The Promise

by Marti Talbott

  Elizabeth cried out, “War? Here?”

  Matthew noticed the look of alarm on Etta's face. He rushed to her side and put his hand on her shoulder, “There, there, my dear no need to fret, no need at all.”

  “War will not come to Mahala, I will not allow it,” said Uriah.

  “Of course not,” Matthew soothed.

  “Is there another way to rid ourselves of the British?” Alfred wondered aloud.

  Uriah carefully studied Alfred's face, “Do you hate them?”

  “I do indeed,” Alfred answered.

  “I see. Remember this – should we go to war and lose, you will likely see the King's gallows. You would do well to choose another name so they cannot find you after.”

  Matthew returned to his seat, “The Sons of Liberty may start this war, but they will not be the ones to fight it. No, it will be the farmer, the tradesman, the street sweeper, the lamp lighter, and the man who delivers the post. And when that happens, God help us – God help us all.”

  “MISTER CARSON!” ABRAHAM Cook shouted from across the busy street in Richmond. On tip-toe, he watched over the heads of the slow-moving British regiment as the Carson men continued to walk their horses up the hill toward the church. “Mister Carson,” he yelled again, darting across the street behind the last of the troops.

  “Mister Cook,” Uriah said, tipping his hat. “We have missed the pleasure of your company for far too long at Mahala. My wife would be pleased if you would call on us.”

  “Aye, but Mister Carson, there be a Brit General asking after you.”

  Uriah narrowed his eyes, “Where, Mister Cook?”

  Abraham pointed toward the river. “There, the one with his hands bound. They put him on the barge.”

  “Did he give a name?” Uriah asked, trying to spot the man.

  “Cannot say as he did. He was asking for you special though, Mister Uriah. Looked a wee bit wretched, if’n you ask me. All them Brit Generals look a wee bit wretched, if’n you ask me.”

  “Thank you, Mister Cook,” said Uriah, quickly climbing on his horse. He and Caleb watched the last of the regulars board the barge, and then headed down the road beside the river. When they had ridden more than a mile, they dismounted and crouched down on the river bank.

  Caleb waited until the barge drifted past. “Did you recognize him?”

  “I could not see his face. Brother, do you find it odd that the man who sought us in New York was a Major, the one in Charleston was a Lt. Colonel, and this one is a General?”

  “That is odd. I wonder why he was arrested. What do you suppose his crime to be?”

  “I cannot imagine. Nevertheless, he comes too close for comfort.”

  “I ADORE SUMMER IN VIRGINIA,” Mary said, opening the window so the cool breeze could blow through the house. She straightened the rug with her foot and curled up next to Uriah on the settee.

  “And I adore you.” He put his arm around her.

  “Are you very disappointed that we have taken the smaller sitting room?”

  He kissed her forehead, “I am quite surprised we did not think of it sooner. With six daughters, Caleb and Elizabeth need the larger one.”

  “My, but you are friendly this evening. I begin to wonder if you have designs on me, Sir.”

  He lifted her chin and kissed her lips. “Indeed I do.”

  “What has inspired this occasion?”

  “Perhaps, it is because we are rarely alone. There are so many of us now, and I have not spent as much time with you as I would like.”

  Mary leaned her head against his shoulder, “My love, what is it?”

  Uriah closed his eyes, “There is no cause for alarm.”

  “What then?”

  “I was reminded of my father today. When butcher Cumberland passed, I believed I could finally re­solve my hate. But today, I saw a look in my brother’s eyes that reminded me of father, and I was once again furious that Caleb was robbed of knowing him. Caleb approaches...” He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “An express for you, Mrs. Carson,” the maid said, handing her the letter and then quickly leaving.

  “It is from Etta.”

  Boston, 17 June 1775

  My Beloved Carsons,

  In these days of consternation, we cannot be assured you will receive this letter. We must pray you do, for we fear you will get wind of our troubles while hearing nothing of our safety. We are indeed well and by the grace of God, safe – as safe as anyone might be these days in Boston.

  We were awakened by can­non fire. At first, it sounded as if it was di­rected at our very own house, but it was not. A British ship had fired on Breed's Hill across the Charles River.

  Matthew took his leave to tend the wounded and has yet to return, though he did send word. He expects to be detained yet another day or two. Many have died.

  Be assured I will write again soon, if I can that is, if the post has not been stopped.

  Love Etta

  Mary set the letter down and returned to her husband’s arms. “Alfred was right, there will be war.”

  Boston, 10 July 1776

  My Dear Uriah, Caleb, John, and, of course, all the lovely ladies,

  We have declared our independence and have sent demands to the King. We are calling ourselves the United States of America. I rather favor the ­title myself, but I wonder at their presumption that we could get all the Colonies to unite even for this cause. Their complete lack of cooperation has been proven quite often in the past.

  We hear that when the British fired on Fort Sullivan in June, our boys shot the breeches off of Admiral Parker. I would have enjoyed seeing that. The British have denied the report.

  If any good is to come of this separation from England, it is Mister Franklin's efforts to change conditions concerning the perpetual lateness and unreliability of the post. I do hope he is successful.

  Matthew

  Elizabeth tugged at her straw bonnet until it was secure and then tied the ribbons under her chin tightly so the September wind would not blow it away. She jumped a little when she opened the door and found a man standing on Mahala's front porch with his back to her. Tall and slender with short hair, a fresh shave and in clean clothing, the man watched a raft drift down the river, and then turned to knock again.

  “Why Mister Cook, can it truly be you?” Elizabeth asked.

  Abraham quickly lowered his hand. “'Tis truly I, Mrs. Carson.”

  “My but you are quite more handsome with your hair clipped. How kind of you to come to call. Will you come in?” she asked, opening the door wider and stepping back so he could pass.

  “Oh, I couldn't do it, Mrs. Carson.” He strained to peak in as three of Elizabeth's giggling daughters came into the assembly room. “I just come to let it be known, I'll not be seeing the fine Carsons for a piece.”

  “Why is that?” Elizabeth asked, smiling as Abraham spotted the statue.

  “I be...off...to... join the legion.”

  “Which legion?”

  Abraham glared at her. “'Tis a sad day indeed when a lass has to ask such as that of a Scotsman.” He paused, “Well now, I did’n mean to raise me voice, Mrs. Carson. 'Tis not me temper to speak so to a lady, especially one what's been as kind to me as you. I fear I be a bit out of sorts these two days and I'm thinking I'll not be back in 'em any time soon.”

  “But what can be the matter?”

  “Well, now as ye so kindly ask. Until now, I was glad to let them smart breeches up north uphold this war without me meddle'n. But I 'twas on me way home on Monday, mind’n me own business I was, and there they be right in the middle of the road.”

  “Who, Mister cook?” Caleb asked, walking up behind Elizabeth.

  “The Brits. ’Twas a loathsome thing what they done, and it right smartly changed me mind.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Them bloody Redcoats stole me mule, Helen, is what.”

  Elizabeth groaned, “Surely they did not.”


  “They did, I say. There they was, hold'n me aside and relieve'n me Helen of her load. They was spout'n as how they was gonna induct her in their fancy pants war. And they was braggarts too, boast'n how they was gonna whoop us Americans proper. Then off they went afore I had leisure to whisper in Helen's ear.”

  One by one, the members of the Carson family gathered at the front door. “What would you have whispered, Mister Cook?” fifteen-year-old John asked.

  “Well, Sir, I'm a might glad ye asked. I'da told how she should not be so obliging, is what. But, as I wasn't afforded it, that blasted Helen took to the tug on her bridle and went with 'em like she was their'n from the start.”

  Asked Mary, “And Tillie? Did they take her as well?”

  “Not me Tillie, praise be. Tillie be a might smarter and held her wits. Soon as they'd discharged her load, she sat herself down hard and they couldn’t get her up. Are ye having ham this night, Mrs. Carson? Smells right tasty.”

  “Aye, we are,” Uriah answered, climbing the steps behind him, “and I believe it must be near time. Join us. A man cannot go off to war without a proper meal.”

  “Oh please, Mister Cook,” Effie, the youngest of all the twins, giggled, rushing through the front door to grab­ Abraham's hand.

  “There you have it, all the Carson's insist,” Uriah said.

  “Well...” Abraham started, letting Effie tug him inside. “The purpose of...me call'n, Mister Carson,” he went on, staring at the statue...is I’ll not take Tillie with me to war. She be right peppery when it comes to loud noises. I were wonder'n...ah...” His eyes fell on the severed head resting in the curve of the arm. “Lord have mercy, 'tis the Baron! He's gone and turned to a pillar of rock just like the poor man's wife in the Good Book. I knew it! God his self is what's done it. He done shoved the Baron clean through the gates of hell.”

  “Mister Cook, please, the children,” Elizabeth cautioned, glaring at her six giggling daughters.

  “That's not really the Baron,” Effie said, still holding Abraham's hand.

  “Of course it isn’t, my darling. Now run along and tell Hazel Mister Cook will dine with us this evening.”

  “Oh, Mama,” Effie hung her head and slowly walked toward the door. “Go tell Hazel this and go tell Hazel that. That's all I ever do.”

  Uriah tried not to laugh. “Mister Cook, would you like us to care for Tillie while you’re away? We could store your wares and bag­pipes in our barn.”

  “I'm think'n I should take me bagpipes. A Scotsman never knows when a stretch of melancholy might arise, and never have I known a more blissful relief than the pitch of me pipes.”

  BOSTON, 20 FEBRUARY 1777

  Our Dearest Carsons,

  I fear the war does not get on so well as we would like, and we regret we will not have the pleasure of seeing you any time soon. Increasingly, Matthew is called upon to tend the wounded. We have not seen him these three weeks complete.

  Caroline at last received word that Alfred is alive and well. It is our first word of him this year and we are delighted, for the winter has been unusu­ally cold with an abundance of snow. The letter from Alfred was quite stained and dated some months past. Therefore, we have but few details to report. Still, we won’t complain, for he is alive, or was at his writing.

  The fighting, it is reported, has subsided greatly in the New York Colony. But then, did they not say the same in November when the British declared they had won the war? The King has passed an edict forbidding the acceptance of Continental money.

  Perhaps when the war is decided, which surely cannot be much longer, Matthew will be persuaded to take his leisure at Mahala.

  Caroline is quite resigned to being a widow again.

  Love Etta.

  MAHALA, 26 APRIL 1778

  My beloved Hendersons,

  I regret that you have been detained by this dreadful war, and not allowed to attend our ball on the 25th. Shall I tell you of this year’s joke?

  It was presented to me that Mister Dunlop had thought to take a mistress, and his choice of women was understandable, as she is quite beautiful. However, she found Mister Dunlop lacking as a lover, even considering his vastness of wealth, and fretted over rejecting his advances for fear of losing her position as maid to his wife.

  In her assistance, I implored Mrs. Dunlop to lend me her maid to attend my company at the ball. Mister Dunlop was delighted and made an obvious exhibit of flattery toward the maid throughout the night. His wife seemed oblivious.

  The maid, making sure Mister Dunlop observed, slipped into the Music room and closed the door. Naturally, he made his way there and when he reached to take her in his arms, he found instead – me dressed in her clothing.

  His face turned a ghostly white and he began to beg me not to tell my husband. I agreed on the condition that he not renew his advances to the maid, and that he provide for her until she could secure another position. It was a very gratifying joke.

  And yes, Uriah did find out, but not until he caught me still wearing the maid’s clothing and serving our guests.

  I wait impatiently each day for word of you, for I am greatly distressed that you feel the pain of this war so much more acutely than we do in Virginia. We do love you so, and you are constantly in our prayers.

  Mary

  JUNE, 1780

  At nineteen, John Carson was a broad-shouldered man with his mother's fine fea­tures and his father's intimidating dark eyes. When he stood up, as he did now from the bench he shared with Adam Williams in front of the general store on Richmond's busi­est street, his height made him appear to be a tower of a man.

  “And there's another one,” Adam said, getting up to watch a second set of heavily loaded pack mules pass by. With brown hair and brown eyes, the top of Adam's round hat barely reached John's shoulder. “They go to Kentucky, no doubt. Well, I say they can have the place. I hear it has nothing but Indians and no comforts at all. The desire to settle new land is quite without reason, and I'll never go. I intend to stay where the people are more civilized.”

  “Kentucky will be pleased to hear it,” John said, lifting his hat, and running his hand through his dark wavy hair. “That is precisely where we will part company, for I have my heart set on seeing the land beyond the mountains.”

  “Part company? Never! We have been friends since you first set foot in Mahala and our mothers would never hear of such a thing. Besides, I have grown quite fond of you. You are handy at attracting handsome women, you see,” Adam cringed as a child practicing the harpsichord in a house nearby hit another wrong note.

  “It is not I you are fond of. Your heart belongs to Mahala. In fact, I believe you are more fond of my mother than you are of your own.”

  “And that's another thing. Why is it I call your mother Mrs. Carson and you call mine Sarah?”

  John grinned, “Because I would find great discomfort in calling your mother Mrs. Carson.”

  Adam rolled his eyes and turned to watch two ladies walk down the wooden sidewalk toward them. When they came near, he smiled, tipped his hat and moved so they could pass. Both women smiled at John. “Do you know them?” he whispered.

  “No.”

  “I do not wonder, there are so many strangers these days.”

  “Living in Richmond is safer than in Williamsburg now that the British are gaining in the South.” John watched a crowd in front of an Inn on the other side of the street.

  “Why do you think they gather?”

  “We will soon find out.” Just as John stepped off the side­walk, a team of horses pulling a sleek black coach rounded the corner, forcing him to quickly jump back.

  “John, you must be more cautious. Your mother will have me hung if any harm comes to you. It is my duty to keep you safe. Why else would your parents pay my tuition at school?”

  “Because they cannot bear to see you grieve.”

  “There is that, I suppose.”

  John watched the black coach come to a stop in front of a clothier. Th
e driver quickly climbed down and opened the door. Dressed in a plain red frock and an ordinary bonnet, a young woman with dark hair and bright blue eyes stepped down and meticulously straightened her frock. Slowly and deliberately, she lifted her head and looked directly at him. Then she turned to enter the shop. “Have you seen that one before?” he asked, leaning toward Adam.

  “Have I seen which one?”

  “The one in the carriage?”

  “Oh, you mean that ...” Adam began, but a woman's sorrowful scream made him stop to look back at the gathering crowd across the street.

  John glanced both direc­tions before he started across the street again. “More dead, no doubt.”

  Adam hurried to catch up, taking two steps for each of John's long strides, until he stood next to him behind the crowd. “I cannot see, do we know the names?”

  “It is a list of dead from the battle in Charleston. Cal Brinkley is listed.” John continued to read the list over the top of the other heads.

  “Cal Brinkley? But he is only two years older than I. Will this war never end?” Adam moved out of the way of two men pulling the weeping woman away from the crowd.

  “Adam, there is another poster.”

  “No,” Uriah moaned. For a long moment, he looked into his son's eyes. The word hung in the stillness of the study. Then he slowly lowered himself into a chair near the window, rubbed the touch of gray at his temples and closed his eyes. “This cannot be. It is a man's war and you are but a boy.”

  “I am nearly twenty, Father. I am hardly a boy any longer and much younger men than I have been drafted. I can only count myself fortunate this inconvenience did not take place before I completed the term.”

  “How did you learn of it, we have received no word?”

  “My name is posted at the Inn in Richmond. I discovered it this after­noon while we awaited the coach to Mahala.”

  “You cannot go, I will not hear of it.”

  John softly chuckled, “Would you have me hide in the woods until the war is over?”

  “No, I would not have you do that.”