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

by Jodi Daynard

  “Soon. Isaac tell me maybe next week.”

  I had meant nothing in particular by my question, but something in her eyes—or rather, in the way her eyes shifted away from me, made me ask, “Cassie. What do you know?”

  We stood in the road, and I pulled her to the side in time to avoid being run over by a cart.

  “I can’t say.” She placed a hand involuntarily on her heart. But now that I knew she harbored a secret, I would not rest until she divulged it.

  “You must tell me. At once.”

  “Oh, Miss Eliza! He means to leave on board de Ranger. ’Eet all arrange.” Cassie began to cry.

  “How long have you known, Cassie?”

  “A few days—oh, I am greatly fearing for ’eem!”

  “I knew it,” I said. “Knew, and yet he said it would be several months yet. We fought . . . oh, we had a terrible row.”

  Cassie put her arms around me and held me hard. It was obvious that she needed no explanation. She knew what I knew, and perhaps more. And while she had no answers for me, how comforting it was to reveal my suffering at last!

  Cassie took my arm, and we walked on in silence. We mounted the stairs to the Whipple property, up through the carved newel posts, past the walnut tree that Prince Whipple, one of Colonel Whipple’s slaves, had planted several years earlier. We walked around back and entered the grand home through the kitchen door.

  Before the massive, blazing hearth stood Prince and Cuffee. Cuffee, normally filled with good cheer, was grave-faced. He kept shifting from foot to foot; he drummed his long fingers on the wall. Cassie kissed him on the cheek, and I nodded. It would not do to curtsy to a slave, though I had grown fond of Cuffee and the open spirit that shone through his music.

  Suddenly the kitchen door banged open and in strode Watkins. He carried a heavy sack over his shoulder, which spilled ears of corn. The sight of him, so unexpected, made me lean on Cassie. Why was he here, absent from the shipyard, delivering grain to the Whipple house? He glanced at me briefly but then looked away. I might have run to him right there in the Whipples’ kitchen, surrounded by the slaves and the colonel and his family, had not Cassie pressed her hand against my arm.

  Watkins leaned close to Cuffee and whispered in his ear. Cuffee nodded and left the room. Soon, with the help of Prince, Watkins fell to removing the corn from the top of the sack. He then proceeded to withdraw half a dozen flintlock rifles.

  “Ai!” Cassie gasped. Just then, the master of the house strode into the kitchen. Seeing the guns, he glanced sharply at me.

  “Miss Boylston. You’ve come at a vulnerable moment for us. I trust you’re sympathetic to our cause?”

  I curtsied deeply. “Be easy, Colonel Whipple. I lost a brother on Breed’s Hill. I’m as eager as you are for a Rebel victory.” I said the words, but I did not truly feel them, feel the vital significance of this victory in my soul. That would not happen for several months yet.

  “Then I may trust that this information will not find its way across the field—to your uncle’s house?”

  “Certainly not. We are here for a—cup of sugar.”

  Colonel Whipple nodded and turned to Prince. “Check ’em over. Then get ’em into the barn. Beneath the hay. Don’t forget the powder.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Prince.

  The balls and powder lay in cartons at the bottom of the corn-filled sacks.

  “We leave before dawn. Make sure you’re ready,” the colonel said to Prince.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Colonel Whipple nodded, bowed toward me, and departed.

  “Where go you?” I asked Prince once the colonel was gone.

  “Saratoga, Miss Eliza. To engage Burgoyne.” Prince pronounced these words gravely, proud to bursting to have been invited along. I then looked toward Watkins, who did not return my glance. Rather, he seemed assiduously to avoid my eyes. He examined the guns’ mechanisms, his jaw set hard against the news that Prince had been chosen to go to Saratoga with Colonel Whipple. That would eat at him, I knew.

  Watkins retrieved the powder and bullets, emptied the sack of the corn, replaced the guns in the sack, and carried them off to the barn.

  I resolved then that I would go to him, beg forgiveness, and applaud his choice to seek his freedom, as I should have done from the first. That night, I listened for the sound of his boots on the stairs until well after midnight, but I heard them not. Nor did I hear them the next morning. Had the Ranger already departed? It couldn’t be.

  As soon as dawn broke, I sought Cassie out. She was preparing breakfast for Mama, myself, and Uncle, and a tray for Papa. I whispered to her, “Cassie, I have neither heard nor seen Watkins today.”

  She said, “Some men—dey stay on de eye-land.”

  “Stay on the island? Why?”

  “Workin’ all tru de night. ’Ee want to do ’eet. Your uncle, he don’t object—more wages for ’eem.”

  “Thank you, Cassie.” I turned to prepare my toilet, but Cassie seized my arm in a clawlike grip.

  “I can ’ear your thoughts buzzin’ around in your ’ead. Wait.” She interrupted her other chores to pack a sack. Cassie packed a bit of salted beef and several biscuits and poured cider into a canteen.

  “Give dees to Isaac. Tell ’eem to share wit’ Watkins. Don’ be foolish. Don’ try to speak to ’eem. You don’t know de evil eyes dat may watch you, tell on you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and I kissed her on the cheek for her troubles.

  As I strode to the ferry, the streets were oddly quiet. The ferryman was surprised to see me. “Going fishin’ again?” he asked.

  “No. Just delivering something for our boy, Isaac.”

  Once on the island, the ferryman handed me my sack and tipped his hat. I began to climb the dunes.

  What progress the Ranger had made! She was painted and tarred and had been outfitted with cannons. The four on the leeward side were visible as I mounted the dunes. It was, I thought, a fitting ship for a bold escape.

  Isaac was nowhere to be seen, but I was unconcerned. It had been near six months since he had run away, and I assumed that his master, wherever he was, had long since given up on catching the child.

  The shipyard had been tidied since last I’d been there. The sawmill had been abandoned, and the glaziers had gone. What men there were worked mainly on the ship’s decks or in her hull. The wind on the island was very strong. It moaned and shrieked, and I draped the blanket I had brought around my shoulders.

  The minutes passed. I looked out at the sea, now iron gray with curling, white foam tips. I paced back and forth, trying to keep warm. After about ten minutes, I saw Watkins emerge from the ship with Mr. Hackett and Captain Jones. They argued and looked as if they might come to blows. Then, quite suddenly, Captain Jones burst out laughing.

  Watkins saw me. I raised the sack to show him my reason for being there. Behind him and to his left stood a ragged row of gunnysack tents. Remains of a communal breakfast lay on boards that had been set upon low makeshift legs. There was a sudden, strong gust of wind that carried the reek of a latrine. Watkins disappeared momentarily and emerged from the hull with Isaac. Isaac flew down the ladder, and I feared he would trip and break his neck. I thought he was glad of the sack, but, to my surprise, he ignored it entirely and flung himself into my arms. “I thought you’d never come here again. Oh, I’ve missed you, Miss Eliza!”

  “I’ve missed you,” I said, hugging him. “But look—Cassie has packed some nice things for you, and for Watkins.” Watkins slowly descended the ladder, though it was long before break time. He ambled over with persuasive ease.

  “What have we here?” he asked, casually resting a hand on Isaac’s back.

  “Regard what Miss Eliza’s brought us, Johnny!” Isaac looked up adoringly at Watkins.

  The boy fell to removing his treasures from the sack. He lifted each item and showed it proudly to his beloved mentor. Watkins crouched down, one knee on the sand.

  Now was my chance. T
here would be no opportunity of getting him alone, not with this impress of activity before the Ranger’s launch. I knelt down upon the sand, as if to help Isaac remove the articles from the sack. I touched Watkins’s arm lightly. He turned, and I looked straight into the face of the man I loved.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Will you forgive me?”

  “Sorry!” Isaac cried, laughing and jumping up and down. “Why, what’re you sorry for, Miss Eliza?”

  Watkins said nothing; perhaps he nodded imperceptibly. I no longer knew what he felt, but the recollection of my desperation that night made me sick with shame.

  Isaac needed an explanation, and so I said, “Only that it seems you boys could have used me long before now. The state you live in is frightful!”

  “Frightful?” Isaac said, all astonishment.

  I ruffled his soft hair. “What a little man you are. All men feel perfectly contented when they’re living like pigs.”

  “Not all,” Watkins added quietly.

  Over the next few days, I set about improving the shipyard, cleaning tents and bringing several chamber pots to the island. I now had no illusions about my motivation: It was all so that I could be in Watkins’s proximity during his last few days. There was no opportunity to speak to him, but at least I was able to glance at him from time to time. By his own appearance of indifference, he cared nothing for me any longer.

  Such coldness, whether real or feigned, hurt. But I was determined not to waver. I made the men dig a pit in the sand, where I had them empty the reeking latrines. The men laughed good-naturedly at my efforts. One cheeky shipwright shouted, “The whole world’s our chamber pot, miss!” At this witticism, they all roiled with laughter.

  That Wednesday, we received most exceeding good news: Burgoyne’s army had surrendered! All fifty-seven hundred of them now marched eastward, toward Cambridge. Supper on the island that evening became a raucous celebration. Cassie and I had earlier that day made a fish stew, enough for the dozen or so men who tarried on the island. As the sun declined in the sky it bathed the river and Portsmouth town in a warm, red light. Men danced and banged on trenchers with their forks. Those who had a whistle played. Others sang bawdy songs with lyrics so shocking I had to stop Isaac’s ears. But he pulled my hands away, saying he’d heard those songs a hundred times before.

  The men hugged one another and lifted each other off the ground till their feet dangled in the air. They then reached for me. I was hugged to within an inch of my life. Finally it was Watkins’s turn to lift me up. I had not felt his touch in several weeks. When he put his arm about me, I shuddered even before he whispered my name. I felt his arm about my waist, felt his breath upon my ear, for the rest of the day.

  That night, after I had just managed to doze off, there came a faint knock upon my door.

  “Eliza?”

  I knew not how to speak, for his voice touched my deepest feelings of both hope and despair, paralyzing my tongue. He was set to leave in three days’ time.

  “Would you not bid me good-bye?” he asked, his voice now fully audible. It echoed clearly down the hall.

  Terrified, I pulled open the door and fairly yanked him into my chamber, shutting it after him. “Do you wish to be sent to prison rather than to sea? Lower your voice, or you’ll soon have your wish. Mama’s ears are very keen.”

  “Eliza,” he repeated, cupping my face in his rough hands. “Be still a moment and look at me.” I would not. “Look at me and tell me that this is not as hard for me as it is for you.” I looked at him at last. Truly looked. Tears threatened to pour from his eyes; all the admirable strength of his body seemed on the verge of collapse.

  “You must go. I understand. You are doing the right thing—of that I have no doubt,” I said. My voice quavered, but I stayed the course. “Now kiss me, and tell me you love me. Promise me you shall court me properly, as a free man.”

  “You know I do, and shall.” He embraced me tenderly. When he had gone, I felt too empty even to cry.

  Saturday morning arrived. I readied myself to walk down to Long Wharf with Mama and Cassie. Phoebe had agreed to stay with Papa so that Cassie could see the launch. My posture was stiff and upright, my face, though wan from lack of sleep, composed. Everyone who could walk, and even some who couldn’t, came to the pier that morning.

  It was cool and windy. Leaves, fallen from the trees, swirled in great gusts all about us. Women, children, old men, slaves, maids, and what few young men remained in Portsmouth all gathered on the pier. The excitement mounted, and at half past nine a hush caught and rippled through the crowd: Captain John Paul Jones would speak. We were silent for him, respectful, moved as we listened to his words of thanks, and of our future glory.

  The Ranger held her sails half-furled. The crowd could see her sinewy power ready to be unleashed. Sailors waved happily from the deck to loved ones. Every shopkeeper left his shop and stood without to watch the proceedings. The applause and shouts became a roar, drowning out even the moaning wind. There were already cheers and toasts and spilled jugs of cider. Captain Jones untied the rope from the cleat and climbed aboard. Cassie hugged me, and even my mother clapped her hands together, having caught the contagion of the crowd. The church bell rang as the Ranger set off to meet her fate, moving ever more quickly downstream.

  My head was buried in Cassie’s breast, and I could not contain a shuddering sob. When I finally lifted my head the Ranger was out of sight. But there in the crowd, on the edge of the pier, was John Watkins, holding his case and seeking me out with his eyes.

  26

  I LEFT FOR SHAPLEY’S ISLAND, THEN CALLED Pest Island, the following morning. There had been no opportunity to speak to Watkins in the intervening hours, but when I saw him standing on the pier searching for me, my eyes were opened, and my soul was as shaken as Abraham upon the return of Isaac. I knew not what lay ahead for us, but I would not turn back now.

  We rowed out to Pest Island six or so at a time. It was an island consisting of about nine acres, wild and uninhabited save for Shapley’s mansion, where many of us would stay. There was also a warehouse on the north end of the island, which was used as a hospital. In this warehouse they lodged the slaves and servants who took the cure.

  At this time, it was the custom for parents to send their children to be inoculated while they themselves remained at home. There were chaperones, to be sure, but these young ladies, hardly older than their charges, mingled amongst themselves, enjoying an unaccustomed freedom.

  Thus, for three weeks, the island became filled with gay youths set free from parental boundaries. We had little to do but to compare pustules and be merry. We ate in a common dining hall, and the food, though plain, was tolerable. We even had meat on Sundays.

  Immediately upon landing, we queued up to receive our inoculations in the warehouse. For most of us, inoculation resulted in a mild fever and a few pustules, nothing more.

  The day after my inoculation, I walked the shore. I felt slightly feverish, but I was oddly relieved to be upon an island surrounded by the buffering river. I felt as if I had left myself back in Portsmouth and could rest from the tumultuous feelings I had suffered for so long.

  I passed by the landing. A boat was just approaching. I shielded my eyes from the sun and gazed out to it. There was Watkins sitting in the back row, among other slaves come to take the cure. He looked lost until he saw me, and then he brightened. I dared not remain to greet him.

  That night, though, I saw Watkins lingering at the edge of the woods. We had supped, though I had hardly eaten. Nerves and a continued fever had rendered me indifferent to food. The sun was setting. It had grown cold, and the wind was strong. I had about me a cape and a blanket, too.

  With an imperceptible nod, Watkins beckoned me. I approached, but like a ghost he then disappeared. Suddenly I felt a touch upon my arm, immediately accompanied by a voice.

  “Shh! I’m here. Follow me.”

  I reached for him, found his hand, then the rest of him. We w
alked through the dunes; it was dark and cold, though the wind had died down, and the tall grass scratched at my calves. Watkins unfolded the blanket I carried and draped it around us both. The center of the island was dense with shrubs, and there was no clear path.

  The moment we arrived on the eastern shore, I felt Watkins’s hand press the back of my head, bringing me to him in an urgent whisper.

  “Do you think me a coward? It’s what I think of myself, Eliza.”

  “You may think that, but I don’t,” I whispered back.

  “My will failed me. I always believed, despite all, that I was strong—”

  My heart burst with pity for him, yet I would not reveal it. I took his hand and sat him down upon the sand.

  “Allow me to say what I feel I must. You are strong, Watkins. The way you helped us to eat that time, though you suffered a whipping for it. The money you gave to Linda, though Uncle Robert might have punished you. Is this not strength?”

  He shrugged, as if it mattered not. “What have I to offer you, Eliza?”

  “You have offered me yourself—can a man give more than that? I for one can ask for no more.” I gripped his hand and thought of that moment on Long Wharf. “When I saw you standing on the pier, searching for me, oh, you know not how my heart leapt for joy!”

  Suddenly we heard a whooping cry. John turned abruptly. We heard further shouts, but soon enough ascertained that the revelers were not heading toward us.

  “I fear it’s not safe to linger,” he said, the spell of our connection broken. “Someone may notice my absence, if not yours.” Having bared my soul, I had no wish to leave John, but I saw the wisdom of his words, and he guided me through the dunes, where we parted.

  On the morrow, I was quite ill. I had a high fever, and did not leave my bed. Several pocks had flowered on my torso and arms. My head pounded, and I wished I had my Cassie with me to rub my back and give me one of her potions.

  It was only after two days of complete rest that I felt well enough to leave my chamber. Thankfully, thence began an unseasonable warm spell. Without, the sun was bright, and it felt like spring, and in bright daylight I had no fear to walk through the shrubs. Once on the eastern shore, I sat myself upon the sand, a blanket about me, and shut my eyes. A warm blanket of orange light shone through my lids. After perhaps ten minutes, I started at the touch of a hand upon my shoulder. Watkins stood beside me and kissed my head.