by Ron Carter
With Brigitte beside her, Margaret paused to pull Prissy to her while Adam stopped in front of her, serious eyes upturned, waiting for Mother to make everything all right. Margaret spoke calmly. “It’s all right. We’ll take care of things.”
Adam exhaled in relief and turned to watch Caleb who slowed at the sight of Margaret and Brigitte, then resumed a steady pace towards them. There was blood around his mouth and chin and flecks on his coat front, along with snow and ice and frozen dirt ground into the heavy wool. His right cheek was bruised and his left eye was partially closed.
Margaret was aware of those in the street who slowed to watch, but as Caleb approached, her facial expression did not change. She said quietly, “Come along. We’ll settle this at home.” Margaret and Brigitte turned and started for home without so much as a glance at the proper Bostonians who stopped to stare at two grown women stoically marching two children and a rather tall young man with a battered face and dirty coat up the cobblestoned street.
Caleb pushed through the front gate, then into the house without pausing to hold either door open for the women and children, and was on his way to his bedroom when Margaret’s voice stopped him.
“You’ll tell me what this is all about.” It was not a question.
He did not turn to face her. “Not now.”
“Now.” There was iron in her voice.
Slowly he turned, face a blank, a slight sneer forming on his mouth. “Nothing. There was a fight.”
“The third one in six weeks. Who?”
“Simmons and Beaman.”
“Simmons and Beaman who?”
“Robert Simmons. Elijah Beaman. Nobody. Just two boys.”
“I know Robert Simmons, but not Elijah Beaman. Robert’s two years older than you. Who started it and what was it about?” She waited, holding her breath. Brigitte stood beside her, not moving, watching his eyes and face. The twins stood to one side, staring at Caleb, waiting. None of them made a move to take off their winter coats.
Caleb shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing.”
Margaret blurted, “You’re bloodied and dirtied over nothing? You’ll tell me now or we’ll go to Robert’s home and he’ll tell us.”
Hot rebellion flashed in Caleb’s eyes and Margaret straightened in shock and held her breath while she waited. Slowly Caleb relaxed his clenched jaw.
“They said getting liberty was worth the war. I said it wasn’t.” His face went dead, expressionless as he waited for Margaret’s explosion.
“Caleb!” Her voice was high. “Your father gave his life for liberty. Matthew is gone now and so is Billy, fighting for liberty! You think you know more than them?”
His eyes and voice were without expression as he spoke. “I know Father is dead. I know Matthew is gone and you’re here alone, and you and Brigitte are working yourselves to death to keep us all. I know Brigitte and I tried to take bullets and food to help our army and we got eleven people killed by our own soldiers. Nearly got killed ourselves. For what?” His voice was rising, his eyes coming alive. “Our army got beat down at New York and they’re clear over in Pennsylvania right now, nearly starved and frozen to death. We don’t know if we’ll ever see Matthew or Billy again. All in the name of liberty! Much more liberty and we’ll all be dead!”
Margaret raised a warning finger. “Don’t you dare say such a thing! Not in this house. Not with the price we’ve paid doing the work of the Almighty!”
Caleb’s voice rang loud off the walls. His eyes were flashing, defiant. “The Almighty? Where was He when Father was killed? when our own soldiers killed those people with Brigitte and me? when the British killed half our army over at New York? Where was He then?”
Margaret’s voice was shrill, nearly cracking. “Caleb! Don’t you ever pass judgment on the Almighty. Do you think you know His mind? Can you see what He sees? Do what He does? Until you can, don’t you dare speak against Him!”
Brigitte took one step towards Caleb, hands cocked on her hips, and there was fire in her eyes. “Stop it! You’ve made enough fool of your-self! Standing there dirty and bloody acting like you’re smarter than everybody else and talking back to your mother. You hold your mouth, young man, and get to your room and clean yourself up. Then we’ll—”
Caleb cut her off, his voice booming. “You! Listen to yourself! You—the one who saved a British soldier and now you want to marry him! If we’re doing the work of the Almighty, then what are you doing helping the enemy?”
Brigitte’s hand flicked upward and her open palm smacked loud against Caleb’s cheek, and his head twisted sideways. By pure reflex his right hand cocked and he had started to swing before he caught himself and stopped. Adam took a step backwards and Prissy began to wail as Caleb lowered his hand, then reached to touch his cheek where Brigitte’s handprint was coming red.
Margaret reached to pull Prissy to her, and Adam came to her side while Caleb and Brigitte stood in silence, both shaken, white-faced at what they had done, frightened, silent, not knowing how to undo it. Then Caleb turned on his heel, strode to his bedroom, and closed the door hard.
Margaret spoke quietly, holding Prissy against her side. “Come on. We’ll go to your bedroom and change. Adam, you too.” Brigitte followed. The tapping of their heels on the hardwood floor of the hallway was the only sound in the house, and in silence they went to their rooms to change from their winter clothing.
In the fading light of a sun already set, Margaret silently walked out the back door, down into the root cellar for a jar of butter, then returned to set it in the kitchen next to the loaves of bread. Brigitte opened the cupboard to gather dishes and cups and began setting the table. Adam and Prissy sat on the sofa, backs rigid, hands folded in their laps, watching every move of the two women, studying their faces for a sign of whether the explosive anger was past.
Margaret stopped beside the kitchen woodbox, thought for a moment, then shrugged once more into her long winter coat.
Brigitte glanced at her. “That’s Caleb’s job.”
Margaret did not answer. She walked out the back door to the wood yard and returned with her arms loaded with split kindling. Brigitte put on her own coat and followed her back out. Each made two more trips to fill the two woodboxes and then both hung their coats back on the coat-tree by the front door. Margaret swung the iron arm out from the fireplace and removed the lid from the kettle and the rich aroma spread. While Margaret filled a large bowl with the smoking stew, Brigitte cut the warm bread and arranged it on a platter, then set it on the kitchen table.
Margaret turned to Prissy. “Go knock on Caleb’s door and tell him supper is ready.”
Prissy’s lower lip trembled and Margaret knelt beside her. “Caleb didn’t mean those things. None of us did. It just happened. He loves you—all of us. You go tell him. He’ll like that.”
Hesitantly Prissy walked down the hall and rapped softly on Caleb’s door. There was no sound inside, and she put her mouth close to the door and said, “Caleb, Mother says supper is ready.” She waited in silence, then spoke again. “Caleb, please come. I want you to come.”
She heard a chair scrape, then footsteps, and the door opened slowly. Prissy looked up into Caleb’s red eyes and knew he had been crying; she reached to put her small hand in his big one, and they walked out to the supper table together.
They knelt by their chairs as always, Margaret nodded to Brigitte, and she offered grace. They sat at their places in awkward silence while Margaret dipped steaming mutton stew onto their plates and Brigitte passed the bread platter. Supper became painful as they avoided each other’s eyes and spoke in low tones only long enough to pass or receive the food.
Finally Margaret rose and walked into the kitchen to return with the pan of warm cinnamon rolls. She deftly sectioned them out of the pan onto their plates with the raisins still warm and plump, and the children began to unroll them one piece at time, savoring them with cold milk.
Caleb finished and pushed his chair back, but b
efore he could rise Margaret raised her face and spoke.
“Caleb, I’m sorry.”
All motion at the table stopped. In the tense silence they could hear the clock ticking.
Caleb did not look at his mother. “I’m sorry, too.” For a moment longer he sat in the silence, then rose and walked back to his room. For half a minute no one at the table moved, and then Margaret pushed her chair back, stood, and said with finality, “Well, these dishes won’t wash themselves.”
Margaret washed and Brigitte dried while the children got into their heavy flannel nightshirts. Brigitte brushed out Prissy’s hair and braided it loosely for the night, and Margaret called them all to her big bed for evening prayers. Brigitte brought the twins and they waited until Margaret realized Caleb was not coming. Without a word she strode down the hall to his bedroom and rapped on the door. She was reaching to rap again when he opened the door.
“Time for prayers.”
His eyes were distant, face a mask. “I’ll have my own.”
Margaret did not move or speak. She stood as she was, eyes locked with his, waiting. Seconds ticked by, and finally Caleb glanced down at the floor for a moment, then stepped towards her and followed her back to her bedroom to kneel beside the twins. After Margaret had offered their evening prayers, Brigitte followed her to tuck the twins in and they left the door partially open for the night. Caleb’s door was closed tight and there was no light in his room.
Margaret walked down the dim hall, through the arch, into the parlor, and settled into her rocking chair. She brought her hands into her lap and began working them together, looking at them without seeing, while she faced her worst fears. Brigitte quietly sat on the sofa and for a long time they remained silent, each lost in her own thoughts in the yellow lamplight and the dancing flames in the fireplace. Finally Brigitte glanced at the clock.
“Time for bed.”
Margaret nodded but did not move, nor did she speak.
Brigitte spoke again, subdued, quiet. “Mother, I’m so sorry for what I did—for what happened. I never expected … there seems to be so much anger and hatred in Caleb lately. I should never have lost my temper, I know.”
Margaret shook her head. “It wasn’t all your fault. He said some terrible things.”
“He defied you.”
Margaret did not raise her eyes as she continued to slowly work her hands together, studying them. “He spoke against the Almighty. I would rather be dead than have him turn on God. I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do.”
“Won’t it pass? Won’t he grow out of it?”
Slowly Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know. I know I cannot give him what he needs most.”
“Love?”
Her voice was low, thoughtful. “I can give him all my love but it’s not enough. He needs the love of a good father. Matthew could have helped, or maybe even Billy, but the war has taken all of them away from him. Deep inside he senses what was taken from him and now his need is turning to anger, even hatred. If it has a chance to get deep enough for long enough, I don’t know if he’ll ever rise above it.”
She was still working with her hands, and her expression did not change as a silent tear trickled down her cheek. Brigitte watched the tear and her heart ached.
Quietly Margaret continued. “I don’t know which is worse. To take a musket and go out to kill the enemy or be killed, or to stay here at home and try to carry on with our men gone. Caleb’s becoming hateful, bitter. You want to marry a British captain. All of us working from dawn to dark to stay alive. We don’t know if we’ll ever see Matthew again, or Billy.” She slowly shook her head. Her voice was flat, dead, emotionless. “Sometimes I think it would be a relief to be on the battlefield, where you know who you’re fighting and the rules are simple. Kill or be killed. Here, your body keeps walking around while inside you’re dying from watching everything you ever knew slowly crumble and go away and you don’t know how to stop it.”
For the first time she raised her eyes to Brigitte’s and they stared into each other’s souls in silence.
“Mother, I didn’t plan to fall in love with Richard. I don’t know …”
Margaret raised a hand to stop her. “Matters of the heart pay no attention to country or station. My only fear is for you. If he lives through the war and your feelings for him don’t change, you will have to make a decision that will bring you the greatest joy and the greatest pain. Him and England, or someone else and here. And no one can decide it for you. I can only pray you decide right for you.”
As never before, Brigitte sensed in her young heart the awful, eternal truth. For a true mother, unspeakable joy and unbearable pain are the twin handmaidens that come with each child. Inherent in one is the possibility of the other. It is the price a woman pays to fulfill the measure of her creation.
Margaret heaved a great sigh, then stood. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. We have our chores and they won’t wait. We better go to bed.”
Inside her room, in her nightshirt, she sat on the edge of her bed in the feeble yellow light of one lamp for a long time. She turned to look at John’s pillow, still in its place because her heart would not let her put it in the closet with the other bedding. She reached to touch it, smooth it tenderly with her hand.
What should I do, John? How do I save him?
A strange feeling rose inside and she slipped to her knees on the floor and bowed her head, hands clasped before her. She did not know how long she poured out her heart to the Almighty. She only knew that when she finally said her quiet “Amen” she was empty, and there was a wet spot on the sheet where her tears had fallen. She turned the wheel on the lamp wick and slipped into bed in the darkness. She reached to touch John’s pillow once more and her eyes opened wide in the blackness with the sure conviction that he was near. She did not remember drifting into a troubled sleep.
Her eyes opened suddenly in the early dawn and she lay in the gloom of nearly full darkness for a moment before the remembrance of yesterday’s events came flooding. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor, then slipped into her robe and her thick, felt slippers and silently padded out to the chill parlor where she used the bellows to raise sparks from the coals she had banked. She fed shavings, then small kindlings to the coals until the warmth reached into the room. The firebox in the kitchen stove was cold and she carried two sticks of burning kindling from the fireplace to rekindle it. Minutes later a pot of water was heating for oatmeal porridge and coffee. She walked to the front window to peer outside at the gray preceding sunrise. The skies were clear and there was no wind.
Brigitte walked into the parlor with her arms folded, holding her robe tightly about her, and she walked to the front window to glance outside before she sat down at the large dining table.
“Oatmeal?”
“Yes. Cold outside.”
“I had bad dreams about last night.”
“So did I.”
“Caleb up yet?”
“No. Let him sleep a while. He has about a cord of kindling to split.”
“I won’t be going into the bakery today. It’s closed for the holidays.”
“Good. You can help with supper.”
The sun rose cheerless over a frozen world while Margaret and Brigitte made their beds and washed up for breakfast. Margaret measured coffee into the coffeepot, then added boiling water from the kettle on the stove and set the pot on the black top to simmer. She shook oatmeal into the boiling water remaining in the kettle and stirred, then replaced the lid and slid it beside the coffeepot to steam. They sliced yesterday’s bread and Margaret set butter and a jar of plum jam on the table.
Prissy walked through the archway digging sleep from her eyes.
“Oatmeal?”
“And bread and jam. Is Adam up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go peek.”
Prissy returned in a few moments, still yawning. “He’s awake.”
“Tell him breakfast will be ready in fifteen m
inutes. Get changed. You both have to straighten your rooms.”
“Before school?”
Margaret smiled. “It’s Saturday.”
Prissy’s eyes widened for a moment before she grinned at the thought of a day without school. “Oh! I forgot.”
Margaret went back to the kitchen for heavy pewter porridge bowls and called to Brigitte, “Better wake Caleb.”
Ten seconds later Margaret jerked to a stop at the frantic shout from Brigitte in the hallway. “Mother! Caleb’s not here!”
Margaret dumped the bowls clattering on the table and ran through the archway, down to Caleb’s room and dodged through the door where Brigitte stood white-faced. The moment Margaret entered Brigitte spun to her.
“Did you send him somewhere? An errand?”
“No. I thought he was here.”
“Did you hear him leave?”
“No.”
Margaret jerked the closet door open and in seconds checked his clothing, then his shoes. “He’s run away. Taken a change of clothes and run away.”
Brigitte gasped, then clapped her hand over her mouth and began to sob. “I slapped him and he ran away. I did it. I did it.”
Margaret’s face became stern. “Nonsense. Get hold of yourself. He ran away because he’s become hateful. What we have to think about is where would he go and how do we get him back?”
Brigitte dropped her hands and wiped at her eyes and tried to force a sense of order into her thoughts. “I can’t think where he would go. Not to Dorothy’s. The church? Silas?”
Margaret shook her head firmly. “No. He’d go to join in the fighting, and to do that he has to either walk out through the Neck, or cross on the Charlestown Ferry, or get on a boat going towards New York.”
She spun on her heel. “Quick. Get your coat on and go down to the Neck as fast as you can. Maybe someone there saw him. I’ll leave the twins at Dorothy’s and go on down to the docks. If he got on a boat, or crossed on the ferry, maybe someone will remember.” She paused for a moment. “If you find him bring him home, but no matter what, be home before dark.”
Five minutes later Brigitte threw open the front door and ran to the front gate to disappear running west down the street, past the white fences and tidy homes, towards the narrow neck of land which connected the peninsula on which Boston was built to the mainland. People stopped at the unseemly sight of a young lady sprinting through the frozen streets of Boston on a Saturday morning, but Brigitte paid no heed as she ran west towards what was called the Barricades at the narrowest section of the Neck, where soldiers could control whoever passed through. If any American soldiers remained at the Neck, they would know if Caleb had passed through in the night, or early morning.