Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  Tredwell slowly straightened. “We liked your letter. Things over at Springfield is worse than what I can tell you. We come to find out if you are serious enough about all this to come see for yourself. All I can say is, someone better come soon or there’s going to be shootin’. Killin’.”

  Billy stood and came to the counter to stand beside Matthew, but said nothing as Matthew answered.

  “I can’t come. We’ve got six ships carrying cargo, and Billy and I have to be here, at least through the winter.”

  A look of contempt crossed Tredwell’s face. “Thanks for your time.” He started to turn when Matthew spoke, and he stopped.

  “Caleb is in charge of the Boston Committee of Correspondence. He’s had newspaper experience, and he wrote regimental journals for the army. He’s qualified.” Matthew turned to Caleb, still standing at the end of the counter, sleeves rolled up, a badly spotted printer’s apron tied around his waist, hands speckled with printer’s ink, and the rag on the counter in front of him.

  “Can you go with these men?”

  Caleb considered. “For how long?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “Starting when?”

  “Now.”

  Caleb looked at Tredwell. “I’ll come.”

  Tredwell turned startled eyes to Matthew. “We can’t pay.”

  “I know that,” Caleb answered.

  “You’ll come anyway?”

  “When do you want to leave?”

  Tredwell looked at Hosea, then Thomas. “We can still make fifteen, twenty miles today.”

  Caleb reached back to untie his apron. “I’ll need to go home to get some clothes and things.”

  One hour later Caleb strode up to wagon where the four men sat waiting. He dropped his bedroll inside, then carefully laid his Deckhard rifle beside it, wrapped and tied in canvas. “I’ll be a few minutes inside,” he said, and entered the office. Both Matthew and Billy rose from their desks to meet him.

  “Ready?” Matthew asked.

  “I’ll need a little money to pay my way. I can’t take food from their families. And some paper and a pencil.”

  “How much money?”

  Caleb shrugged. “Fifty, sixty pounds.”

  Billy turned quizzical eyes. “That much? For what?”

  “Maybe buy two oxen. Maybe save a farm. You can hold it out of my wages.”

  Matthew nodded, Billy counted out the silver, and Caleb put it into his leather purse and dropped it into his coat pocket as he spoke to Matthew.

  “I told Mother I’ll be gone three weeks or more. Might want to look in on her once in a while.”

  Matthew handed him several sheets of folded paper and a lead pencil.

  “Come back as soon as you can. Did I see you put your rifle in the wagon?”

  Caleb nodded as he slipped the paper and pencil into his inside coat pocket. “You did.”

  “That worries me. Don’t start trouble.”

  “I won’t.”

  Matthew pointed a finger. “You be careful.”

  “Always.” Caleb’s reckless grin flitted and was gone. He turned and walked out the door into the brilliant fall sunlight and effortlessly vaulted into the wagon bed. Tredwell slapped the reins on the rumps of the horses, clucked, and they moved with their huge, caulked iron shoes thumping on the black timbers of the docks, then throwing sparks as they clanged on the worn cobblestones. Tredwell hauled back with his right hand, and the wagon turned west, down the waterfront, to the street leading to the Neck that connects Boston Peninsula to the mainland. The horses and the heavy farmwagon rumbling through the streets slowed traffic until the homes and buildings thinned and they passed through the narrow land passage and were on a dirt road that wound through the spectacular beauty of a Massachusetts forest bedecked in full fall colors.

  They nooned with the sun just past its zenith, in a stand of oak and maples, near a small, clear stream, and unhooked the traces to let the horses graze in their harnesses before they hooked them back up and jolted on in the springless wagon. They spoke little, in the way of men who life had trained to value results, not talk. As the sun continued its westward journey, each of the four men glanced at the canvas-wrapped rifle, then at Caleb, but said nothing.

  Purple dusk had fallen before Tredwell reined the wagon off the road into a small clearing and pulled the horses to a stop twenty feet from a brook. Frogs in the cattails and bogs had begun their evening chorus as the horses were unhitched, unharnessed, hobbled, and set to grazing. The campfire was burning, and overhead, nighthawks were performing their magic, gathering insects, when the men finished their meal of fried pork belly and potatoes. The moon was rising when they went to their blankets.

  Sunrise found them eight miles further west, chewing jerked beef and dried apple slices as they moved steadily on, saying little, thinking much. Midmorning they slowed at the sight of an approaching man and a woman in dusty, threadbare clothing, pulling a cart loaded with family belongings and blankets and a little food. Beside the wagon walked a barefooted, husky boy, carrying a toddler strapped on his back, and behind the wagon trudged a young, slender girl with tear streaks down her dusty cheeks. They were moving east, and as they passed the wagon, none of them raised their faces nor called a greeting. Their eyes were downcast, and discouragement was plain in their faces. No one in the wagon spoke as they passed them in the road, but Caleb saw the set of Tredwell’s jaw and the anger in his face as the wagon moved on.

  Half an hour passed before Caleb asked, “Recognize them?”

  Tredwell shook his head. “No. But I know them. Them, and a hundred more just like them. Worked all their lives on some small farm somewhere west of us, or maybe north. The man served in the army. Borrowed money to farm when he got home. Can’t pay it. Lost everything. Everything. No place to go. He’s headed for Boston, or maybe New Bedford. Thinks he might find work. He won’t.”

  Caleb glanced at Hosea, then the others, and there was outrage in them, and they refused to meet his eyes. He settled back into his place in the wagon and remained silent as it rumbled west on the rutted road.

  It was midafternoon of the second day that Tredwell slowed the wagon and pointed. Fifty yards south of the road, in grass and spring flowers, was a makeshift lean-to of canvas slung over freshly cut pine poles. Inside, away from the sun, a bearded man was crouched beside someone lying on a blanket spread over pine boughs. Nearby a barefooted girl just reaching maturity, wearing an ancient, patched dress that was far too large for her, struggled with a dirty-faced, wailing child scarcely able to walk, and three other young children who were dirty, barefooted, distraught, defiant. Their tattered clothing was soiled, their hair unkempt.

  Tredwell came back on the reins and the wagon stopped. Without a word the five men climbed down and walked toward the lean-to. They were ten yards away when they heard the cry of a newborn. The bearded man beneath the lean-to turned to look, then stood and came to face them. His eyes were blazing, face red, neck veins extended.

  “You got it all,” he exclaimed. “What have you come for now?” His arm raised and swung to point. “My wife? Children? The newborn?”

  Tredwell raised a hand. “We aren’t the sheriff or the law. We’re from Springfield and headed home. Looked like you had trouble.”

  The man’s face fell. “I’m beggin’ your pardon for my bad manners.”

  Tredwell ignored it. “Sheriff sold your farm for debts?”

  “Yesterday. Took all we had except what you see.”

  “You serve in the army?”

  “Three years.”

  “The debt—was it to start farming again?”

  “Seed.”

  Tredwell clenched and relaxed his jaw. “You have a newborn? When?”

  “Last night. Nettie—my daughter over there—helped. Hard birth. Took somethin’ out of all of us. Things is gone wrong with Sophronia, my wife. Bad. The pain won’t go away. She’s tried to nurse the new one but it’s hard when the pain comes. W
e don’t know what to do.” There was pleading in his eyes.

  “What’s your name?” Tredwell asked.

  “Asel Harriman.”

  “Can we take a look?”

  Harriman stepped aside, and Tredwell approached the lean-to, Caleb beside him. They dropped to their haunches beside the moaning woman who lay holding her baby to her breast. The wrinkled, red-faced infant was wrapped in a scrap of blanket, wailing, tears running. The woman’s hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat, and her eyes were clenched and her mouth clamped shut with pain. Caleb reached to gently lay his hand on the forehead of the writhing baby, and it was hot, fevered. He looked at Tredwell, and the two rose to their feet.

  Tredwell asked Harriman, “You got any family nearby?”

  Harriman shook his head. “Nearest is Northampton. A cousin. He’s got trouble too.”

  Caleb gave Tredwell a head-signal and walked five yards toward the wagon where the two stopped, and Caleb spoke in a low voice.

  “They’re both going to die if we don’t get help. How far is Northampton?”

  Tredwell answered, “Four, five days. Too far.”

  “How far to the nearest town?”

  Tredwell gestured north. “Framingham. Maybe eight, ten miles.”

  “A doctor?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it.”

  “Any other towns?”

  “Not near.”

  “I’ll need one of your horses.”

  “You going for help?”

  “Yes. Get this family busy. Get a cook fire started and heat a kettle of water. Put whatever you can find into it for a meal. Get a rag and some cold water in a pan and have Harriman keep that baby cool. I don’t know what to do for the mother. I’ll get back as soon as I can with whatever help I can find.”

  Caleb trotted back to the wagon, vaulted into the box, seized the reins, and gigged the horses into a trot to within twenty yards of the lean-to, and pulled them to a stop. He dropped to the ground and unwrapped his rifle, then unharnessed the nearest horse, except for the halter. He mounted her bareback and with the coiled reins in one hand and his rifle in the other, he kicked her into a shambling lope, with her huge hooves kicking dirt and dust at every stride.

  Tredwell watched him out of sight, then turned back to the lean-to and gave orders. With the sun steadily moving west, the campsite began to take shape. A cook fire was built while Harriman led Tredwell to his old, spavined horse, hidden behind a thicket of scrub oak, next to his wagon, which had a cracked rear axle. Inside were clothing and four blankets and a few cooking utensils they had grabbed before the sheriff could get them. They dug out a smoke-blackened, dented kettle, filled it with water from a stream, and hung it above the fire. Nettie got a piece of torn rag and a canteen of water and bathed the fevered baby. Four withered potatoes with sprouts were rummaged and cut and stirred into the steaming water along with jerked beef strips and dried apple slices from Tredwell’s wagon.

  With the sun touching the western hills, Tredwell turned anxious eyes north, watching for movement that would be Caleb. The last golden rays of the daylight were fading before a buggy drawn by a sweated bay gelding came cantering east on the road with Caleb at the reins, a man beside him and two women riding in the seat behind, with Tredwell’s tired mare tied behind, sides heaving as she labored to keep up. Caleb reined the bay off the road and pulled it to a halt near Tredwell’s wagon. He dropped to the ground and helped the women down, then led them to the lean-to with the man following. Without a word one woman knelt beside Sophronia to touch her forehead while the other took the baby in her arms. The baby was still weakly crying, but there were no tears.

  “Why,” exclaimed the woman, “this child has no moisture left in its body! It will die!”

  She stood and walked back to the buggy where she sat on a seat, turned her back to those at the lean-to, worked with the buttons on her dress, and within seconds the famished baby was nursing desperately.

  Back at the lean-to, in deepening dusk, the second woman was on her knees beside Sophronia, who lay on her side, knees drawn up in pain, moaning, eyes closed. The woman straightened the legs and turned her on her back, then spread her hand on Sophronia’s stomach and pushed. The groan could be heard for fifty yards. The woman reached for the pan of cool water and the rag, and began bathing Sophronia’s face, talking to her gently.

  “Can you hear me? Can you talk to me?”

  Sophronia turned on her side and drew her knees up to her chest, moaning, and did not answer. The woman continued with the rag and cool water.

  Caleb spoke to Tredwell, loud enough for all to hear.

  “There’s no doctor in Framingham. This is the Reverend Christopher Byland and his wife Druscilla. She’s been a midwife for twenty-five years. The woman with the baby is an afternurse. Her name is Phyllis Earl. It’s the best I could do.”

  Druscilla Byland turned to Harriman, and there was strain on her face and in her voice. “Did she deliver the afterbirth?”

  Asel looked at his daughter. “Did she, Nettie?”

  Nettie’s chin quivered, near tears. “What’s afterbirth?”

  Druscilla cut her off. “You’d know if she did. It means it’s still inside. We have to get it out.” She drew a deep breath and gave curt orders. “Get some sheeting, or a shirt, or something. Hot water. Two or three blankets. Butter or lard if you have any. A box or a piece of tarp I can throw away. And get some light over here. Now!”

  Within two minutes everything she asked for was beside her, except lard or butter; there was none.

  She spoke sharply. “Nettie, I’ll need you, and child, you’ll have to be brave. You can’t cry. Just watch me and listen and do what I tell you. We might save your mother if you’ll do that. Will you do it?”

  Nettie swallowed her fear and nodded her head.

  Druscilla looked at Tredwell. “Take the men and children away from here and don’t come back until I say, no matter what.”

  The men turned, gathered the frightened children, and without a word followed Tredwell south, into the darkness, away from the lean-to.

  Druscilla went on. “Nettie, you get down on your knees on the other side of your mother and help me turn her on her back and get her legs up. You’ve got to hold her down if she fights. Then we’ve got to get her clothes off clear to her waist.” She moved the single lantern to her side, and the light cast large, misshapen shadows on the inside of the lean-to.

  “All right, Nettie. We’re going to turn her.”

  They took hold of the arms and legs and when Druscilla nodded, they rolled Sophronia on her back. The groan brought the horses’ heads around, eyes blood-red in the yellow lantern light. Quickly they drew the clothing from Sophronia, and Druscilla plunged her right hand into the hot water as she spoke to Nettie. “Now we’re going to hold her legs and I’m going to have to push my hand right up inside your mother. I have to get the afterbirth out. The afterbirth is the placenta and the sac the baby was in before it was born. It should have come out right after the baby, but it didn’t. Do you understand?”

  Nettie swallowed hard. “Your hand? Inside?”

  “Yes. Inside. It’s going to frighten you. You have to be brave. Are you ready?”

  “I don’t know if I—”

  “You can because you must, child. Now get hold of yourself.”

  She folded her fingers together and drew her hand from the hot water dripping, and steadily inserted it, eyes closed as she concentrated on everything she was feeling.

  “I’ve got it!”

  She withdrew her hand, and the afterbirth came with a rush. Nettie gasped but held her mother’s leg. Almost instantly Sophronia relaxed and slumped, and the heartrending sounds of her pain stopped.

  Druscilla wrapped it in the ragged piece of canvas tarp and set it in the dirt behind her. She washed Sophronia clean, then washed and dried her own hands.

  “Now we’ve got to close the loin,” Druscilla said, and Nettie looked at her in question.
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  “That means bandage her and wrap her tight.”

  With Nettie helping, Druscilla lifted Sophronia enough to pull the bloody blanket from beneath, and work a fresh one in its place, then settled the moaning woman onto it. With Druscilla guiding, they wrapped the midsection tight, then straightened her clothing and covered her with the second blanket. Sophronia turned quietly on her side, eyes closed, and her breathing deepened as she drifted into exhausted, peaceful sleep. Druscilla touched her face, then her forehead, then leaned close to speak to her.

  “Can you hear me?”

  The only response was the sound of slow, deep breathing.

  Druscilla looked at Nettie, who was still on her knees, face white, eyes glassy with shock at what she had witnessed.

  “Wash your hands, child,” Druscilla said. “We’ve done all we can for now. If she doesn’t get infection, she should be all right. That is in the hands of the Almighty. You did well. I’ll be sure your mother knows.”

  Without a word Nettie washed and dried her hands, then stood and walked away to stand and stare into the darkness while her young mind struggled with things far beyond her maturity.

  Druscilla called to the men, “You can come back now,” and they came with the children to stand at the fire, waiting.

  “We’ve done all we can. Her pain is gone and she’s sleeping.” She pointed. “One of you take that piece of tarp and what’s in it, and bury it deep, far from here. It will draw foxes and panthers if you don’t. This woman has lost far too much blood. She’s going to need a thick broth of meat and fat when she wakes. She doesn’t belong out here in a lean-to. She needs a bed, and someone to watch.” She turned to her husband, waiting, and the Reverend Christopher Byland spoke.

  “We don’t have much, but we do have an extra bed in our cabin. She can come there. We can make beds in fresh straw in the barn for the rest of you.”

  The moon was rising over the eastern mountains when the reverend gigged his horses to a walk and led the way back to the road, a dull line winding through the black woods. The sleeping woman lay in Tredwell’s springless wagon, propped on everything they had to soften the jolting. Harriman’s wagon followed, with all the children sitting wide-eyed and silent as they slowly moved south through dark forests, listening to the sounds of the night. Midnight found them pulling rein on the horses in a small clearing just over half a mile from the tiny, darkened village of Framingham in eastern Massachusetts, where a small log cabin waited with dark windows. By one o’clock Sophronia lay slumbering on a small cot with a woven rope bottom and a great bag of dried corn husks for a mattress, jammed in one corner of the kitchen, while Harriman and his family and the four men with Tredwell spread blankets on fresh straw in the barn. Caleb stood his rifle in one corner, then walked back out the barn door, to the cabin. The reverend answered his soft rap.