by Jodi Daynard
John sat on the parlor bed and watched Mr. Miller and our babe. He seemed content to watch them, and when I sat down beside him he took my hand. Mama and the women were elsewhere, perhaps in the kitchen. That was good. Two worlds lived in Lizzie’s cottage now, and I knew not how I would make them one, so I didn’t try. Instead, I thought: They will have to make themselves one, somehow.
John was very quiet, watching his son and Mr. Miller play. I asked him, “What is it you’re thinking?”
“Selfish thoughts, I’m afraid.” He smiled at me, but those aqua eyes were liquid and near tears. “I missed a year of my son’s life.”
“He shan’t remember it.”
“Yes, but I shall.”
The ruckus of banging pots and off-key singing had grown so loud that no one had heard the persistent knocking at the door. Suddenly the little baffled face of Mrs. John Adams appeared, followed by the bewigged and powdered head of Mr. John Adams himself.
“Hallo!” Abigail called. “Are we to let ourselves in, then?” In her hands she held a pie.
“Oh, sorry!” Lizzie motioned for Martha’s brother to cease his banging. Martha came barreling out of the kitchen at the same moment and nearly collided with Mr. Adams.
“Pardon!” she said and then burst into embarrassed laughter, as did Mr. Adams. He pat at his limbs to see that all four remained in his possession.
Just then, Mama, regal and pathetic in her frayed silk gown and erect bearing, emerged from the kitchen. I had no choice but to introduce her to the Adamses, which I then did.
“Mama, allow me to introduce Mr. John Adams and his wife, Abigail. You have heard much about our esteemed citizens, I’m sure.”
“Indeed,” said Mama. Thankfully, she curtsied.
“Well, well. Welcome to our humble parish, Mrs. Boylston,” said Mr. Adams cheerfully. “Did you have a good trip?”
“Not very,” grumbled Mama. “The roads were dusty.”
My heart clutched; I knew not how Mama would behave, nor how she would be received. Two worlds, I thought, and I alone cannot make them one.
Suddenly Mr. Adams let out a hearty laugh. “An honest woman. And annoyed, too. Well, why shouldn’t she be? It is hot, the roads are dusty, and for her troubles she finds herself surrounded by the likes of us!”
Mr. Adams thought this was vastly amusing, but Abigail nudged him.
“Hush, John,” she said.
Lizzie went to fetch tea, and Mr. Miller at long last broke off his singing to help carry the garden stools into the kitchen garden.
Martha had made us a fricassee of chicken with our own peppers and a salad of beans. Mr. Adams carried the table from the kitchen into the garden, refusing to let Mr. Miller help him, as Mr. Miller’s wounds were not yet healed. He had trouble once he got to the front door, however, and Abigail grabbed one end of the table in exasperation. It was a comic sight, watching the two of them argue about how best to get the table through the door. At last, they succeeded, much to our relief.
The Quincys soon arrived, bringing wine. Once more, I made introductions, and once more, Mama, though dour, was civil enough. She seemed to realize that she was outnumbered.
But I soon nearly forgot Mama, her feelings, her thoughts, or even her behavior. Abigail pointed to a pie she had set upon the table, and I laughed with joy at the sight of it.
“What have you made for us, Abigail?”
“An apple pie. Some of yours were already ripe—I took the liberty of purloining them for the occasion. It is an occasion, is it not?”
“Oh, Abigail, it is!”
We had not enough chairs for all of us, but it mattered not. Throughout the evening, Abigail and John argued over one chair, pushing each other off of it at unexpected moments; they seemed to enjoy this fight for chair mastery, and it was hard to tell who had won until, finally, at the dessert course, we heard a thud, and Mr. Adams disappeared momentarily. We rose in wonder, to find him splayed out on the ground. Abigail exclaimed triumphantly, “There—at last! The chair is mine!”
“It seems you’ve managed to do what no one else has yet accomplished, Abigail,” said Martha.
“What is that?”
“Unseat the great John Adams.”
At this, we all laughed.
That night, Mr. Adams told memorable stories: of France and Paris, Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. But he also listened with great interest to my John, who spoke about the Ranger, the Raleigh, and the America. I burst with pride at John’s modesty, his simple eloquence, and his ease among these illustrious citizens. He was born to mingle among such company, I thought. At one point, he even glanced Mama’s way, though she studiously avoided meeting his eyes.
Cassie observed us all in silence. But her head pivoted this way and that, as if she were watching a game of catch.
Isaac chimed in with his own panegyric upon John Watkins: “Watkins taught me everything! The men of Portsmouth loved him!”
But as my John spoke, Mr. Adams grew increasingly thoughtful. Finally, he said, “I’m most aware of the sad irony, Mr. Watkins, that while you built the ships that are to win us freedom, you were not free to enjoy that which the rest of us fight and die for. It is a fact of our times for which I am heartily ashamed.”
“You need your own country,” Lizzie suddenly blurted to us, then glanced at Mr. Adams to see if she had given offense.
I smiled at my John. “Imagine that,” I said. “Our own country.”
“It is hard to imagine. Perhaps I shall be able to dream of it while I sleep.” He returned a gentle smile.
Mr. Adams gazed at Isaac, and at Johnny, who sat on Martha’s lap. He said, “True equality, I fear, shall fall to the next generation to accomplish.”
“Speaking of accomplishments,” I finally managed to bring up the subject I had wished to address for some time, “I feel the need to thank you, Mr. Adams. I have no idea how the miracle happened. I should dearly like to know.”
Mr. Adams pursed his lips. He glanced at Mama, quickly calculating whether she would be a risk, then let out a sigh. “Braintree was in dire need of grain, as you know all too well. Portsmouth, as it turned out, had a . . . a great deal of grain, housed on board a French brig. I was able to wrest from Congress approval to have Colonel Langdon send the grain immediately to us, upon his new ship the Hampton. I dare say no more.”
Mr. Adams, meanwhile, looked about the table and then raised his wineglass. “To Colonel Langdon.”
“To Colonel Langdon!” we all cried.
We made many other toasts as well—to His Excellency, to Mr. Adams, and to the barrels of grain that, I suspected, would leave many a loaf tasting of gunmetal.
We all knew these were my last hours in Braintree. But for the rest of the night, we kept sadness at bay. We felt it a sacred duty to celebrate our triumph, for the Lord knew how many defeats we had suffered.
After dinner we danced, and everyone joined in. Mr. Miller and Isaac banged on Lizzie’s pots and chanted strange noises, in very poor imitation of the Natives and their victory dances. Mr. Adams, Abigail, myself, Martha, Lizzie—even the colonel and Ann Quincy—joined in the dance. Martha had been holding Johnny, but when she entered the dance she placed Johnny upon Mama’s lap. “Here you go,” she said. Mama frowned, but oddly, Johnny did not cry. He reached for my mother’s nose as she reluctantly began to bounce him on one knee.
Round and round the table the rest of us went. Our hands and faces lifted to the ceiling, then bowed to the ground. We all chanted in unison, Mr. Adams chanting loudest of all and cutting a most absurd figure. At one point during the victory dance, he made such a sudden and violent gesture that his wig nearly flew off. This brought a roar of laughter from the rest of us.
Years later, I would ask President Adams and First Lady Abigail Adams, “Do you remember that time we danced like Indians in Lizzie’s cottage?”
“I recall no such thing,” replied the First Lady. But I caught her eye, and we laughed.
At around midnight, two men approached our door from the direction of the water: Harry and Captain Wiles. We ceased our dancing at once, but this time there was no burst of laughter.
Only Harry’s voice broke our silence. He said, “We shall be ready to depart by noon tomorrow.” He turned to Captain Wiles for confirmation.
“Ten, if the winds oblige,” Captain Wiles assented.
Ah, yes. The winds. The winds that would blow and scatter us across the earth like autumn leaves.
55
IT WAS EARLY, AND VERY STILL. NO light shone through the window. No one else was yet awake. But I sat up, holding the blanket across my breasts because Martha had entered Lizzie’s chamber and stood by the bed. She was heedless of the fact that by my side slept the runaway slave Watkins. Johnny was on the other side of me, sleeping sweetly.
“Eliza,” she whispered. “Eliza, wake up. I’ve something to tell you.”
“Give me a moment. I must dress and have some coffee, if possible. Oh, I was so tired—you cannot imagine.”
I began to rise from my bed but Martha forestalled me. “I have something to confess.”
I paused. “All the more reason to make some coffee. Go on, then.” I stood up, stark naked, and reached for my dressing gown. “I don’t wish to wake them,” I whispered. Martha followed me down the stairs.
For several weeks, I had suspected Martha of involvement in the deaths of Dr. Flynt and Mr. Thayer. But now that she seemed ready to tell me the truth, I wished to know the whole truth, not just a part of it.
“Who destroyed our supplies and Lizzie’s beloved Star?” I asked, bending to put the kettle on to boil.
“Cleverly has just now confessed to it.”
“But why did he wish to do such a thing? Why did he wish to harm us?”
“Reprisal,” she said curtly, her mouth tight. “For what I had done.”
“And what had you done, Martha? Was it you who killed those men?” I inquired mildly, now that we sat with our coffee, side by side at the table.
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
I was silent. Martha glanced at me in surprise. “How calm you are, Eliza, and at such dreadful news as this.”
I sighed. “Our laws and precepts—everything and everyone I once revered, Martha, have long since proved themselves unworthy. Much as I should like to judge the sins of others—we all know how well I am suited to the task—I now find that I am incapable of doing so.”
My friend smiled wanly.
“That is most generous,” Martha replied. “More than I feel I deserve. But let me say only that I acted not alone, but rather with the knowledge and consent of my brother, the colonel, and General Washington himself. The men were an immediate threat, and I alone had the means.”
“I am very sorry for you, Martha. Truly.” I reached for her hand and grasped it. “While I can’t pretend to understand how you feel, I do know that it must be a terrible burden. I meant to leave my mother alone—Lord knows she deserved it. Yet, at the last moment, I found I could not do it. I am weak and admire your strength.”
“You know that is not weakness. That is compassion—a luxury we could not afford.” Martha’s voice was hardly above a whisper when she added, “I see not how I shall ever recover.”
I sipped my coffee and considered Martha’s words. Finally I replied, “Even Cain was allowed to recover. Did the Lord not give Cain a mark to protect him from others’ condemnation? Martha, though you bear a mark, you shall—you must—recover.”
“But I have taken two lives,” she said.
“I am an unwed mother whose babe is as brown as her homespun.”
“Yes,” Martha said thoughtfully. “That’s pretty bad. And yet, oddly, we like you so much better now than before.” Martha suddenly flashed me a beautiful smile, though her eyes brimmed with tears.
Later that day, we gathered on the beach: Lizzie and Mr. Miller, myself and John, Cassie, Mama and Isaac, Abigail and Mr. Adams. A ways down the shore, Charlie and Tommy Adams played catch with a purloined apple from Lizzie’s orchards.
Harry stood off a ways, to the east of us, before the moored ship, beside Martha. They were speaking earnestly to each other, though we heard not their words. Then Harry got down on one knee before her. To give them privacy, we forced our eyes away, up to the gulls and terns, then down to the plovers running to and fro with the tide, like tiny shadows. I looked up, finally, at John and nodded. It was time to set off.
Embraces, tears, promises to write . . . We waved until our wrists hurt and salty tears burned our eyes, the figures of our beloved friends growing smaller and smaller, and finally becoming grains of sand on the distant shore. Once our separation was complete, and we saw only the iron-gray water, it went easier upon our souls.
For the most part, our little band of thieves—Harry and Cassie and Isaac, myself and John and Johnny—made for a jolly party. For a long time Mama kept herself apart, and I did not try to bring her in. At one point early in our voyage, she had begun to talk about Watkins—though he was but half a rod from us—at which time I took the opportunity to make things clear to her. Things that I had been thinking about ever since we left Cambridge.
“Mama. I fear I must make the situation clear to you, so that we have a good understanding. Assuming we survive this voyage, you must know the house we sail towards is my house—mine and John’s. I shall say this only once, so listen carefully.”
Mama’s mouth gaped open but she said nothing. Cassie stood by me, also silent, all ears.
“You enjoy, or have previously enjoyed, the liberty of saying what you like to me. But in my house, though you may complain all you like about the land or the food or the war, breathe a word of disrespect to myself, my husband, or my son, and you shall find yourself sold to the first trader of old crones. Do you understand me, Mama?”
“I do,” she murmured. “I understand you full well.”
“Good!” Here I smiled gaily and patted her arm.
For several days after this conversation, Mama did not speak, either to me or to anyone else. However, she soon began to complain about the wet bedding in her bunk. Then she expressed shock at the weevils in the potatoes, followed by a diatribe upon the unhygienic state of the necessary. Such was to be her way from now on: casting her jaundiced eye upon the world and leaving us in peace. That was all right by me, for we allowed that old women had earned the right to complain. We soon ceased hearing her, in the way we no longer heard the roar of the ocean waves.
Meanwhile, John, having built boats but never sailed one, grew more joyful and confident by the day, as he crewed the ship alongside Harry. His hand ached him. It was stiff and swollen, but he now had some use of it.
We arrived in New York after a week, where we said a tearful good-bye to Harry.
“I feel certain we’ll meet again someday,” he said to us. “Until then . . . I hope to hear from you, Eliza.”
“Of course. My pen shall be faithful.” I had already written my friends several letters, which I gave to Harry to post for me.
New York to Barbados was a long, miserable journey. Most of the time I kept my eyes on the horizon, the sea, the birds overhead, or the dark waves, in which I saw, or imagined I saw, the heavy tails of great dark leviathans. Several times during our crossing, I did see a tail flop lazily over, or caught a sudden, tall geyser. And upon sight of the beast’s great vanishing tail, I thought: Never again would we suffer as we had during those days of America’s war of independence.
The winds were against us, and twice we nearly capsized. We were heading to St. Vincent on the French ship La Gabriel. St. Vincent was an island about one hundred miles from Barbados, recently overtaken by the Admiral d’Estaing. Though ill and greatly fearful most of the way, we all arrived at St. Vincent in one piece, some time in mid-September.
Of our weeks on the ship, I have little to say. It was tumultuous and sickening. It was Purgatory. I could neither read nor talk. I could not even open my eyes, b
ut lay either on my cot or rolled in blankets on the deck, the wind slapping me until I felt bruised.
Cassie fared no better. She had not the wherewithal to care for young Johnny, but remained on deck as well, preferring, much like myself, either to be swept off to sea or to freeze solid in the brutal winds. At one point I remarked to her that she had finally succeeded in becoming white.
She shot back, “I may be white, Miss Eliza, but you green.”
Interestingly, and with a great show of exasperation, Mama took it upon herself to help with Johnny. The roiling seas that made Cassie and me so deathly ill had no effect upon her whatsoever. She was able to remain belowdecks with Johnny while we froze above.
One day, having descended briefly for something, Cassie returned to the deck, her face aglow with delight and tears in her eyes: “Your Mama read to de child, Miss Eliza! He sit on her lap wit’ one finger in ’ees mouf, like she de best gran’mama in da worl’.”
“Ha, ha,” I replied, tears now in mine, “I pray he’s never the wiser.”
When there was no more light and the winds howled, we were obliged to descend. Once below, I was unable to open my eyes but had to lie till morning with my eyes shut. I had but two gowns, and already there were traces of puke on both. My hair was perpetually sweaty with chills. My stomach heaved, and I groaned constantly.
And yet John’s joy could not be put down by something so small as a woman without her sea legs. As I lay there flat on my bunk, eyes closed, he sang. Sea shanties and war songs, which were diverting for a few minutes but quickly grew annoying.
“John, kindly be quiet,” I would say. And he would place a hand to his mouth and reply, “Oh, pardon!” Silence would reign for perhaps two minutes and then, suddenly, he would bellow, “Johnny Todd he took a notion for to cross the ocean wide . . .”
I shall herein gratify the prurient reader who wishes to know whether we were married, and whether we shared a bunk. The truth is, John and I kept separate quarters in the ship from New York to St. Vincent. Apart from the fact that Mama was with us ever since we had left our shores, I had felt an instinctual desire to begin anew. That we were doing so was literally true: We had nothing but ourselves, our friends, and our child to bring to this new life. But I wished for this to be morally true as well. Everything had to be different. With freedom came responsibilities.