CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Emma
May we ever be a people favoured of God. May our land be a land of liberty, the seat of virtue, the asylum of the oppressed, a name and a praise in the whole earth.
GENERAL JOSEPH WARREN
MEDFORD, MASSACHUSETTS
APRIL 1775
The hard lump that spoke of new life growing within my womb seemed to contradict the preparations for battle around me. The preparations for the taking of life, rather than the birthing of it—endlessly grinding sulfur, saltpeter, and charcoal to be made into gunpowder; wrapping it in paper packets crudely called “cartridges”; even melting lead and pressing it into molds to make musket balls.
Life with Noah, living out our love in the back of his simple printing shop, had proved everything I dreamed. Yet while the work of being his wife was satisfying, I couldn’t ignore the doubt that rose within me at the melting of the snows that seemed to propel us toward an inevitable future, one that included battle.
Noah would be a part of it—that much was never a question. Among the first to join the Medford militia, he spent most of his time hunched over his press, printing news for those hungry for it in Boston’s outlying towns, mostly Patriots who had fled Boston more than a year ago after word of the port closure—our punishment for the dumping of the tea.
It did not seem to matter a whit that the Sons tried to separate themselves from the unruly Mohawks and mobs that ran amok in Boston’s streets—King George peered right past it all. But the rest of the colonies did not. Like siblings who sympathized over the harsh discipline of a brother, all rallied around Boston, even as loyalists sought refuge there, among some four thousand members of the King’s Army.
Supplies coming out of Boston had dwindled with the increasing presence of the king’s troops. The distillery where John worked ran short on molasses. The thriving marketplace, where so many country traders from New Hampshire and Vermont visited to peddle their brassware and broadcloths, silks and spring locks, grew pitiable. And Mr. Hall’s—now Captain Hall’s—lightering business, which made it possible to send Medford’s goods down the river and into Boston, had become nonexistent.
The call to arms came in the dark of night before dawn on the nineteenth of April. A rider came barreling through our streets, shouting. I woke to it, stretched my fingers to the warmth of Noah’s body beneath our coverlet, terror seizing my chest.
I knew the time would come, and yet I had denied it.
Noah pulled me close for a moment, where I huddled in the crook of his arm for much too short a time; then he pressed a kiss to my forehead and caressed the expanding mound where our child grew before throwing the covers back and pulling on clothes.
I emerged from the bedroom in my dressing gown, poked to life the embers of the stove to heat water for something warm to fill my husband’s belly. Noah went outside to confer with Captain Hall, the commander of our militia. A moment later, he returned. He scooped some bullets he’d cast last night into his pocket, grabbed up his powder horn, and faced me. “It is as we anticipated. They are on their way to raid our stores in Concord.”
’Twas happening. Unlike the time last autumn when the Redcoats came up the Mystic River to retrieve the casks of gunpowder they’d left in an old silo south of town, this time the stores did not belong to them. This time, so much more was at stake—both in firepower and in the lives of our men.
I grasped for a reason for him to stay. “The water has not heated yet. You cannot leave until I get something to sustain you.” I tried to keep the tremor from my voice but failed miserably.
He drew me close, cupped my face in his hands, and kissed me deeply—now, fifteen months into marriage, a bit more familiar. “I must go,” he said.
I clutched at his shirt, willed myself to be brave and strong even as I wished to cling to his legs like a toddler and demand he not leave me. I could make excuses for him. He was needed here, at his press, ten times more than he was in battle. While I helped him as I could, setting the letters on occasion, working beside him to get the news out to Medford and her outlying towns, I could not do it on my own. I thought of the apron he’d purchased for me, hanging alongside his own. To have but one more day with him in his tiny shop, the smell of paper and ink around us, the smudge of it upon my hands, the markings something like a proud brand I wore that I belonged with this man.
I opened my mouth to try to convince him one more time, then snapped it shut.
I knew he would go. Just as he’d felt compelled to dress as a Mohawk and dump the tea, just as he’d felt compelled to drill with the militia, he would go. We’d been round these tables before, and I did not wish to make our parting harder on him now. I did not wish to dishonor the cause both he and I considered worthy enough to fight for.
He kept his hands on my face. “’Twill be well. And I have hopes to be back before nightfall. We will have some cocoa and dinner.” He stooped to plant a kiss on my womb.
Cocoa and dinner, mayhap some seedcakes . . . aye, that sounded lovely. A few hours he would be gone. Then he would return.
He scooped up his hat and supplies, looked at me as if he wished to say something, then decided against it before nodding and closing the door, its echo shattering the night.
I pulled my robe tighter and made myself a cup of cocoa in the well-used cup Sarah had gifted me all those months ago. I could still remember her pressing it into my hands, near prophesying over the events to come.
I had followed my heart. I had found my voice. I had proved myself strong in leaving my parents.
Why, then, did I feel so weak?
I sat by the fire, my hands going to the small babe within my belly. My gaze landed on the tea chest—what had become a symbol for our beginning and in which Noah had secreted away his oath, hiding it under a false bottom with strips of additional wood.
I could still hear his words to me as he did so.
“We swore an oath of secrecy, all of the men on this round-robin. Yet I have an inkling that one day, we may want to share with our children, or perhaps our grandchildren, what we took part in this night. Could we have a greater source of proof than this paper?”
I could still recall his enthusiasm. Though it seemed none of the men regretted what they’d done that night, it still felt less than honorable. The way ’twas kept quiet, the way the names were hidden. I understood it—after all I would not wish Noah to ever suffer the recompense of being found out—but would he ever be proud enough to share the story with our children? Could the dumping of the tea ever be a source of pride?
I closed my eyes, grasped for memories of all the Lord had done for us in the weeks following the tea party—how he’d delivered Noah’s oath into my hands, how he’d made a way for us here in Medford, given me a new family with Noah and the Fultons and, now, with what would soon be my own child. Surely—surely—he would once again deliver Noah from the hands of our enemies.
Heavenly Father, may it be so.
When Sarah opened her door to me in the predawn hours, the slaves from the surrounding orchards of the Royall plantation were just beginning their morning work. She surprised me by grabbing me up in an embrace—a rather emotional display for her, yet becoming more frequent, as we had grown closer these past months.
In a world where my letters to Mother and Margaret had gone unanswered, I gleaned comfort from this place, this home, a family I gave my complete loyalty to. And I tried not to think of Father and Mother off to England, carrying with them the lump of flesh Father deemed a sort of trophy for his time of persecution in Boston. I tried not to think of the words they exchanged over my betrayal. I tried not to ponder whether they missed me or not.
I tried.
“Noah’s gone with the militia.”
“Aye. John as well, despite his recent illness. He’s asked me to take the children to the Phips home.”
“Will they come through Medford?”
“Medford is out of the way, but we do not know wh
at the day will bring. I trust our men can stop them. Still, ’tis safer we all leave the main road. While I’m not afraid of a few Regulars, I don’t want the children in harm’s way.” Sarah draped a shawl over Lydia and handed baby Francis to me. Mary clung at my skirts, her blue gaze wide. “I need to run upstairs for a few things. Would you stay with them?”
I looked to the spot where Sarah’s two oldest children prepared a basket of food and supplies. “Of course.”
She left and Mary tugged at my skirts. I knelt with care, as I had baby Francis in my arms and my own burgeoning belly to contend with. “What is it, Mary?”
“Are you afraid, Miss Emmy?”
I thought to lie to the child. We did not need the children worrying—’twould only make it worse for them. And yet I thought of Sarah’s strength in the face of her vulnerabilities, of my own strength the Lord had provided when I was at my weakest. Could the same be true in fear?
I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I am a wee bit frightened,” I admitted, feeling the eyes of the oldest children upon me. “But I think it’s not a bad thing to be afraid. When we admit our fears to one another, they lose their tight grip on us. Do you want to try that?”
Mary nodded solemnly.
“Very well, I’ll go first,” I said despite my sudden hesitance to be so dreadfully honest with the children. “I am afraid for Noah, even though I trust he will be a big help in stopping those Redcoats.” I exhaled a deep breath. “You know what, though? I feel better just telling you all what I was afraid of. And truthfully, I am trusting God that Noah and your papa will be fine. Do you want to go next?”
Mary bit her lip before speaking. “I am afraid the Redcoats will come be mean to us.”
“Oh, darling.” I drew her into my arms. “They don’t have an interest in us, only in Concord. And your papa and Noah and a lot of other brave men will make sure they don’t even get that.”
She nodded where I held her alongside the baby near my chest.
“Do we have everything?” Sarah asked her older children as she descended. They nodded and she opened the door and led us to the Phips home, where we would battle our fears as we awaited news.
’Twas evening before word arrived. The militia had not only stopped the Regulars from obtaining the stores in Concord, they had chased them back to Boston.
Word also came that the victory had come at a heavy cost.
My worry seemed to stir to life the first flutterings within my womb. Mr. Phips took us back to town in his wagon, the older children following behind. When we reached the bridge, we near ran to the Fulton house, elated to see candles in the windows.
We found John and Noah sitting in the keeping room, tankards of flip before them. Noah stood at my arrival and I ran to him, nearly knocking him back in his chair. I drew away, searched his face and body for sign of injury. “You are well?”
He smiled, dirt creasing the folds of his skin. “I am well.”
Little John came bounding into the room. “Tell us! Tell us!”
Sarah ordered the wee ones upstairs.
Young John continued his begging. “Did you fight, Father? Tell us everything.”
A slow smile came to John’s face. “What would you like to know, Son? Mayhap how your old father made a stand in Menotomy alongside Doctor—or should I say, General—Warren? That man is to be lauded—the most active man in the field, I tell you. Got so close to those Redcoats, a musket ball struck out one of the pins holding up his curled hair.”
“Dr. Warren?” The very same who had tended my father’s wounds?
Noah nodded. “He may be a military novice, but his ability to inspire was just what our men needed.”
It seemed preposterous that a group of provincials had the King’s Army locked up in Boston. Preposterous and wonderful at the same time.
“And what is to happen now?”
“We must leave first thing tomorrow, join those gathered in Cambridge and Roxbury. More will come. Many more. We must stay strong against them, refuse them exit from Boston.”
I felt as if a lead ball weighted my stomach instead of a wee babe. I had thought of this battle—this day—as the one thing to conquer, but now I realized that this was just the beginning of a very long road we’d begun on those ships that December night.
Young John tugged at his father’s torn and dirtied shirt. “Father, may I go with you next time? May I?”
John tousled his son’s unruly hair. “Nay, Son. Battle is . . . not for young ones. I am telling you the glorious parts so you will be proud of your father, but there are other parts I should never wish you to hear.”
Noah was quiet on the way home. Our life seemed to stretch before us in an uncertain tangle. He would leave. For how long? To what end?
Once we’d lit candles and started the fire in the hearth, I fixed us each a cup of cocoa and got to work warming some seedcakes. “You can tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“How ’twas. All of it. Noah, I am not only your wife but your friend. If you need to release your thoughts, then pray, release them to me. I promise I will not question it or that for which you fight. You risked your life today. I could have lost you. Your child could have never known his father. I don’t say this to guilt you but to convince you.” I stepped closer to him, his gaze directed to the flames licking wood within the hearth. “I stand with you, my husband. You deem this cause worthy, and I deem you worthy. I will fight alongside you how I can. You have my word.”
In the shadows of the room, it seemed his bottom lip trembled. I went to him, wrapped him in an embrace, pressed my lips to his dirtied, sweatied hair. He clutched at my waist, ran his fingers up and down my sides, stroked the spot where our child rested with loving, sure fingers.
Finally he spoke. “I’ve never killed a man before this day, Emma. Now I’ve done so at least twice over. That fact . . . it shakes my soul. How can it not?”
My heart near broke in two for him. I stroked his hair as I stood beside him, thinking he might speak his mind more freely if he did not have to look into my eyes. ’Twas one thing to drill with the militia and practice shots, to talk of shooting down the coats of red. ’Twas quite another to actually take a man’s life.
“I remember the swishing sound of the grass as they came from behind, not on the road as we thought. We’d been hiding in the orchard and ran for a house. John and I survived only by using the cellar as our fortification. When they finally retreated, we came forth. Those they shot, they stabbed numerous times . . . a viciousness we hadn’t expected. Yet it seems it all began in Concord, for they were breathing murderous threats about how the rebels were barbarians, scalping the Regulars that very morning. I think war . . . it unleashes something of an animal within a man. One vicious act leads to another and then another, until we have enough anger and ambition and desire for revenge that it threatens to stifle that for which we truly fight.”
My stomach swayed and sour bile filled my throat. I swallowed it down. “Noah . . .”
He pulled away, looked at me this time, his gaze searching. “I admit—when I killed the Redcoats, in that moment, I was not fighting for our liberty. I was fighting to save myself, to avenge the deaths of those I saw around me. Is that wrong?”
I had never felt so inadequate to answer a question. Was it wrong that war took away our compassion? Aye. Was it necessary if we were to achieve freedom? I did not know, nor could I pretend to have an answer. I only knew, looking into the gaze of the man I loved, that I wanted nothing more than to comfort him.
“I think ’tis normal, Noah. Yet I think ’tis important to remember why you fight. To not allow the battle to steal your heart.”
He smiled. “’Tis why I must make visits to you often, though this bloody conflict takes me away. You. Our children. That is why I fight.”
I pressed my lips to his, his mouth hungry on my own, and I knew he longed to forget the events of the day by burying himself within my arms.
I
drew back, suddenly decided of how I could help. “I will run the shop in your absence.”
“Emma . . .”
“I know how to set the type, and your messenger will continue to come. I am not so terrible at writing a story, am I? I will keep them short and simple, keep our business running whilst you are gone.”
His gaze seemed to dance beneath the flickering firelight. “Our business, is it?”
I crossed my arms before me, challenging him to continue his thought.
He sought my hands instead. “If any wife can run a home and a printing shop, it is you, my dear. But you must promise me you won’t work yourself too hard. You have my child to take care of, after all.”
“Our child,” I corrected again, not resisting when he pulled me close and kissed my head.
“Yes.” He squeezed my hand. “Our child.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Emma
Boston has been like the vision of Moses: a bush burning but not consumed.
REVEREND SAMUEL COOPER
JUNE 1775
I straightened from where I’d been hunched over the printing press and kneaded my fingers along my back. The babe within was now a noticeable, active mound, and I was not certain how long I would be able to keep my hours at the press.
I looked at the letters I’d just finished setting.
GAGE PLANS ATTACK
Noah had come home as often as he could for a wash and food and to aid with the shop, but for the most part he stayed in Charlestown with the provincial army, awaiting General Gage’s next move, anticipating that the commander would not be content to stay trapped in Boston forever.
Meanwhile, our lives—and our town—seemed to turn upon themselves. John stayed home. The warehouses and the distillery alongside the river had taken on the role of supply depots, in which John served as bookkeeper. Meat and rum were shipped down the Mystic to where Noah and the army waited at Charlestown.
The Tea Chest Page 18
