by Ron Carter
It may surprise some readers to find Benedict Arnold, the infamous traitor, depicted here as having such devotion to the American cause. Before he turned traitor, Arnold was indeed one of the great heroes of the colonial army, a fact which made his eventual act of betrayal in 1780 all the more staggering to General Washington and the rest of the Americans.
December 1778
Chapter XXVII
* * *
Margaret picked up her saucer and balanced the cup of steaming rosebud tea from the kitchen to the dining table and set it down clinking on the tabletop, and wearily settled onto a chair. She pulled the scarf holding her hair and tossed it in a heap and slowly wrapped her hands around the warmth of the cup. She settled forward, arms resting on the tabletop, and she looked out the front windows at the stark, bare branches of the oak and maple trees tossing in the cold winds of early December, then glanced at the clock on the mantel.
Nearly two p.m., Wednesday, December 2, 1778.
The tea was sweet and pungent and hot, and she sipped gingerly and then held the cup between her palms while she sighed, and then settled back into her chair.
So tired, so weary. Three years and eight months without him—seems like forever. Wonder where he is today. Sometimes it feels like he’s here—so close . . .
She wiped at the silent tears that came and then stopped, and a little smile formed.
Matthew’s coming for Christmas. Home for Christmas. I wonder if that scar will look any better. That cannonball could have killed him.
She shuddered and pushed the memory away.
Where is Matthew today? What ship, what battles? Is he safe? God already has John. He wouldn’t take Matthew too.
Her thoughts wandered and she let them go where they would.
Captain Richard Buchanan. Brigitte has written twenty letters, maybe more, with no answer. I wonder why, and where he is. When will Brigitte finally let go of it? She’ll be coming home from school in two hours with the children. She’s a good teacher—the best one they ever had at school. Nearly twenty-two years old, and half the young men in Boston would marry her in an instant if she would only let go of this thing with Captain Buchanan. Margaret shook her head. So headstrong. Drove that wagon of blankets and medicine to Valley Forge in the dead of winter—Caleb with her. Nearly got herself hung. What does a mother do?
She sipped at her tea and let her reveries run unchecked.
Her forehead wrinkled with deep concern. What will become of Caleb? Begging every day to go with the army. Almost eighteen, the only man left in the house. One of these days he won’t beg anymore. He’ll just go. There’s too much hurt, too much anger in him. Lost his father and just as well have lost his older brother to this war. God will help. He has to.
She paused for a moment to listen to the wind moan in the chimney, and to glance at the fire.
Kathleen has written to Silas only once, and Silas can’t sell their home. Will Matthew ever get her out of his heart? He must. That’s a tragedy—a heartbreaking tragedy. I wonder how Phoebe is now, and Kathleen, and Charles and Faith.
Billy’s back from his trip north to join Arnold and Stark and Schuyler and Gates to fight Burgoyne—when was it? a year ago? Can’t be that long, but it was. Met them and beat them at Bennington and Freeman’s Farm up in New York—New York or Vermont? New York. And then Burgoyne surrendered to Gates at Saratoga last year. Seems like last week. The British army included some of the soldiers from Boston—maybe Richard Buchanan was one of them. Billy was a while getting back, but he made it, unhurt. His old wounds from Concord have healed, thank the Almighty. Billy’s become a good man.
She paused to shake her head in wonderment and sip again at her tea.
It wasn’t long after that battle that France came into the war on our side. That was right after Saratoga. Ben Franklin talked them into it—Ben and his talk. He can talk anyone into anything. The war seemed to turn for us when France came in. Maybe we should send Ben to talk to King George. I’ll bet if you gave Ben two months over there, England would be our fourteenth state.
She smiled at her own wry humor and drank at her tea as it cooled.
Silas was right in his vision. At least partly right. We’ve certainly had the war he saw coming, and we did declare our own independence. We have yet to see if we can give birth to the whole new bright land he saw. And we are paying a terrible price, just as he said. Nothing’s the same—nothing. I hope Silas was right about the new land. John thought he was. That kind of thing can demand a ter-rible price in blood. John was willing to pay the price. I hope Silas was right.
She added kindling to the fire and sat back down to finish her warm tea.
Well, supper won’t prepare itself, and this work never lets up, and I’m getting old and wrinkled and my bones are starting to hurt in the cold. Seems like twenty years since John left, and I look just that much older. I’ve got to roll out the dough for mutton pies, and I should make dessert, but I won’t have time. Just too much to do. Too much ironing.
Movement on the street caught her eye and she started.
The postman. I can’t let him see me looking like this.
She trotted to the bedroom and quickly brushed her hair and straightened her dress and peered at herself in the mirror. Wrinkles and dark bags under my eyes. Where did they come from? I’ve got to do something about them.
She reached the front door as the postman knocked.
“Package for Brigitte, letter for Matthew,” he said, and handed her a package wrapped in stiff brown paper, and an envelope.
“Thank you.” Margaret closed the door while she studied the name in the upper left corner of the letter. Captain John Paul Jones, United States Navy.
“Wonder where they want Matthew to go this time,” she murmured.
She read the name in the left corner of the package for Brigitte and she stopped. Brigadier General William Howe, His Majesty’s Royal Army.
British! Richard!
She placed the letter and the package on the mantel, beside the clock, and went to the kitchen and punched the dough. It settled and she rolled it out for mutton pie while a dark foreboding settled on her.
At ten minutes until four o’clock the door opened and Caleb walked in, followed by the twins.
“What are we having for supper?”
“Mutton pie.”
Caleb and the children walked on through to their rooms to change clothes.
Brigitte closed the door and turned and saw Margaret and slowed. Margaret stood in the kitchen arch, feet spread slightly, arms hanging at her sides, face a blank.
Brigitte gasped, then recovered. “Mama, what’s wrong?”
Without a word, Margaret took the package from the mantel and walked to Brigitte and handed it to her, then stepped back. Brigitte read the name of General Howe and suddenly her breathing constricted. She walked to the kitchen for a knife, cut the string, then returned to the table to tear open the paper and lift the lid from the box. Inside was a stiff document, a folded letter, and a smaller package tied with more brown paper. Scarcely breathing, she read the stiff parchment document first.
The beautiful cursive scroll writing at the top read, “Commission in the Military Forces of His Majesty the King of England.” Quickly she scanned the lines. Richard Arlen Buchanan—duly qualified—granted commission—Captain—His Majesty’s Army—Tuesday, January 30th, 1776.
She fumbled with the folds in the letter, then laid it flat on the table. Margaret sat waiting.
Thursday, October 8th, 1778.
Dear Miss Dunson:
I deeply regret to inform you that Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan, officer in the Royal Army, lost his life while serving with distinction at the battle of Freeman’s Farm, State of New York, Tuesday, October 7, 1777.
He had declared no family in his military records, hence we were unable to find next of kin to whom we could forward his personal effects. However, four days ago, by chance we discovered a brief statement signed by Captain
Buchanan, mixed into a bundle of letters he had received from yourself, in which he directed that in the event of his demise, his commission as a Captain in His Majesty’s Army should be forwarded to you, together with his written statement, and your letters, which he treasured.
I tender my personal apologies that this arrives so long after his untimely death, and have undertaken this matter personally, immediately upon discovery of his statement above mentioned. I can only beg you to understand the difficulty of handling such matters in a time of war.
Your obdt. servant,
General William Howe.
Brigitte silently laid the letter on the table, untied the string around the small bundle, and removed the wrapping and counted. Twenty-one letters. He had received them all. Nine of them were dated after October 7, 1777.
The last document was the statement, and she unfolded it and read it.
Dated Thursday, September 18th, 1777.
Should I not survive the campaign under the command of General Burgoyne, now in progress, I hereby direct that my commission as a Captain in the armed forces of His Majesty, King George of England, should be delivered to Miss Brigitte Dunson, daughter of John P. Dunson and Margaret Dunson, of Boston City, Province of Massachusetts, together with this document, and her letters which will be found herewith. I have no other property, save my personal effects and military accoutrements, which I direct be disposed of as will best accommodate the army.
I will rest satisfied if I know that she will have these things that are my most cherished possessions. Would God have granted me one wish in this life, it would have been that I had been born in the colonies, or that she had been born in my beloved En-gland.
Signed,
Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan.
Brigitte raised her eyes to Margaret’s. “Richard is gone. He’s been dead since October seventh of last year.”
Dry-eyed, without another word, she carefully slipped the commission and the bundle of letters and the statement back into the box and walked steadily to her room and quietly closed the door.
Margaret sat at the table and listened to the sound of the chill December wind whisper in the chimney, and stared out the window at the bare branches of the trees as they moved.
The children came from their rooms and stopped and stared, waiting.
“Come sit down,” Margaret said calmly. “There are some things I have to tell you.”
Kathleen slowly, silently moved the bedcovers away and dropped her feet to the small braided rag-rug and leaned over to slip her feet into her slippers. She shivered in the damp cold as she took her robe from the closet and studied the still form of Phoebe, curled in bed, in the dim light of their bedroom. Quietly she opened the door and closed it behind her, walked to the fireplace, added wood chips to the banked coals, and waited for them to flicker and catch. Minutes passed while she waited, adding larger sticks, then kindling to the blaze.
Have to get the roast from the root cellar—not cellar, root pit—plum pudding and a roast of beef for Christmas dinner—children probably haven’t slept all night—so excited—so excited—gifts wrapped . . .
She took blazing kindling to the stove and stuffed it in the firebox, added more, and returned to the fireplace to add the larger rungs of logs to the fire. Then she walked to the corner of the room and knelt to lift the door into the pit, where she kept their small supply of vegetables and milk and a roast of beef. She took the four-pound roast to the kitchen, where she washed it and placed it in a pan, then returned to the pit for carrots and potatoes to be washed and roasted with the beef.
While she waited for the fire to drive the damp chill from the room, she peered out the curtained window at the fog from the Thames River, at the bare trees and dead, ragged weeds and grasses, and at the dirt road.
When the warmth reached down the hall, Kathleen opened the door to the children’s bedroom several inches, then silently entered her own bedroom to change into her dress and brush her hair, careful not to wake her mother. She heard the soft tread of feet and quickly walked back to the parlor, where the children stood, digging sleep from their eyes.
“Can we open the presents?”
“Get your robes on first, and we’ll go into Mother’s bedroom to open them with her.”
One minute later the children were helping her carry the gifts—eight wrapped packages, two each—into the bedroom, where Phoebe lay unmoving. Kathleen pointed and they set their gifts on the foot of the bed and stepped back, eyes sparkling, faces alive with anticipation while Kathleen raised the blind to let the gray light of morning fill the small room, the children behind her. She leaned over the bed and gently laid her hand on the still shoulder of her mother, whose back was to her.
“Mother, it’s Christmas morning. The children have surprises for you.”
There was no movement.
Smiling, Kathleen shook the shoulder. “Mother! Time to wake up!”
The realization and the shock struck her at the same instant, and her hand darted to Phoebe’s throat. It was cold and still. She turned the head to peer into the face, and the eyes were half-open, flat, lifeless, dead. Kathleen’s head jerked back and her face turned white and her mouth clamped shut as she gasped air and held it.
For long seconds she did not move or speak while she waited for the numbing shock to fade, and then her thoughts came racing. She’s dead—the children—Christmas—their mother died on Christmas—how do I tell them on Christmas? Can’t—can’t . . .
She leaned over the dead face and turned an ear downward and a moment later nodded her head. “All right, Mother, I understand. You rest. We’ll go ahead.”
She turned back to the children, smiling. “Mother’s tired. She needs to rest. She says we should go ahead and open our gifts. She’ll feel better in a while, and we can bring hers to her then.”
They gathered at the fireplace, and Charles and Faith opened their simple gifts, beaming with the new mittens and scarves knitted by Kathleen. Faith unwrapped her smaller gift, and her eyes grew large as she held a beautiful silver bracelet with her name engraved on a heart. She threw her arms around Kathleen and exclaimed, “It’s so beautiful!”
Charles unwrapped his smaller gift and stopped in disbelief at seeing the oak-handled pocketknife. He turned his grinning face to Kathleen and said nothing as he opened and closed the single blade.
“You’ve got to be careful,” Kathleen warned.
“I will.” He reached for a stick of kindling, and shaved splinters.
Kathleen opened her gift from the children, and exclaimed at the drawings they had made of each other in pencil and colors. She placed them upright on the mantel and smoothed the forgotten wrappings, and waited for a time while the children became accustomed to their newly arrived treasures.
“I better go check on Mama,” she said, and disappeared into the bedroom, to emerge within half a minute. “Mama says she’s feeling worse. I better go for the doctor.”
She sat them both at the table. “I’ll have to leave you here alone. Promise you’ll not go into Mama’s room, because she must sleep. I’ll be back as soon as I can and put in the roast and we’ll have a wonderful Christmas dinner this afternoon. Do you understand?”
She added logs to the fire and left, running, trotting to the door of Doctor Potter, and she banged with her fist. The door opened and warmth and the rich smells of baking tarts and ham came rolling, and she looked at Mrs. Potter.
“I believe my mother has just died. May I see the doctor?”
She rode beside the doctor in silence, with a man she did not know in the seat behind, through town, back to her cottage. The doctor dropped the weight tied to the mare’s halter, and the man climbed from the backseat.
Kathleen spoke. “I didn’t tell the children she was dead, only sick. I couldn’t do that to them on Christmas.”
“I understand. Don’t worry.”
They walked to the house, and Charles and Faith met them at the door.
Doctor Potter took off his hat and spoke. “I’m Doctor Potter. I understand your mother’s not feeling well. I’m here to help. I might have to take her to my home where I can watch her for a while and give her medicine. Will that be all right?”
Charles nodded.
“Good. I thought you might like some Christmas candy—we have extra at my place and only me and my wife to eat it.” He opened his black bag and placed a large brown sack on the table and spoke to Charles. “You look like the man of the house. You count that out, half for each of you. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He turned to Kathleen. “Shall we go see your mother?”
The three of them walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
Doctor Potter leaned over Phoebe for a few seconds. “She has passed on.” He turned to Kathleen. “Do you have an extra blanket?”
Kathleen brought one from the closet, and Doctor Potter handed it to the man with him. “Wrap her in that and be certain her face is covered, and we’ll take her out.”
Three minutes later Kathleen held the door as they walked out of the bedroom. She opened the front door and the man walked out, while Doctor Potter stopped by the table where the candy was in two equal piles and Charles and Faith were eating their first pieces.
“I’ll have to take your mother home for a while. You be good, and help your sister.”
The children nodded but did not speak with their mouths full.
Kathleen followed the doctor out and closed the door. “I don’t know how to thank you. What do I owe you?”
“We’ll worry about that later. You did a remarkable thing, keeping this from those children. It would have ruined Christmas for them the rest of their lives.”
Kathleen’s chin trembled. “Thank you, Doctor.” She threw her arms about him impulsively, and he patted her on the back, and turned and was gone.
Funeral services were held at graveside on Monday, December 28, 1778, in the far corner of the tiny Bexley cemetery. Seven people stood in the chill morning mist as the world said its final farewell to Phoebe Thorpe. Kathleen and the children, Doctor Potter and his wife, the Reverend Mr. Kirby, and the grave digger.