Letters to America

by Tom Blair

  September 23, 1776: Yesterday my sister’s husband and his friend came down from Newburyport to harvest the flax. Plants needed to be pulled this week, else their fibers will be too tough for spinning. While the men pulled the plants from the ground, Sarah and I walked behind, laying out the plants to dry properly. Baby Charles napped at Agnes Meadows’s home. Next year he will toddle along after us in the fields.

  Before they began their journey home I made a fine meal and felt well pleased to have them at table with me. Conversation was a mandolin of music with our supper, not a drumbeat of questions from Sarah with my short, tired answers. But conversation at a cost. One week’s meat I used for our meal. Now bread and corn will be our fare for many days.

  September 25, 1776: Most sorrowful yesterday. Mr. Dear stopped with only woeful tales. The Hessians and Redcoats drove the Patriots from New York City. Then, he said, the Redcoats burned the city. Can this be? Are they not burning the king’s city?

  No sleep. Only thoughts of Charles. Where is he? If I could, I would have him a prisoner and safe.

  October 6, 1776: Even though it is October, this is as a beautiful spring day. After Reverend Tripwell’s sermon, parishioners gathered in the churchyard for conversation. Then Mr. Crabtree stole the gathering in a voice as a trumpet. Said that Virginians claim they are most hurt by British tyranny and believe liberty should be for all. Then in a rising voice he claimed they sleep well on their Virginia estates while the poor farmers of Massachusetts, New York, and Pennsylvania suffer the war. In his loudest blare, shouted that Patriots be fools to fight for our Virginia cousins. Perhaps so, I think.

  “The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.”

  October 21, 1776: An accident today that cannot be forgotten. Back from our visit with Mrs. Brown with a bucket of warm milk, more than her usual. The bucket placed on the table with a cloth across the top. Later I asked Sarah to fetch me the bucket. Then a tumble and a clatter, and somehow the bucket fell to the floor, the milk at first a large puddle and then between the floorboards to our root cellar. Sarah cried, and I sat at our table and joined her, head in hands. Why? I think. But then I think some more, and why not? God did not spill the milk. We spilled the milk. And the spilt milk will not be forgotten. A sour smell will stay with us.

  “What’s done can’t be undone.”

  October 23, 1776: To town today to use a portion of Mr. Cranson’s silver coin for a salt lick for Mrs. Brown. I offered pleasantries to Mr. Cranson, and when certain his wife not near, a thank-you. Sarah curtsied with her much practiced dip and bow. A hard piece of molasses from a brown clay jar was his thank-you to her.

  From the store we set forth on our journey home. Men of much energy and little thought gathered in the town square, mocking King George and claiming victories from battles not yet fought. Then the chant. Together they shouted the same words as shouted since Baby Charles has been at my breast, “Give me liberty or give me death.” Do they think the decision to go to war with our king is that simple? Should not they scream, “Give me liberty while my wife and children starve?” Everything for men is simple. “Let us have another child,” the husband says. Then he goes to the fields and plows and plants as always. The woman carries the baby, mutes her screams during birth, nurses and dresses an infant, teaches it the ways of life, and only then the father pridefully embraces his new child. I will not sleep a quiet sleep tonight.

  October 24, 1776: Today a letter from Charles. Told of the Battles of Long Island. Told how Patriots retreated, but he remains confident that New York City will be well defended and not lost to the Redcoats. His letter dated September 10. Four weeks ago the Boston Paper reported our loss of New York City. His letters should only report his health. To write me of the battles makes no sense. Papers and Mr. Dear tell the tales in a louder voice.

  October 25, 1776: This morning while helping Sarah with her reading I carded wool, moving it from one brush to the next. I will spin the yarn later tonight, after Sarah sleeps. Then a score of days knitting stockings and mittens for the coming winter. Baby Charles has been unwell with a fever. I hope he is only breeding teeth. I have rubbed oil of cloves on his gums. He sleeps now, but I know not for how long.

  October 29, 1776: Sarah was ill, but has recovered. Baby Charles has been unwell for many days. I have not been to the pasture for two days. I am sure that Mrs. Brown is groaning with milk, looking for me to relieve her burden.

  October 31, 1776: Much of the day I held my lovely baby. He is hot with fever. I try to coax a smile from him, but his eyes are glassy and far away. I lost a sweet girl after Sarah, a baby dead before she was born to this world. I cannot bear such grief again. I try to think of some way I can bargain with God so he will spare my son. But what can I do, else than that which I am doing?

  November 1, 1776: I rocked my little Charles all night and covered him in cool cloths. At dawn his skin felt cooler. I put him at my breast, and he took my milk. Now he sleeps. This morning I write this entry so I may tell God how thankful I am that Baby Charles is well.

  Thank you, God.

  November 3, 1776: Last night I heard movement and squeals from under our house. Not sure what it be, but I knew it was not good. This morning while Sarah was tending little Charles, I looked to our rabbits’ house. With a shovel I moved a small gray-brown rabbit to a final resting place, far from Sarah’s daily journeys. The red fox that we saw last week had moved the others. At breakfast I told Sarah that I had seen Mrs. Hope and her family hopping over the hill to a new home. When she showed discontent I told her that with the spring they would surely be back.

  November 7, 1776: Mrs. Brown has a shelter behind the garden. Soon I will begin to feed her the hay grown this summer and stored for her winter meals. Joseph Trustey’s pigs I feed on slops from the kitchen, potato and carrot peelings as well as the cornhusks left over from the last harvest. The chickens roost in their shelter, their feathers a fine coat. This is my family, the children and the creatures great and small. I am as Mrs. Noah, only Noah has abandoned the ark.

  November 11, 1776: A bad day and a good day. Both true today were Isaiah 45:15, “Ye work in mysterious ways,” and Poor Richard’s Almanac, “God helps those who help themselves.” Last night I lay in bed as a roaring storm passed by. For more than an hour thunder and lightning all around, never heard louder. At first, much time between the flash of the bolt and the roar of the thunder. But then they became one over our house. Sarah quickly to my bed. Baby Charles did not stir. The roar of the wind gained in its volume, soon so loud that I prayed to God that we should be safe. Perhaps by prayers, perhaps not, the storm moved on.

  In morning’s light I walked around the house. Some things blown over, but nothing that could not be made right. But then the worst. With my bucket I walked through the gate and to the lean-to that sheltered dear Mrs. Brown. Our lovely cow lay on the ground. Not on the ground with her legs folded under her, but on her side with two legs jutting upwards. A burnt circle on the crown of her head with a portion of the skull showing, a lightning bolt ended her life and took away the milk and butter that our family eat and trade. God did not take away our cow, God took away our life.

  I slumped on the ground and cried, no, I sobbed. I had been working as hard as I could, doing everything I could. God was doing nothing to help.

  In time back to the house and tried to think of my blessings. But it did not matter. This was not right. Then a thought. With Baby Charles in my arms and Sarah weaving behind off to town, straight to Mr. Cranson’s store. The barter, with Elizabeth approving with her silence, was quickly done. Mr. Cranson would have Mrs. Brown butchered, giving me a quarter of the meat and keeping the other for himself. He would also give me a credit at the store and have his eldest son dig a new privy well.

  I walked back to the house considering the trade. It was not a good trade. I have sold our future. For the next three months we will have food. At the end of that time we will neither have a cow nor food. I have done what is needed to surv
ive until Charles returns.

  “To do a great right, do a little wrong.”

  November 19, 1776: After supper yesterday Agnes Meadows’s daughter Sally came in haste, calling out to say that her mother’s travail had started. I took the children’s blankets with us, since they were likely to sleep at Agnes’s house. I have been with Agnes for two of her births and know that her labors are long. Most pleased to see that Sally had fetched two other women as well. Agnes offered each of us some groaning beer and groaning cakes to mark the occasion.

  In time we took turns walking beside Agnes as she crossed the loft from end to end. Mrs. Yiend, the midwife, arrived with her birthing stool. For comfort Agnes took toast dipped in wine. We spoke to her of times past and times to come. When the midwife judged that it was time, Agnes took to the birthing stool. Soon a squalling daughter born, quickly washed and swaddled. Agnes wept; the child is hearty, and she herself survived. The afterbirth taken behind the house and buried. In morning’s light back to our house, as always Sarah singing and calling out greetings to things with feathers or fur.

  I accept God. But events conspire at times to make God’s being suspect. Charles at war against his English cousins is such a time. This morning, in the stillness of our home, I thought of Agnes’s newborn. So perfect. God gives us the perfect being. We mortals corrupt the purpose of life, and then we question God’s being.

  November 24, 1776: Sarah’s ears are sharper than I thought. At church today Reverend Tripwell spoke again of heaven and hell. His words are most frightful to anyone other than a saint. Sarah sat silent during his vast river of admonishments, her legs swinging on the edge of the pew, her head tilting one way then another as she took stock of the sights within. But listen she did. On our slow walk home this morning she asked if Mrs. Brown was in heaven. After a few moments of only footsteps being heard, I answered with a certain yes. Sarah then off chasing an imaginary. My answer was partially true. Not all of Mrs. Brown grazes peacefully in heaven. Some of her lies smoked, salted, and resting in our root cellar. Tonight I did not prepare beef for our supper.

  November 27, 1776: At the Wednesday spinning bee today, I rued my presence there. Kathryn Johnson’s husband returned home last week. She in attendance at our gathering this day spoke of her husband’s tales. Said she that in New York City many lewd women sold their companionship to Patriot soldiers. This cannot be true, I think. But whether so or not, why would she tell this tale to women without their husbands near?

  I wanted to tell Kathryn our gatherings are for each to be helpful, not hurtful. I did not.

  “How hard it is for women to keep counsel.”

  December 2, 1776: Today I saw myself in the mirror at the far end of Mr. Cranson’s shop. Vanity is not good, but my tattered and stained dress reproaches me beyond vanity. Toiling in the fields has taken its measure.

  Three dresses I have. One from many years ago, only worn for the heaviest chores. Two others that once were fine dresses, one blue and the other black. The blue one bears no tears or stains that cannot be made right. This one folded away to be worn for Charles. The black dress must suffer my daily chores.

  December 8, 1776: As every Sunday, to church this day. Reverend Tripwell spoke words heard before. Need for fasting, prayer, and submission to God’s will. I listened, but not with interest or feeling. Thought of all that I must do. I wondered at what I have done and what I have left undone. I must bake tomorrow. Did I set out the sponge for the bread? Did I turn the cheese? Did I close the root cellar? Will the wolves be at my store? This day I must worry about tomorrow’s tasks to be done, not worry of my path to our heavenly Father.

  December 11, 1776: Tacked to the wall in Mr. Cranson’s shop be articles from the Boston and Philadelphia newspapers. Most articles tell of the Continental Army and its struggles. Today an essay not from these papers, from Samuel Johnson of England. It says the signers of the Declaration of Independence speak not the truth. Mr. Johnson argued that the claim “that all men are created equal” is made by those who live in grand estates maintained by men who are slaves. He asked which tyranny is worse, the tyranny of a king who only wished a free-willed colonist to pay a small tax or the tyranny of a Virginia gentleman who enslaves men with the burdens of constant work, then pays them in lashes if they not be grateful for a life of strife.

  Think as I might, my mind could construct no retort to Mr. Johnson.

  December 13, 1776: Sarah still trails after me always, asking one question after another. Try as I might to answer, my mind becomes tired. I love her so. I know that someday she will leave for her Charles. These should be special days, while her eyes are bright and her mind curious of all. But I am weary. No time to myself, always with me the children with their needs and a village of tasks to be done before I sleep, only to awaken to yet another village of tasks.

  “Have patience and endure.”

  December 19, 1776: Today was not as I thought. A cold day with a heavy wind that made the cold much colder. No word from my husband for nigh on two months. I weighed not going to the church for our Wednesday gathering. But my mind is becoming numb and cold. I need to warm my mind, even though my body shivers in the journey to town.

  Sarah and I hurried through the morning chores and then wrapped ourselves with two dresses each and our shawls. Baby Charles held by me, tight in my warmest blanket, with one of my bonnets over his face.

  To town. Halfway there I thought of returning, the cold was so hurtful. We stayed the path—would be the same distance to our gray house or a church full of women with conversation and warm food.

  Finally at the church we entered, to find no one there. Sarah and I sat on a pew with Baby Charles, the cold dripping from our bodies. Then Reverend Tripwell appeared through a side door. I asked where the other women might be. He told me the gathering was on Wednesday, not Thursday. A day late. No conversation, no food, only a long journey to and from.

  This has become my life. Always struggle, no reward. Home we trundled. Now Sarah and Baby Charles asleep; I am writing this by candlelight. A candle that I cannot afford to waste. Despair and disappointment be my companions. Let it be that soon I too sleep and this day be gone.

  “Time and the hour run through the roughest day.”

  December 23, 1776: Last night thunderclaps. Sarah quickly to my bed, then soon asleep. In the darkness, with her body still, I lay quietly next to her. Slowly I rested my hand on the small of her back. Her body warm to my hand. Last night, in the darkness with my eyes closed, her warmth was Charles’s warmth. I slept the good sleep.

  January 1, 1777: Were the winters so cold and dark when Charles was home? It is the beginning of January and we have two more full months of cold and dark. I scurry throughout the day to complete my chores during the hours of daylight. It is dark by late afternoon and candles must be conserved.

  January 5, 1777: For so long the days, no touch of affection, no touch of warmth and love. No one tells me that I am fair. No one tells me all the things that a woman should be told.

  January 9, 1777: This morning as most mornings. Before Sarah and Baby Charles up, three half logs into the firebox of the stove. I left the firebox door open to allow the heat to spill through our room. Later, while I busied myself brushing Sarah’s hair, little Charles toddled on a morning stroll. To the stove he went and grabbed the iron door to stop his walk. A shriek of pain, then great sobs. I rubbed butter on his fingers and then wrapped them in two portions of clean cloth. Blisters will surely rise, then some days of pain.

  January 11, 1777: A pounding on the door this morning. Mr. Dear with not bad news. After months of only defeats, the Patriots stole a victory in Jersey. Much excited, Mr. Dear told me to read the article in the Boston Paper in Cranson’s shop.

  With Sarah wondering why, off I betook my family. At the shop a circle of people gathered around the wall, as if the torn and tacked articles would speak. Finally Mr. Cranson read slowly. Read words so long waited for. On the night of December 25th General Was
hington led troops across the Delaware River. Across the river, Trenton was attacked and this battle won. Then days later to Princeton, another victory.

  Three times Mr. Cranson read the words; read slowly, read clearly, read for all. Each word a kernel of hope; taken together, the kernels gained the weight of confidence for me that the certitude of British victory is not a certitude.

  January 22, 1777: At last a letter from Charles—but a letter better lost. The warm glow of December’s victories are grown cold to the touch. Problems and hardships plague their winter camp of Morristown. Many soldiers without shoes or boots in the harshness of winter. Few occupy cabins built with their own hard labors; most housed in tents. Each day spent searching for provisions and firewood. Only things plentiful served by the devil: smallpox, dysentery, jaundice, diarrhea, scurvy, piles, and putrid fever. More men have died from disease than battle.

  “If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.”

  How can we fail to provision our soldiers fighting in their lands for no pay while the king provides all for his soldiers a wide ocean away? This cannot be right.

  January 23, 1777: Today I read my journal. If I could, I would strike some passages. Anger toward Charles are some of the words written. This should not be. If I cannot write the good of my dear Charles, I should not write.

  “Sweet, above thought I love thee.”

  January 24, 1777: The blue dress that I was guarding for Charles’s return is no longer worthy of guarding. This morning it was worn while its sister black dress washed and hung to dry. An ember from the hearth, not seen ’til it smoldered, popped into the folds of the prized dress while I nursed Baby Charles. I should be grateful that the flames were doused without harm to me or my sweet Charles. Nothing is fair. All my efforts to protect are for naught.