Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series Book 2)

by Jodi Daynard

  My father did not return to the house immediately, but first went round to the stables. Papa owned several muskets and must have decided that the threat of his own slaves turning against us was less great than the British menace, for he armed our old coachman and our young stableboy Juno. Three other young Negro men Papa welcomed into our home.

  “Cassie! Make up the beds!” he called. Cassie approached Papa, who stood in the hallway by the kitchen.

  “Sir,” said Cassie. “What beds do I make, sir? We have only Master Jeb’s and dose of de girls.”

  I knew Cassie’s concern: Was my father actually requesting that she make up the family beds for our slaves?

  “Yes,” he replied. “We have ’em, let’s use ’em! By God, I’ll not stand on ceremony now.”

  Slaves in the family beds! I never imagined I would see such a thing. Cassie made up the beds with the family’s fine linens and bolsters. Of course, Cassie bathed the boys first and gave them clean nightshirts to wear—she was having none of that stable filth in the house. I happened to enter the kitchen at an inopportune moment and caught a glimpse of two slick, black bodies, heads bent down, knees up, in two tin tubs, like steaming puddings.

  That night, my mother insisted that I sleep in their chamber. Though I could not step abroad without quaking, I felt no fear of our stableboys.

  “I am hardly worth hanging for, Mama,” I sighed, staring with dismay at the narrow sliver of bed next to Mama.

  But Mama, who was sitting up with her nightcap on, was not to be gainsaid. “Some of our citizens have lost all compunction about committing hanging offenses,” she fretted.

  “It’s well they’re not citizens, then.”

  “Shhh! I sleep!” Papa complained.

  I slept restlessly for several hours until Mama sat bolt upright, eager to make certain that the tall chest we had shoved against the chamber door had not budged.

  We survived the night unmolested, but the news that reached us in the morning unsettled us all. Men were fighting and dying in Lexington. We knew not how many Rebels had been killed but heard that eighty regulars had perished.

  At last, the worst had happened: War had come. On April 20, thousands of men descended upon Cambridge to camp on the Common. From them, my father learned that Rebels had taken possession of Roxbury. Men we knew had died. But I don’t think we truly believed we were at war until the following day, when the wounded began arriving in wagons, and neighbors began to fashion makeshift hospitals in their homes.

  Lizzie wrote to us at once, begging that we do the same, but Mama would not hear of it.

  “And invite smallpox and all manner of disease within? Certainly not.”

  My heart went out to our brave militia, and my impulse was to help them. Yet, unlike Lizzie, I should not have known where to begin, even had Mama allowed it. I had never tended the sick, or dressed the wounded. I imagined I would faint at the sight of their blood.

  Every day, my parents spoke of leaving; every day, I wished even more that we would stay, that I might pluck up my courage and help those boys. Then, on the nineteenth of May, a messenger came to our door with the news we had so dreaded: Jeb was in Cambridge. He had arrived at Colonel Prescott’s regiment the night before and would find a way to visit us that afternoon. Meanwhile, we heard from another source that twelve thousand Rebels surrounded Boston, essentially making prisoners of all those within.

  Jeb did not visit that afternoon, or the next, but let us fret and pace until I determined to set out to find him. Then, late that Friday, just as we had sat down to a dish of tea and stale biscuit, I espied him through the wavering windowpanes, musket and canteen across his back, loping happily up our walkway. He seemed older than I remembered, more manly. His fair hair, loosely plaited, had been tied with a linen string. Oh, he was a welcome sight!

  “Mama! Papa! It’s Jeb!” I called.

  We all ran out to meet him, even Cassie. Jeb lifted Cassie off the ground as he embraced her. “Oh, I’m surprisingly glad to see you all.”

  “Jeb, where have you been?” I scolded him. “We waited and waited.”

  “We’ve been camped in Cambridge, but I’ve been loath to come. Smallpox has broken out among the men, and you’ve not been inoculated.”

  “Nor have you,” I reminded him. But he shrugged this comment off, adding, “Our boys are at a fever pitch and are ready to fight.”

  “Oh, do not talk about war!” our mother cried.

  “But tell us,” I said, grasping my dear brother’s hand, “tell us all about married life. For if Mama is right, I shall never know those joys myself.”

  “Eliza, it is the most marvelous thing.” He sat down there on the stoop and gazed toward the river. All the trees were in pale-green bud, and the stalwart daffodils had pushed their way up through the hard dirt. Everywhere in nature, life was ready to burst forth. “More marvelous than anything—we are wildly happy. Half our days are spent laughing, and the other half—”

  I nudged Jeb just as Papa raised his eyebrows.

  “I was only going to say that the other half is spent figuring out this farming business. Sister, our failures at farming send us into peals of laughter. But Eliza—you must come to see our farm. It is so lovely. The ocean is just there, beyond our window.” Here, Jeb waved one hand out to our own gentle Charles, as if his mind’s eye saw a vast coastline. “We have all manner of birds and sea creatures. And we can even make out the ships in Boston, and the North Church spire. The Quincys are very kind, and we have now finally met all the Adamses—”

  “No Adamses, no Quincys,” our father waved away the unsavory drift of the conversation.

  “Very well, Papa. I have only to say that they have been most amiable.”

  “And Elizabeth, she is well?” I inquired. It pained me for Jeb that Mama had not asked after Lizzie, though it gave me little pleasure myself to do so. Each time I heard of Lizzie nursing the wounded, or digging a field, or delivering a child, a strange, sinking feeling invaded me.

  “Oh, yes,” Jeb grinned. “Marvelously well.” Jeb looked as if he would be happy to elaborate, but I grunted an acknowledgment and said, “Come, let us go in. Cassie. Make us some tea.” She nodded and left us. Mama and Papa followed her.

  “Oh, my Lizzie!” said Jeb once they were gone. “A finer woman could not be found. She is perfect, my dearest friend. If only you knew.”

  I could not contain myself a moment longer.

  “Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!” I cried bitterly, and burst into tears.

  “But Eliza, what on earth’s the matter? I thought you liked her.”

  “I do like her—well enough.”

  Jeb embraced me warmly. “You poor, poor dear. You’re depressed. I knew it when I first beheld you, so tired and pale. Are you very unhappy?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I would not burden my brother with my misery.” A little lonely without you, perhaps.

  “What word have you of the invasion?” I changed the subject. “What is it they say? Oh, it would be so good if they all returned to their ships and the sea.”

  “No,” Jeb shook his head. “We’ve put the day off long enough. It must come. I, for one, am ready.”

  “I shall never be ready for the day you put yourself in harm’s way.”

  Jeb turned to me as he moved toward the door, eager to be off. “Promise me one thing,” he said. He took my hands.

  “What is it?”

  “Promise me you will get to know my Lizzie. It is my particular wish, Eliza.”

  Jeb’s request surprised me, but I said at once, “I will. Of course.”

  I had little to offer Jeb, but on an impulse I removed one of my gloves. I kissed it and gave it to him. “They say objects can have magical powers. I pray this one does.”

  “I shall keep it close, Eliza. As I will your loving spirit.”

  I hugged and kissed him tenderly. He soon bade Mama and Papa good-bye. I watched him jog off down our path, his golden plait dancing be
hind him.

  13

  THURSDAY, JUNE 15, 1775. THOSE FAMILIES THAT had not already fled did so now, and our own family began to prepare for departure. We would remove to my Uncle Robert’s house. Uncle Robert, my mother’s brother, was a wealthy widower who lived in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Mama told me that they had procured some crates, which would be delivered on Saturday.

  “I shan’t leave Jeb,” I said.

  Mama replied coldly, “Jeb has left us.”

  I said nothing, but a wild thought occurred to me: that I might decamp for Braintree and stay with my sister-in-law. But it was a thought I quickly discarded, for what might my flight serve but to hold her back?

  The Ruggles family was leaving the following day, and Louisa came to say good-bye. I had entirely forgotten to return her shoes after the Inman party, and she had not requested them. Now, when I went to retrieve them, the very sight of them filled me with disgust.

  “Thank you for loaning these to me,” I said. “I apologize for having kept them so long.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Louisa smiled. There followed an awkward silence. Things unspoken hung heavy between us. I asked Louisa did she wish to sit, but she said that her family’s departure was imminent. She had but a few moments to spare.

  “It seems everyone is leaving. I’m surprised your family remains.”

  “We stay for Jeb.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Papa says that anyone who remains now deserves his fate.”

  “Does he?”

  “Well,” she continued, oblivious to my stiffening posture, “everyone we know has departed. The Olivers, the Royalls, the Brattles. Why, just last week I was grieved to learn that Mr. Hutchinson has already departed for England.”

  I stared at her. “You know him?”

  A look of pleasure spread across her soft face. “Oh, yes. I have twice enjoyed his company this year. His hazel eyes I shan’t soon forget. And he is so very charming. Do you not think so? But, oh—perhaps you’ve not met him.”

  I now found myself in some danger of revealing what I knew, and was held back only by the conviction that Louisa would sooner blame than comfort me. However, I felt an urge to speak at least a partial truth:

  “Louisa, Mr. Hutchinson is not who you imagine him to be. I’m glad he has departed.”

  “Glad—Mr. Hutchinson? Why say you such a thing?”

  “I dare not reveal my reasons. But you may trust my good word.”

  “Well, Eliza,” she stared at me, as distant in spirit as she soon would be in miles. “I wished to end as friends, since we are parting, perhaps forever. But I must say, our friends were all very shocked that you rejected Mr. Inman. Some of our friends even began to whisper that—that you would wind up an old maid.” Here, her plump little nose turned up to confirm her courage in telling me the truth.

  At this, I let out a shrill laugh. “Old maid? I’m glad you think so. I’ve known precious few men, Louisa, and I care for none besides my Jeb. As for women,” I looked pointedly at her, “I find myself less inclined to like them, either.”

  “Oh, Eliza!” she cried. “I take my leave of you.”

  “There is nothing I would more willingly part withal,” I said, stealing a favorite line from the Bard.

  Once Louisa had left, I thought, Yes, I am very glad she is gone from our midst.

  Saturday, June 17, 1775. The morning sun blazed through my chamber windowpanes; it would soon be very hot. I emerged from my room to find several large crates in the hallway.

  When I descended the stairs, I found yet more crates. Our stableboys were in the house once more, their rough hands rolling our fragile china in kitchen cloths. They then stripped our beds of their linens and coverlets; these would be used to wrap fragile items as well. Mama and Cassie moved from chamber to chamber, gathering up as much as the crates would hold. Those items we could carry would go in our trunks; the rest we would store out of sight in the cellar, in hopes they would remain unmolested while we were gone.

  In the dining room, I took a dish of tea from the sideboard.

  “Out of the fat, into the fire,” Papa said. “Portsmouth shall have no more food, and no more love for us, than Cambridge does.”

  “But what of Jeb?” I insisted.

  “Your brother’s a fool,” Papa replied. “But, as he’s chosen his path, so must we choose ours.”

  I turned my back upon Papa and moved out of doors. There, heedless of the bilious yellow blanket of pollen that covered our steps, I sat myself down. Not eight in the morning, and the air already felt too heavy to breathe. The trees swayed with a slight breeze, shaking more pollen dust down upon me and everything beneath them.

  Small boats upon the river sailed languidly by, and a couple or two strolled the road, heading toward the village. A child darted in front of us, chasing after a red ball that gathered speed and bounced across the street, toward the river. He laughed and shouted to some friend, unseen by me. These simple, natural sights might once have gladdened my heart, but they did no such thing now.

  I soon moved off toward our apple orchard. As I perched on a stool and was watching the robins peck the grass, I heard the first cannon. I stood and ran inside, through the kitchen door and into the parlor, where I found my father, mother, and the three stableboys huddled together. At their feet a vase lay shattered. It seemed the shock of hearing cannon had made one of the boys lose his grip upon it.

  “Cassie!” Mama called. Cassie came and picked up the shards and swept the porcelain dust that had flown across the floor. But when she finished, she remained in the parlor with us. Mama did not object. Papa then went into the foyer and grabbed the musket by the front door. He said he was going to town for news.

  Papa was gone a long time—an eternity. When he finally arrived back at the house, his countenance was grim. “Howe and Clinton lead the attack upon Breed’s Hill. The Rebels have run out of ammunition. Reinforcements stand at Charleston Neck but will go no farther. It is said—”

  “Enough!” Mama put her hands over her ears, then balled them into fists and squeezed her eyes shut. “I shall hear no more. No more!” She fled the parlor, leaving us to await further news.

  We waited in silence. Cassie, needing something to do, went back and forth with refreshments, which we did not touch, until she finally sat herself down on the sofa to wait. She took my hand in hers. Together, we bent our heads in prayer. At around five, the sounds of cannon fire tapered off. By six, all was quiet. Too quiet. The world felt suddenly empty, and in the silent void I felt my heart bang against my chest.

  The sun had gone down, the heat of the day had abated. Papa said he would go into town once more for news. He had just opened the front door when we espied a dirty young lad running up the road toward us. The boy, breathless, stopped before my father, glanced at our house, and then pulled a folded paper from his pocket. Papa gave the boy a penny and watched him move off down the walkway before he unfolded the paper.

  Papa read the writing on the paper. Then he sank down onto his knees and crawled about helplessly. “God in Heaven,” he looked up, “why?”

  I stood and stared at my father, unwilling to move toward him, as if news could not reach me from such a distance.

  Papa made as if to rise, then fell back again upon his knees. “I can’t . . . can’t tell her.”

  He began to howl, and at this sound I unfroze.

  “Papa!” I cried.

  “Never, never,” he repeated. Then, seeing me, he grimaced. “Oh, go away, Eliza!”

  “No, Papa.”

  I bent down to touch him but he withdrew from my touch. Cassie gently pulled me away from him.

  “Come,” she said. “Leave ’eem alone.” She took me by the hand and led me up the stairs to my chamber.

  Suddenly I felt as if I were choking. I put a hand to my throat.

  “Cassie, I can’t breathe.”

  “Don’ speak, Miss Eliza. Da breaf knocked clear out of you.”

  I let h
er undress me and put me to bed. Then, instead of leaving, she removed her shoes and climbed upon the bed and held me as if I were a small child. She caressed my hair and I curled into a tiny ball and put my thumb in my mouth. I closed my eyes and would not open them.

  Sometime later, perhaps several hours later, hearing a noise below, Cassie woke, waking me as well. She exited my chamber. I placed a dressing gown about me and entered the dark hall, to catch a glimpse of Lizzie’s limp form endeavoring to climb the steps as two men half carried her toward Maria’s room.

  “I am well,” she kept saying, “I am well.” But she was covered in blood and dirt.

  Cassie descended into the kitchen, returning with a bowl and pitcher. With these she disappeared into Maria’s room. I should have gone to help, but my will was paralyzed. Soon I heard more feet upon the stairs. Looking down, I saw Papa at the base of them. He held Jeb beneath the arms, and a man I did not know held my brother’s dusty feet.

  I moved to the stairs, but Papa, breathless, called up to me: “Eliza, return to your chamber. I beg of you.” I saw my brother’s face, eyes closed in eternal sleep. His chest was bloody. A white kid glove, stained red, stuck out of his waistcoat pocket.

  I returned to my chamber but did not sleep. I sat upon the bed, in a paralysis of indecision and shock. Should I go to Mama? Lizzie? I wanted Cassie to return to bed and hold me in the dark. But Cassie did not return to me, and I knew she was giving what aid she could to Lizzie. The moment dawn lightened the sky beyond my window, I rose and went to Jeb.

  He lay on the bed in clean clothing, his hair combed, his hands crossed upon his chest. Someone had done this. Cassie, I thought. No one else could have.

  Papa sat by the side of the bed. He had been weeping; tears ran down his face, unchecked.

  “Where is Mama?” I asked.

  “Dr. Bullfinch is with her. He has administered something, I believe. She sleeps sweetly—” and with this thought, he began to weep again.