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

by Jodi Daynard

  It was near four o’clock, and we had been picking up the broken jars and bottles, spilled provisions, and smashed glass for many hours when Lizzie finally returned.

  “Oh, God,” she said, coming upon us in the parlor. We were on our hands and knees picking out shards of glass from between the plank flooring. “Thank God, you’re unharmed.” We stood, wearily, and she embraced us both. Johnny woke just then; and we heard his cry from above us. Lizzie went to fetch him and soon returned with my son, who was ready to be fed. I sat on the parlor bed and nursed him.

  Finally, when he had settled, I turned to Lizzie. “But who should want to harm you? I cannot conceive of it.”

  Neither Martha nor Lizzie replied, but I saw a glance pass between them.

  “So, you shan’t tell me?”

  Martha looked away. Lizzie said, “Not yet, Eliza.”

  I had been strong all day, picking up the shattered bottles and spilled grain, smoothing out the violence that had been done to us. But at Lizzie’s words, I felt the truth of my situation. I was not one of them, not one of the inner circle. I was a visitor, nothing more.

  “Oh, Eliza,” Lizzie saw my hurt at once. “It is for your own good. We wish only to protect you.”

  “I do not want to be protected. I want—I should like to face this danger, whatever it is, with you.”

  Lizzie looked at Martha, who shook her head.

  “We can’t do that, Eliza. Not yet.”

  “Patience,” said Martha.

  I said nothing, resigning myself to this virtue of silence if none other.

  Soon after these events, the drear misery of winter descended upon us. There was still no word from John, though I had by this time written him many letters. Colonel Langdon, I learned, was not in Portsmouth at all but had gone south to be with His Excellency. I now doubted whether he had even received my letter. But I could feel in my soul that Uncle Robert had left Portsmouth at last, and the whereabouts of John and Isaac were unknown to all but him.

  I spoke little of my troubles with my friends, though we each felt the others’ grief. Lizzie, I suspected, cared for Thomas Miller, about whom rumors grew daily. And it had been four years since she had heard from her brother, Harry, though Lizzie told us she had heard encouraging rumors about Harry’s whereabouts while in Cambridge. As for Martha, she seemed burdened by some leaden weight in her soul.

  I took my own model of strength from Abigail, who had not heard from John Adams in many months. What’s more, she had to suffer the near-daily reports of his death in the London papers. But I was not insensible to the fact that there was a difference between Abigail and myself: namely, that she was married to John. They were bound forever by a spiritual connection before God. I, on the other hand, wasn’t certain that John still loved me—or even that he lived.

  Toward the end of December, it snowed near a foot, rained, then froze solid. The ground was so slick that one could not step out of doors without risk of breaking one’s neck. Darkness, cold, hunger, and fear were our loyal companions.

  My friends were often obliged to go abroad at night, leaving me to stare into the glowing embers of the kitchen hearth. Low on wood as we were, I dared not light a fire in the chamber but slept on a straw pallet by the kitchen hearth, Johnny snuggled next to me. Whole nights I went without a single candle, too, and at these times tears of self-pity ran freely down my cheeks—my one luxury. And why not? By them I importuned no one but myself.

  A bright spot in these dark times was Christmas Eve, when Abigail and her two youngest children, Tommy and Charlie, came for dinner. Nabby had gone to Plymouth to visit her aunt; John Quincy was in Paris with his father. At around four in the afternoon it began to snow, but we were snug within. Abigail had brought wine and a pie. Lizzie stuffed and roasted two chickens.

  Tongues loosed by wine, we all spoke freely that night—of husbands, dreams, grief, and the small pleasures of the everyday. The boys focused on the excellent repast and heeded not our conversation.

  “Save room,” Abigail warned them. “For I have brought a fine plum pie, and I’ve had to sell your father’s books for it.”

  The boys looked up at her, aghast, as if she might be in earnest. Their worried faces made us all laugh.

  The bright star of Christmas soon faded. January found us hungry, depressed, and continually fearful. Then smallpox invaded yet again, and Lizzie was called upon to care for the sick and dying. Martha accompanied her, and I was left alone once more.

  Only Johnny, insensible of the degraded world in which he lived, persisted in flourishing. Oh, he was my little beacon of hope! I so wished John could see him: Having learned to smile, he now smiled at everything he saw. He smiled at the chickens beyond the window; at night, he smiled at the shadows the candle made upon the wall. He always had a smile for me, and there is naught to do when a child smiles than to smile back, though it be through tears.

  About a week after the New Year, Lizzie went abroad in the afternoon without a word as to where she was headed. She returned a few hours later lower in spirit than I’d ever seen her. She threw off her cloak and entreated me, “Allow me to hold Johnny.” I relinquished him at once.

  Lizzie shook her face and puffed her cheeks, which sent him into melodious gurgles of laughter. Lizzie, however, had tears in her eyes.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Where did you go?”

  “To Abigail’s,” she said, still making faces for Johnny.

  “And did you learn something there?”

  “I did,” she said, still mugging for my child.

  I expected her to continue, but she said nothing more.

  “Lizzie, please tell me what has happened.”

  She took a breath, then let it out. “Abigail has had a letter from General Sullivan about Mr. Miller. Apparently there is evidence of his Tory loyalties from the highest levels. What’s more, they suspect he was involved in the murders of Mr. Thayer and Dr. Flint.”

  “No, Lizzie. Do not believe it.”

  “I don’t wish to believe it,” she said.

  Martha had gone to tend a woman in travail, and so I felt free to inquire of Lizzie’s true feelings for Mr. Miller.

  “What is Mr. Miller to you? Are you in love with him? I won’t mind if you are. Jeb would not have wished you to be alone forever.”

  “Of course I’m in love with him,” she laughed through her tears. “Am, and have been, for many months.”

  “Then do not believe the rumors.”

  “Is it a rumor, when Mrs. John Adams says that it is so?”

  “In these troubled times there are so many uncertainties, uncertain loyalties. Who is good, who evil? We have but our instincts to go by. Mine tell me that Mr. Miller is a very good sort of man.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps. For my instincts tell me that he is no traitor to the Cause.”

  At long last, winter ebbed. The sky lightened. The mountains of crusty snow melted, and the ground warmed. The parish, terrorized first by the murders of Dr. Flynt and Mr. Thayer and then by the break-in at our house, began to breathe freely once more. Sunday meeting was held again. People began to stroll the main road, stopping to talk to neighbors. Babes continued to be born.

  March came, and we set to work clearing the fields of winter’s debris. We pruned the fruit trees and broke the soil. We carried manure and loam in great, heavy baskets and worked these into the soil. Then, in April, we tilled more finely, planting the seeds we had gathered the previous autumn.

  We planted row upon row of vegetables: long squash, cranberry beans, brown beans, cabbage, carrots, turnips, beets, onions, and yellow bush beans. It took us a week to plant the potatoes and corn.

  In Portsmouth, I had learned to fish and shoot. But never had I exerted myself for this long, or this hard. Abandoning all pretense of ladylike behavior, I threw myself into the work at hand, discovering not only the very great satisfaction that came with self-sufficiency but an age-old secret: that ph
ysical pain dulled the pain of the soul.

  In May we managed to get the cucumbers and peas into the ground. In the kitchen garden, we planted Lizzie’s medicinal herbs: saffron, sage, chamomile, and feverfew.

  Johnny kept pace with the growth all around us. In May, he began to crawl, and Abigail’s boys built a crib for him so that he would not crawl off while we worked. Soon, he was sitting up, sucking upon a biscuit to ease his sore gums.

  That month, there came a bird infestation that threatened our tender seedlings. The town selectmen offered the citizens of Braintree thirty shillings apiece for an old crow and six shillings for a blackbird. One fair Sunday at meeting, after hearing this news, I returned home with a certain resolve in my step. Lizzie and Martha trailed behind me, calling, “Wait up! Why do you run ahead?”

  I arrived home, set Johnny in his crib, and removed Jeb’s musket from the parlor wall.

  Lizzie and Martha were right behind me in the doorway. I turned to them with the musket in my arms, and for a moment they were struck speechless. Then Martha asked, “You know how to use that?”

  “Yes. An old Portsmouth friend taught me. Have you bullets and powder about?”

  Lizzie hesitated. “Whom or what do you plan to shoot, may I ask?”

  “The crows, of course.”

  She moved to her cupboard, pulled open a drawer, retrieved a powder horn and bullets, and returned to place them in my hand.

  “Thank you,” I said. I then strode into the garden, my friends trailing uneasily behind.

  “Are you certain you know how? I shouldn’t like you to shoot yourself, or one of us,” said Lizzie.

  I did not reply, but focused my attention on properly loading the musket pan and barrel.

  “Would you look at that?” Martha observed, impressed. “What has happened to our prim Eliza?”

  “Prim, indeed!” I snorted, pointing the musket toward the fence up the hill, where a number of crows perched.

  “Should we be afraid?” Martha asked.

  I laughed easily, enjoying myself now. “Only if you’re a crow.” I looked at Martha. “You do look a little crow-like, Martha, now you mention it.”

  I then pointed the musket in the general direction of the fence, as my friends ducked in fear. “Well,” I remarked, “this musket is not so fine as the flintlock I used in Portsmouth.”

  “Used in Portsmouth? Against someone?” asked Martha.

  “Nay.” I smiled. “Rabbits. But I like not to kill birds. Well, we must do it, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Lizzie. “We could use the money. I hope you share your skills with us, Eliza.”

  “Of course.” Here, I blushed. My pride at knowing something these women did not was great indeed.

  What would Louisa Ruggles have said, I wondered, had she seen me in my homespun, with my musket, shooting crows off a fence? I recalled how I had once taken such pride in being the most fashionable girl in all of Cambridge. How distant that life seemed now!

  May passed; June arrived. We worked without cease, and all that time I heard not a word from John or Isaac. Neither had Abigail heard from her John. We drew strength from our mutual widowhood, though neither of us spoke of it.

  June was hot and dry. One afternoon, after a morning of tending the gardens, I gave Johnny to suck but found I had no milk. He tried twice, then turned his head aside in disgust and wailed.

  The heat of the sun had robbed me of my milk. Lizzie, who had been working several rows ahead of me, heard Johnny’s cry. She and Martha wiped their hands and came over to us.

  “You’ve exhausted yourself, Eliza. It’s my fault. Come back to the house now,” Lizzie said.

  I might have argued except that, standing up, I felt quite dizzy. The hot air and the rows of corn spun sideways before my eyes, and I nearly fell with Johnny in my arms. Martha took Johnny from me and endeavored to calm him. Lizzie ordered me to bed at once, then set about feeding Johnny with a bottle of watered-down cow’s milk and a smooth mash of leftovers. Johnny soon settled, and I fell asleep to the sound of him banging his favorite pot once more. Martha remained within to tend him, but Lizzie returned to the fields.

  I lay in bed, bored to tears, for near a week. Lizzie served me tea, milk, and cider throughout the day. At the end of the week, I felt buoyant enough to float off to sea. Then one morning I awoke to find my breasts aching, and, at Johnny’s cry, the milk burst forth and ran plentifully once more.

  42

  ONE DAY THAT JUNE, I ESPIED ABIGAIL walking down our lane with a quick, determined step. We were already abroad, feeding the animals, and when she got a little closer to us, I saw that in her hands she held a letter. She stopped before us and extended the folded paper.

  “It’s from Colonel Langdon.”

  I took the envelope from her and looked down at it; the handwriting was not that of my John. I hesitated before opening it. Abigail and I stood in the kitchen garden. Seeing my hesitation Abigail said, “Let us sit.” She moved us toward two low gardening stools, and we sat upon them. I held the letter in my lap, thinking that whatever events it described had already transpired. My not knowing the letter’s contents would change nothing.

  I broke the seal and read:

  Dear Miss Boylston:

  Forgive me for not replying sooner. I only received your letter yesterday, upon returning to Portsmouth after a long and unavoidable absence. I myself was in ignorance of the events of this past winter, when thirty-two men were banned from the town of Portsmouth. They fled, and their property was confiscated. Your uncle was among them . . .

  “So, the worst has happened,” I said aloud, endeavoring to remain composed. Abigail placed an arm around my shoulders.

  “Courage,” she whispered. “All is not lost.”

  I read on:

  Miss Boylston, it grieves me to report that your uncle is dead. He fled to New York, and was two weeks ago found in a hotel room, beside an empty vial of laudanum.

  “Oh, poor, foolish man,” I cried. “I wonder if Mama has heard?”

  “Heard what, dear?” asked Abigail, but I continued to read without replying:

  Before leaving Portsmouth, your uncle brought John and Isaac to auction, at Stavers’s tavern. The sale had been announced in all our surrounding towns. Apparently, a man from Kittery, one Mr. Richards, attended this auction. When he espied Isaac, a great hullabaloo broke out. This Mr. Richards insisted that Isaac was his, and he wouldn’t pay a cent for him, and if Mr. Chase knew what was good for him he’d throw Watkins into the bargain or be arrested. Your uncle took the deal and vanished, with what results you now already know.

  I set the letter down. “I feel I am to blame, somehow,” I said. I could feel my legs swaying beneath me.

  Abigail rose from the stool. “Eliza, you look very ill. Might I bring you something?” Then, as I made no reply, she said, “Yes, you must take something.”

  “No, thank you.” I wavered on my feet.

  “I insist. A dish of tea—with rum. I’ll return by and by.”

  Once Abigail had left, I paced in circles in the kitchen garden. Colonel Langdon’s words could only mean one thing. Isaac and Watkins were now in the grips of Isaac’s former master. I knew not what to do. I could not sit, could not stand, could not be.

  Abigail returned with the tea and insisted I drink it. My hands shook; my entire body began to tremble.

  “You are not well. Come inside and lie down.”

  “Nay,” I said, refusing to comfort myself. For, though I suffered, the idea of fleeing my pain was anathema to me. I sat upon one of the stools and finished the letter:

  Miss Boylston, I discovered these events only yesterday, when I returned to Portsmouth to find Johnny and the child absent from the shipyard. By then, the news had spread around Portsmouth, and I have taken the liberty of sending a messenger to Cambridge to relate the news of your uncle’s death.

  Please know that with regard to the other subject of my letter, my feelings are by no means neutral.
You have friends who shall not let sleeping dogs lie. I daren’t say more. I remain in Portsmouth for several days but then must away.

  Yours most faithfully, JL

  “Oh, God, God. The worst has happened. And I was not there!”

  At that moment, Martha and Lizzie arrived from the fields. Johnny was asleep in Martha’s arms. My friends glanced at Abigail, who gravely shook her head.

  “What news?” asked Martha.

  I proffered the letter. Lizzie bent down to take it up. She and Martha read it in silence.

  “I must go at once,” I said. I rose, as if I might leave for Portsmouth that very moment. Then I recalled my babe, still in Martha’s arms. He slept peacefully, his breath coming in soft puffs between sweetly parted lips. His long, black lashes were curled and damp with sleep.

  “Let us go inside,” said Lizzie gently, “and think what’s best to do.”

  “You don’t understand.” I resisted the gentle tug of her hand. “He would sooner die than live under such a one. Oh, he shall do a harm to himself!”

  “Not while you and his babe are in the world,” Abigail assured me. “For the thought of you and Johnny would give even the most foolish man pause.”

  Despite my friends’ assurances, however, my legs gave way, and I needed them to help me to my bed. As I lay there, images of John and Isaac danced against the scrim of my closed eyelids. I could hear my friends speaking in low voices in the kitchen. Abigail said I must write Colonel Langdon immediately. Lizzie favored leaving at once. But Abigail had heard of skirmishes in Boston and was frightened of going without a man in tow—someone younger and stronger than either Lizzie’s inebriate farmhand or Uncle Quincy’s ancient coachman.

  I could tolerate but two extremes: the oblivion of sleep, or action. But sleep would not come, and I hardly knew what action to take. Then, from somewhere deep within, I found the will to rise up from the bed.

  “Lizzie, have you paper?” I called.