.”
Margaret’s heart was pounding. “You’re growing up!”
“I don’t know about that. I only know that I have to get through this, and soon. No matter how it all turns out, I owe him that.”
The quiet sound of boiling water came from the twilight in the kitchen, and Margaret stood. “Water for the oatmeal. I’ll be right back.” Quickly she strode into the kitchen, stirred the measured oatmeal and a little salt into the boiling water, put the lid on the pot, and moved it off the hot plate. She spoke as she walked back to the dining table.
“Have you said anything to him?”
“No.”
“Has he asked?”
Brigitte shook her head.
“He’s a remarkable man. He lost his father at the worst time. I don’t know how Dorothy did it, raising him alone.”
“I know. I’ve thought the same thing.”
“I know right now both Billy and Matthew are worried sick about their business. If something good doesn’t happen soon it will be gone.”
“I know.”
“How will we all pay our bills?”
Brigitte looked her in the eye. “I’ll have a little money from my schoolteaching, but it won’t be enough. I’m scared.”
“Try not to frighten Adam and Prissy about it. They’re still too young.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you go back to bed for a while? I’ll get breakfast ready.”
“I can’t sleep. I’ll help. Oatmeal and what?”
“If the rain lets up enough I’ll get some dried apple slices from the root cellar.”
“I’ll get them. You know, the cellar’s emptying fast.”
“Too fast. I’ll go down today and take a count of everything.”
A strange feeling came stealing over the two of them as they sat in their robes in the predawn hour with the sound of the rain and of the fire in the fireplace, and the warmth spreading through the room. It was as though the steady sound on the roof, and the oddness of the hour, and the play of shadow in the room were drawing thoughts and reflections that needed to flow just as they were, open, without restraint.
Margaret said quietly, “How are Kathleen and the baby?”
“Good. Kathleen’s frightened. Just like all of us. But she won’t let it show.”
Margaret shook her head. “That poor child. Think of what she had to go through eight years ago. Father a traitor. Banished. Never seen him since. Mother unbalanced. Died in England. Buried there. Kathleen had to grow up too quickly. Too quickly.”
“She’s done it. Beautifully.”
Margaret’s thoughts were coming at random. “Adam and Prissy will be out of school next year. I wonder what’s ahead for them.”
“Maybe college?”
“How do we pay for it?”
“I don’t know. Caleb never got his chance.”
Margaret lowered her voice. “I’m sick about Caleb.”
Brigitte answered. “So am I. Adam’s starting to ask.”
“I know he is.” Margaret paused for a moment. “That’s what Caleb and I were talking about when you came in.”
“I thought so. He seems to be drifting.”
“Lost. Can’t find his way back.”
Brigitte waited for a moment. �
��I wish father were here to talk to him.”
Margaret bowed her head. “Sometimes I miss John so much.”
Brigitte reached to touch Margaret’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
“No need. I’m all right.”
Brigitte said, “You talked to Prissy. About Billy.”
“Yes. She saw you put Richard’s things away—from off your dresser.”
“She told me. She told me what you said. It helped. Why didn’t you say it to me?”
There was a pause before Margaret answered. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought you should make up your own mind about Billy. It’s so hard to know what to say—what to do—sometimes. I’ve made so many mistakes.”
“Not many. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She ran her hand over the worn wood of the tabletop. Without looking up, she asked, “Mother, do you think I should marry Billy?”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m a lot like you. Billy was always just Billy, until he brought those letters to you. Some mornings I wake up, and I still can’t see him other than part of the family, and I have to start all over again. I wish I knew the answer. I’d tell you if I did.”
“Prissy’s turning out to be special.”
“She’s grown up before her time.”
“Not like me. I was too headstrong.”
“You learned. You got past it.”
“I put Richard’s things away, and it felt as though part of me would die. But it didn’t. He’s gone. Time to move on.”
“He’ll always be in your heart, but that doesn’t mean you have to stop living. The day Tom Sievers brought your father home . . .”
A softness came into Brigitte’s voice. “I don’t know how you did it.”
Margaret heaved a great sigh and glanced at the window. The curtain had changed from black to the deepest gray. “Well,” she said with brusque finality, “the rain hasn’t stopped, but the day is just around the corner. Sunrise won’t wait. Get a coat on and fetch the dried apples and some butter and milk. I’ll get the bread and jam. We’ve got mouths to feed.”
Notes
The events and characters depicted in this chapter are fictional.
Boston
Late April 1784
CHAPTER XXXII