by Ron Carter
Billy’s eyes narrowed. “We’re going down into the south? With Gates?”
“Appears so. But there’s more. That French general—Lafayette—got back from France, and he says King Louis has promised men and ships and money. The first French troops landed at New Haven on Rhode Island just a few days ago. Over five thousand of ’em, under the command of a French general named Rochambeau. Word is, he’s a good general. First thing he done, he took a look at our army and wrote to King Louis and agreed with Lafayette. Told the king he better send more men, and a lot of guns, and ships, and a fortune in money, ’cause us Continentals are in pretty poor shape.”
“What was his name again?”
“Rochambeau. Gen’l Washington’s talked with him, and they got some ideas about taking New York. But that’s all for later. Right now we got to go down into the Carolinas to stop Clinton. If he gets them, and then Virginia, he can likely cut off New England, and it’ll all be over.”
“What about the ships? French ships? Didn’t some arrive a while back?”
“That French Admiral, d’Estaing, come with some, but he didn’t do much. Finally went down to the West Indies. His ships aren’t the ones they’re talkin’ about. They’re talkin’ about a whole fleet. Big enough to take on the British. Gen’l Washington says we can’t win on land until we control the coast. Makes sense.”
Billy shook his head. “This came pretty fast. If Cap’n Prescott says we should go, how soon will it be?”
“Soon as we can get ready. Maybe a week. Ten days.”
Billy’s face clouded. “It won’t seem right. Without Eli, I mean.”
“I thought about that. Been a year.”
“Too long. Not like him. Something’s gone wrong.”
“Think the British could have him? Prisoner?”
“I doubt it. No, they’d never catch him. And there’s nothing in the forest that could hurt him.”
“Would he change his mind about comin’ back? Quit?”
“Not Eli.”
“Well, whatever’s happened, there’s nothing to be done about it. We can’t go up there lookin’. He’ll get here when he gets here.”
Turlock stood. “Anyway, if Cap’n Prescott sends for you, you’ll know why. And get ready for a long march with snakes and alligators at the far end.”
Billy stood. “Wait a minute. If Cap’n Prescott commissions me a lieutenant, I’ll be one of your superior officers.”
A pained expression crossed Turlock’s face. “I thought of that, too. Just remember. You get ornery, I’ll bring you down to size. Hear?”
The feisty little man turned on his heel and walked away.
Billy smiled as he watched him go, then sobered.
Eli? A year? What’s happened? What’s gone wrong?
Notes
General Lafayette returned from France after about one year abroad, aboard the vessel Hermione, on April 28, 1780. He immediately wrote a letter to General Washington, advising that King Louis XVI of France had pledged men and ships to support the American revolution. The men he promised arrived in late May under command of French Lieutenant-General Jean-Baptiste-Donatien de Vimeur Rochambeau and consisted of 5,500 seasoned French infantry, who took up permanent camp on Rhode Island. On March 23, 1780, a large fleet of French warships, under command of Admiral François Joseph Paul Comte de Grasse, sailed from France for Martinique to be of service to the Americans and is the fleet referred to herein by Sergeant Alvin Turlock (Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 379; Mackesy, The War for America 1775–1783, p. 387; Tower, The Marquis De Lafayette in the American Revolution, Volume II, pp. 106–114).
Following the loss of Savannah and Charleston, on June 14, 1780, Congress appointed General Horatio Gates to take command of the American forces in South Carolina, which he did on July 25, 1780, on Deep River in North Carolina (Leckie, George Washington’s War, p. 560; Higginbotham, The War of American Independence, p. 357).
Northern Vermont
Early July 1780
CHAPTER XXI
* * *
Lydia Fielding sat watching every movement of Mary Stroud as Mary lay in her long white nightshirt on the great comforter that covered her bed. Lydia reached to lay her hand lightly on Mary’s chest to feel the quick, shallow rise and fall, and she closed her eyes to listen to the thin rattle that came with every breath. Lydia turned to rinse a cloth in a basin of cold well-water, then wiped Mary’s parched mouth and her flushed, fevered face, gaunt and drawn. Mary’s dark eyes fluttered open for a moment to peer up at Lydia, confused, not recognizing her, and then her eyes closed as Mary mumbled, “I don’t know why Mother didn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off as her mind drifted in delirium.
Gently Lydia placed both her spread hands on Mary’s distended belly and concentrated to feel the gentle nudgings within. She turned to five-year-old Hannah, standing behind her, wide-eyed, awestruck.
“Get your father.”
Hannah ran from the bedroom that Eli and Mary had shared for nearly one year, through the parlor of the log home built by Ben Fielding on ground he had cleared from the forest for his wife and three children, out the front door, and sprinted through the bright midday July sun for the barn. She barged through the open door and slowed while her eyes adjusted to the shade, then trotted to where her father was finishing a new stall for the springer Jersey heifer he had bought by five months of work for Abijah Poors. Sitting on the dirt floor, three-year-old Samuel stopped playing with a can of small stones to peer up at his sister.
Hannah stopped six feet away and blurted, “Mama says come quick!”
Ben dropped the hammer where he stood, scooped up Samuel, and followed Hannah running through the yard, her long, single braid flying behind. They slowed in the kitchen, and Ben set Samuel down at the bedroom door.
“Hannah, watch your brother.”
Then Ben, tall, lean, was on one knee beside the bed, Lydia sitting on the chair beside him, and he reached to lay his hard hand on Mary’s forehead. He listened to her shallow, rattling breath for several seconds, looked into her sunken and shadowed eyes, then turned to his wife in helpless torment.
“Too hot. If the fever holds . . .”
Lydia’s voice was strained, nearly cracking. “She’s slipping away. I don’t know what to do about the fever or the rattle. Why isn’t Eli back with Parthena? I can’t do the birthing alone.”
Ben rose. “I’ll go.”
He had his rifle in his hand and was halfway across the dooryard when he saw the movement in the forest across the clearing, eighty yards away, and he slowed, watching as Eli and Parthena Poors broke from the woods at a trot. Ben raised an arm to wave them in, then turned back to the house. He laid the rifle on the kitchen table and held the bedroom door for them to enter. Parthena’s face was damp with perspiration from the run as she set the worn leather satchel of a midwife on the floor beside the bed while Eli went to his knees to take Mary’s hand in his.
While she opened the case, Parthena studied Mary’s flushed face. She reached to touch Mary’s throat, then her forehead, then pressed the palm of her hand directly on Mary’s heaving chest. Slowly she raised her hand, and for a few moments did not move. Then she leaned forward and turned an ear close to Mary’s face to listen to the sound in her lungs. Without a word she placed her hands on Mary’s belly, shifted them, held them steady for ten seconds, then straightened and spoke without looking at Eli. “How long has she had that sound in her breathing?”
“Maybe two years. Smoke from a house fire. Got worse lately.”
Stout, graying, round plain face, capable, midwife and doctor for families within sixty miles of her home, Parthena drew a breath and let it go and made her conclusion.
“Something’s wrong in her lungs. Pulmonary pthisis of some kind—maybe consumption. There’s some sort of gather in there, like pus. And right now she’s in stage two of birthing. She’s weak. Too weak for it.”
She turned to Eli. “There’s nothing I can do for her
lungs, and there’s no way to stop the baby from coming.”
She fell silent, trying to find a way to ease the pain of what had to be said, but there was none. She spoke again, and there was a quiver in her voice.
“I don’t know if we can save either one.”
Eli tensed for a moment, then gently laid Mary’s hand on the comforter and stood. Tall, strong-framed, prominent nose and chin, dressed in his buckskin breeches and beaded Iroquois hunting shirt, Eli turned to Parthena. For a few moments he stood unmoving, silent, his jaw clenched while he battled to rise above the heartbreak. Mary! His reason for being! Dying! Never had he known such numb, sick emptiness. With the iron discipline of an Iroquois warrior he struggled until he could speak. His voice was firm, steady.
“Both of them?”
“There’s a chance for the baby.”
“What can I do?”
“Leave the room. You too, Ben. Lydia and I will do what can be done. Take Hannah and Samuel and little Nathan and go outside. Don’t come back until I send for you.”
The two men walked from the room, Hannah and Samuel with them, and Ben stopped to lift the three-month-old, sleeping Nathan from his crib in the bedroom shared by himself and Lydia. With the children, the men walked from the house into the sweltering July heat. For a time they stayed near the front door, not knowing what to do, before Ben led them across the yard into the shade of the low-roofed log barn to sit on an upside-down milk bucket and some planks stacked to finish the stall. For a time they sat in silence, with Hannah staring into the dirt, hands folded in her lap. She raised her face to Ben’s, and there was fear and anguish in her eyes.
“Is Aunt Mary going to die?”
For a moment the two men remained silent, Eli waiting for Ben’s answer.
Ben cleared his throat. “God in Heaven might come for her.”
Hannah lowered her face for several seconds before the mother in her child’s heart forced the second question.
“Will her baby be all right?”
Eli looked at Ben.
“Maybe. If God wills it.”
“Why would He let her baby die?”
“There’s always a reason. Sometimes we just don’t know what it is. If God takes the baby, too, it will be all right.”
Hannah looked hard at Nathan in her father’s arms, and then she rose and walked to the door of the barn. The breeze moved her long, brown cotton dress as she peered across the yard at the log house, with the new bedroom built on one side by her father and Uncle Eli.
“Can I go see? Please?”
For a time Ben considered. “Parthena said you should stay here.”
The disappointment was clear in Hannah’s young face as she walked back to sit beside Samuel. She looked at Nathan, bright-eyed and squirming in Ben’s arms, then back out the door into the sunlight, and remained silent with a wistful, inquiring look in her eyes.
Inside the bedroom, Parthena placed both hands on the lower edge of Mary’s belly. She closed her eyes as she counted and timed the rhythm of the tightening of the muscles.
“She’s into stage two, but it will be a little while. Her fever’s too high. Get a bucket of cold water and soak a sheet and wrap her in it, right over her nightshirt. Keep it wet and cold.”
The men bolted to their feet at the sight of Lydia trotting from the house to the well to fill the kitchen water bucket, then struggling with both hands to haul it back to the house. Three minutes later she wrung out a dripping bedsheet and raised Mary far enough to wrap her in it from the waist up, still wearing her nightshirt. She soaked a cloth and laid it folded across Mary’s forehead. The floor, and the bed, were wet, and neither woman paid attention or cared.
Suddenly Mary’s hand moved, and she twisted her head from side to side, and then opened her eyes. Her dark hair, wet from the cloth, clung to her forehead, and Lydia and Parthena were instantly there, listening, watching the beautiful face as Mary spoke.
“Eli?”
“He’s outside waiting.”
“The baby?”
“Soon.”
Mary looked into Parthena’s face. “Thank you for coming.”
Parthena nodded but said nothing.
Mary sobered and a calmness came over her, and a faint smile formed. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
Lydia could hardly bear the grab in her heart.
Parthena answered, “That’s in the hands of the Almighty.”
“The baby? Will it die, too?”
“Don’t concern yourself. Leave that in the hands of God.”
Mary would not be denied. “Will I see it?”
Parthena’s chin was trembling. “I think so. Yes. I think so.”
Mary nodded and closed her eyes.
Lydia’s hand flew to Mary’s chest, searching. “She’s still alive,” she exclaimed, “When will the baby come?”
Parthena pushed her hand to the lower abdomen and concentrated to count. “Three minutes apart. Soon. She has to be sitting. Fetch a kitchen chair and some pillows. Get her feet over the side of the bed and prop her up from the back. Fetch hot water and half a dozen towels and some clean sheeting.”
Lydia ran to the kitchen to drag a chair back, and the two women, one on each side, raised Mary upright, then moved her until her legs and feet were hanging over the side of the bed. While Parthena held Mary, Lydia laid the chair on the bed behind Mary, then jammed two pillows against it, and they leaned her back slightly. Parthena held her while Lydia ran for hot water, towels, and sheeting, and returned.
“Hold her,” Parthena exclaimed, “she’s in stage three. The baby’s coming.”
Lydia sat beside Mary, holding her, still wrapped in the wet bedsheet, while Parthena took a position directly in front, waiting.
Mary groaned and tossed her head, and her eyes opened as the fluid came with a rush to stain the bed, onto the floor. Parthena ignored it, watching intently while the flow slowed, then stopped. Lydia watched the concern mount quickly in Parthena’s face, and exclaimed, “Is it coming?”
“No. Nothing.”
Quickly Parthena folded her fingers and thrust them inward for five seconds, feeling, concentrating. “It’s backward. I have to turn it.”
For three minutes that seemed an eternity she worked her hand, pushing, then twisting. Sweat was dripping from her face when she drew her hand out.
“It’s straightened but it’s not—” She stopped in midsentence, eyes intense, wide. “Yes! The head! It’s coming!”
Mary winced in pain as she raised her head from Lydia’s shoulder, enduring another contraction. When it subsided, she spoke, her voice faint, as though coming from a long distance.
“Is the baby here?”
“It’s coming. It’s coming.”
The baby’s head crested, then the shoulders, tight against the little body, and Parthena caught the infant under the arms and quickly drew out the hips and legs and held it wet and dripping.
“A girl! A strong, healthy girl!”
She cleared the nose and mouth of mucous, then held the baby up by the heels to thump it on the buttocks. The little being caught its breath and howled its protest against the world. Quickly Parthena looped string around the umbilical and tied it off, then clipped it and laid the screeching little person on the towels to wipe its body, then wash it with a warm cloth and dry it. She swaddled the writhing infant with a clean towel, and for a moment held it against her breast, face shining.
She spoke to Lydia. “We’ve got to close the loin. The afterbirth will be coming soon.” She laid the squirming infant down and reached for the sheeting to wrap tightly about Mary’s hips and stomach and her thighs, to “close the loin.”
Lydia shook her head violently. “No time! No time! She’s hardly breathing!”
Instantly Parthena pointed. “Get Eli!”
Parthena held Mary as Lydia bolted for the door, across the kitchen, out into the yard, shouting, “Eli! Eli!”
He came sprinting from the barn, throu
gh the kitchen, into the bedroom. He paid no attention to the mess on the floor or the bed. He swept Mary up into his arms and held her to him, watching her face, waiting for her to breathe. Parthena moved away, and Eli sat at the foot of the bed, Mary cradled in his arms, her head against his chest. He raised his eyes to Parthena, who hoped never to see such pain in a human being again.
“Is she gone?”
Parthena started to speak when Mary trembled and drew a great breath. Tenderly Eli raised her head and stared her full in the face. Her eyes opened enough to see him, and she smiled. She spoke, so faintly he held his ear close to hear.
“You’re here.”
He nodded, but could say nothing.
Seconds passed before she tried again. “The baby?”
Parthena spoke quietly. “A girl. Beautiful. Like you.” She lifted the baby from the bed and held it close to Mary. A tired radiance came into Mary’s face as she looked at the red, wrinkled, dark-haired infant.
“Help me.”
With Eli still holding Mary, Parthena and Lydia loosened the wet sheet and drew out her arms and helped her cradle the baby to her chest. She leaned to kiss the soft cheek and raised one hand to trace the mouth, and the nose, and the eyes.
“She’s beautiful.”
The women took the baby, and Mary’s arms fell back as a look of peace came into her face and she leaned her head against Eli’s chest for a time. Then with a great effort she raised her face to his once more. He heard the whisper but not the words. He turned his head and brought it close to her face, and she whispered once more.
Tenderly he kissed her, then drew his head back. Mary smiled and breathed a long sigh and her body relaxed. Her eyes closed, her head fell forward, then rolled against Eli’s chest, and he felt Mary leave. Lydia clapped her hand over her mouth and turned away, tears streaming. Parthena wiped at her eyes and stood still, unable to think what she should say or do. In the doorway, Ben turned away with Nathan on one arm, his other hand on Hannah’s shoulder. Hannah caught Samuel by the hand, and Ben led them across the kitchen, out into the sunlight, away from the house. They stood by the well, saying nothing.
Lydia turned from the wall, face streaked with tears, hand still clamped over her mouth to hold back the sobbing. She watched her brother sitting on the foot of the bed, rocking back and forth slightly, holding the body of Mary, his face calm as he studied every line of her face. She started across the room toward him when Parthena took her by the shoulders and gestured to the door. Parthena picked up the newborn, wrapped in the towel, and followed Lydia out of the room.