by Ron Carter
July 1775
Chapter XIX
* * *
In soft yellow lamp glow, Margaret gently shook Brigitte’s shoulder and waited. “Brigitte, it’s time,” she said quietly. Slowly the blue eyes opened, and for long moments Brigitte stared at her mother’s face until she understood.
“Are you awake?” Margaret asked.
Brigitte nodded her head and threw back the bedcovers and swung her feet to the floor.
“Breakfast in fifteen minutes,” Margaret said, and silently walked back to the kitchen, where oatmeal porridge simmered. Twenty minutes later Brigitte sat down at the table. Her hair was pulled back into one braid beneath a white scarf that covered her head. She wore a plain gray short-sleeved work dress and high-top lace-up work shoes. She glanced at the mantel clock as Margaret set a steaming bowl of porridge before her, with apple cider and sliced bread and honey. Brigitte sighed as she bowed her head, and Margaret stopped moving while Brigitte said grace. She ate in silence, and as she rose, Margaret glanced at the clock. Close to four a.m.
Brigitte walked to the front door and slipped her shawl about her shoulders.
“Go straight to the bakery, and move fast,” Margaret said. “I’ll watch as long as I can see you.”
Brigitte nodded and walked out into the silvery light of a three-quarter moon. The air was hot, humid, still; the morning breeze from the Atlantic had not yet begun. She hurried through the gate, Margaret right behind, and Margaret watched until she disappeared in the shadows of the tree-lined sidewalk in the next block.
Margaret turned back through the gate and looked into the cloudless heavens at the countless points of light in the black dome and slowed for a moment, wondering. Is he out there somewhere? Or is he still here, nearby? She sighed as she closed the door and cleared Brigitte’s breakfast dishes from the table. She returned to her bedroom and lay down, and wakened with a start at ten minutes past six, with bright late-July sun streaming through the east windows of the parlor. At seven o’clock she quietly stole into Caleb’s room and shook his shoulder.
“Breakfast in twenty minutes.”
Caleb rolled over and opened his eyes with a frown. “It’s too early. I’ll go later.”
“Can’t. Daniel’s expecting you at eight. He has newspapers to deliver.”
Caleb got his feet onto the rug and dug at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Go on. I’ll be out.”
Margaret walked from the room, stopped, and turned back. Caleb had collapsed back onto the bed, one long, thin leg and oversized foot dangling over the edge.
“Stand up,” she said, and there was iron in her voice.
He groaned as he once again dropped his feet to the floor and stood and tugged at his knee-length nightshirt. At seven-thirty he sat down at the table, dressed in work clothes, face washed, hair combed. At seven-forty he walked out the door into the dazzling sunlight, Margaret following, and twenty minutes later walked through the door into Daniel Knight’s print shop.
At eight-twenty Margaret wakened Adam and Priscilla, and at nine o’clock she led them out the front door, around the corner, west two blocks, and rapped on the door of Enoch Parnum. The door opened a crack, and a faded eye beneath a bushy brow peered out suspiciously. “Who’s there?” the scratchy voice demanded.
“Margaret Dunson. I’ve come for your laundry, Enoch.”
“Is that you, Margaret?”
“It is.”
“Oh. Well, if it’s you, then you can come on in.”
Slowly the door opened as Enoch shuffled backwards two steps. His long silver hair reached his shoulders, and his untrimmed brows nearly covered his sunken gray eyes. He had a two-week beard stubble, and wore a threadbare robe wrapped about his thin, aged, hunched frame.
He pointed across the parlor to a hall. “It’s in there. Ruth’ll help. I’ll call her to help.”
“I can get it, Enoch. No need to disturb Ruth.” Margaret walked across the room and disappeared down the hall while Adam and Priscilla stood just inside the door, trying not to stare at Enoch. Their noses wrinkled at the musty, peculiar odor of a house that had been closed too long with an old man inside, alone. Margaret returned with a woven wicker basket filled with soiled clothing.
“Have you been eating, Enoch?” she demanded.
“Yes. Oh yes. Ruth makes me eat. Cooks all the time.”
“When I come back with the laundry I’m going to bring some meat and bread and cheese. You see that you eat it. Do you hear?”
Enoch nodded. “I hear.”
“Will you do it?”
“Yes. I will.” He gestured at the basket. “Same price as before? I’ve got money. I can pay the money.”
“Yes. Same price. I’ll be back in two days. Now, you be sure to eat your meals.”
He nodded vigorously. “I will, I will.” He followed them to the door and watched until they turned on the sidewalk before he closed it.
“Mama, where’s Ruth?” Priscilla looked up at Margaret.
“Ruth is Enoch’s wife. She’s in heaven. She died fourteen years ago.”
“Then how can she cook?”
“She can’t.”
“But Enoch said—”
“For Enoch, Ruth is still there. Like your father. For me, he’s still here.”
“But you don’t talk about him like that.”
Margaret looked down into the innocent eyes. “Sometimes I do, when I’m alone, and sometimes I do when I’m with someone, but I do it silently.”
A puzzled look crept over Priscilla’s face.
“Enoch is nearly ninety-four years old. When you get that old, your mind gets tired and you forget some things. He knows Ruth is gone, but sometimes he just forgets, and he talks to her. It’s all right.”
Priscilla sighed and struggled to understand. Margaret shifted the basket from one hip to the other as they walked on. They turned the corner onto their block, and Margaret slowed for a moment as she studied the figure standing inside their fence.
“Someone’s at our place,” Adam said, pointing.
“It’s Tom Sievers,” Margaret replied, and hurried on. Tom met them at the gate.
“Good morning, ma’am. Can I carry the basket?”
“Thank you, Tom. It’s heavy.” She led them into the house and pointed. “Set it there, on the table.”
Tom set it down, and his eyes dropped for a moment. “I just came for a minute, ma’am. There’s news about Henry.”
Margaret stopped in her tracks. “What is it?”
Tom glanced at the children. “Maybe I should wait.”
“You two go change your clothes,” Margaret directed, and Adam and Priscilla walked to their rooms.
“He was found guilty. This morning they sentenced him. He’s banished.”
Margaret’s eyes closed and her shoulders slumped for a moment. “They aren’t going to hang him?”
“No, ma’am.”
“If he’s banished, where does he intend going?”
“No one knows for sure. Maybe the West Indies.”
“For how long?”
“Life.”
“How do you know?”
“I was there.”
“Was Phoebe there?”
“No, ma’am. Kathleen was.”
Margaret groaned and slumped onto a chair. “That poor girl. Oh, that poor girl.”
“She took it good, ma’am. Stood straight and walked to him before they took him out, and embraced him like always, and when he was gone she walked out with her head high.”
Margaret wiped silent tears for a moment.
Tom moved his feet, not knowing what to do next. “I thought you should know.”
“Tom, please let me prepare breakfast for you. Please.”
“Thanks, ma’am, I’ve had breakfast.”
“No you haven’t. Give me five minutes.”
Tom ate scrambled eggs and strips of ham, with bread and honey, and drank milk in ravenous silence while Margaret watched and s
miled. He pushed himself away from the table and started to gather his dishes.
“I can do that,” Margaret said. “Bring your wash in tomorrow.”
Tom stood. “I thank you for the breakfast. I can take care of my wash.”
“I know, but bring it in anyway.”
Tom said nothing and started for the kitchen door into the backyard.
“Is there something out there?” Margaret asked.
“Caleb said the drum on the well was bumping.”
“Oh. Yes. We can fix it.”
Tom walked on into the yard, to the well house, and grasped the handle and slowly began to turn the drum. The rope tightened, and the bucket in the well began its upward climb, with Tom feeling the rotation of the axle drum through the handle. He felt the slight catch, then the sudden release, and heard the dull sound of wood dropping on wood. He looked at both ends of the axle, where it entered the rounded bearings, and walked back to Margaret standing in the door frame.
“Axle’s worn crooked at one end. I can fix it tomorrow.”
“Caleb and I can do it.”
“I’ll do it when I bring my wash.”
“I’ll pay you back for the wood.”
“No need. I can make one.” He walked back through the house, Margaret following to the front door.
“Come early in the morning and I’ll have breakfast waiting,” she called.
At the front gate Tom nodded and waved.
At ten minutes past two o’clock Brigitte thrust her arm into the warm, clouded water in the great, deep soapstone sink against the back wall of the bakery kitchen, and tugged the stopper from its hole and watched for a moment, hand and arm dripping, while the water level began to slowly settle. To her left, forty-eight battered copper bread pans were stacked on a slanted drain in orderly rows to dry, ready for use again tomorrow morning.
At four o’clock a.m. Calvin Fornier and his wife, Bess, and Brigitte would measure and mix the first batch of bread dough for the day. At five o’clock it would have risen, been punched, rolled out in three long rolls on the long wooden worktable, and cut into twenty-four measured one-pound sections. Each section would be powdered with flour and dropped plopping into the greased molds until it rose again, rounded above the pan tops.
Calvin would then carefully position each in the top compartment of the big three-tiered oven to bake while the next batch was rolled, cut, placed in the molds, and slipped into the next tier, and then the third batch would be prepared for the third tier. The second rotation would include tarts, cinnamon rolls, and sweet breads. At six o’clock Calvin’s daughter and son would carefully line wicker baskets with cheesecloth and fill them with the first smoking loaves, and begin deliveries to taverns and inns and homes.
Outside, the still, hot, humid air lay over the Boston Peninsula like a great oppressive blanket. Inside the bakery kitchen, the huge oven piled heat on heat until the lard used in baking melted in the crocks, and those laboring tucked towels under their apron strings to wipe at sweat that ran dripping from their noses and chins. By ten o’clock, damp spots appeared on their clothing between their shoulder blades, and by noon, they were wet from the waist up.
Brigitte dipped fresh water to rinse the sink, then tugged at her apron strings. She wiped her face and arms in a clean towel, pulled the scarf from her head, tucked at her hair, and looked once more at the rows of pans. She was tired, clothes damp from perspiration, but a smile tugged at her mouth and her eyes as she looked at the clean molds and at the last rotation of perfect golden bread loaves cooling before they were placed in the glass cases in the front of the bakery for the afternoon trade. For a moment the sweat and weariness faded as a sense of pride and accomplishment rose. She loosened the tie-strings of her flour-covered apron and dropped it into the laundry basket by the back door, and faced Calvin.
He smiled. “Hot day. Why don’t you take home a tart for the children.”
She smiled back. “Thank you. See you in the morning.” She said good-bye to Bess as she passed through the front of the bakery, then walked into the street and turned towards home with long strides.
At the Dunson home, Margaret glanced at the clock and frowned for a moment before she started for the front door to look up the street for Brigitte. She was reaching for the handle when the knock came, and she opened the door wide.
“Billy!”
Margaret stepped forward to wrap him in her arms for a moment, then stepped back. His face was thinner, ruddy skin sallow, and he stood slightly hunched, leaning on a cane. In his eyes she saw the hollow look of one who had spent thirty-two days in a bed feeling his life forces dwindle while his body fought to mend a bayonet wound and a bullet hole that had both penetrated deeply into his vitals. The wounds had drained for days and then stopped, and slowly the flesh knitted. Fifteen days later he could sit. Ten more days and he hobbled around the house, crouched over, leaning on a cane. A week later he took half an hour to walk the two blocks to the Dunson home. This was his third visit since, in the afternoon heat. Margaret had opened all the windows on the cool side of the house, hoping to capture any stir of air.
He smiled back at her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dunson. You’re looking well, as always.”
“Come in and sit down.” She followed him to the table, and he settled onto one of the straight-backed chairs.
“Let me get you something cool to drink.” She returned from the root cellar with a glass of buttermilk, and reached to cover his hand with hers for a moment. “It’s so good to see you getting back your color and a little flesh. How are you feeling? Still have pain?”
He savored the buttermilk. “A little, but it’s going away. Doctor says I can get rid of the cane soon.”
“How’s your mother? the children?”
“Good.” He set the glass on the table and turned serious eyes to Margaret. “Have you heard about Henry?”
“Tom told me this morning. I can hardly bear the thoughts.”
Billy shook his head. “Kathleen was there at court. She . . .” He shook his head again and didn’t finish his thought, and then asked, “Is Brigitte here?”
“She should be here any time. Anything I can tell her?”
“She asked me to find what happened to the lieutenant she met from the regulars.”
“I know. Did you find out anything?”
They both turned their heads at the sound of steps and the front door opening, and Brigitte walked in.
“Billy! You’re looking better. How are you?”
“Still alive.” He grinned.
Margaret eyed Brigitte. “You’re late. I was starting to worry.”
“What’s planned for supper?” Brigitte asked as she walked into the kitchen and set the two wrapped tarts on the cupboard. She drank from the dipper and returned to sit with Margaret and Billy.
“Sliced meat and cabbage,” Margaret answered. “Caleb likes cabbage. Did you work late?”
“A little. Calvin sent tarts for Adam and Prissy.”
“Heard about Henry?” Billy asked.
Brigitte straightened. “No.”
“Guilty. Banished.”
“Banished! For how long? When?”
“Tomorrow. For life.”
Brigitte’s shoulders slumped and her eyes closed and her head dropped forward. “That poor family. What will they do?”
Billy shook his head sadly. There was no answer.
Brigitte turned to Margaret. “We better go down. Take food. Something.”
“We tried,” Billy said. “Kathleen won’t take help from anyone.”
“Yes she will!” Brigitte exclaimed. “This is ridiculous.”
Margaret said, “Let a little time pass and we’ll go. Time will help.”
Brigitte settled, then turned to Billy. “Did you find anything about Lieutenant Buchanan?”
Billy leaned back in his chair. “He’s at the hospital at the big military base.”
Brigitte’s face went white. “How bad?”
&
nbsp; “Left arm was shattered above the elbow and he had a bad head wound.”
She gasped and her hand covered her mouth for a moment. “Will he recover?”
“They saved the arm but it will be partly numb, and he won’t have complete use. He was unconscious for nearly two weeks from a head wound, but it’s healing. His memory’s coming back. He’ll be all right.”
All the air went out of Brigitte, and her shoulders dropped for a moment before she again spoke. “Will he be released from the army?”
“No. Promoted to captain. The column of regulars stalled at Menotomy, and he got them moving before they were totally annihilated.”
“How did you find out?”
For long moments Billy studied the buttermilk glass before he raised his eyes. “Kathleen.”
“Kathleen?”
“She had to take work at the laundry at the British hospital. She asked a few questions three or four days ago.”
Margaret slowly eased back against the chair. “Kathleen? Working for the British?”
Billy nodded. “Her music students quit coming, and no one brings laundry anymore. They need money. She’s afraid they’re going to have to sell the house.” He waited a moment. “Phoebe’s mind is beginning to wander.”
For a moment they sat in silence, lost in their own somber thoughts, and then Adam and Priscilla came thumping from their bedrooms.
Brigitte looked inquiringly at Margaret, who nodded approval, and Brigitte spoke to the children. “Tarts on the kitchen cupboard.”
They brightened and trotted into the kitchen.
“Be careful,” Margaret called. “Take them into the backyard and don’t spot your clothes.”
Billy straightened. “Has Matthew written?”
“Yes.” Margaret placed a letter on the table, and Billy eagerly opened it. For more than a minute his eyes glistened and a smile formed as he read, and then he refolded it.
“I wish I could be with him. I surely do.”
“He wishes the same thing.”