He surprised me by throwing his arms around me, tucking his wet eyes into my floured apron. “’Tis Mary. Mama says you must come and bid farewell.”
Mary . . . nay. Not Mary. My chest grew tight at the thought of the child. She’d been fine the last time I’d seen her. I couldn’t imagine her anything but a ball of energy. Yet the devil had surely gained a foothold in our town, the dirtiness of it causing the deaths of dozens—at least half of them children.
I held the boy close, felt the burn and prick of my own tears behind my eyelids. I lowered my voice. “We will come. Allow me to get Mr. Winslow.” I watched my feet as I made my way to the shop. It had been months since the battle of Breed’s Hill. Months with no change to either his heart or our marriage. I could not fathom what to expect from him any longer. Would he be angry? Deny that our friends needed us now? Would he refuse to come?
As usual, Noah sat on a chair, his crutches leaned against his abandoned press. He stared out the window to the dusty roads, the wooded hills beyond dotted with vivid color.
I came behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, and I realized he’d been deep in thought or, as so often was the case, a drunken haze.
“Little John is here. Mary is sick. Very much so. I’m going there. . . . Will you come?”
He looked at me, his eyes clear. “Mary?”
“Aye.”
He looked out the window, and I noticed the full growth of whiskers he hadn’t bothered to shave for some weeks. I thought he might tell me to go alone. He did not go out much, except to meeting and sometimes the tavern. I know he did not like to be seen, to be stared at and whispered of.
But he rose, grabbed up his crutches. “Aye, we will go.”
The three of us started the walk down the dusty road. When we crossed Cradock Bridge, we nodded to Colonel Stark, who spoke with some officers outside the tavern, before following young John into the Fulton house.
He led us upstairs to where Mary lay, her breathing ragged, her face leached of color. Sarah turned, eyes glazed, from where she sat at her daughter’s bedside, holding her hand. With the aid of his crutches, Noah went to where the girl’s father stood against the wall and put his hand on the arm of his friend.
’Twas one of the first gestures of compassion I’d seen in him in a long time.
Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but no words came forth. John spoke for her. “Dr. Tufts did all he could. We also called an old friend, Dr. Brooks from Reading. But both say there is nothing more to be done. Only that we keep her comfortable.”
Mary’s siblings gathered around. Sarah and Ann lovingly stroked her blonde locks, splayed on the pillow. Lydia sat at her feet, her hand upon her ankle. My heart bent in two.
’Twas not right. It should be another. It should be me. Not this child, a light in so much darkness.
Sarah stood, offered me her chair. I slipped my hand into Mary’s and her eyelids fluttered. A small smile etched upon her face.
“Miss Emmy . . .”
I pressed my lips together at her nickname for me. How would this family survive without this ray of sunshine?
“Darling . . . I love you, dear.” I did not care that the entire family heard me. For in that moment, I cared only for this little girl, always so bright and alive.
She licked her lips, tried to speak. I leaned close so I could hear her faint voice. “Mama says I may get to visit the angels soon. Do you think they’ll like me?”
I blinked away my tears. “Dear, they will absolutely adore you. And when you get there, you must say hello to my little one. Will you do that?”
She smiled, seemed pleased with her mission. “If I can’t find him, I will ask Jesus. He knows about everyone.”
I stood, trying to disguise my tears. “That’s right, little one. He will love to meet you.” I pressed a kiss to her head, then left the room with Sarah. I embraced my friend, her arms shaking, her normal strength wilted.
“It happened so quickly. Her sickness. If only there were more . . .”
“What can I do, Sarah? Would you like me to take any of the children home with us for a bit?”
She shook her head. “We must be together in this. They may regret they are not here when . . . the time comes. And I can scarce bear to let any of them out of my sight, anyhow.” Her teeth chattered and I ran my hands along both her arms.
“Do you wish us to stay?”
“Nay. Only to say farewell. Thank you for coming.”
We embraced again and reentered the room. Noah sat in the chair this time. He held out a beautiful hawk feather, wispy lines of tan and dark brown perfectly formed. He placed it in Mary’s palm. “I think this was left for you. Mayhap ’twill help you fly with those angels.”
Another weak, small smile. “Is your heart better, Mr. Winslow? I asked God to help it.”
Noah cleared his throat of emotion even as my own threatened to burst forth. “I believe He has, little one. Thank you.”
I placed my hand on Noah’s shoulder, and he rose, took his crutches from John. “Tell us if you need anything. Anything at all. We will be praying for a miracle.”
John nodded, his eyes red.
We left them to face what they must.
This time we walked home, just the two of us, our hearts heavy in silence along the road. When we arrived at our house, it seemed unusually quiet, the soldiers who stayed at our home having gone to meet up with General Washington in Cambridge. Rumors of a planned attack against Boston had begun to circulate, the general waiting for the harbor to freeze over to aid in the attack and catch the wintering troops off guard.
And still we awaited the hoped-for arrival of the cannons from Fort Ticonderoga.
The crust of my pie had dried. I brushed water over it, put it upon the hearth to bake. Noah stood beside the table, watching me.
When I could think of nothing else to do, I sat and allowed my tears to come—soft at first, then guttural, heart-wrenching half prayers of anguish. I felt I was losing my babe all over again, and my arms ached afresh at the thought of little Mary giving up her life.
I heard the hobble of Noah’s uneven step behind me, then the weight of his hand upon my shoulder. I leaned into him, uncaring that my tears made me look weak and emotional, uncaring if I ever moved from this spot again.
He slid his hand along my shoulder until his arms were around me, and I let him hold me for a long time, the tears exhausting me as much as they washed me of some hidden need to acknowledge the pain of my heart.
When they finally settled to hiccuping sobs, I straightened, knowing I should check on my pie but having trouble finding the strength to lift my body from the chair.
“I know things need to change, Emma.”
I looked at my husband, standing with the aid of but one crutch. He had filled out some the last few months, his upper arms and chest gaining new muscle. It suited him.
“I need to change.”
My heart tripped upon the words, hope sprouting somewhere deep beneath the pool of sadness that gripped my heart. I drew back on its reins, tried to suppress it. “How so?” I asked.
“You’ve been patient beyond belief with me. And I don’t mean only with my physical limitations. I mean with the sourness that’s been eating me alive. The heavy drink. I’ve known for some time that it all needed to change, but here, now, I am telling you for the sake of accountability. Looking at Mary . . . at Sarah and John’s beautiful family . . . The Lord has allowed my leg be taken, but He has still granted me life. I saw that on my walk this morning. I saw it just now in the sadness of that house.” He paused, leaned a hand on the back of a chair. “I’ve behaved inexcusably. And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I wish to prove myself to you.”
My bottom lip quivered, my breath came fast. I swiped at my eyes, then wiped the wetness on my apron. “I—I should like that.”
He held his arms out to me and I came into them. He gripped me, the perfect contradiction of gentleness and fierceness in h
is embrace. I thought of Sarah’s words, comparing my husband to the Mystic.
“’Twill not be easy,” he whispered into my hair. “But I refuse to hurt you any longer. I am so very sorry that I have.” His chest shook with silent tears and I thought his emotion was not only over our circumstances and over little Mary’s sickness, but over the fact that for the first time in a long while, he was very, very sober. He could feel.
“I think you should open your shop again. We should open it again.” We could print writings to aid the troops’ morale, to put new life into the cause. We could do it for Mary, who had prayed for Noah.
He pulled back from me, gripped my arms, and kissed my forehead. “Aye, I think that is a good idea.”
Something like a wall came down that night between us. And though we were drenched in sadness for the Fultons and for the loss we felt over Mary’s battle, I felt that at least this time, we were in it together.
Before we settled in for bed, he came to me, the precious cup he’d shattered sealed back together, and though the cracks covered it entirely, it was sturdy as ever. I hoped ’twould last. I hoped ’twould be enough for a lifetime.
JANUARY 1776
The miracle had not come for Mary, but it did come for Noah.
After that day in October, he never took a sip of strong drink again. He attributed it to Mary, being with the angels and Jesus, somehow helping him along on his journey. He told me often that whenever he thought of taking a drink, he needed only think of Mary and the promise he made to himself and to me the day she died.
By now, loss was so familiar, I came to expect it. When news of a young one’s death came, it did not surprise. Rather I sought to wrestle out the pleasantness in life, to be grateful for each drop of goodness, to trust the Lord, as Mary had, to take care of the eternal.
The winter set in dreadfully cold. We printed a manual titled Common Sense by a man named Thomas Paine, sold them along with news of the needs of the troops at Cambridge. The manual seemed to strengthen our resolve, for which I was grateful.
A group of Medford women gathered to make coats. Sarah seemed more avid about her wartime role than ever before. Mary’s death created an almost-reckless need in her to get behind the Patriots. Though she did not state it, I wondered if she blamed her daughter’s death on the presence of the soldiers in town, on the fetid conditions we fought daily. I did not think she could bear to consider the war being lost—her little girl dying with no reason behind it.
I visited her one cold winter day to deliver a coat I’d made. The keeping room fire glowed warm and Sarah sat by it, sewing on a button for a soldier’s coat with fluid, vigorous strokes. Deep crow’s-feet lined her eyes, along with the corners of her mouth and brow.
“John went to meet the delivery of wood intended for the Cambridge army.”
“That is good.”
She poked her finger and let out a small curse. I took the coat from her and finished where she left off.
“I hope you rest once every seven days or so.”
She stoked the hearth, jabbing it with the poker. “No time to rest. Our men don’t rest, nor should we.”
I stood, placed a hand on her arm. “Sarah. You must take time to grieve.”
She near slapped my hand away.
The door opened and John came in, hat folded in his hands.
Sarah looked up. “Well?”
Sarah had never been a particularly feeling woman, but she’d always held compassion for her family. Now though, with Mary’s death, she seemed on edge, anxious to complete this thing that had been started. It seemed to drive her every action, her every word.
“I purchased the wood from the trader, but on my way home I ran into a gang of Redcoats. They seized the wood, held me away with their muskets. There was naught to be done.”
Sarah’s face grew hard; she breathed deep. “They stole our wood.”
“Aye. Some men are planning to see what we can gather in the hills tomorrow afternoon. ’Tis a shame.”
“Aye,” she said.
John said he must find Colonel Stark and tell him the bad news. A few moments after he left, Sarah had her shawl on.
I stood, wondering what she had in mind. “Sarah . . .”
“I am going.”
“Going? Where?”
“To get our wood.”
And then she was gone.
I threw on my cloak, raced after her to their crude stable, calling to her. “Sarah!” She ignored me, saddling their mare. “Sarah, these are not the same men you served at your mother’s tavern. They’ve been hardened by war. They are defensive, in enemy territory. How can you expect to stop them?”
“I don’t know, but I will not stand by and do nothing. You may either come and help or go home and pretend you know nothing.”
I hadn’t thought to help her until she suggested it. Still, I wavered, thought of Noah at home on his press. He’d found purpose again. Mayhap I could enlist his help. But nay, he was still not confident upon a horse. Yet could I let my friend go alone? What if something happened? She had an entire family depending on her.
“Allow me to go in your stead.” I would certainly be more pleasant than Sarah. Mayhap the soldiers would see the error of their ways and relent.
Sarah laughed. “Emma, I would be glad for your help, but you are too sweet to accomplish this task alone. Now, I’m going. Do not stand in my way.”
Whoever thought being sweet could sound like a cause for ridicule? I was not too sweet. I loved this cause—and the men behind it—just as Sarah did. She was not the only one who had suffered loss.
“Very well.” I turned to saddle their other horse. Sarah did not wait for me but started ahead. I flung myself atop the mare, wishing I’d spent more time letting Noah teach me to ride when we first moved here. But no matter. The horse was eager to go after Sarah, and I clung tight to the reins, allowing the mare to run free. We raced north past our home, where Noah, if he glimpsed anything out his shop window, would see a blur of horse and cloak and hair.
We rode past the marketplace, veered right onto the road to Malden, the wintry dust kicking up with the horses’ steps, the thrum of their hooves echoing to the center of my being. Another two miles or so and we spotted the coats of red, muskets at their sides, leading a team of oxen pulling a massive cart of lumber.
Sarah gained upon them and they stopped, no doubt wondering what this petite lady intended. She dismounted and marched up to the lead oxen, taking them and attempting to turn them around.
I could not fathom her boldness.
The soldiers looked at one another. One readied his musket. I dismounted, prepared to be the voice of reason to save my friend.
“What are you about?” one of the Redcoats asked, visibly shaken by Sarah’s audacity or mayhap, as I did, wondering at her sanity.
“I’ve come to claim the wood my husband paid for.”
The oxen began to turn back to Medford. The other soldiers followed their officer, readied their muskets.
“Ma’am, if you don’t move, we will have to shoot you.”
“Shoot away, then.”
’Twas her grief that made her careless. Either that, or she waged bets that they wouldn’t dare harm her. Legs as sturdy as custard, I came alongside her, my hand finding the smooth horn of an ox. I straightened my shoulders. They’d taken what was not theirs. Our men depended on this wood. And they would have it.
Something akin to fire sizzled in my belly at taking a stand against them. At directly fighting for the cause I had so many uncertain feelings for. Like Sarah, though, I knew Noah’s leg and the loss of my babe and Mary’s death could not be for naught. I had wanted to fight where Noah couldn’t. All this time, I had wanted to find a purpose, find my voice. Here lay my chance.
The men vacillated. The officer in charge was the first to put down his musket. “We must let them have it, men. ’Tis theirs.”
They turned and were gone.
My heart had never beat so
fast in all my life. We watched the backs of the Redcoats, waiting for them to turn and change their minds. When they didn’t, we grasped one another’s arms. Sarah smiled for the first time in months.
We led the team home, and though we acquired some strange looks at the sight, no one questioned Sarah. No one usually did. She insisted we stay silent so as to spare her husband any unneeded embarrassment.
The next day, John brought the load to Cambridge, much to the appreciation of the troops.
Though Noah was appalled when I told him the story, I did not breathe a word of it to anyone else. I did, however, add the account to my journals and tuck them within the tea chest. If I were to ever have a daughter, I wanted to tell her how her mother had once stood up to a band of armed Redcoats.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Emma
It is a noble cause we are engaged in; it is the cause of virtue and mankind.
GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON
AT THE END OF JANUARY, word came that our very own Boston bookseller, Henry Knox, had successfully returned from Fort Ticonderoga with not only cannons, but howitzers, mortars, and sixty tons of artillery.
We waited with bated breath for General Washington to make his move. Though we did not know when or where, we knew it must come.
I thought of Mother and Father often. While we had parted on unpleasant terms, I did hope they had left the city as planned. I imagined Father clutching the box that held his tarred-and-feathered flesh as he boarded a ship that would take him to England. I imagined him showing it to the king, having the audacity to request being made a knight for his immense suffering and humiliation at the hands of the Bostonians.
Father was a bold and stubborn man. A strong man, however misguided. I had always seen that as a strike against him. Yet after I helped Sarah obtain the wood, I wondered if mayhap I had inherited some of his bold strength. Was it those who came before us who gave us the individual characteristics that made up our personalities, or was it those who came alongside us—Noah and Sarah and Mary—who shaped us to become who we were?
The Tea Chest Page 26
