by Tom Blair
January 26, 1777: Young and old are sick with the fever; many funerals. Because so many, and because of the cold, often there is no visitation of the body. Family carry the casket to the church. Reverend Tripwell reads from the liturgy and then speaks words of no significance to the bereaved. Then the procession to the burial ground, where the casket is lowered. Last week two died, one from my Wednesday church group, Mrs. Taft, a widow with no family. I placed her in my nightly prayers.
January 28, 1777: Mr. Dear again so kind. He brought me a dress that once had been his wife’s. Did this unasked after I told him of the death of my blue dress. Mrs. Dear was not a tall lady. But I think I can make this dress fine with ruffles to add in length. Perhaps I was wrong; Mr. Dear was clearly a man of kindness all his life. Indeed, he has the habit of kindness.
February 2, 1777: A short letter, stained with mud, from Charles. It is a dying time in the camp, he writes, with the soldiers sick with the fever and the flux. He says the only thing he fears is smallpox. I want to write him that I fear only starving and freezing. I will not.
I see the price we pay; I know not what we receive for our consideration.
February 4, 1777: Baby Charles’s first words will not include Father. He speaks a small basket of words. Momma for me. Hara, his try at Sarah, and bow for our departed cow. But my wish that he greet Charles with Father will not be. A baby’s words are only those of things seen.
February 5, 1777: Many afternoons spent spinning wool into yarn. Today I began the knittings. For Charles, gloves, three pair of stockings, and a scarf. The gloves first, for they are the most difficult, with many needles for the fingers and thumb. Though tempted to start knitting the simplest item, the scarf, I feared by the time I finished I would be loath of the difficult work.
As I knitted this winter day, helped Sarah with her lessons and nursed Baby Charles. The click-click of the needles and squeak of the chalk on Sarah’s slate lulled me. Did I do this same thing yesterday? Am I living the moment again?
February 7, 1777: Sarah has a fine new blue dress. This I made from my dress of the Great Fire, enough unburned to form a full skirt and blouse. Fitted large to her body, sweet Sarah will quickly fill today’s folds.
February 8, 1777: Tonight I will snuff out the candle as always. But a difference wells in the darkness that surrounds me once again—the difference being a peace within. Charles’s choice made so many months ago I now understand, all owed to Shakespeare’s words so many years ago written.
Yesterday as the sun at its highest point, Mr. Green came to my door. A letter from Charles traded for a cup of cider and a thank-you. This time a trade well made. Charles wrote as always of his struggles and fears. But then he spoke of an essay just written by Mr. Thomas Paine in the cold of a Patriot camp. Words of the essay Charles copied for me: “These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and sunshine Patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered.” Charles wrote that for him, the proof of their struggle was the hardship of the struggle. No man would endure the hardships of this winter, he says, if the rightness of their course was not of the greatest import.
From Mr. Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar I copied these words: “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads to our fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.” Only these words, and words of my new understanding of our cause and my eternal love, did I write to my darling Charles, my brave Charles.
February 9, 1777: Again after church Mr. Crabtree with his sermon of what fools we Patriots be. Spoke of the Virginians who caused this war that we suffer. I should not have, but I did. I spoke to him in a loud voice that all could hear. I asked him if it was Virginians who dressed as Indians and threw the king’s tea into Boston Harbor. I asked why would a just tax paid sail far from us to another land, is this a tax for services or a tribute to a master? Crabtree was silent, looked at me with surprise. Looked at me as if I were an oak tree that had somehow learned to speak. Then as if nothing had been asked, his song of complaints began again. I turned and with Sarah behind and Baby Charles asleep in the sling, toward our farm we walked. A quick glance back told me I was not alone in my walk. I write this in the dim light of a candle, my smile not easily seen, but it is there.
February 12, 1777: Yesterday I baked bread. I wish it could find its way to Charles, but he is so far away. No matter; I placed a slice on his plate, which I always set at the table for him, imagining that he will be home for dinner. On the bread I spread the fine butter churned with Sarah months ago. With the butter, strawberry preserves prepared last summer. Warm bread to my lips, I imagined that it were Charles I kissed. When he returns home he shall have all the soft warm bread he might want.
February 15, 1777: This winter a colder bite than others. Even our bones are cold. Try as I might, even when the fire blazes at its warmest the house is never warm.
February 19, 1777: We spend much time around the hearth, which I worry over and tend lest the fire go out. The children are bundled up with layers, still Sarah complains of the cold. Baby Charles held much throughout the day to keep him warm. He has no words to complain. I am afraid the children will catch a chill.
February 20, 1777: Shakespeare, dear friend, I beg your forgiveness. Always there for me. Always generous with your players’ words. Always enlivening with wit and insight. I rue that I have abandoned you, but I am weary, weary of life. No, that is not right. I am not weary of life; but there is no hope in my life. When hope returns I will return to you. Until then I ask your kind patience, dear friend and teacher.
February 22, 1777: I sleep in my clothes for warmth at night, and I still shiver, even though piled with blankets and rugs and a child on each flank. Before bed I hang little Charles’s washed napkins near the hearth to dry while we sleep. With the first light of the new day I stoke the fire with fresh logs. I take a few moments of cold solitude, watching the cloud of my breath before the flames, and children awake and my day’s tasks begin. In these few precious moments of quiet, my thoughts of Charles, camped in a frozen field. With shelter and warm clothing I suffer the cold. He, with a tent for shelter and meager clothing—can he endure?
Charles, I am so sorry.
February 23, 1777: Each week men return to their homes. They have had enough of it. They come home to tend their land and be as a family. But what of poor Charles? Can he not leave this war to other men?
February 24, 1777: This war is being waged not by our soldiers alone, but by them and their families. When Charles walked over the low rise last April I thought only he was in harm’s way. Harm’s way now lodges comfortably in my house.
February 26, 1777: If not for the children I would not have moved from my bed, despair as a black blanket of iron. Fingers too stiff to write.
February 27, 1777: It is not the physical labor that taxes me the hardest, but the mental uncertainties and injustices that give me the most discontent. I am filled with anger. Tonight I am not at peace with God or my station.
“Alas, I am woman friendless, hopeless!”
February 28, 1777: Today with a darning needle I pushed yarn into the cracks between our four window frames and the walls of our house. With a blanket and nails covered the door. Anything to hold back the cold pushed through by the always winds.
March 1, 1777: Ann Boleyn imprisoned in the Tower of London, her needs were served to her. She did not cook nor wash for others. No cries of babies, no interrogation by a young girl inquisitor. No snow blown across her bed by winter’s cruel wind.
Today happy I would be as the imprisoned wife of Henry the VIII waiting in warmth for a quick, painless death.
March 3, 1777: Firewood, once so ample, now not enough. Each day from Mrs. Brown’s pasture I drag into
our house two rails from the split rail fence that framed her world. With Charles’s saw I render them bite-size to feed to our stove.
When Charles returns there will be no animals, no farm, no stores—only his family in rags.
March 6, 1777: For two days I was nigh consumed by the fever and chills. I longed to lay abed and think of pleasant times past, waiting for the sickness to leave. I did not; hearth tended, food cooked, napkins washed, Sarah answered.
March 8, 1777: Baby Charles is not well. He coughs until I feel my heart will burst from sorrow, wanting to take all of his sickness to myself. My answers to Sarah not kind.
March 10, 1777: Our house is so cold, so dark, so without hope or joy. My life has no punctuation.
March 25, 1777: For two weeks no journal recorded. Grief too great. A deep snow the day Baby Charles died, I could not walk the distance to Mr. Dear’s farm, nor did anyone pass our home. I wrapped the tiny perfect body of my baby of innocence in a blue blanket given on our wedding day. A tub of metal filled with hard-packed snow. Then placed the blanket holding my loved in a drawer from my oak chest. This drawer placed over the tub, the tub of packed snow. Baby Charles’s body kept cold. No corruption. In time water poured from the tub, new snow added. This I did for a day and night. No more cruel task ever done by a mother. Mr. Dear to our house. He saw the pail on the door. Told him of my sorrow, he gone and later back with a horse and cart. Sarah and I rode with no words spoken, rode with our Baby Charles to the church. Two men had dug my sweet baby’s grave in the cold ground. By the hard turned earth we stood. Prayers by Reverend Tripwell. A cutting wind, dark thick clouds, no shadows, only a gray gloom. I looked away, but the sound of frozen soil against shovels and that wooden box told the truth. Sarah to the warmth of the church. I on the ground next to the new mound of earth. Day traded places with night, but I stayed. How can I tell Charles? But his grief could be no greater. A lamplight up the path, Mr. Dear led me to the church. Sarah slept on a pew, next to her I sat. A crushing hurt, a hurt that could not be true, God would not allow this hurt. When the sun rose I back to the path and to my Baby Charles. I knelt, spoke to him softly, spoke words of a mother’s love.
“Death lies like an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of all the field.”
March 31, 1777: Today Mr. Green took my letter written to Charles, written many days ago, but I could not bring myself to tender it. The letter as a dagger in Charles. I told of Baby Charles’s death. But not to tell Charles was also not right. Wrote also how robust Sarah had become as she grew, but the death of his son will be the only words read. What will he think of me? What did I not do to keep his son from harm?
April 24, 1777: It has been a month since I sent Charles the word of the death of our baby. No letter back. Has my message of miseries reached him? Is Charles alive to read my letter? If no letter from Charles arrives within another week, another letter of grief I will send.
April 27, 1777: Today a letter from Charles. Told me of promises made to the soldiers that monies would be paid and furloughs would be granted. Spoke as always of hardships. No words of Baby Charles. He has not received my letter. My cruel letter to him has taken a journey of no destination. Another letter I will write him. No mother should have to tell the story of her baby’s death twice.
May 14, 1777: Today a letter from Charles. His words of no comfort to me; Baby Charles’s passing was God’s will and he is in a better place. Does Charles think there be a better place than asleep against my warm breast? Told me I was fortunate, surrounded by friends, he has no one to comfort him. Does Charles think that anyone except he can offer me comfort? Charles has his cause and his compatriots; I have an empty house and Sarah crying. He has men to speak; I have Sarah to answer. Could I embark on a long march away from this heartache and take up a musket and aim it at the heart of a Redcoat. Could I do something other than sit here alone strangling in my grief. Perhaps strangling in my guilt.
“The private wound is deepest.”
May 25, 1777: Charles will be home soon. The Branson boy returned from the fighting last week. He had only left his father’s farm last month, departed with a boastful pride as to how he would slay the Redcoats. One starving month, and the king has become the yeast for his bread. Only when I saw him in church, after he had been home almost a week, did he give me a message from Charles.
After Reverend Tripwell’s sermon I had just started up the path with Sarah to visit Baby Charles. The Branson son called my name, so I turned and paused. Up to me he strolled; then, as if merely wishing me a good day, he spoke words that made me faint of heart: Charles had asked him to relay to me that he would be home the week before my birthday.
At first I found his message unclear. Was this a boy’s lark? But the message spoke of my birthday, a date not known by this boy. Then happiness squeezed me. This was the message for which I had hoped and prayed for a year! I took his hand and thanked him for such wonderful tidings. Then guilt; turned up the path with Sarah to the grave, the resting place of Baby Charles. Sarah and I knelt and prayed. But my thoughts were not of my baby lost, they were of my husband returning.
May 26, 1777: Last night my head swarmed with thoughts of Charles. I want to make the house a welcome home for my dearest husband. I lay upon my bed and filled a large basket with tasks, tasks to make the house as it was when Charles waved his good-bye last May. Then I thought of the Branson boy. For months I had waited for the message most sought, the message of Charles’s return. But the Branson son returned home making no effort to speak with me. Had I not gone to church, I would not know Charles’s message. But Branson is a boy with no wife, no family. He does not know the import of Charles’s words.
With the greeting of the sun Sarah and I were gladly to our chores.
June 2, 1777: Mr. Dear to our house today, bearing two eggs as a gift. But this was not the gift I received most gladly. He told me that William Winters and John Dotson would soon return from their service—Mr. Winters sick with unknown ills and Mr. Dotson on furlough. John Dotson enlisted with Charles so long ago. His homecoming reassures me of the truth of young Branson’s message and my hope that Charles too will soon be with me. After Mr. Dear took his leave, my happiness slowly built to a rush to ready the house for Charles. So many things still to do.
June 4, 1777: Today at our Wednesday meeting Mary Dotson did not join us. The most wonderful news I was told. Her husband arrived on furlough last night from the armies. So Charles too will surely be with us soon. With this news I considered quickly returning to our house. I must be there when he returns.
When home again this afternoon quickly I made everything right. Sarah practiced her curtsy for me. King George would find no curtsy finer. When preparing our dinner meal I made the portions large, hoping perhaps that tonight Charles would be home. After Sarah lay abed I rubbed sweet oils on my hands while thinking of Charles. The most beautiful quilt gifted by Charles’s mother I placed on our bed, and the fine dress with the ruffles offered by Mr. Dear carefully folded on our dresser. Tomorrow I will wear it and do nothing that could harm the fine material. For dear Charles I will look as I trust his memory has painted me. This journal kept only for my thoughts while Charles gone. I write this entry praying it will be my last for many, many days. Perhaps when Charles returns to me it will not be for days, but for a lifetime.
The above was the last entry in my nightly journal. The morning after there was a knock at my door. When opened, John Dotson was there. For the briefest moment I did not know who he was, even though many evenings he shared a meal with Charles and me. His skin dark as an Indian. His moon face was no longer round; it was as carved from bone. I smiled. He smiled a faint smile back. Into our house I welcomed him and at our table he sat while I poured a cup of cider. Sarah curtsied and wished him well. Gently and slowly he took her hand, kneeled, told her how fair she is, and how proud her father would be. Then he turned to me. Softly, as a whisper, he told me how sorry he was for me. I told him how my heart hurt for Baby
Charles. Then a look of pain on Dotson’s face. A heavy quiet, he did not speak, he sat so still. Again I spoke of Baby Charles. Then his face showed pain and confusion together. I thought his words of condolence were for Baby Charles. They were not. They were for Charles. He thought I knew. I did not. Charles was dead. Dead from a skirmish a week before. To the floor I fell. Sarah to my side. She cried, I sobbed.
In time our farm was sold. The farm that Charles and I struggled to make a home. Mr. Dear bought it because of his kindness. Only the smallest sum he paid, but more than offered by any other. Sarah and I moved to my sister’s house. I never took another husband. With the war there were many widows. Many sorrowful widows. I lived my life with my sister and her family. I earned my way and Sarah’s way by daily domestics done well. For many families I washed and cleaned. The war was long, ending with British surrender years after Charles’s death. His grave I never saw; I was told he lay together with many others. After the war the Loyalists quickly became Patriots. In time those loyal to the king while Charles fought spoke of their glorious victory over the unjust monarchy.
I lived to see a new holiday born, Independence Day. I also lived to see a new Charles be born. Sarah married. She wed a man who was as Charles, strong of back and strong of character. To the west and back he went in the great journey directed by President Jefferson. With Sarah, three sons they had. The first of these given the name of Charles. Baby Charles, to me.
In time I frail. My days’ tasks were only to rock and think upon the past. This I did. Thought much of the war. For me it was a harsh war. Only grief. Nothing good. How it be for you?
Warren
On January 1, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This document proclaimed the freedom of all slaves in the states that were in rebellion … the Confederacy. Even though slavery had been abolished by proclamation, the exploitation of blacks, and the stifling of their opportunities to succeed were still an accepted part of the culture of much of America as World War II approached.