Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

“Let him tell.”

  Charles frowned and sipped at his milk.

  “Well?” Kathleen demanded.

  “Jacob said we talk funny and we don’t belong here.”

  “Who’s Jacob?”

  “A boy.”

  “You can’t go back to school because Jacob said that?”

  Charles shook his head.

  “Then why?”

  Charles turned defiant eyes up to Kathleen and blurted, “Because he . . . because I pushed him down. That’s why.”

  “Charles,” Kathleen exclaimed, “you can’t keep pushing people. This is the second time in three weeks. You’ll just have to ignore what they say. I’ll talk to your teacher.”

  “Won’t do any good.”

  “Why?” There was alarm in Kathleen’s voice.

  “Mr. Humphrey said we’re from the colonies and we’re going back soon because the colonies are losing.”

  Kathleen stiffened. “Your teacher said that? In class?”

  “Yes. The others said it after school.”

  “Well! We’ll see about that! Now, drink your milk and eat your bread.”

  Phoebe called, “Is that Henry? Or the children?”

  “The children are home. They’re fine. I’ll bring you some warm milk.”

  With supper finished, Kathleen read to the children before she took them into Phoebe’s bedroom for prayer, then into their own bedroom and tucked them in. The wind and rain held, tapping and whispering at the east windows and moaning in the chimney. She banked the coals and sat in a rocking chair, head back while she waited for her thoughts to clear and her soul to gather strength for another day. Her eyes idly moved about the small room and into the adjoining darkness of the kitchen.

  The little cottage was square, built of stone, with a parlor, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a pantry. The dirt street that passed in front was the last street on the east edge of the tiny village, and their nearest neighbor was one hundred yards south. There was little grass and no flowers left in the yard; rather, weeds and undergrowth had long since made their claim, and the back of the house opened into a field. There was no root cellar, but in one corner of the kitchen was a door in the floor, covering a hole that held a small amount of potatoes and cabbages and milk. The small fireplace in the parlor was the sole source of heat, save for the stove in the kitchen, with the oven. The outhouse was twenty yards south of the back door, the well ten yards north. Soft coal from the mines one hundred miles north provided the heat, and the soot that left a film.

  She sighed and gave free reign to her thoughts.

  Mother—addled—getting worse—what can I do? The children—hating school—no friends—nobody—hate the food—Faith won’t eat half of it—the weather—we’re all going to be sick—the church—cold—no one speaks to us—marked—the traitors—living off their taxes—talk funny—dress funny—no one cares—no one cares.

  She closed her eyes and by force of will closed out the thoughts and sat for a time doing nothing, thinking nothing, asking only that her mind be empty. Later she started and sat bolt upright and looked at the clock. Ten minutes past two a.m. She checked on the children, then went to Phoebe’s bedroom, where the double bed nearly filled the room, and silently slipped between the sheets next to her mother and listened to the slow breathing until her own eyes closed.

  Saturday morning passed slowly while she kept the children busy with small chores and doing schoolwork. In the early afternoon she walked the half mile to the small shop where she bought bread and potatoes and cheese, then stopped at the next shop for milk and returned home, muddy to the tops of her shoes. The moment she opened the door a sense of foreboding stopped her.

  She dropped the packages on the table and called, “Charles? Faith?”

  Charles’s voice answered from Phoebe’s bedroom. “What’s wrong with Mama? She looks at us but she won’t talk.”

  In six strides Kathleen was in the bedroom and brushed the children aside and dropped to her knees beside the bed. Phoebe’s head was on the pillow, face turned towards Kathleen, and her eyes moved to watch Kathleen; otherwise, nothing moved, nor did she speak.

  “Mama!” Kathleen put the palm of her hand against Phoebe’s cheek, then seized her hand. It remained limp while Phoebe stared at her, unblinking.

  “Mama! Can you talk? Can you move?”

  Phoebe neither spoke nor moved, and Kathleen saw the stark terror in her eyes. Kathleen jerked the bedcovers back and seized her arm and rubbed it roughly, then her leg.

  “Mama, can you feel this?”

  There was no sound, no movement. Kathleen could see the spreading dark place where Phoebe had fouled the bed. She threw the covers back up and ran to the kitchen to return with water and cloth, and paused only to brusquely order the children, “Go into the kitchen and wait!” They began to whimper and she shook a stern finger in their faces and they stopped and she pushed them on their way.

  Twenty minutes later she emerged from the bedroom with the soiled sheets and Phoebe’s nightgown and the pan of water, and set them on the kitchen floor and sat down at the kitchen table while she forced her shattered mind to focus. Two minutes later she stood the children before her and took Charles by the shoulders and peered directly into his face.

  “I must go get the doctor. You both stay here, beside Mama’s bed. If she says anything, do what she says. Do not let her fall out of bed, and do not cry! I will be back as soon as I can.”

  She banged out the front door and started towards town, running, trotting, slogging through the mud, heedless of the wind and rain at her back. People in the streets stopped to stare and point and she didn’t care. She passed the church and the mayor’s office, and stopped panting at the door of the small building with the sign next to the door, “Doctor Ulysses Potter.” It was locked and she banged on it with her fist, but there was only silence.

  She turned and ran back to the church, to the rear door where the Reverend Anders Kirby lived alone, and banged on the door. It opened and the tall, thin reverend looked down at her sternly.

  “Yes?”

  “I must find the doctor. Can you tell me where he lives?”

  “He’s not at his office?”

  “No.”

  “His home is the fourth one past his office.”

  Kathleen spun on her heel and ran to the home and knocked loudly on the front door. A small, portly, aging woman opened it and said nothing, waiting.

  “Is this the home of Doctor Potter?” Kathleen blurted. “I need him badly.”

  “He’s not here.”

  From inside, Kathleen heard a man’s voice call, “Who is it?”

  The woman did not answer, but looked at Kathleen for a moment, then asked, “Aren’t you the new ones in town? from the colonies?”

  “Yes. Is that the doctor calling?”

  “Wait here.” The woman disappeared, and returned in two minutes. “The doctor is busy.”

  Kathleen’s eyes narrowed and her mouth became a straight line. “Tell the doctor I will see him now or I will go to the mayor. My mother is critically ill and may be dying.”

  The woman recoiled, then composed herself, and once again retreated into the house. A minute later the door swung wide open and a stout, balding man stood before her, jowls hanging. “What is it?” he asked gruffly.

  “My mother is critically ill. She needs help.”

  “Bring her to my office Monday.”

  “No! She needs your help now!”

  “My office is closed today.”

  “Are you coming or do I go to the mayor?”

  The man shrugged. “The mayor is my cousin. Go see him.”

  “My family is here under the protection of the king! If I have to I’ll walk the eight miles into London this minute, and I’ll sit in Buckingham Palace until I gain audience with the king, and your name will be the first one he hears. Now, are you coming or not?”

  The man looked into her eyes and saw the wild anger and the rock-solid determinatio
n, and he believed she would do exactly what she had threatened.

  He bit down on his own anger and mumbled, “Wait here.” Five minutes later he returned with his heavy coat and bowler hat and black bag, and led her to the back of his house, where he hitched a bay mare to a buggy.

  He reined the mare in at the front of the small cottage, dropped the ten-pound weight tied to her bridle, and followed Kathleen up the gravelled path. Once they were inside, she took his coat, then led him to the bedroom, where she instructed the children to go to their bedroom and wait.

  The doctor placed his black bag on the night table, while Kathleen reached for Phoebe’s hand. The fingers moved, and then Phoebe’s mouth moved, but no sound came.

  “She tried to move,” Kathleen exclaimed.

  “What are her symptoms?” the doctor asked.

  “Last night she was normal, but this morning she could not move. She could see us but could not move or speak.”

  The doctor took Phoebe’s right hand in his. “If you can hear me, squeeze my hand,” he said.

  He felt a slight pressure. He took her left hand and repeated the command, but there was nothing. He released her hand, threw back the bedcovers, and exposed her feet. He ran his thumb up the bottom of her right foot, and it flinched. He repeated it with her left, and there was nothing. He put the bedcovers back into place, leaned closely over her face, opened her eyelid with his finger, and stared into her eye. Then he carefully worked the flesh of the right side of her face with his fingers, and then the left. He pressed his fingers into her wrist while he counted seconds on his pocket watch, then pushed her hand beneath the covers.

  He raised his finger in front of her face and said, “Watch my finger,” and he moved it slowly back and forth two times, while he watched her eyes. Both eyes tracked, but her left eye wandered slightly.

  He leaned over and spoke to her directly. “What is your name?”

  The right side of her mouth moved as she tried to frame the word Phoebe, but the left side did not.

  The doctor drew a great breath and exhaled it, and picked up his black bag. He gave Kathleen a hand signal to follow him and walked to the dining table.

  “I believe she has suffered a partial stroke that has affected the left side of her body. I think she will probably partially recover on the right side, but not the left. We do not know what causes these things, but we suspect it has to do with a blood clot in the brain, or something else interfering, and it is absolutely inoperable.”

  He opened the black bag and drew out a small bottle. “This will help her rest. Give her half a teaspoon when you put her to bed. Exercise all her limbs for fifteen minutes every eight hours—that is critical. Try to get her to speak and to squeeze your hand. Talk to her as usual. Make her comfortable. There is little else I know to tell you.”

  “Is she sane?”

  “Yes, probably. She can hear, and she responds as well as she can.”

  “Should I tell her what you’ve said?”

  “As soon as you think she can accept it.”

  He closed his black bag, and Kathleen asked, “How much do I owe you?”

  The doctor shook his head and she saw the embarrassment in his face. “No charge.” He raised his eyes to hers. “If you need me again, come find me, or send word. I’ll come.”

  “Thank you.”

  She walked him to the front door and watched him wrap his coat close in the blustering rain. He picked up the weight from beneath the horse’s head and dropped it thumping onto the floor of the buggy, then climbed to the driver’s seat. He waved as he drove away, and she waved back.

  She sat the children at the dining table and spoke calmly. “Mama has had a stroke. That means she can’t move or talk very well. We’re going to have to help her. You will have to be careful not to disturb her, and sometimes you’ll have to help me with housework and to tend her. Mama will get better, but not all. Do you understand?”

  Later Kathleen threw back the bedcovers, pulled up Phoebe’s long nightshirt, and placed folded sheeting on her like a huge diaper, and smiled. “There. That should feel good.” She saw the pleading in the frightened eyes, and she sat down beside her.

  “Mama, the doctor said you’ve had a partial stroke. You’ll get better. You should be able to talk soon, and move, but your left side might not recover too well. You’re not to worry. I have some medicine, and we’ll do fine. You must rest. I’ll never be far.”

  The mouth opened and the lips moved, and Kathleen leaned over close to listen and heard the faint, lisped whisper. “Does Henry know?”

  “Of course.”

  The eyes closed.

  The wind died at suppertime, and the rain stopped when she put the children to bed. She sat rocking slowly in the rocking chair while the fire dwindled to glowing coals, and she banked the coals for morning, then settled back into the chair. At eleven o’clock she rose and blew out the lamp, and walked to the bedroom with a candle to change into her nightshirt. She checked the medicine on her nightstand, then opened the drawer and drew out the small carving of a snow owl. She sat quietly on the side of the bed for a time, touching the tiny owl tenderly. Then she clutched it tightly and knelt beside the bed and placed her hands together before her closed eyes.

  “Dear God in Heaven, I thank thee for the goodness in my life. Please bless Mama to recover, and bless the children. I beg of thee, grant me the strength to do what must be done. And bless Matthew . . .” The warm tears came.

  ______

  Notes

  The British did evacuate Boston on March 17, 1776, which day became an annual holiday known as Patriot’s Day. It has since been joined with St. Patrick’s Day as a Boston holiday. General Howe ordered the evacuation in accordance with the general strategy created by the British commanders to move his troops north in an effort to trap George Washington’s small army between two large British forces and annihilate the struggling colonial army. (See Leckie, George Washington’s War, pp 239–41.)

  June 1776

  Chapter XXVI

  * * *

  Captain Weyland needs you in his quarters. Urgent.”

  Matthew rose from the chart table in his small quarters on the Esther, slipped on his coat, and followed Riggins, who rapped on the door where the square brass plate with the engraved words “CAPTAIN SOREN WEYLAND” was fastened.

  “Enter.”

  Inside, Matthew waited while his eyes adjusted from the brilliant late-June midmorning sunlight, and Weyland motioned him to a chair.

  “Know where Lake Champlain is?”

  “Yes, sir. North, between New York and Vermont.”

  “Ever navigated on it?”

  “No, sir. I don’t think you can reach it from the open sea.”

  “Do you have any charts for it? Depths, currents, islands?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could you navigate it if you had to?”

  “I think so, but there’s no need for an open-seas navigator. You can see both shores from the middle, most of the way.”

  “That may be, but let me tell you what’s happening.” Weyland leaned forward on his arms. “Some months ago, General Arnold tried to take Quebec with too few men, too little ammunition, and had to retreat. He then went to Lake Champlain, where Washington and Schuyler had ordered him to leave a few small vessels if he needed them. He’s there, and as of now, Arnold controls the lake with those ships.”

  Matthew nodded and waited.

  “While that was going on, General Howe evacuated Boston and went north. Now we know why. Look at this map.” He pointed to a large map on his table and began tracing with his finger. “Washington’s army is right there, and Howe and his Boston command are south of him, moving north up the Hudson River valley.”

  Matthew watched intently as Weyland’s finger continued to move.

  “We just found out the British have thirteen thousand troops right up here, at the top of Lake Champlain”—he tapped the map—“ready to move south under the comma
nd of a naval officer named Pringle. There are no roads, so Pringle’s called in every shipbuilder in Quebec to build ships to move his thirteen thousand troops south.”

  He stopped and waited for Matthew.

  Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he studied the map, and suddenly he raised his face to Weyland. “Howe and Pringle mean to trap Washington between them.” He straightened and Weyland saw the shock, and Matthew continued, his voice rising, alarmed. “The only thing stopping Pringle is Arnold’s boats on Lake Champlain! How many boats?”

  Weyland muttered, “Humph. Maybe six.”

  “You mean Arnold’s holding the lake with six small boats? Washington better get out of the way.”

  “Where? There’s no place he can go they can’t follow, Howe from below, Pringle from above, and combined they outnumber and outgun Washington fifteen to one.”

  Matthew stood. “Then we better get men up there and build a few ships of our own!”

  “Exactly,” Weyland said. “Now, read this letter.” He reached inside a drawer.

  Wednesday, June 26, 1776

  Captain Soren Weyland:

  Through the misfortune of too few men and cannon, General Arnold did not succeed at Quebec and has brought his command to Lake Champlain, where he remains waiting my orders. I apprehend the British intend trapping my command between a large force under the command of Commodore Pringle, who has followed General Arnold, and the forces of General Howe, who is moving up the Hudson River valley. Lacking roads on which to move his command, Pringle is building ships to move south on Lake Champlain. I estimate that activity will conclude in the fall, perhaps early October. Should they succeed, I am convinced the Continental army will not survive.

  Consequently, it is clear in my mind that we must build ships of our own in sufficient numbers to supply this obvious want of naval force. I do not believe we can match the number of shipbuilders employed by the British, and therefore expect that in October their naval forces on the lake will far exceed ours, and that we would not succeed in an open battle on the lake.

  However, I do believe it is possible, through shrewd planning and device, and the kind mercies of the Almighty, to delay the British until the onset of winter, after which time they will not be able to proceed south until spring, by which time my army will be able to withstand theirs.