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

by Jodi Daynard

MARTHA PULLED ME AND JOHNNY INTO THE house and would not let me out. Instead, to the sound of the commotion and then eerie silence, she made me a dish of chamomile tea, into which, unbeknownst to me, she had mixed a goodly dose of laudanum. Then she helped me to undress and put me and Johnny to bed, for I had been fiercely trembling despite the heat. Only then did she go upstairs to remove her own wet clothing.

  I slept as if dead for many hours and knew nothing of what transpired until later that afternoon, when I learned that Star, Lizzie’s beloved horse, was dead. Someone had poisoned him.

  It was perhaps four or five in the afternoon when I rose, dressed, and moved to the front door. The men were gone. Johnny was still asleep, and everything was far too quiet. Lizzie and Martha were nowhere to be seen. I walked toward the flax field. There, I espied Martha. She was calmly picking flax as if nothing had happened. In a few moments, I saw Lizzie, dressed in one of Ann Quincy’s gowns, approach. She knelt by Martha’s side. The sun was low in the sky and cast an orange glow upon the Quincy house above us. Lizzie and Martha spoke gravely to each other, in whispers. I chose not to intrude upon them.

  The sun descended farther into the western sky, but no one thought of supper or Martha’s birthday cake. It went untouched till the following morning, when we crumbled it up and fed it to the chickens.

  I soon heard Johnny’s cry and turned back to the house, where I fed him. I know not what made me keep my distance from my friends, but I felt there was some business between them of a very private nature. However, after Johnny had fallen back asleep, as I took tea and a biscuit for myself—having no appetite but feeling that I must eat something—I grabbed up a shawl and went abroad.

  My friends were no longer in the field. It must have been past six now, for the sun hovered in a fiery orange ball and cast a broad glow across the dunes and the shore. I walked over the dunes in my bare feet, oddly consoled by the soft sand between my toes.

  I espied my friends a distance down the beach. They sat close by one another, not speaking, their heads bathed in the glow of the setting sun, their rich, brown hair—one quite dark, the other chestnut-colored—free and whipping about their shoulders and necks. Their eyes were closed, their faces turned into the wind, into the sun’s glow. Lizzie had taken Martha’s hand.

  I might have been hurt by the way in which they had locked me out of their understanding. Yet I believed that they wished only to protect, not to exclude, me from whatever it was they hid.

  “May I join you for a few minutes? I daren’t leave Johnny longer than that.”

  “Of course. Come. Sit with us. You must be bursting with questions,” said Lizzie.

  “Yes, but they can wait. I came to see if I could aid you in any way, Lizzie.”

  She shook her head.

  “Your presence helps,” said Martha. “Just you yourself.”

  We sat in silence a long time, perhaps twenty minutes, watching the red glow on the water deepen as the sun set behind us. I grew uneasy at the thought of Johnny waking to find his mama gone, and I rose, dusting the sand off my petticoat.

  “We’ll return by and by,” said Lizzie. “There are things you should know.”

  “Things you must know, now,” added Martha.

  What did they tell me, and what did I learn? Truths I could not have guessed had I lived a hundred years. They say we women lead easy, shallow lives—not so! It is only that men, the storytellers, pay scant attention to us.

  Martha began the story as we sat together at the kitchen table. She had made us some real tea, and it was now late. Johnny was asleep for the night. We were bone-weary, but I could not rest until I knew what my friends had suffered.

  “My brother, Thomas, I shall discuss first,” Martha began, setting her tea down and adjusting her chair. “As you know, there has long been a rumor that he has been in the employ of General Howe.” Here, she glanced at Lizzie kindly and put a steadying hand on hers. “Nothing could be farther from the truth. It was a rumor that I myself propagated. But, oh, the suffering this rumor has cost me, cost those I love. The truth is, my dear brother—”

  Lizzie interrupted her: “Eliza, Mr. Miller has been in the employ of Colonel Quincy, under direct orders from General Washington, these three years past.”

  My brow must have furrowed, and I said, “But I don’t understand. What does he do, that he must suffer such ignominy, such suspicion—and all untrue?”

  “He is still doing it,” said Martha. “Protecting us. Protecting Abigail Adams, her family, and the Cause.”

  “Eliza,” Lizzie stepped in. “There is, and has been for some time, a plot afoot to attack John Adams and John Quincy Adams upon their return from France. As we speak, these two illustrious citizens are in Boston. Their ship, La Sensible, is in the harbor and will arrive here tomorrow evening. We expect an assault.”

  “Our men will be ready,” Martha added.

  “Assault? What kind of assault?” I rose from my chair.

  “A surprise attack,” said Lizzie.

  “Except that it’s no surprise—now. They’re the ones who’ll be surprised—by us.” Martha added, her dark eyes as cold as her words.

  “But Martha, whom do you mean by ‘us’?” I did not quite understand.

  The two women glanced at each other.

  “Thomas,” began Lizzie.

  “And Harry and his captain,” answered Martha. “Among others.”

  I held my warm dish of tea for comfort. If I understood correctly, there was yet some real danger to us all. But what was the nature of this villainy? Violence in wartime I understood. But a vicious attack upon a noble, innocent creature—

  “But what, pray, does this current villainy have to do with that poor, poor beast?” I cried.

  “Allow us,” Martha forestalled, “allow us first to explain more fully what happened here last summer.”

  A year had now passed since those terrible events to which my friends had thus far only alluded—the deaths of Mr. Thayer and Dr. Flynt. The people of Braintree had lived in a state of terror for many months. But after a few months, people began to forget. We forgot, too—at least, it seemed so. Now Star was dead, in an act of vicious retaliation. But for what, and against whom?

  “Eliza,” Martha began, “those patriots who were murdered were not . . . patriots.”

  “Yes,” Lizzie confirmed. “They fooled everyone for a brief time. Or nearly everyone.”

  “Well, if they weren’t patriots, who were they?”

  “Enemies to the Cause,” said Martha firmly. “Dr. Flynt was no doctor. Dr. Flynt wasn’t even his real name. His real name was Mr. Stephen Holland, a counterfeiter from Londonderry, New Hampshire. As for Mr. Cleverly—”

  “The one who gave us our watering machine and who nearly proposed to Lizzie?”

  “The same,” Martha said. “His real name is Benjamin Thompson. My brother believes him to be behind the vandalism at our home. And he already has a wife, whom he abandoned in New Hampshire.”

  I listened in silence. But at last I voiced my true feelings: “Well, if those murdered men were not patriots but rather traitors, then it must be a very great patriot indeed who dispatched them.”

  My friends stared at me, wide-eyed, without comment. Lizzie finally said, “It is enough for now, what we’ve told you. Let us rest, and prepare ourselves for tomorrow.”

  My curiosity remained inflamed, but I was willing to wait for answers. By now, we were all quite exhausted and retired at once. But I did not sleep well. When the sky began to lighten on the morning of August 2, I had dozed for perhaps an hour or two, no more. Johnny woke, and I gave him to suck. Just as I was doing so, sitting on the parlor bed in my shift, Thomas Miller and Harry entered our cottage, all in a great commotion. With them were three of His Excellency’s officers: Captain Wiles, Colonel Livingston of New York, and Colonel Palmer. They bowed deeply. Several of them blushed.

  I covered my breast and nursing babe and stared up at the men. All three were quite tall, and a
ll were armed with French rifles and heavy gunnysacks. Colonel Palmer, with his powdered hair and soft pink face, looked far more like a lord of the manor than a Rebel officer. William Livingston, slender, with a long face and long nose, was more British bard than fighting man. Yet, this was the group of patriots who would lie in wait for the expected attack upon John Adams.

  I found my dressing gown, donned it hastily, and rose to be introduced. Lizzie, hearing the noise below her, descended and offered to make coffee. I then turned to Harry, light dawning upon my ignorance: “I don’t suppose you’ve been on a privateer vessel all these years.”

  “Not exactly. Or, rather, she began life as a privateer ship, and I began service in that capacity. But in July of ’76, we were . . . commandeered.”

  “And do you have a position in the Continental Navy, a rank of some kind?”

  Martha had just then descended the stairs. She stood where she was and listened attentively.

  “Chief boatswain’s mate, at your service.” Harry bowed.

  “Well, chief boatswain’s mate,” I replied, “you might well go hours without food—let us feed you.”

  We set to work feeding the men before they went off to continue their preparations. We had some remaining pork rashers from Harry’s spoils, and we fried them with eggs and made a large pot of coffee. When the men had finished their meal, we cleaned up, each lost in our own thoughts.

  The news about Mr. Miller’s loyalty to the Cause was reason for joy; yet none of us felt like celebrating. Terrible things had happened, and could yet happen that night.

  Late that afternoon, we removed to the colonel’s house, where we would remain till well past midnight. We had few words; the colonel played cards with Lizzie and Martha, endeavoring to distract them from the looming confrontation. Ann, wishing to spare the servants the infection of our anxiety, herself brought us something to eat from the kitchen.

  Toward evening, Colonel Quincy looked out his back door and said, “I believe the enemy will come not from a ship but from the woods. Just off to the left there.”

  “You mean you believe they’re already here, in our parish?” I asked.

  “I do.”

  “And where are our men?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “You mean you will not say, sir?”

  The colonel did not reply but pursed his lips regretfully.

  Night came, and darkness. Johnny fell asleep in the chamber that the Quincys called “Dr. Franklin’s room,” because Ben Franklin had stayed in it on several occasions. Ann brought us a light supper and urged us to eat, but none of us had an appetite. I managed a sip of tea and one bite of a buttered biscuit, much like my friends. The clock chimed eleven, then midnight. We watched through the window at the back of the house, which the colonel had barred with a wood plank. It reminded me of the early days of the Troubles, when Papa nailed planks across our doors and windows, for fear of the Rebels.

  Now, we were those Rebels, and I was among them.

  We watched for La Sensible in the moonlight. We listened. Nothing. Nothing, for the longest time. More refreshment was brought. The colonel kept dozing off in a high-backed chair and then waking himself, only to doze off again moments later. At around one in the morning, Lizzie had just wearily suggested that we play a game of euchre when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.

  “Look,” I said, pointing through the window to the sea. Was that a ship gliding silently into our moonlit view, two sails furled? Was that an anchor tossed? A near-full moon meant that we could see the target of this midnight treachery full well; unfortunately, so could our enemies see La Sensible.

  We rose in unison and moved to the window. Tied to the ship’s stern, a dinghy rocked to and fro. For a long while, it remained empty. Then, suddenly—from whence we knew not—one man descended into it, helped by two others. He was portly. His bald, wigless head shone in the moonlight. Another man, far taller and thinner, descended soon after him.

  Martha placed a hand upon Lizzie’s arm. We saw no sign of anyone else—no enemy afoot. But we dared not release our held breath. The dinghy came closer to shore. Closer. Then, just as a wave took it onto the sand, just as John Adams—it was he—had stepped down into the lapping waves to steady the dinghy, from the woods to our left came a rushing, raucous cry and a swarm of fire.

  Lit torches descended in dancing blazes to the dinghy. I thought at first it was an Indian attack, though what few Indians remained in the outskirts of our town had caused no trouble of late. But the fire! The raucous cries! I knew not what these meant.

  Suddenly the overturned hull of an abandoned canoe upon the shore, one we had seen all day yet not noticed, came to life. It lifted up and flipped over. Rising from it were four men: Thomas Miller, Harry Lee, Colonel Palmer, and William Livingston.

  Like the Trojan horse that canoe had sat, immobile and ignored. The men must have been crouching painfully within it for hours. Now at last they lifted their bayoneted muskets. I turned away from the window. “Oh, I cannot,” I said. “I cannot watch.” I moved away just as Lizzie and Martha pulled the wood plank from the door and rushed outside, heedless of Ann or the colonel’s desperate calls.

  I heard musket fire; Lizzie cried out. Martha whispered, “There he is!”

  Lizzie whispered back, “Who? Who’s there?”

  “Mr. Cleverly.”

  “Oh, but Thomas!”

  “Harry!” Martha cried. We all heard another blast of musket fire. I covered my ears; my body trembled. Had Mr. Miller been killed? Or Harry? What had happened?

  Someone took my hand. It was Ann. “The villains are surrounded,” she said. “But Mr. Miller has been wounded.”

  I had stood up; now my knees gave way. Mrs. Quincy called to a servant, who brought me a brandy, which I drank. Ann and I sat at the base of the stairway, unable to stand and remove ourselves to the parlor. I listened for Johnny, asleep upstairs in Dr. Franklin’s room. All was quiet on that front.

  In a few moments, Harry and two of his officers banged through the front door, carrying Mr. Miller.

  Lizzie shrieked. Both Ann and I ran to her as the men brought Mr. Miller into the parlor and set him on the sofa. His face was black with tar; pain darkened his eyes, too. A wound in his side had turned his waistcoat dark red.

  “It’s but a scratch,” he insisted, glancing down at the blood that had seeped through his waistcoat.

  “Allow me,” said Lizzie, kneeling next to him.

  “Tell me what to do,” I said. “Please.”

  “I need dry cloths and brandy, if you have it. If not, wine will do. I must clean the wound,” she said evenly. She lifted up Mr. Miller’s waistcoat; Martha, white and silent by Lizzie’s side, aided in removing his shirt.

  “I fear I bleed on your sofa,” Mr. Miller said to Mrs. Quincy.

  “Goodness, Mr. Miller, what is a sofa, compared to a man?” Ann exclaimed.

  I stared at her for a moment, impressed by her pithy remark. I then flew off to the kitchen as Lizzie examined Mr. Miller. When I returned five minutes later, she was still at work, checking him over as methodically and calmly as if he were any soldier. “The shot has passed clean through,” she said with some relief. “No organs are involved.”

  “Excellent news!” I said. I set down the bottle of brandy and handed Lizzie several rags. She applied a compress to the wound, which made Mr. Miller groan in pain. She continued to press upon the wound, but as she did so the pain she caused herself seemed worse than that of the patient’s, and she burst into tears.

  A knock at the front door silenced us all, so oddly regular and civilized did it sound compared to our turmoil within. The door opened. In walked Mr. Adams and John Quincy Adams—alive, if not entirely well. Mr. Adams spoke quietly for a few minutes with Colonel Quincy and Ann. I saw him pass a hand wearily over his bald head. He then grasped his son’s shoulder and said, “Forgive me. But we should like to go home now.”

  “At once,” said the colonel. H
e rushed abroad to call for his coachman.

  I watched the weary father and son depart. I was glad for Abigail, but I felt a pang of envy in my breast for their imminent reunion. We soon took our leave; I did not wish to wake Johnny and so left him to sleep through to the morn. I knew he was safe with the Quincys.

  I returned to the cottage with my friends, who supported Mr. Miller beneath his arms, he protesting all the way: “Nonsense. I am well. I am quite well.”

  “Hush,” Lizzie hissed at him, “the spirits will hear you.”

  Once arrived at our cottage, my friends did what they knew how to do so well: They nursed their men. Martha heated water for a bath for Harry. We found him within, sitting on a stool, bent over and filthy, head in his hands. Lizzie used some of the hot water to bathe Mr. Miller as he lay stretched out on my bed, Lizzie taking care not to disturb his bandaged wound. The two men were clean as babes when the women blew out their bedside candles.

  48

  I WAS RELIEVED AT THE SUCCESSFUL CONCLUSION to the terrifying events of the previous day, which might so easily have taken a more sinister turn. My friends’ great trial was nearly over. Yet mine was not. John Adams must be protected at all costs, yet what of my poor John? What practiced band of patriots lay in wait to vanquish those who would harm him? I knew well the answer.

  It was quite early the following morning. Mr. Miller was still asleep in bed, but Lizzie was awake and in the kitchen when I descended. I smiled at her as I endeavored to hide the dark feelings in my breast.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked the moment she saw me.

  I pursed my lips so that no evil would escape them. “I am very happy for everyone,” I began, and then burst into tears.

  “Come here,” said Lizzie. “I know what you’re thinking. We have not forgotten him.” She hugged me tight. After I had composed myself somewhat, I asked, “Mr. Miller—is he well?”

  “He shall be well, I believe. I was up for hours. There is as yet no redness or swelling at the site of the wound. That is auspicious.”

  At the word auspicious, I suddenly remembered a dream I’d had the night before.