Letters to America

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Letters to America Page 11

by Tom Blair


  Charles was my answered prayer. His easy smile and gentle manner were like a well-sewn shirt covering a strong back. For me life did not begin until I married Charles. Of all my days on this earth, the happiest were with my husband, nurturing our family.

  Then the war.

  In 1775 both Charles and I believed that there would be no war or, if it should come to pass, after a few skirmishes the nonsense of British fighting British would show its color. But not so. In 1775 British blood spilled on both sides of the battle line. First Lexington and Concord, then Breed’s Hill and Bunker Hill. With a thousand men dead, emotion became the pilot of the Colonies’ ship. This emotion stirred and heated to a boil in the early months of 1776 with the publication of Mr. Paine’s Common Sense:

  “Every spot of the old world is overrun with oppression. Freedom hath been hunted round the globe. Asia, and Africa, have long expelled her. Europe regards her like a stranger, and England hath given her warning to depart. O! receive the fugitive, and prepare in time an asylum for mankind.”

  Words can sway. These words swayed my Charles, they did not sway me. To me a small tax was a just tax, and loyal we should be to the king that granted our lands. But Charles was as the Patriots. He felt conflict was necessary, a belief shaped by a fear that to state otherwise would be a sign of his unwillingness to sacrifice. For my dear Charles the hard decision was the right decision. It did not matter that I believed otherwise, Charles was the man of the house, he and his friend John Dotson would fight the Redcoats. Even though I was told it was only for three months it pained me to know Charles would be in harm’s way. In the year to come the pain twisted inside me as the husbands of other women claimed they could not serve. Claimed they were needed on their farms and in their shops. My journal of the many days while Charles was gone began on a warm spring day.

  April 18, 1776: Today was the day. With Charles and the children to the path that bends along the stone wall and past our home. Charles held me close and whispered words of love and promises that he would safely return.

  He kissed Sarah and Baby Charles, then was down the curved path toward town to meet his friend John Dotson. Together they were off to the Continental Army. Baby Charles was at my bosom with Sarah holding my hand as we watched Charles become smaller in his walk of strong strides along the path to a gentle hill. With my free hand I wanted to brush the tears away, but I feared if he turned he would see my gesture of sorrow. Still I stood, my grief spilling to my cheeks. After Charles crossed the crest of the rise, only his hat and musket were seen. Then nothing, the shrill of a bird of prey in the distance marking the moment. Back to our house, Sarah singing a song and dashing after butterflies. I prepared our Sunday supper, moved Sarah to Charles’s place next to mine at the oak table, held her hand, and repeated our blessings. With night the children to bed and I alone. The first night since I married that Charles was not by my side. In the darkness of our home the children slept a good sleep. I did not.

  “When you depart from me sorrow abides, and happiness takes his leave.”

  April 20, 1776: Yesterday was a good day. It was a busy day. With Charles gone, a busy day is a good day. With the chores to be done, with Sarah’s and Baby Charles’s needs, no time to dwell on loneliness. Yesternight was not good. The children asleep, I was alone. I sat at our table with a precious candle burning and began a letter, but there was nothing new to tell. What I wanted to say I may not say. I wanted to say how much he is missed and how empty I feel. But I don’t want Charles to think that I complain. Perhaps he would be right. I did not finish the letter. I snuffed out the candle. Today a heavy rain. Only outside to wish Mrs. Brown good morning and thank her for her milk. With the rain Baby Charles’s napkins were hung inside to dry. Sarah could use the chamber pot by her second birthday. Another year for Baby Charles before the napkins become a memory. Two good things the rain brought. Tall drinks for the crops and a washing away of privy well smells.

  April 22, 1776: Charles gone four days and I have gained a confidence that those tasks needed to be done can be done. Each morning a visit to Mrs. Brown and then tend the crops. Pulling weeds from their roots and brushing bugs from their leaves. In the afternoon Sarah and I do our domestics together. Washing and baking, then many hours carding, spinning, and sewing.

  April 24, 1776: I will fill my empty and lonely time, this time between the sunset and my sleep, the time Charles and I spoke in the glow of the hearth’s last flames. Each evening after Baby Charles sleeps I will read to Sarah from my cherished books. As my father to me, I will introduce her to peoples of great drama, emotion, and interest. Tomorrow evening she will meet my friend Juliet.

  April 25, 1776: Today I wrote my first letter to my dearest Charles. I told him that all is well and that we spoke of him always. Being gone only a week, I had no new occurrences to share. But not to write would be wrong. I made the letter long. I would have rather just written how much I missed him and how much I hurt at night thinking of him away. But I did not.

  Letters to Charles are not certain in their arrival. They are given to merchants who journey to and from Boston, a full day’s ride. From there they are carried in manners unknown in the direction of the armies. Mr. Green journeys most often to Boston. Before the war he returned with items dear to us, those things from England that made our life less harsh. Unless there is deep snow on the ground in the coldest time of winter, he goes there and back each week. Mr. Thompson back and forth less, delivering lumber. Both men bear letters to and from our armies. They are not paid for this effort. To each I will offer a cup of cider, good tidings, and appreciations.

  April 27, 1776: Sarah has new friends. A family of rabbits lives under our house. She has given each a name, but I think other than the mother rabbit, called Mrs. Hop by Sarah, all the other names change owners day by day. The rabbits are buried deep in their home during daylight’s sun, but with dusk we see their noses, ears, and then their wanderings. If the weather is fair Sarah places carrot peelings by their home. I think they now expect dinner to be served each night. Sarah hopes that someday soon they will take a carrot from her hand.

  April 29, 1776: When Charles departed I told sweet Sarah he would return in three short months. After only a few days she asked if her father would be back this day. Try as I might, and try as she might, her mind’s calendar is not a calendar of the moons I know. To teach her a month’s distance, and to ease her questions to me, I took a bowl seldom used and in it I placed ninety dried peas. A single green pea being one day. Each morning, with much ceremony, we remove a waiting pea from the bowl. Told Sarah when the bowl was empty, her father would be home.

  May 1, 1776: Not everyone is a Patriot or a Loyalist. Some claim neither side and thus risk nothing nor need to sacrifice. Henry Crabtree is such a person. He and his brother have a small farm not near ours. His brother journeys to Boston each week returning with papers from there, New York, and Philadelphia. These he sells. Most every paper purchased is traded among many. Those who are able read aloud to those who cannot. But I think Henry Crabtree a Loyalist, though he says not. Always he tells of what the Patriots are doing wrong and what the British are doing right. Today in Mr. Cranson’s shop, he spoke a list of Patriot mistakes. I quickly took my leave. I try not to listen to his words because often they ring true. If Henry Crabtree is right, Charles is wrong.

  May 5, 1776: Most sorrowful today. This morning to church; Reverend Tripwell’s sermon as his others. Then, to my discontent, in the churchyard gathered families, smiling families of husbands and wives and their children, filled with Sabbath happiness. These were Loyalists. Husbands were not fighting a war—a war that many say is unjust. These loyalists claim that the Patriots by refusing to pay taxes owed the king mock the crown. Perhaps they are right. Why does Charles choose between a small tax and abandoning his family? Charles would say this is not the choice he made, but on this day it was the choice he made.

  From church the long walk back to our farm. Once home thought only of ple
asant memories. Did not consider the morning’s anger. When Sarah and Baby Charles sleep, I will revisit my favorite pages and join Hamlet in conversation.

  May 8, 1776: Our nearest neighbor is Mr. Dear, a most kind man. His wife Margaret was not so. Last winter she died of the putrid fever after a long month in bed. Mr. Dear’s temperament is more tranquil after Margaret moved from his house to the house of God. The path, and then the road, from his farm to town passes our house. Before Charles left he made a pact with Mr. Dear. If on his journey to and from town he should see a pail hanging from a nail Charles drove into our door, he will stop to learn what I might need. Today Sarah and I set the signal. Late this afternoon Mr. Dear knocked upon our door, concerned about problems I might have. But I had no problem. Sarah and I had baked fresh bread and gave him a carefully wrapped loaf with a smile and a thank-you for thinking of us. But the gesture was not for kindness only. I alone have the burden for the safety of my children. I am recruiting my army to defend their safety.

  May 13, 1776: Today Baby Charles turned one year old. He is plump and hearty. Chores rushed to free time to bake a special cake for him. Baked with sugar saved during the past weeks. But only Sarah and I tasted his cake; he is too young. Sarah made her brother a crown out of paper, glued together with flour paste, then placed it on his head and hailed “King Charles.” Also this day Baby Charles tasted his first solid food—not cake—thin gruel sweetened with a touch of molasses. While I prepared our little celebration, my sweet girl told Baby Charles stories about the rabbits that live under the house, but no sense her words made to him.

  May 15, 1776: This being Wednesday, I went to the church for the spinning bee. Better Wednesday than Sunday. On Sunday I see all the men in the congregation and wonder why, why is Charles not with me?

  On my Wednesdays only women and their children come, women whose husbands are away with Charles. Without their husbands this regiment of women labor their farms and shops and do all the things I do. Our travails leave little time for fellowship. Thus Wednesday mornings are dear—stolen moments to speak with other women, to give advice and share our burdens.

  When the shadow falls through the east windowpane we know that it is mid-morning. With our spinning done we pause and give the children milk with bread and jam. Shortbreads and other portions from the week’s meals are shared among us. From an earthenware jug raspberry tea, brewed in the sun. If one of us has a newspaper Mary Rogers reads to us. Today, no news. This is good. News when read is only of struggles.

  May 24, 1776: Last night to bed with a candle and Sonnets. Last one read, “The Passionate Pilgrim,” XIV. Its final goodnight paragraph:

  Were I with her, the night would post too soon;

  But now are minutes added to the hours;

  To spite me now, each minute seems a moon;

  Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!

  Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:

  Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.

  When the candle was out and sleep did come, Charles joined me.

  May 25, 1776: Tonight Agnes Meadows came to visit after supper. Her husband serves the Continental Army. She brought her two girls, who ran off to play with Sarah. Agnes after pleasantries dropped her head, was silent for a long moment, then told me she is with child. Agnes wept as she told me this. She fears that if she were to die in childbirth her children would be orphans. I told her this was not true. All would help. I tried to comfort Agnes with some coffee I had saved with a passion. She smiled when she saw me grind the beans; coffee is so scarce. Agnes was content when sipping her coffee, as if it were the potion for all that ailed her in body and spirit. “Perhaps I shall have a son this time,” she said. “A fine boy like Baby Charles.” Her words were a generous price paid to me for so few swallows of coffee and a pinch of sugar.

  May 30, 1776: Charles was supposed to dig a new privy well. He did not. He promised that when he returned it would be dug. Our privy well needs to be covered and forgotten. But before I can do this, a new one needs to be dug. This afternoon I set to the task myself, with a spade and shovel. After an hour, stopping to retrieve Baby Charles from his crawls, I had only scratched the earth. God must have used masons to make the fields of our farm. So many stones. Dirt and a tear on my dress rewarded my labors.

  June 3, 1776: Today was bright with a June sun. I walked with the children through our fields. Sarah ran ahead, chasing after the butterflies that have made our farm their village. Baby Charles slept in the sling, content with the swaying and the closeness to me. Try as I might not to, always I steal a glance to the horizon, hoping to see my dear Charles appear over the rise. Always the same, sorry that I glanced.

  With the setting sun, Mr. Dear knocked upon our door. The good man brought us a basket of apples and a basket of news. But only news of despair, nothing right for the Patriots. After the candle is out and I lay abed, I will offer prayers that Charles be safe and a letter soon arrive.

  June 6, 1776: Before this war, my love was equal between Charles and the children. Since he has been gone, all my attention flows to Sarah and Baby Charles. For this I feel guilt. God knows that I ache for Charles, but, as with a wound, this hurt in time has ebbed. When on the most happy day we meet again, I shall feel as bashful as a girl.

  June 8, 1776: A good growing season. The corn is nearly as tall as I, and the beans wrap the stalks like dear friends. The squash are blooming. Each day I attack the beetles as if they were Redcoats. They must be beaten in daily battles to have a full harvest for Charles’s return.

  June 9, 1776: Reverend Tripwell never before spoke in a manner to give his allegiances. Sermons were confirmations of doing God’s work and obeying God’s will. Before the war no leanings did the Reverend show. But as I lay these words on the pages of my journal this night, I think I know why. He wished to make the collection plate the most full. Collections from both the Loyalists and the Patriots were sought. Today’s sermon was not as others. He spoke of our war, and then he spoke of Matthew 22:21 and Job 1:21. From these scriptures the right and wrong of the war should be known. He said that we should pay our king the taxes that were due him; “render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s.” He then said the lands on which we lived were a gift from the king; “the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away.” Before, monies to the collection plate were from the Loyalists and the Patriots. But now the Patriots are at war. Only their wives and children are in the pews. Families of Patriots have no money for the collection plate, only for food. Reverend Tripwell speaks to the minds of those with money. His scriptures speak to the Loyalists.

  “The devil can cite scripture for his purpose.”

  June 13, 1776: In my letter to Charles today I told him that I would number each letter sent to him and asked that he do the same. If a letter is lost in its journey the truth of the matter will be known.

  Together Sarah and I made a pie with apples given by Mr. Dear. I hanged a pail on the door, and when he paused on his journey past, together fruit and sugar wedges much enjoyed.

  June 14, 1776: Today in Mr. Cranson’s shop men talk of the news. Mr. Cranson reports that a Mr. Richard Lee of Virginia proposes that the Continental Congress should declare the Colonies free of the king. Mr. Crabtree always speaks his opinion in a great voice. Said that only a few colonies would so declare. Other men swaying back and forward, not stating what they believe right. I wonder what army does Charles serve? If colonies are not together in mind, how are our soldiers together on the field of battle?

  June 17, 1776: Fewer and fewer dried peas in the bowl. Sarah squeals with pleasure, believing her father will be home soon. I fear he may not and disappointment will be hers. Last night while she slept I placed another fortnight’s count in the bowl. Better Charles comes home early than late for Sarah.

  June 19, 1776: Charles has an agreement with a farmer neighbor, Mr. Joseph Trustey, to tend his pigs. For this labor we will be given the meat of one at slaugh
tering time. These pigs have been a comfort to me with Charles gone. My sweet Sarah names every animal. This is how our cow became Mrs. Brown. Like Sarah, I named each piglet. I named them after the apostles; even the female piglet. Peter and Paul are the largest, and their sister, James, is the runt.

  Perhaps when comes slaughtering time, I will take a slice of one of the apostles to Reverend Tripwell. I will take pleasure when he eats one of God’s chosen ones.

  “Revenge is best served cold.”

  June 20, 1776: Our fields are full. God blessed us with sun and rain. Sarah sits outside after supper when the still evening air allows the flowers to give off their most pleasant aromas. She asked me to name the flowers for her, and she revels in reciting their names aloud: “Black-Eyed Susan, Johnny Jump-Up, and Sweet William.” Sarah makes up stories about these three, each day giving them a new adventure. Today Miss Black-Eyed Susan married Sweet William, and together they have a son named Johnny Jump-Up. Tonight the flowers are put snug to bed in the drawer of our cabinet. Tomorrow they will sit at our table and join Sarah for bread and jam.

  Now too is the season of strawberries. Sarah and I have enjoyed them for a week. Each berry is a treasure. I will put up preserves so the strawberries will be more than a memory when winter comes. A strawberry eaten today is less jam for the winter. Strawberries and jam are as life: always today’s sacrifice for tomorrow’s hope.

  June 24, 1776: I saw Mr. Green driving his cart today, returning from Boston. His horse seemed to look at me askance when he passed by. Why did Mr. Green not bring a letter? Is Charles unwell? I pray not. Yet, if he is well and has not written, in some ways it is worse. I tell myself not to think too much. What is, is. So many reasons a letter so longed for may not find its way to me. It is time for me to lay aside my pen, blow out the candle, repeat my prayers, sleep a good sleep, and rise and smile when Sarah’s and Baby Charles’s smiles greet me in the morning. I will be content. I must be content.

 

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