by Ron Carter
Margaret tapped the stove top gingerly with her fingertips to test how it was warming, and three minutes later scooped rolled oats into the simmering pan of water, replaced the lid, waited for a minute, then moved the pan off the heat to steep. She fed more wood to the fires beneath the water kettles, then went to the root cellar for a jar of milk, a block of her own homemade cheese, leftovers from the leg of lamb, and three apples.
She stopped for a moment at the kitchen door to look at the heavens and feel the air. It would be a sunny day, good for drying clothes. Fifteen minutes later she placed wrapped leg-of-lamb sandwiches in three woven-reed lunch baskets, with a small chunk of wrapped cheese and an apple, and put all three baskets on the big dining table. She checked the oatmeal, added a pinch of salt and stirred, then replaced the lid.
Three minutes later she finished stripping the sheets and pillowcases from her bed, gathered the soiled clothing from the previous week into a large woven basket, and set it down by the back door. She set bowls and spoons and glasses on the table, then walked briskly down the hall and rapped on Brigitte’s door.
By rigid Boston custom, Monday was wash day. “Goodwives” were measured by their observance of such sacred customs, and on fair-weather Mondays, vacant clotheslines brought wagging tongues and pointing fingers. For the hard, exhausting work of scrubbing and hanging the weekly wet wash for a family of seven, Margaret wore a thick apron, a broad blue bandana to hold her hair back, and high buttoned leather shoes.
“Brigitte, get your wash load and come along.” She waited until Brigitte’s bare feet were on the oval rug before she went back to the kitchen.
“John, you and Matthew set up the tubs.” War or no war, clothing had to be washed, dried, ironed; children had to be fed—the business of life ground on, giving no quarter to fears, no time to brood. When weather permitted, doing the wash in the backyard saved the work of mopping the kitchen floor afterwards.
John and Matthew walked out the back door. Margaret set honey, brown maple sugar, and the bread-cutting board on the table, then walked back into the bedroom wing and tapped on Caleb’s bedroom door, then Priscilla’s. “Time for school. Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”
She returned to the kitchen, where wisps of steam rose from the big water kettles, and she felt the moist heat begin to fill the room, and the inside of the windows began to fog. She opened the back door and spoke to John and Matthew. “Leave it open . . . let some steam out.”
Brigitte brought her basket of bedding and soiled clothing and added it to Margaret’s, and went back to strip the children’s beds and gather their soiled clothing. John and Matthew entered with buckets in their hands and began carrying the steaming water out to the two washtubs, one for scrubbing, one for rinse. They filled the tubs, then drew more water from the well and refilled the kettles.
Margaret took the first basket of bedding and soiled linens out, dumped it into one tub, shaved slices of brown bar soap into it, poked the sheets down with a water-bleached oak stick, and stirred until the soap dissolved and froth appeared. She stirred until the steam stopped, then reached for the corrugated scrub board and thrust it into the tub, upright against the near edge, then walked back inside.
“Places at the table,” she called.
Three minutes later they all knelt beside their chairs and John nodded to Matthew, who offered their morning prayer and said grace.
It was a school day, a work day, and everyone knew what was expected. In efficient silence they passed the porridge and brown sugar, poured the milk, cut thick slices of bread and spread butter and honey, ate, and drank. With John’s permission the children went to their rooms, with Brigitte and Margaret following to put finishing touches on their hair. Then all reappeared in the parlor for Margaret’s inspection before they left for school.
“Mama, are the soldiers going to steal us?”
Margaret saw the fear in Adam’s wide, frightened eyes as she reached for the two small lunch baskets on the kitchen table.
“Of course not,” she said firmly. “Don’t you worry about the soldiers. Caleb will be with you.” She handed one lunch basket to each of the twins, then the third, larger one to Caleb. “Now, out the door, you three. On to school and come straight home.” She marched them out the front door, to the front gate, and watched them start south towards the small, square frame school building. “Caleb,” she called, “you watch them.” They reached the first corner before the school bell clanged the five-minute warning, and the children broke into a trot for the last two blocks. Margaret looked up and down the streets for flashes of red coats in the bright sunlight, but there were none.
She walked back into the house and closed the front door, and the hot, humid air washed over her. She glanced at the two large black kettles with water boiling and drew and released a great breath and braced herself.
While Brigitte did the dishes, Margaret walked on out the back door and jabbed the stick into the soaked sheets, lifted one on the oak stick, and felt it. “Soaked enough,” she murmured, and dropped it sloshing back into the tub. She laid the stick on the washstand, grasped the dripping sheet with both hands, and began grinding it up and down on the scrub board, shifting it steadily as she did, until it was finished. She wrung it, then dumped it splashing into the rinse tub and started on the next sheet. Brigitte walked out with the clothespins.
The two of them hit a rhythm, and the clothes began to fill the lines strung beside the west fence of the yard, while John and Matthew carried more water from the well to refill the big kettles in the fireplace.
With the kettles full and wood on the fires, John went back to his workbench and motioned to Matthew and spoke quietly. “I’m going down to see Silas. Maybe he knows a way to get the muskets to the church. You stay here. If Tom or any of the others come, hold them here. I’ll be back soon.”
Matthew nodded, and John picked his hat from its peg on the engraved hat rack by the door, and walked out into a world of budding trees and greening grass and bursting flower beds washed with the bright sunlight of a new spring morning. He felt a rise as he drew the clean ocean air into his lungs. He walked out the gate and turned right, towards the church, watching ahead for anything that moved.
At the corner he nodded a greeting and paused to let Amos Poulter, pushing three large covered milk cans in his creaking two-wheeled milk cart, pass on to his next customer. Halfway down the block he watched Enid Ferguson walk out the front door of her bakery with a dozen hot fresh loaves of bread covered in a woven basket and turn towards him, hurrying to deliver them before they cooled. A patrol of four British regulars followed her out the gate and spoke to her. She stopped and turned. They lifted the basket cover, looked and counted, and turned back while she hurried on. John spoke and lifted his hat to her, and she nodded her “Good morning, Mr. Dunson” to him as they passed. The four soldiers watched and waited at the bakery door for John’s approach.
“’E’s one of ’em what did it.”
John heard the guarded accusation and saw the pointed finger, and studied the four soldiers as he walked, searching his mind for an explanation. There was none.
“’Im and Dawes, it was. Like to ’ave took poor Cope’s ear off and broke his neck, they did.”
In John’s mind came the image of Dawes’s foot driving the musket muzzle down, the bayonet snapping, Dawes swinging, the musket ripping the ear, the solid hit, the groan, the sergeant sagging to the ground.
John recognized neither man and kept walking. He was three steps past them when he heard the challenge.
“’Ow about it, g’vnor? Want to take my musket and bash me like you done Cope? C’mon, give it a try.”
John ignored the challenge and walked on and heard the slur, “Bloody cowards, the lot of ’em,” and he did not look back.
He passed the open door of Purdom’s sausage and cheese store with the sharp smell of spiced meats and continued across the street, moving steadily to the church. The clack of iron horseshoes on the cobbl
estones came from behind, and he turned to see two mounted British officers riding the big-boned bay horses preferred by English light grenadiers, uniforms bright in the sun, their golden shoulder epaulets sparkling. One was a slightly built captain, the other a young lieutenant, taller than average, solidly built, regular features, with a scar in his right eyebrow. They studied John as they rode past, and recognition flashed in the eyes of the captain.
John slowed at the corner and felt the rise of tension in his chest. The two officers had tied their horses to the iron rings set in the stone shafts beneath the great oaks and maples lining the street in front of the church. The captain said something to the lieutenant, who nodded, and they studied John as he walked towards the two regulars who guarded the big double doors with slung muskets. John glanced at the officers and then faced the regular with the two chevrons on his sleeve, and waited.
“State yer name and business.”
“Citizen John Dunson to see the reverend.”
“About wot?”
“Church matters of confidence.”
“I got me orders to search everyone goin’ in and comin’ out. Stand ’ere.” He pointed, and John stood still and turned his pockets out on demand. The solider had him remove his coat so they could search it, and then tossed it back to him.
“Ten minutes, g’vnor, then we come in ’n get you,” the corporal said, and stepped aside.
John walked into the silent chapel, and the sound of the doors closing behind him echoed. Bright sunlight on the high stained-glass windows cast color on the empty pews as he walked down the aisle, past the pulpit, through the small door behind, and down a narrow passage to the living quarters of the reverend. He rapped on the door.
“Who’s there?” came the thin, high voice.
“John Dunson.”
The door rattled and opened, and the reverend drew John in quickly.
“They’ve been out there since morning, and two at the back door. We’re prisoners.” He gestured to his wife, Mattie, small, wiry, who raised faded eyes to smile tiredly at John. She sat round-shouldered on a straight-backed chair rapidly working a needle up and down through a needlepoint mat.
“Is anyone listening?” John asked.
“We’re alone.”
John paced in the small room, agitated, nervous. “Silas, I’ve got seven muskets finished, but I don’t know how to move them from my house to here.” He stopped and stared at Silas intently. “Any ideas?”
“When?”
“Today.”
The reverend’s eyes grew large, and he took half a step back. “Has shooting started?”
“They shot at Revere last night. It’s coming too quick. We’ve got to get the muskets out to the militia.”
Silas’s hand covered his mouth, and then it dropped and he shrugged. “I don’t know how. There’s British all around.”
“How did others do it?”
“Brought them after midnight, but that’s when the British weren’t everywhere.”
John shook his head. “It can’t wait.” He paused. “Where do you hide them?”
“In the well, in oilskin, on a rope. Militiamen pull them out just before dawn.”
John licked dry lips. “If we did get them here, could you get them to the militia?”
The reverend hunched his shoulders. “Risky. They had soldiers around here all night.”
John shook his head. “It has to be done. I don’t know how we’re going to do it, but we’ll get them here. Get ready to hide them and tell the militia to come get them.”
Two minutes later John strode up the aisle through the silent, vacant chapel and out the main doors.
“’Old ’er right there,” the corporal growled. The search took two minutes, and John continued out past the officers and down the cobblestone street, stopping for no one in his hurry.
Matthew met him at the door. “Any hope?”
John strode to his workbench, then back to the center of the room, where he stood on one foot, then the other. “Not much. Four patrols, one at the church. I was searched going in and coming out. If we did get them inside the church, I don’t know how Silas could get them out to the militia.”
The back door swung open and the two men turned as Brigitte walked in with her woven laundry basket on her hip, wisps of hair showing from beneath the white bandana tied about her head. She saw John’s face and slowed, staring. “Something’s wrong.”
John said nothing as Margaret walked in behind Brigitte, her empty basket on her hip. She stopped. “Why is everyone standing around? What’s happened?” Her eyes were wide, puzzled.
“I can’t find a way to get the muskets to the church,” John said, “and the militia has got to have them.”
“Why?” Margaret asked. “Has someone started shooting?” She set her basket on the large table.
“They shot at Revere last night, boats on the Back Bay, the streets filled with British patrols, four of them between here and the church, one of them stationed at the church doors.” He ran a nervous hand over his hair. “Yes, they’re starting something.”
Brigitte set her basket inside Margaret’s on the table and studied John’s face and movements. “The muskets you made? under the pantry?”
“Yes.”
Brigitte stood with her hand on her laundry basket for a moment, then walked back into the kitchen to drink from the dipper.
John turned to Matthew. “Could we get Karl Heilman to hide them in a load of firewood? He delivers to the church.”
Matthew shook his head. “If they inspected the load they’d hang Karl.”
Brigitte walked back in from the kitchen, dipper still in her hand, forehead creased in thought. “How long are those muskets?”
“Why?” John stopped pacing to look at her.
“How long?”
“Fifty-eight inches.”
She raised the dipper and sipped, then lowered it. “Four feet and ten inches,” she said to herself.
“Yes. Why did you ask?”
She placed one hand on her hip, cocked her head slightly, eyes snapping, and spoke bluntly. “You men will never get those muskets into the church, but women could.”
John shook his head and turned away from her with a wave of his hand.
“Well,” she said defiantly, “we could!”
John turned back. “We’re not going to put women at risk over those muskets.”
“What risk? The British are going to make the same mistake you’re making right now.” She raised both hands in mock horror and plunged on. “What? Women? Never! Why, women are for washing and ironing and meals and having babies! Women lack the intelligence to think. Smuggling muskets? Ridiculous! Never.” She paused to let her theatrics settle in before she jabbed an accusing finger at her father. “They’ll never suspect women. We could march down the streets with a musket in each hand and they’d never—”
Margaret cut her off, her voice ringing. “Stop it, Brigitte! You’re not going to get involved in this.”
“Nonsense,” Brigitte spouted, and plowed on. “This family is already involved. If they found those muskets in this house, how many of us would they have in jail?”
“That’s enough! This is for your father and the militia to do.”
Unable to stop herself, Brigitte barged ahead. “They’ve already admitted they can’t do it,” she insisted, her voice too loud. “Women could.”
“No,” John said with finality, “we aren’t going to—”
“Wait a minute,” Matthew said. “Give her a chance.” He turned to Brigitte. “How would you do it?”
Brigitte blinked, caught with only a hazy, undefined idea for a plan. Always—always—she had depended on her nimble wit and quick brain to rescue her from her own impertinent mouth, and once again she reached inside herself. “Wrap them in something! Quilts. Blankets. Anything. They’d never suspect.”
“Muskets in quilts, into the church?” Matthew exhaled and rolled his head back. “Forget that.”<
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In the two seconds Matthew had given her, her thoughts leaped. She thrust a pointed finger into the air. “No, it would work,” she exclaimed. “Listen to me. Put them with quilting frames and wrap them all together inside an unfinished quilt! We roll quilting frames inside unfinished quilts all the time to carry them around, and they’re longer than the muskets, so only the quilting frames would show at the ends. And we carry them down to the church for quilting bees half a dozen times a year. The British have seen us do it forever, and their women do it themselves, and they’d never suspect there’s a musket inside with the frames.”
She stopped triumphantly, and her eyes swept from Matthew to Margaret, and then settled on John while she waited in the stunned silence.
“It might work,” Matthew exclaimed.
John’s eyebrows arched in utter surprise.
“That’s enough nonsense,” Margaret asserted, eyes boring into Brigitte. “You are not taking muskets to the church, and that’s the end of it.”
Brigitte spun towards Margaret. “But Mother,” she pleaded, “Father says those muskets are important, and the idea will work!”
John raised a hand and the others fell into silence. “Does anyone have a better idea?”
Margaret gasped and looked at him, pleading in her eyes. “John, you aren’t going to get the children involved in this, are you?”
He studied her for a moment. “I don’t like it any better than you, but I can’t think of a better plan. Those muskets have to go.”
Brigitte’s eyes were wide, alive, dancing, and she continued on, encouraged by John. “It wouldn’t just be us. By afternoon we could get Kathleen, and Dorothy Weems and Trudy and Anna—they all have quilting frames—make one trip to the church together. Go there now and tell Silas we’re going to have a quilting bee at the church sometime next week, and tell the British patrol we’ll be coming in with the frames this afternoon so they won’t be surprised. It will work! I know it will!”