by Jodi Daynard
“Where to, Miss Boylston?”
“Some good fishing spot, obviously, Watkins.”
With a parting wave for Isaac, Watkins led me down a narrow deer path to the eastern side of the island. The crowd of men, all eagerly devouring their dinners, took little notice of us, and we soon left them behind. My heart pounded furiously. I had never been alone with Watkins for more than a moment or two. Oddly, I had no fear of him—only of myself.
After several minutes in which we passed through dense brush, sand drifting into my shoes, we emerged onto a wild and empty coast. We stood together upon the dunes, with only the wind and seabirds for company.
Watkins looked about him and then drove the pole into the sand, against a piece of driftwood. “Right,” he said, then took a piece of meat and attached it to the hook, from which dripping maggots fell, leaving plenty within the meat for a greedy fish. Watkins’s hands worked deftly. Yet he did not cast the line in the water for me, as I had expected. Instead, he turned and said, “I don’t have long. Before I leave, I’ll cast the line.”
“Very well.” But I did not understand his intent.
He turned to face me squarely, then suddenly became hesitant, as if there were something in particular he wished to say.
“Speak your peace, Watkins,” I said, praying my voice did not betray my pounding heart. With one hand, I held the pole upright; with the other, I shielded my eyes from the sun, the better to see him.
Those blue-green eyes glanced toward me and then away. He began, “I have felt a great deal of remorse, speaking to you as I did the last time we spoke, just here, upon this island.”
I hid my shock, saying only, “That was a long time ago, Watkins. It does you credit to remember it, though sometimes, I find, it is best to forget.”
“Can you? Forget, I mean? I—cannot. In such cases, time seems unwilling to pass. I’ve grown unused to kindness,” he went on. “Life has made me unforgiving. Wary. You meant only to be kind.”
My breath was hardly above a whisper when I replied, “I wished to, perhaps, but I knew not how.”
“No,” he said. “We neither of us do. How could we?”
A thrill ran through me at that word, as small as it was dangerous: we.
Watkins’s eyes filled with a sudden humor, which he did not attempt to hide. In a louder, less intimate tone he said, “I suppose you heard about Linda and Bristol.”
“Yes. How astonishing. They fooled us all,” I said, baiting him as I soon would a fish.
“Not all, perhaps,” he remarked.
I glanced at him. “Why, Watkins, did you know of Linda’s plans?”
He did not reply but glanced toward the water, as if he happened to see a fish leaping there.
“Come now.” I smiled. “I know for a fact that you did.”
Watkins turned back around, his eyes alarmed. “How is it you know? I told no one. Oh, wait—Cassie.”
“I saw you with Uncle Robert. I heard that silly lie about your shoes. You are fortunate that Uncle Robert has not a razor-sharp mind.”
Watkins looked distressed. “But I had not intended for anyone save Langdon to know the details of their escape.”
“And so no one shall,” I said. I sought to change the topic. “Anyway, are they well and truly gone now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m relieved.”
“Are you?” he said, moving closer to me.
“You know not how much.” I turned away from him. I was looking to my left, where Kittery’s shore showed a beige strip upon which red warehouses shone in the sun. Old women in their gundalows rowed quietly toward our port, followed by raucous seagulls.
“Perhaps I do.”
The wind was strong. I turned back to find Watkins standing closer to me than he had before—or did I simply imagine it? This time, upon meeting his eyes, I had no more strength to hide my deceit, and I burst into tears.
“Eliza.”
I took a step toward him. He moved toward me. His cheek pressed slowly, gently, against mine. He smelled of fresh wood, gunpowder, and sweet, warm skin. After a long moment, he finally placed his arms around me. Another long moment passed, after which he pulled away and regarded me, as if to make certain I was real. I shut my eyes and let myself feel his lips on mine. When he pulled away that final time, I held on to his rough hands and kissed them both as if they were the dearest things in the world.
“I must return,” he said. He then cast the line and told me what to do should I catch something. I hardly understood a word of it. Yet my conscience bade me speak of Isaac before he departed:
“You cannot know how grateful I am that you’ve taken Isaac under your wing.”
“I saw the welts upon his back,” Watkins replied. “I saw everything about the child within moments, though I know not the full story.”
“No,” I agreed. “He’s terrified of his former master, and we don’t wish to press him. Cassie is giving thanks to God every two minutes.”
“Cassie, thankful? I should think she’d resent the child’s presence. The poor woman is run off her feet as it is.”
“Papa sold Cassie’s own child five years ago. She’s convinced that God in his everlasting mercy has sent her this child. That, somehow, their souls are connected.”
“Perhaps they are,” he murmured, looking at me. With that, he grasped my hands a final time, then left. I picked up the rod and, five minutes later, caught a large perch, which I unhooked and wrapped in Watkins’s handkerchief, to take home.
23
I HANDED CASSIE THE FISH, WHICH WAS still in Watkins’s handkerchief. She let it rest in her upturned palm and looked at me levelly but said nothing, and I said nothing to her, either. It was the quietest exchange of a fish in the history of mankind.
At dinner, I finally told Mama about Isaac, saying only, “Uncle has agreed that we should keep him, and that he’s got the makings of a fine apprentice.”
“How irregular. Uncle Robert?” she spoke across the table to her brother. “Know you about this?”
Uncle grunted. “Indeed, indeed.”
Mama shrugged. “Well, I suppose since it’s Uncle Robert’s house he can do as he pleases. Yet I don’t wonder but he begins to feel he runs an almshouse.”
I stifled a smile. It amused me to hear Mama speak of her brother as if he were not there. It amused me that I had engineered Uncle Robert’s grudging acceptance of the boy. But then everything amused me just then. I believe that the British could have won the war and that would have amused me just as well.
After dinner, I did not help Cassie but removed directly to my chamber, where I endeavored to reflect upon what had transpired on Badger’s Island. Was I mad? Shame or remorse I had none. Indeed, I could not wait to feel his arms around me once more, and I lay awake a long time, dreaming of it.
The following morning, I returned to Badger’s Island with Isaac. It was a very fine day, with little wind, and this time I remembered to bring my own bait. I dragged the rod through the brush to the eastern end of the island, but I did not see Watkins as I passed, nor did I seek him out. Arriving upon the desolate shore, with the screaming birds all around me, I baited the line as Watkins had shown me, and I cast it. Then I waited, jumping at the least sound. I cast the line in and out and caught two fish, which I placed in a linen sack.
I did this for near an hour, certain that he would come at any moment. I smiled at the idea, believing he might jump out of the dunes to surprise me or clap his hands over my eyes. But then I grew impatient. This impatience was followed by anger, and eventually, by the devastation of knowing that he wouldn’t come.
I set my pole by the side of the shack and, looking neither right nor left, neither up nor down, I found Isaac, grabbed his hand, and headed to the ferry.
Isaac was excited. “Miss Eliza, Miss Eliza! I learned so much today. Johnny taught me—”
I listened and nodded without hearing. As we walked up Deer Street to the house, I said, “Isaac,
from now on I think you should go with Watkins directly in the morning. I shall send Phoebe to get you in the afternoon.”
“You don’t want to fetch me? Why?”
I bent down and took him by the shoulders. “Of course I want to. It’s just that—Papa is ill, you see. He needs me more than you do. You’re a fine, big boy.”
At the notion that he was a big boy, Isaac stood taller.
“That’s right, Miss Eliza,” he said. “Why, I don’t need Phoebe, neither.”
“I know that. But it’s nonetheless safest if I send her to fetch you.”
After we arrived home, I could not settle into any pursuit and so took supper with Papa in his chamber.
“You seem rather glum, Eliza,” Papa remarked.
“Oh, no,” I said.
“You lack the society of those your own age. I would be glum, too, were I forced to remain with such family as you now have.”
I cringed at Papa’s reference to our diminished family, though it was the truth.
“Allow me to read to you, Papa.”
“Oh, do, please.”
I picked up his favorite broadside and began to read until he drifted off to sleep. Heading back toward my chamber, I heard Watkins’s boots upon the stairs—had I emerged from Papa’s chamber a moment sooner, we would have laid eyes upon each other. I wondered what his expression might have told me.
I slept ill and thus awoke quite late. When I finally descended, Mama had already gone out. The day was bright, but I would not go abroad. Instead, I lodged myself by Papa’s side once more. I remained there half the morning, reading to him from a book on Roman history. I read him the day’s broadside as well. That gave Papa pleasure, and me the means of reading the notices. I looked for one that read “Escaped: Negro boy, about ten years of age. Handsome reward.” Thankfully, there was no such notice.
“You are most kind, Eliza, to spend your leisure hours in an old man’s sick-room,” said Papa.
“Well, Papa, you’re not just any old man. You’re my dear Papa.”
“Yes, yes, be that as it may.” Papa waved a hand at me. His nails had not been clipped, and my heart lurched with pity that we had all somewhat neglected him. “But, now go—enjoy yourself. You’ve done your penance here.”
I kissed him and left the room, unsure of what I might do next. I then espied Phoebe in the dining room. She was polishing Uncle’s table with rags that reeked of linseed oil.
“Phoebe, I need you to fetch Isaac, our new boy, on Badger’s Island.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You mean take the ferry, miss?”
“It is but a short trip. Ten minutes at most.”
“I never was on a boat—”
“Oh, Phoebe. Just do it,” I said, angry not at her, but at having been abandoned the day before. Phoebe nodded and scampered out of the room in tears.
I was determined not to visit the island again, and so cast about for a new pursuit. We had recently learned that a regiment of Connecticut militia was camped to the west of us. Rumors had it that the soldiers were sick and starving, nearly abandoned by their own command. I plucked up my courage to help them.
Cassie and I prepared a basket, and I snuck out of the house early one morning. Mama was gone to the market—had she known my destination, she would have forbade me absolutely to go, for there was smallpox and all manner of disease among them.
To see young boys die of wounds inflicted in war is one thing. But it is quite another to watch their suffering and death from lack of provisions. There was nought but maggoty biscuits and no fresh water. The boys suffered from diarrhea and nausea, and there were many moments wherein I thought I might puke. Then I spoke harshly to myself: Be sick if you like, I said, but you shall not turn tail and run.
Several other women, whom I recognized vaguely from meeting, aided the soldiers as well. I nodded to them and continued to make my way through the camp, endeavoring not to breathe through my nose as I did so. I handed out what small items I carried, sat by the sides of those who were sick with fever, smiled at them, and held their hands. A cool towel placed about the forehead gave relief to some, and my revulsion fell away once I realized that these poor boys were mere children. Suffering, far from home. Some were dying.
Toward the end of my first day at the camp, I came upon one boy of perhaps fifteen. He was very fair and thin, and had a grievous wound to his side. It was red and angry-looking. As I sat down beside him, he raised his head and looked at me. His eyes widened for a moment before he looked away. Around us, all was wilderness and the enemy, lying in wait.
“Hello. I’m Miss Boylston. It’s good to meet you.” I smiled. “Is there something I might do for you? A mug of cider, perhaps? A cool towel?”
“Oh, cider would be nice,” he said. I turned to pour some from the pitcher at my feet, but he reached out to me. “Say,” he added, “you’re so pretty. I hope I’m not being rude.”
“Indeed, that is quite rude,” I said with mock severity, pouring his mug of cider. I helped him to sit up slightly; he groaned.
“Sorry,” he muttered, abashed. He sipped his cider, then placed it on the ground and turned away. I saw the bloody pus ooze from his side onto the pallet.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Stephen. Stephen Harper. Militia from Stonington.” I helped him as with trembling hands he sipped the cider.
“Well, Stephen Harper, I must be off.”
“Will you return?”
“I shall return tomorrow, expressly to hear your rude comments.”
The boy grinned, and I was moved by the rise in his spirits.
I returned the next day but could not find him. When I asked, someone pointed to a corner of the camp. His corpse was there, but not his soul. That had fled during the night.
I came to the camp near every day for the next several weeks, bringing what food and aid I could. I was saddened only by how I had balked at this task back in Cambridge. How many young boys might I have aided!
When Mama discovered my whereabouts, she nearly died of apoplexy. But I was able to convince her that there was no smallpox at the camp, thus no danger to myself. As for my helping the Rebels, Mama had grown resigned to that, for women everywhere were giving what aid they could, and even my mother was moved to pity by the reports of the soldiers’ suffering.
“Come see the boys for yourself,” I said, inviting her to join me. She stared in horror and by a shiver let me to know that she would sooner ride naked through the market.
During all this time, did I cease to think of John Watkins, or of our kiss on the eastern shore of Badger’s Island? Not for a moment. But I was no longer hurt and angry, for Watkins had behaved most wisely, where I had been foolish.
And yet, sometime in mid-July, what seemed a most excellent and charitable idea came to me. We were just finishing our breakfast. The day promised to be parching. I said to Mama, “I should like to bring cider and biscuits to those poor lads who sweat and burn to make our ships of war. Perhaps I might catch a fish or two as well.” And, as proof to myself of my indifference toward a certain shipwright, I added, “Would you care to join me?”
“I dislike islands immensely,” she said. “The sand gets in one’s shoes and undergarments and everywhere. Nor do I like the wind, which wreaks havoc upon one’s hair. But—do go, if you’ve a mind to.”
“I do have a mind to, Mama,” I said, delighted. And, impulsively, I hugged her tight.
And so, on a hot, mid-July morning of 1777, I found myself awaiting the boat once more at the North Ferry landing. In one hand I held a large sack of fresh biscuits; in the other, a gallon of cider. At church, I had shrewdly reminded several elderly shopkeepers of their Christian duty, and in that way received these generous donations.
After a few minutes, my items grew heavy and I set them on the ground just as a flamboyant-looking stranger strode toward me. He wore a cocked hat and the costume of a naval officer—a British naval officer! I would have been alarmed had I n
ot known that our men often stole costumes from the enemy and reused them. Besides, he looked somewhat familiar. I had seen his likeness in a political cartoon in one of Papa’s broadsides.
The man smiled jauntily at me and offered to help with my provisions.
“Thank you.” I curtsied. He bowed, removing his hat before the strong, hot wind had the chance to blow it away. His face was quite swarthy, his close-set eyes bright and shrewd. So bright was his presence that I did not at first notice how small he was—hardly taller than myself.
At that moment, the ferryman approached and gave a hearty greeting: “Hallo, Captain Jones.”
Captain John Paul Jones? I had heard a great deal of this captain. The papers said he was mad, though I gleaned no madness in him. His voice was soft, having a slight brogue, and his manner was courteous. He picked up my sack and jug and put them in the boat.
“Heavy, eh?”
Then—he winked at me!
“What, something from the nuns in the convent?”
“I know not what you mean, sir,” I said.
He winked again, and I knew him to be flirting with me. Hateful man! But I added, “I’m bringing a treat for the boys.”
“Well, let me see if they deserve it first!”
Ten minutes later, Captain Jones inspected the Ranger, having first set the cider and sack by the master’s shed. He then climbed up the staging.
“Hell and damnation!” he cried, looking at the Ranger. “You call this seaworthy? Langdon! Where the hell is Langdon?”
Colonel Langdon appeared, followed by Watkins. I saw both Watkins and the Colonel approach the little man, bodies tense.
“He’s here, as am I,” said Watkins.
In his feverish anger, Jones shoved Watkins out of the way, the better to reach Colonel Langdon, and Watkins nearly fell off the staging.
“Help!” I shrieked, and all fell silent. The carpenters ceased their work and stared at me. Colonel Langdon and Captain Jones glanced down at me and then descended the stairs, moving swiftly toward the hut. But the colonel stopped a moment and said, “It’s all right, Miss Boylston. I’m sorry we frightened you.”