by Tom Blair
June 28, 1776: Today with the sun beginning its farewell, Mr. Dear pardoned his journey home from town to wish us good evening and bring us a welcomed basket of cornbread. I think this cornbread may be a gift to him from a widow in town—one of several with an eye on Mr. Dear. After some pleasantries he told me that King George has again refused to accept our olive branch and instead declared the Colonies to still be rebellious. If bad news must be delivered, the package should not arrive at dusk when it will be fresh in my mind as the candle is snuffed; all adversaries become bolder with the darkness.
July 1, 1776: Today as others, up before the sun. The chamber pot emptied and cleaned, some small chores accomplished before Sarah’s questions and Baby Charles’s needs. Bread and jam for Sarah after her face washed and her hair stroked. Then she pretends to feed her doll as I nurse Baby Charles. To the field all three to say good morning to Mrs. Brown. I on the milking stool with Baby Charles in the sling. Sarah picks handfuls of grass and offers Mrs. Brown her breakfast. My hands once soft are no longer. Mrs. Brown looks back and down as to say, “Why so?” By the time the bucket is half full, Mrs. Brown has no more. Then down the path from the meadow to our house. The foul smell from the privy calls out to be filled with earth. Into our home, then to the field for the day’s chores. For each chore done, another one standing ready. A dinner for Sarah with answers to questions always asked. The last nursing of Baby Charles, Sarah’s prayers said, then they to sleep. Baby Charles’s soiled napkin washed and hung by the stove. An entry in my journal and then in the quiet and darkness of the house I can speak uninterrupted with my worries.
July 4, 1776: Yesterday after Baby Charles fussed and finally was asleep for the night, I finished a letter to Charles before bed. I wanted to tell him that he should have dug the privy well before he left. But then I thought better. I thought where he might be sleeping tonight. I brought Sarah to bed with me. Whenever I felt bitter toward Charles, I hold our children. Charles and God gave me the most precious of treasures. I need not worry about what they did not give me.
July 7, 1776: Today to church and more of the Reverend’s admonishments. On my way homeward, I was surprised by the great number of people clustered around Mr.Cranson’s shop. The news has come that the Colonies have together declared their independence. These words quickly turned my hands cold. This is the condition so many desire. Is this what my family should desire? We have cast our future to the whims of fate and fighting.
July 10, 1776: Sarah asks questions until my mind feels numb. Most answers I know well. Others I do not. Perhaps no one knows. She wants to know where her father is and why he is gone, even though I have told her more times than there are stones in the pasture. “Father is fighting for our liberty,” I say. “What is liberty?” Sarah asks. How do I answer? If we have liberty what will be different? Will Mrs. Brown milk herself and will Baby Charles’s napkins wash themselves?
July 12, 1776: Today was as a well baked pudding. The air hot, still, and moist. Chores mostly in the house. Before, Charles’s comings and goings punctuated the day and gave them shape, like the poles that prop up a tent. His presence made me feel I could hold on to the day’s moments as I lived them. Now it seems as if everything floats by, as if I am adrift on a river of no end and no piers.
July 15, 1776: Before he left Charles asked our neighbor, old Mr. Borrows, to help me dig our potatoes. When I saw him in church yesterday I told him the potatoes were ready for birth and would he be the midwife. He grinned, tipped his hat, and said he would be with us today. He did, but if he is a midwife the babies are bruised. As he began to dig his thoughts took him back years ago to when he was clearing the land. He cursed the potatoes, calling them “damned stones,” flung them far from my collection bushel. Begged him to stop, but his temper grew worse. Sarah was frightened. Quickly I ran to the house and back with a cup of cider. He paused, drank with nary a pause. Then bade me a farewell and down the path as if no potatoes waiting.
July 17, 1776: With a small portion of the potatoes just born, Sarah and I made crisps. Cut thin as a piece of cloth, soaked in cold water, then quick fried with pig grease and salt. Thought of Charles; crisps and ale are his favorite. Sadness descended. I shall not fry crisps again ’til he can partake.
July 21, 1776: Much pleasure in this Sunday. Not from Reverend Tripwell’s words, but from Mr. Crabtree’s errors. After church I joined many others outside Mr.Cranson’s shop, where I read of the Declaration of Independence, agreed to by all the colonies except New York. Crabtree no longer remembers his boast that most would not.
Also, Baby Charles took his first steps today. For several days he moved as if walking, but held to walls or chairs. Today his little hands released and his first short steps followed freely. I considered writing Charles of his son’s new mark, but thought not.
July 22, 1776: Last month I placed more peas in the bowl. But my Sarah is a smart girl and knows her numbers. Today she counted the ten there, pointed to her fingers, and set the mark. If I add more peas Sarah will need to grow more fingers if she is not to know the truth.
July 27, 1776: Each morning in my walk to and from Mrs. Brown, I pass the privy well. The smell is a righteous stink. I become angry at Charles for not digging the new well before he was off. I need to take a different path or have a new privy well dug. I will put down my pen, go to bed, melt a portion of a candle dear, and speak with Othello about my frustrations.
July 29, 1776: The prayed-for letter arrived yesterday from Charles. My face flushed as Mr. Green pulled it from a sack on the back of his cart—a cart burdened only with leaves and stains from vegetables delivered to Boston. All of my being wanted to tear open the seal and read Charles’s words. But first I offered Mr. Green a cup of cider and spoke of the warm July weather. Trying to be most pleasant, Mr. Green played with Baby Charles. All the time I was smiling and wishing him to leave so I could read my letter.
After a game of silly questions with Sarah, Mr. Green took to his cart and down the path. With Sarah sitting next to me on the steps to our home, I read Charles’s missive. No words of missing me. No words of love. Only words of his needs and his hardships. He asked that I send a shirt and boots. Why, I thought, did not he just ask for a crown of gold and emeralds? Then words that brought a gasp. Charles is not returning as promised. No fresh troops have come to relieve the struggle of those already serving.
Sarah asked why I was sad. I told her that I was missing her father so. She asked that I read her Charles’s words. Slowly I read her the letter, but they were not Charles’s words, they were my own. I composed a tale telling how her father would be home soon and would play many games with Baby Charles and Lady Sarah, and how he wanted her to know how he smiled when he thought of her most pretty face.
After the children asleep I poured the few peas still in the bowl back into the sack from which they were so carefully taken. When next in Mr. Cranson’s shop I will trade this sack for something else. To see a pea will bring anger. Anger at Charles for his broken promise of return. How does he think I can do his work and my work? When he was tending the fields, did he think I was doing nothing?
“Men’s vows are women’s traitors!”
July 30, 1776: Today I rushed the chores. Then passed hours with Sarah and Baby Charles. Sliced an apple and baked the wedges with sugar. Even little Charles smiled when one touched his tongue. When he was asleep I read to Sarah a story of a brave knight and a beautiful princess. Once she sleeps, I will burn a candle for more than an hour so I may join Romeo and Juliet—this day my recipe for good temperament to join me once again.
August 2, 1776: For some reason today guilt smothered me. I thought of the wonderful Charles that I married, and then I thought of the anger I had felt toward him for leaving the family. He suffers too. No matter how much we suffer, he suffers more. To sway my guilt I thought what best I could do to make a pleasant surprise. If Baby Charles can speak when Charles returns, the word “father” will be spoken.
August
4, 1776: Much talk today at Mr. Cranson’s of the two Howes. General William Howe led the Redcoats’ bloody charges at Bunker Hill. As his reward he was made commander-in-chief of the British army in America. His brother is Admiral Howe, commanding the British fleet of two hundred ships along our coast and surrounding our cities. One of the men at Cranson’s shop asked if George Washington perhaps had a brother who could help him in his fight against the British. Mr. Crabtree quickly claimed yes and that his brother commanded an open boat with one oar.
I will enter Cranson’s shop only when less winds blow.
August 8, 1776: The first day in many the sun pushed aside rain clouds. The Jenkins girl rose early from her bed at home to sit with the children while I walked to the far pasture to milk Mrs. Brown. Emmy does not like to be up so early, but her mother likes the butter and cheese I give her in exchange for her time.
I walked with my empty bucket through the grass; bright sunlight rendered the world reborn. As birds welcomed the rising rays, I felt disbelief that not far away, men who worship my God want to slay dear Charles.
When I rounded the hill Mrs. Brown turned and started in my direction, like an old friend coming to greet me. She has put on flesh from feasting on the summer grass. A stool next to her, and a bucket under her. I listened to the sound of the milk as it streamed into the bucket. I prayed Charles had enough to eat. I prayed he would not stray into harm’s way. I prayed he returns home soon. I prayed because it was the right thing to do, otherwise would be wrong. But no one hears this prayer, I fear.
August 12, 1776: I have a dire worry. I could not before write the worry, to write the worry was to anoint its being. But the worry lives. It lives in our root cellar. Charles’s letter did not speak of the sentence laid upon this family by his choice not to return by winter. We have not enough food for the winter. While good crops were blessed upon us, they are not enough. Charles hunts, and fresh venison is a staple. His labors for others also bartered for necessary foods. I try not to think, but always the root cellar is in my mind. Not enough stores for the winter.
“Women may fall when there’s no strength in men.”
August 21, 1776: This being Wednesday I was off to the church with Sarah and little Charles. The women spoke together of our problems and hopes while the young girls carded the flax and watched over the youngest children. Old Mary Rogers read from the Continental Journal, only a week old—no good news, only struggles. From eight in the morning ’til noon only our fingers and tongues moved. At midday Arnold Rush came to the door, ready to take our thread and weave it at his shop. A dreamlike time ago when we could purchase cloth cheaply, thanks to the ships always arriving from England. But there is no commerce now with Britain, so we must find the time to spin the thread.
Without these Wednesdays I could not be of a calm temperament. Sarah and Baby Charles are always with me for company, but also with me their needs. At church on Wednesdays other women harken to my problems. Kind and hopeful they be. I know they be this way because this is how they wish other women be to them.
“They who thrive well take counsel of their friends.”
August 25, 1776: Again today after church Mr. Crabtree spoke for all to hear. In his voice like a cannonade, he pronounced that he knew George Washington would lose the battle of New York. Mr. Crabtree claimed his brother had served with General Washington when he commanded a force against the French at Fort Duquesne. There, Crabtree boasted, Washington quickly surrendered and only by the kindness of the French did he live.
August 26, 1776: With the burning sun of August, Mrs. Brown’s plate is empty. The grasses in her pasture are no longer enough. Mr. Dear kindly told me that his two cows have more than enough tall grasses in the large pasture next to Mrs. Brown’s. He pulled down two sections of fence so Mrs. Brown could join them for supper. I wonder if Mr. Dear was always so kind? I wonder if he becomes kinder as he draws nearer to visiting the house of God?
August 27, 1776: Today I stopped at Mr. Cranson’s shop. I should not have. Much excited talk. I overheard reports that over eight thousand Hessian troops have arrived by convoy to fight the Patriots. We have so few men against the king. Why does he spend his gold to bring these foreigners to the Colonies? Will he have them do something to us that his army of our cousins would not? I am fearful.
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”
August 28, 1776: If my mother or father lived, what if I were called home to care for my ailing parent and told my husband that I must do my duty as a daughter? What if I promised to return home, but I did not? I imagine that I write to tell Charles that my stay will last longer. He writes back, wondering why someone else, another daughter, does not help with the burden. I leave the household, the farm, and the children in his care. He asks, “What of your duty to me and the children?” This is how Charles’s duty seems to me. He has done his part; it is time for him to return to his familiar work. How unfair is his absence to fight for this thing called liberty! This liberty that to our family is as a drifting cloud in the faraway sky.
August 30, 1776: No longer do I read to Sarah from my treasured books. The emotions of the players make no sense to her. This not be her fault. Her emotions still to bloom.
September 2, 1776: This day for some reason, tea was always on my mind. I smelled tea much today, even though there was no tea near. I remembered pleasant times and conversations with tea as the centerpiece. How long since any of us enjoyed a cup of tea? Warm sweet tea in porcelain cups dressed in hand-painted flowers. I wonder where they are now, the men of Boston who as Indians thrust the tea into the sea. In England they drink their tea. Here only the fish drink tea.
“Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.”
September 3, 1776: Mr. Dear to our house today. Reported one thousand Patriots captured and three hundred killed in the Battle of Long Island.
Can this be true?
September 6, 1776: Charles in the letter arrived yesterday spoke of the island of New York. Two sides of rivers and a bay beneath. He thinks whoever has the most ships will win the battle for New York City. Unless the British fleet sinks in a great storm, they will win the battle, for Patriots have no ships.
Charles is camped in the middle of the island, and the city is to the south. He writes that he traveled there twice and was much impressed. My heart gladdened to read of his visits to Trinity Church, where he offered prayers for God’s care of his family and his safe return.
Charles told of a visit by General Washington. Washington tall and confident, but no Kinglike notions shown. Then Charles wrote of the trenches they dig for defense of the city. Every day more trenches dug. Could not he have dug a new privy well for our home?
September 11, 1776: It is constantly with me. Whether I am washing or carding, or counting the squash yet to be harvested, I am tallying. Tallying the stores we hold against the days of winter and early spring. We do not have enough. Try as I might, there is no answer other than to ask. Charles would never ask for something that was not earned, but this is what I must do. I must go to Mr. Cranson and ask for stores against credit. For me I would have a choice. For my sweet children I have no choice. Tomorrow the journey of my shame and desperation. But I shall not retreat.
“Boldness, be my friend.”
September 12, 1776: Once again this morning I took stock of the root cellar, hoping I erred. Hoping perhaps it held enough to last us through the winter. It did not. I knew it did not. We have cornmeal and flour, apples, squash, potatoes, preserves, pickles, and the smallest portion of salt pork. But I must have fifty pounds of beef to help us weather the harsh days of winter.
To town I go with Baby Charles and Sarah. I am ashamed, and my steps become shorter the closer I draw to Mr. Cranson’s shop. When there I wish to turn away, but do not. Into the shop I venture, Baby Charles in the sling, Sarah wondering at items on the shelves. Mr. Cranson nods to me, asks my health and smiles. Mrs. Cranson moves closer, but pretending not to listen. Then I ask. I a
sk for credit.
Mrs. Cranson, Elizabeth, quickly occupies the space between her husband and me. Tells me in a loud voice that he cannot take care of all the women whose husbands have left them behind. I tell her I will pay her as soon as Charles returns. She looks at me as if I am vermin.
She shakes her head and frowns, hands on ample hips, and tells me that she must protect him from himself, she must protect her family from going to ruin over a war they have no part in.
I turn and then a long remembered walk to our farm, my face hot and red. Red from embarrassment. Red from anger.
When my candle is snuffed tonight, peace will not be with me; it will be frightened away by my anger.
September 16, 1776: This afternoon I had just finished darning leggings for Sarah while nursing Baby Charles. Came a knock at our door, though I expected no one. When I opened the door I was frightened. Not frightened by who it was, but what he said. It was Mr. Cranson, whose wife had been so unkind toward my plea for help. His first words were that he would provide me monies if I promised to do something for him. I shivered with dread.
But my dread quickly became a warm happiness. He asked only that I not speak to his wife of the money he was giving me. He said that he knew that so many were struggling, and his wife was right that not all could be helped. But he said he knew Charles and he knew of our family. He gave me a silver coin and a big smile. He tickled Baby Charles and told Sarah how fair she be, and then he strode quickly away.
Guilt became my partner. I had not offered him a chair or a sip of cider. Within the next week I will stop by his store and wish him a most pleasant day, and when his wife was not near, offer a smile and a thank-you. While a single silver coin will not buy beef for the winter, it will buy us a score of contented days. I will include him in my nightly prayers. Perhaps Mr. Cranson is one of the answers to my nightly prayers.