Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Caleb saw it in Matthew, and then in Billy and Adam. He sobered and spoke to Matthew. “Straight. Are we going to lose her? Is it her time?”

  Silence held for a moment. “I think so. Go see her. It’ll be a comfort to her.”

  Caleb stepped back from the counter and drew a leather purse from his coat pocket.

  “There’s the money that’s left.”

  Billy took it as Caleb drew the letter from his inside coat pocket. “And there’s the letter Madison sent. Might want to keep it.”

  He picked up his suitcases. “I’m going home and then I’ll go see mother. Tomorrow I’ll be here and write up a report for Madison. Anything else?”

  Matthew shook his head. “Good to have you back.”

  With a suitcase in each hand and his heavy coat over his shoulder, Caleb walked west to the end of the wharves and piers, hailed a hack, gave directions to the elderly driver with the gentle, tired eyes, loaded the luggage, and took his seat with his thoughts running.

  Mother slipping—asking for me—why would she be asking for me?

  The driver slowed and stopped the hack, gently rocking on its leathers, waited while Caleb set his suitcases on the cobblestones, accepted the coins with a smile and a nod, and gigged the horse to a walk while Caleb opened the gate and walked the stone walkway to the front door of his square, white, two-story brick home. He opened the door, stepped into the parlor, set the luggage and great coat on the hardwood floor, and called, “Barbara? I’m home.”

  For a moment the words echoed faintly through the house, and there was no answer—only a hollow silence. Caleb had started through the house toward the backyard and the root cellar when a premonition struck.

  Mother!

  He spun and trotted out of the house into the street and turned east, hurrying back toward Fruit Street. He held the pace for the four blocks to his mother’s home, pushed through the gate to the front door, and walked into the parlor.

  “Barbara,” he called. He heard the hurried footsteps coming up the hall from the bedrooms, and she came through the archway to throw her arms about him and bury her face in his shoulder while he wrapped his arms about her to hold her.

  “You’re home, you’re home, you’re home”—she repeated it like a chant.

  “I’m here. What’s happened? You’re trembling.”

  She drew back her head to peer up at him. “Your mother. She says she’s been talking to John. She wants to see you. I think she’s going to leave us. She says she needs to go—wants to go.”

  “Is she awake?”

  “Yes. She asked for you again just five minutes ago.”

  Caleb broke from Barbara to lead her down the hall into the master bedroom shared by his mother and father from his earliest memories and walked softly to her bedside. Her face was turned away from him, with her eyes closed and the gray hair brushed and lying on the pillow. The great feather comforter was drawn up to cover her chest, with both arms lying outside, covered to the wrists with her pale blue nightshirt.

  He knelt beside her bed and gently took her aged hand with the large blue veins and the crooked fingers between his. Her eyes opened, clear and direct, and her head turned to face him, smiling warmly.

  “Caleb. You came. I need to talk to you.” Her voice was strong, her thoughts orderly.

  “I’m here, Mother. Listening.”

  “Do you remember the war? The big one?” she asked.

  “I do.”

  “It came at the wrong time for you. You were no longer a little boy like Adam, and you weren’t yet a grown man like Matthew. When I lost John, and Matthew went to the sea with our navy, I didn’t know what you needed. I didn’t know what to do for you. I watched the anger fester inside you because they had taken your father away, but I didn’t know what to do.”

  He gently shushed her. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s past.”

  She went on as though he had not spoken. “Do you remember that you moved away from the Almighty? Refused to pray? Refused to go to church?”

  “I remember, but it doesn’t matter now. That’s all in the past.”

  He felt a tremor in the old, gnarled hand, and he saw her eyes close and her mouth clench tight as she shuddered. He turned to Barbara and spoke with a quiet urgency.

  “Get the family.”

  Barbara turned on her heel and left the room, and he turned back to Margaret.

  “Mother, don’t worry yourself with those things now. Rest. I’m here.”

  Her eyes opened again, and they were clear, focused. “Do you remember the night you left? Tried to get away in the dark? I stopped you at the front door?”

  “I remember.”

  “It was almost more than I could stand. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I could face losing you in war, but I could not face you losing your faith in the Almighty. Can you understand?”

  “I didn’t then. I do now.”

  An intensity came into her face that he had never seen before. “I have talked with John in the past few days. He’s in heaven, waiting for me. Our heaven will not be complete without you. I told John I would not come until I knew in my heart you had returned to God. I can’t go until I know that. I have to hear it from you.”

  He saw the excruciating pain in her face and in that instant understood she had lived with it for thirty-eight years, bearing the soul-destroying torment of believing she had failed him by allowing him to drift from the anchor of her life—her unshakeable conviction that she could be with her family in the presence of the Almighty forever if they would but remain faithful.

  A feeling like none Caleb had ever known rose, choking, filling him. Tears came welling to run down his face. His jaw trembled, and he could not control it, nor could he speak. How could he not have seen what he had done to her? How could he have let her bear the terrible burden of punishing herself for his transgressions?

  He looked into her eyes and knew she was seeing into his soul. He tried to speak, but his voice broke. He started again.

  “Mother, it is wrong to punish yourself. The transgressions were mine. God in heaven knows what you have done for the family—how you’ve given everything. A legion of angels could not have done more.”

  He stopped to swallow hard. “I do not know how to ask your forgiveness. Can you find it in your heart? Forgive me, Mother, for the pain I brought down on you. Forgive me.”

  He choked, then continued.

  “Many times I have been on my knees in the night, seeking forgiveness from on high. God is in His heaven. I believe He has forgiven me.”

  He saw the tears gathering in her eyes and went on.

  “I know He guides the affairs of men. I know He was there during the great war. I can see it now.”

  He cleared his throat and took control of himself. “I give you my oath, Mother. I will never leave the family. Barbara and I and the children.”

  He heard the front door open and the sound of many feet crossing the parlor and coming down the hall, and they came into the room behind him to stand quietly—Matthew, Kathleen, Brigitte, Billy, Adam, Laura, John, Barbara. He laid the old hand back on the comforter and rose to let Matthew take his rightful place beside his mother.

  Matthew took her hand and knelt beside her, and she peered past him to speak, lucid, clear.

  “You all came.”

  Matthew answered, “We’re all here.”

  “John is so proud of you. So proud. You are our treasure. Forever.”

  She peered into Matthew’s face, and a radiance began to rise in her. “Matthew, John is so grateful to you. You were so young when you had to become the head of the family. I could never have lived through it without you.”

  “Don’t concern yourself about it. Rest. You need to rest.”

  She smiled. “I need to go. I couldn’t until I knew Caleb would be with us. John’s waiting.”

  Matthew felt the hand begin to relax, and he saw her eyes turn away to focus above the foot of the bed. A smile formed on
the old, wrinkled face, and the radiance that shone was like nothing any of them had ever seen before.

  She said softly, “John? Oh, John! You’ve come.”

  Every person in the room peered above the foot of the bed, and they could see nothing.

  The old hand went limp, and Matthew felt his mother leave.

  He waited until the radiance had dwindled, and then he reached to close her eyes.

  Notes

  The treaty ending the War of 1812 was signed by representatives from England and the United States on December 24, 1814, in Ghent, Belgium, and is called the Treaty of Ghent. However, it was not ratified by the United States Congress and signed by President Madison until February 16, 1815. Thus the Battle of New Orleans, fought on January 8, 1815, occurred after terms had been reached between the two sovereigns but before they became binding.

  See Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 296–98.

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