I was also a good cook. I had spent too many years in the kitchen not to have learned from Nance. But did the mistress ask if I could cook? She did not. And I didn’t tell her. The less she expected of me, the less I had to do. She expected me to be stupid and so I fulfilled her expectations.
With Bett in the kitchen, we suffered. The bread was heavy, the gravy lumpy, the meat over- or underdone. There was never a leaving-the-table feeling full and satisfied. Finally, the mistress hired Sarah.
Nance had been a good basic cook; Sarah was a fancy one. She had worked in many different homes: the Kellogs’, Callenders’, Ingersolls’, and Deweys’. Therefore, she brought to the Ashleys’ a range of new ideas that Sarah called her own. I learned much from her and more about her.
At first, I found it hard to work with her. She had her own way of doing things. She seldom used the wooden sour tub for making bread, and when she did, she used honey and salted it strong. “You must wash all the silver before you do the dishes,” she always reminded me. “And wash the glassware before the china.” What difference did it make? All things had to be washed. I learned that if I did it Sarah’s way, it was easier and the dishes looked cleaner.
Sarah could read and write. Sometimes she made things from a book that she hid under her skirt so that the mistress would not take it away from her. Her pastries were crumbly good, her pheasant was never dry, and the way she used wines made all of the mistress’s guests wonder what she did to make things taste so good. Sarah never showed her book.
One day I saw her reading and said to her, “Sarah, do you think I could learn to read?”
“You learned to talk, didn’t you? I remember when you came you couldn’t speak English at all. You and your sister spoke Dutch. You learned to speak English, I would say too fast.” She laughed.
“What’s that got to do with reading?”
“Everything. The words we say are made out of letters.” She wrote an X, an A, and a T. “People let the X stand for their names when they can’t write. You know what a bird is. B-I-R-D stands for that creature that sings. So you see, writing is nothing but things standing for things. We call them words. You read words, and anybody who talks as much as you, girl, can read.”
I began to pay attention. But the mistress didn’t let up for one minute. There was always something that I had not done, or had not done right. But when she was not around, Sarah and I found time for me to learn to read. What joy!
My sister was happy that I was happy, but she did not get along with Sarah as well as she had with Nance. Nance was motherly, Sarah youthfully fresh. Sarah knew a lot, but I soon learned that she did not have the wisdom my sister had. And my sister knew that. I also learned a lot about my sister, looking at her alongside Sarah. She treated Sarah the way she treated most people, friendly but always held at a distance. Bett never made small talk, and she could talk all day and never say enough about herself to give you a clue to who she really was.
Sarah admired her, but there was some competition between the slave and the hired woman. The very first day, Sarah said, “Miss Bett, can you come and show me how to set up for the guest?” Bett in her most friendly manner said, “I am neither miss nor mistress in this house. About things like that you must speak to Mistress Anna.” She smiled and walked quickly from the room.
Sarah soon learned that Bett would not oversee her work, nor was Bett interested in what was going on in the kitchen. She had her chores on and off the place that kept her busy, and besides, even though she didn’t show it, I knew she was deeply worried about Josiah. A whole year had gone by since we had last heard from him.
Fall turned to cold, rainy, icy winter. Long after our prayers for Josiah were over, I struggled by candlelight, bundled in my clothes and old blankets, to read the worn primer and speller that Sarah had given me. Bit by bit I learned the miracle of reading and writing.
What joy I found reading to Little Bett. My sister had almost no time with us, but sometimes when snow was falling and the wind was whistling in the trees, she, too, was delighted with the prayers and Bible stories.
Sarah brought word that wounded soldiers were returning from the slave battalion. Bett and I began to hope that maybe Josiah would be among them, or that we would have word from him. We waited.
One evening we all were together in the room that had once belonged to Nance, talking, remembering Josiah and the men we had known who had been gone so long. “Listen,” Brom said. Everyone hushed, and a soft knock sounded. We remained quiet, for we expected no one at that time of night. Brom cautiously opened the door, and Sarah and a thin man with haunting eyes came into the room. His clothes were in tatters, his shoes worn, and he had a terrible cough.
Sarah introduced him as Quam Tanner, and Bett gave him her name and asked him to sit. He smiled and relaxed a little when he sat down. “Miss Freeman,” he said, “I have searched for you a long time. Your husband asked me to find you and say that he is well and to give you a letter.”
“Oh, praises be,” Bett shouted.
“Hallelujah!” we all cried in response.
“Where did you see him?” I asked.
“We were together in New York near West Point. The going was rough, but not as rough as in other places. His troop was scheduled to join Colonel Christopher Green.”
“How bad is it?” Brom asked.
“Depends on who’s telling. Bad enough, but we had some good times. I hear you know Grippy. Wherever Grippy is, there is going to be some fun. Grippy had gotten in with General Paterson. There was this General Kosciusko who really liked Grippy, so General Paterson let Kosciusko have Grippy as his servant. Grippy took care of the general’s clothes, which were expensive and very pompous. There was even a three-cornered hat covered with ostrich plumes.”
“You sure he was a general?” Brom asked, and we all laughed.
“Where was he from?” I asked.
“From Poland.” Quam went on. “Now one night the general left the Point saying he was going ’cross the river and wouldn’t be back for two or three days. Grippy got busy and cooked a dinner and invited us all over, Josiah included. When we arrived, Grippy was all dressed up in the general’s expensive uniform, hat and all. We were having a good time when all of a sudden the general came into the room. Man, we were jumping out windows, getting out of there. Grippy was so embarrassed.”
“And I bet that general was some angry,” Brom said.
“No, he wasn’t. He paraded his servant around and introduced him as an African prince who was a great warrior. I think Grippy would rather have had a whipping.”
I could see the dignified Agrippa Hull being caught in such an outfit. I joined the others in laughter.
Bett sat as if she were not aware that we were in the room. It didn’t cross her mind that we were as anxious as she to know what Josiah had to say in his letter. She folded it in her skirt and sat as if it didn’t exist. Sarah and the guest soon said good night.
When we reached our room, Bett hurriedly removed the letter and thrust it at me. “Read it!”
I trembled. What if I could not read a letter? I had only read from books. And Sarah had gone. Would my sister dare call Little John?
“Read it!” she said with such command in her voice that I knew I would. And I did:
My dear Wife, Sister, and Daughter:
It has been so long that I fear you don’t remember me. I am well, considering this bloody business. I am blessed that my clothes are still holding up. My shoes are worn, but still protect my feet. But like all the other men, I am without ample food. There is no quartermaster so we have no supplies. And when we buy anything out of our little stipend, we are forced to pay 100 times more than it is worth. People are getting rich while the army that is fighting for them is starving. I want you to go and ask for the stipend they have promised to all families of fighting men. I am sure your master will know about this. Let us pray that he will let you have it. Our battalion has no hope of getting out of this until it is
over. There is no such thing as three months for us. We are fighting and fighting hard. But it will all be worthwhile if I know in the end you and all of our people will be free. Let us pray that Divine Power will bring us together again so that we can love each other in peace.
Your husband, father, and brother,
Josiah
Next morning, the mistress was already up and dressed in a heavy cloak, walking up and down between the kitchen and dining room. Her eyes were swollen with tears, “Hurry and light the kitchen fire,” she shouted at Little Bett. “Nothing is going right around here.”
There were muddy footprints leading up the stairs to the bedrooms, so I knew that guests had come in the night. “Lizzie, light the fire in my and the master’s rooms, but do not enter the others. I am tired of all this coming and going.” She began to cry.
“What is it, Meesteres Annetje?” It pleased the mistress when Bett spoke to her in the mistress’s language.
“Oh, Bett, John has decided that he is going away to this bloody war. I’ve talked to him until I’m blue in the face, but neither he nor his father will give in. He’s determined to go.”
“He’s a man, and men think they are made to fight. Oh, how I wish people could settle their problems without all this killing.”
“It is unholy,” the mistress cried.
Before we had finished lighting fires or had the water boiling, Major Fellows was knocking on the door. “Is John ready? We must be on our way.”
“He is not going!” the mistress screamed.
But Little John was dressed in his uniform and had seen to it that Brom had saddled his big bay horse. He carried a backpack made of canvas and his gun with powder horn and many pellets. Tired of her ranting, he was off before the mistress had time to complain to him directly.
I thought of Josiah and it was a sad moment for us all. The news brought by the men who had come in the night was not good. One was a heavy man with dark eyes and long dark hair. When he came down for breakfast, his presence filled the room and I knew that he was someone special.
“Who’s that man?” I asked my sister.
“That’s Tapping Reeve, the lawyer from Connecticut I told you about.”
Around the table that morning there was much talk about the soldiers being angry about no supplies, and no pay, and their losing war. Their discontent was likely to lead to mutiny.
“The problem,” one of the guests stated, “is the poor quality of our officers. Many of them are deserting along with thousands of recruits. And our forces are under foreigners who are bounty seekers.”
One of the men asked the question, “Is it true that bounty seekers are getting rich?”
I listened, hoping one of them would say what bounty was. He went on, “I hear men are taking cash money for signing up in one county, serving for a few days, deserting, and going into another county for cash.”
Lawyer Reeve, who was outspoken, answered. “Yes, they’re bounty seekers. But the real problem is that taxes are too high and it’s the poor who are bearing the burden of this war.”
I was amazed. He spoke in a voice that was just a whisper, but his words were spoken in such a way that one could not mistake his soft voice for a weakness. He continued. “You here in Massachusetts are sharing the burden more equally, but overall others are not.”
“We organized for paying our share early in the war,” the master said.
“Too many who refuse to fight are getting rich,” Lawyer Reeve said. “And even here there are some who are growing rich while suffering none of the hardships and danger. I wouldn’t be surprised if the army turned arms against the rich and set up a just government.”
There was a threatening silence. Then he said, “Life will not go on as before, whether we win or lose this war. The poor are angry as they struggle, and I believe the silent millions will one day speak the living words of history.”
I looked at Bett. She stood still, listening as if entranced. I thought, This is what she hears all the time, those high-sounding words from guests, but never the simple statement: Slaves must be free.
A few days later, Bett spoke to the master about the stipend due her because Josiah was a soldier.
“You’re not legally married, Bett. You’re a slave,” he said.
Bett shifted her weight and sighed. “But my husband is a free man,” she told him quietly.
“There are many women legally married whose husbands are fighting, who get no pay. There is no money. Some soldiers have not been paid since 1777. You are well taken care of. Many are begging bread.” He walked away, closing the subject.
I pretended I hadn’t heard, but I began to notice. Some of the women who came to wash were in tatters. Their children’s faces were drawn and thin, their arms and legs like sticks. These women were getting no help. And as the winter closed in, some came to the mistress’s door begging bread. Sarah took the liberty to share without the mistress’s permission.
22
The winter of 1778 was the coldest I had ever known. Ice formed on everything. On trees it glistened and sparkled red, blue, and green lights that were almost blinding. The ground froze hard and the rutted roads were sharp enough to cut the feet. It was in the midst of this cold spell that we received another letter from Josiah. The writing was difficult to read, as if it had been painfully written:
Bett, my dear:
I hope when you get this letter things will be much better for me. We have joined the main troops under General Washington in Valley Forge. We are in dire straits for food and clothing. I made the mistake to take off my shoes to try to dry my feet and someone stole them. I stripped my blanket to wrap my feet, but they are now frozen, turning black. Without my blanket, I am never warm. We get no supplies and many men are naked, many covered with vermin and riddled with diseases. People who see us call us the ragged, lousy, naked regiment. And our French allies make jokes at the expense of our nudity. More than three thousand of us are unfit for duty. We are fighting still, even though many are dying for lack of medicine and care. Worst of all, we are not paid. I hope you were able to get our share there. Whatever money you get, I beg you to use it for yours and Ayisha’s freedom. Say to Ayisha that my love for her and my determination for her freedom keep me going.
I worry about her and Aissa. But not about you. I feel you are capable of taking care of things. Needless to say I love you and long for the day when we will be together again. Pray for peace and for us who feel as though we are the forgotten wretched.
Much love.
Josiah
That letter pushed us into silence. I could not say what I was feeling for fear of breaking into sobs. I had a strong sense that we would never see Josiah again. I knew that Bett felt the same. She held her child more closely than ever, as if feeling her loss. It wasn’t long before what we secretly dreaded fell upon us.
One Sunday we were walking back from my sister’s place early in the evening. Feathery clouds were pink from the glow of the setting sun. We were quiet as we came to the edge of the master’s land. Mary was waiting for us. She was always serious, but today there was a sadness in her face. “Bett, Father would like to see all of you in his office right away,” she said.
Was he angry? I wondered. What had we done to displease him? I wanted to ask Mary, but I didn’t want her to know the guilt that always arose in me whenever the master summoned, even though I had done nothing wrong.
When we arrived at the house, the master and mistress were in the waiting room. They rose immediately and asked us to come with them up the stairs. Suddenly I knew something was terribly wrong. My heart pounded in my stomach, making me weak. The master took a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to Bett. “Bett, uh … it’s Josiah.… Word has come. He is dead.” He did not look at my sister.
Little Bett let out a cry that pierced the heart more than the ear. One cry, then silence. I felt faint, but held on for my sister, who I could see was crumbling inside. The mistress kept her head lowered and
I sensed a feeling of sympathy from her that I had never felt before.
The paper he gave my sister listed Josiah’s name, circled, as one from the areas of Sheffield and Stockbridge who had been listed as dead. That was all.
All night Bett and I cried, but after that sharp initial outcry, Little Bett remained stony silent. Bett wailed, sorely grieved that her husband, like our father and mother, had died among strangers and was buried in a strange land. But even worse, Josiah had not been among his people to prepare his body and help make that journey to the proper place. Oh, how I longed to go and search for his body and bring it here, where he had known some happiness in spite of all the pain and suffering that was the routine of our lives. Like my freedom—it wasn’t to be.
It seemed the war would never end, and that the visitors would never stop coming. With John still away, the mistress was in no mood for parties and entertainment. However, she and the girls did join women in the town to make the shot pouches, fold garments, roll bandages, and pack water bottles. The master was away often, and the slaves and other workers kept the place going.
There was much excitement when the master was at home. Bett was busy going back and forth upstairs seeing to it that the men who were working on the Massachusetts constitution were served rum, tea, and wine. The meetings were long, with much talk. Sometimes we heard them in the kitchen.
“What is all the fuss?” Sarah asked when Bett came for more rum, which was popular since tea was still scarce.
“They are arguing over a list of rights and freedoms they think are good for the people of this state—what they call a ‘bill of rights.’ They say the first constitution for Massachusetts was defeated by the voters because it didn’t have that bill. And some of them up there want a bill of rights, but they want more to make sure that property owners will not lose any power to those without property.”
Second Daughter Page 9