We visited the Fultons often in the weeks after Mary’s death. Noah grew stronger and, with the help of Dr. Tufts, fashioned a wooden leg for himself. While he still used a cane and progress seemed slow, we enjoyed the excuse to walk, even in the cold. Food staples being slim, I often shared what we had with the Fulton family so the children would not go without.
One afternoon in early March, Noah and I made our way south, a basket of biscuits hung on the crook of my arm. I’d donned my warmest cloak and muff, for though thawing temperatures gave reminders of spring, the night air still bit one’s skin.
When Sarah opened the door, the heat from the hearth enveloped us. I offered the basket and she took it with much thanks.
“John is upstairs. He started a fever last night.”
Noah and I exchanged worried glances. Sarah caught our look. “’Tis not what Mary had. He will be fine.” Her tone was sure, hard, as if she could force something to be simply by saying so. But I caught her tense shoulders and thin form as she turned to tend the hearth.
Noah cleared his throat. “I will see to the horses.” I tried not to admonish him with my gaze, to warn him to take care. I knew it niggled him when I did. He needed to go about everyday chores, forge new ways to do old tasks.
I grabbed up the kindling. “Here, Sarah. Allow me. Why don’t you go for a walk? ’Tis beautiful out today. Or perhaps rest a bit?”
She jutted out her chin. “Are you telling me what to do, Emma Winslow?”
I matched her chin with my own. “Aye. I’ve learned a thing or two about being stubborn, Sarah, and your kind of stubbornness will put you to an early grave. Would it harm you to take a bit of aid when ’tis offered?”
She pressed her lips together. “I suppose ’twouldn’t hurt to catch a breath of fresh air while the little ones nap.”
I raised my eyebrows and nodded, trying not to gloat in my victory over her will—no small feat. A knock came at the door and she smoothed her hair beneath her mobcap before opening it.
“Major Brooks. Come in, of course.” She allowed the tall doctor to step inside, the long tails of his blue coat brushing against Sarah’s table. The red waist sash and gold epaulets that symbolized his high rank seemed to dwarf the two of us. While I knew that General Washington worked to restore order within the Continental Army, I also knew that before he arrived in Massachusetts, soldiers were awarded ranks by how many they could recruit. I wondered if the fact that Major Brooks was a doctor and a respected and learned man had also contributed to his rank.
I thought of my husband in the barn, who had given his all for his homeland, how he would never ascend to such honor attributed in coat adornments. Did it bother him? While he’d been granted a pension due to his injury, the outcome of the war would no doubt determine how long, or if, such a pension would last. I couldn’t ignore how he no longer earned the same respect he once had when walking into a room—the same respect Major Brooks now commanded. Noah had won out over strong drink, but I knew he was haunted by things he did not yet share with me. Now, looking at Major Brooks, strong and immensely capable, I wondered how Noah felt when he was beside such a figure, knowing that his injury would never again permit him to contribute to the fight for liberty. How did that sit with a man? How did it sit with my husband?
Sarah closed the door behind the major. So much for her rest. “A cup of sassafras tea, Major? Tell us to what we owe this pleasure.”
“No tea, thank you. I just came from the distillery, but they reported that John was home. Is he here, ma’am?”
“I’m afraid he is ailing with fever. I was just going to look in on him. Can I be of assistance to you?”
His gaze flicked to me and I chastised my face for reddening.
I gathered my cloak. “I will go see to Noah—”
“Nay, Emma.” Sarah squared her shoulders at the major, much as she had done the day we’d retrieved the wood from the Regulars. “Whatever you need say, you may say it to Emma, Major. She is my dearest friend and I don’t keep secrets from her.”
His mouth drew into a straight line. “Are you certain John is not well enough for conversation? Mayhap I could examine him whilst I am here.”
Sarah obliged and went with the major to see John as I waited by the fire. When their steps sounded on the stairs as they returned to the keeping room, I caught the major’s words. “He needs plenty of fluids. Try to keep his fever down with cold compresses. And aye, you were correct, Mrs. Fulton. He is not fit for conversation, nor for what I had in mind.”
Sarah gestured to a chair. “Tell me what you need, sir.”
“I am not sure ’tis wise work for a woman . . . Then again, this may be the hand of Providence.”
“Major?”
Again, his eyes came to me. I drew myself up, too curious to take my leave now but feeling I must assert myself. “Major, I aided the Mohawks in the dumping of the tea. I still hold a paper of oath with all their names upon it, secreted away so one day I might tell my children of their father’s hand in our freedom. My husband gave up a leg upon Breed’s Hill and nearly his life. He was not one of the cowards who ran . . . and neither am I.”
I had never felt so certain of my place, so proud of the cause for which we fought.
The major nodded at my words, and I saw something akin to respect in his eyes. “Very well, then.” He took a small bundle of papers from the bag he carried. “I came to see if John might be willing to deliver some important dispatches inside Boston this night. ’Tis urgent they are received. I’m aware of his familiarity with Boston, particularly the South End, and I thought of him.” He dragged in a deep breath. “Time is of the essence. They are from General Washington himself.”
The room grew silent at the name of our respected leader. But to go into loyalist-occupied Boston beneath the cover of night?
In a strange way, my heart ached at the thought of my old home. I remembered the fire in my chest that had burned to life as I stood alongside Sarah to retrieve the cart of wood. It kindled within me now at the prospect of helping Major Brooks and General Washington, at helping the cause for which I was now so deeply entrenched I could not tell where it began and I ended.
“I will go.” My voice echoed in the room and I realized that Sarah had spoken the words in unison with me.
The major looked between us. “You both will go?”
Sarah shook her head. “Nay, Emma, you must stay. I will go. ’Twill be quicker with one.”
“’Twill be safer with two,” I countered. “And if something were to happen to one of us, there might still be another to see the dispatches delivered.”
The door opened and Noah stopped short at the sight of the major. He recovered quickly, hobbled inside, and offered his hand to the officer to introduce himself. The major stood, taking Noah’s hand. Then the two men sat as the major quickly explained the predicament we found ourselves in.
I watched Noah do battle within himself, hating the inadequacy of his leg. “I could go upon a horse.”
“’Twill require going through Charlestown, rowing across the river to Boston, then much more walking to get to the destination. I’m sorry, Mr. Winslow. I greatly value all you’ve given in the name of liberty, but I fear one of these ladies is the better choice.”
“Ladies?” Noah nearly sputtered, looking at me.
“’Twould be safer for us to go, Noah. No one would suspect a woman of carrying such dispatches.”
“They may if they catch you rowing across the Charles in the dark of night! Nay, Emma. I may not have say in Sarah’s decisions, but I cannot in good conscience allow you to risk it.”
I tried to see past his determination to what truly lay at the heart of the issue—fear. I knelt at his side, put my hands upon his lap.
“Noah . . . were you not fearful when you built the fortifications atop Breed’s Hill, when you faced the Regulars that day?”
He kept his mouth closed, breathed deep.
“You moved past it, my love, be
cause you knew liberty was worth the fight. Now you are being asked to put it aside again. ’Tis not foolish to allow me to take up the struggle in a fashion I am able. ’Tis not wrong. It is for that same fight that I am willing to do it. I’ve knowledge of Boston. I am young and strong enough to see it through.” I licked my lips. “You once stated it was my strength of mind that drew you to me. Would you snuff it out now, in the Patriots’ time of need?”
Sarah stood. “And she will not be alone.”
I turned to her, glad to have her on my side, and smiled. “Aye, we will go together.”
The major looked at Noah. “Seems if any are capable, ’twould be these two women.”
Sarah nodded. “If we are stopped, I have dozens of stories in my head that any dunderheaded Redcoat will believe. No one would dare harm us.”
Noah shifted in his seat, looked down at his wooden leg with a sadness that squeezed my heart. “What is so important that my wife is bent on risking her life, Major?”
The officer’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Dispatches from General Washington. As you may have heard, and as I implore you not to repeat and only impart to you now because I trust you, there will be an attack from Dorchester Heights in a few days’ time. The general feels he must warn a certain friend of his—a Patriot—behind enemy lines. This man will relay the news to the other Patriots within the city. Surely you see he cannot attack in good conscience with innocent men in harm’s way.”
Noah lifted doleful eyes to me. “Aye.” He looked at Sarah and Major Brooks. “May we . . . ?”
The major nodded. “I will explain the details to Mrs. Fulton in the parlor.”
They left.
Noah inched his fingers to the back of my head, slid them beneath the hair piled below my mobcap. “Emma, if anything should happen to you . . . I do not think I could live with myself.”
“All will be well. And if it be not, you would go on and be strong with the Lord at your side, as I would have been forced to do if you gave your life at Breed’s Hill.” I knew my words spoke simply—too simply, perhaps—of immense suffering. Yet here was not the time for such ponderings. “I will have Sarah with me. They will not harm two women.”
“This is so important to you?”
“It is.”
He sighed. “Then I suppose you must go.”
I kissed him long, my gratitude evident.
“Be sure to use that beautiful mind of yours, though. No unnecessary risks.”
I nodded. “We will be back and well before morning. You will see.”
“I will be praying ’tis so all the long night.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Emma
Every temporal advantage and comfort to us, and our posterity, depends upon the vigor of our exertions; in short, freedom or slavery must be the result of our conduct.
GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON
THE STONE POSTS of the carriage entrance to the Royall mansion stood like sentinels in the dark of night. Everything, in fact, seemed to take on a different quality beneath the dark of a secret mission. The trees seemed to possess eyes, ones that might betray the whereabouts of my companion and me.
The grounds of the Royall property were no longer the rolling wonder of peaceful orchards. Beneath the scant moonlight, I saw how they’d been stomped and drilled and marched on by many soldiers, battle-worn just like the people who refused to give up their fight.
In her warmest cloak and muff, Sarah moved soundlessly in the night. She had sewn General Washington’s dispatches into the hem of her skirt, and as we walked, I remembered the last time I had possessed knowledge of such an important document.
I thought of the oath, concealed within the tea chest. How long ago it seemed that Noah had first shown it to me. I remembered him then, sure and full of youth. He was different now. And yet so was I. Was that not what journeying through life together meant? Not that we stayed unchanging but that we lived and learned and clung and wept and laughed and danced and grew and changed, all alongside one another.
As Sarah and I continued our walk toward Charlestown, we did not speak. We’d chosen not to go by horse, for fear we might give ourselves away. A wispy cloud darkened the moon, the cold silence seeming to echo our steps along Medford Road. We passed Winter Hill without incident, and before long, we saw the gleam of the Mystic to our left once again.
We approached enemy territory—Charlestown Neck. Bunker Hill rose in the distance, its fortification eerie lumps of shadowy earth. I knew that the colonial militia had been given orders by the Committee of Safety to base their fortifications upon Bunker Hill. I also knew that the command was ignored as the officers directed the soldiers to build their battlements on the smaller Breed’s Hill, closer to Boston and to the Regulars, evoking a potent response from the King’s Army. A forceful one that could not be engaged with so little gunpowder.
Colonel Stark had told us how he’d ordered his men not to fire until they “could see the enemy’s half gaiters,” hoping to save their gunpowder until it was bound to hit.
I tried not to wonder how any small change that day might have changed the course of Noah’s fate—either for the good or the bad.
“Do you see anyone?” My breath hit the cold air in a visible puff, my heart sounding so loud within my ears I feared any soldier within a mile might hear it. Certainly the Regulars would post a sentry at the neck. Certainly they would protect what they had fought so hard for last June.
Sarah had a story at the ready—something about needing to get to her uncle to tell him of his dear cousin’s impending death. But with much surprise, we crossed the narrow strip of empty land without resistance.
Bunker Hill stood to our left and I glimpsed the second hill—Breed’s—the one where my husband lost his leg. For an insane moment, I walked alongside Sarah in silence, mourning my husband’s leg, morbidly preoccupied with what had happened to it. Had the cannon that had blown it away simply blasted the limb to pieces? Or had it been torn from Noah’s body to land somewhere on that hill, where it now rested?
I dragged in a shaky breath to ward off the image. We approached the empty remnants of Charlestown on our right, its charred shadows rising black and ghostlike beneath the moon. Hollowed-out homes and a tower of stones that once denoted a chimney poked through crumbled bricks and timber. The Regulars had torched the town during the battle, and as far as I could see, no life endured.
We continued down to the beach, where several rowboats were tied at the wharves. I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that our journey had been undetected so far, that it seemed the Lord paved a way for our success. If only it would continue without delay.
Sarah untied the boat and I stood watch, noting the bob and flow of the Charles River. Many had died while swimming in its waters. Sarah told me of the death of her own grandfather, found drowned while on a canoe outing. While the North End of Boston seemed deceitfully close, I knew it was not so. Stories had come to us of the rider Revere lighting lanterns at Old North Church, its white spire a glint in the moonlight now, and then of having two men row him across to Charlestown to warn of the impending invasion upon Concord.
Mr. Revere had taken this same path. At night. Only he’d had two men to row him. Would Sarah and I be able to handle the boat? What if the tide carried us away from our destination or flipped us upside down, General Washington’s papers and our bodies nowhere to be found save for the bottom of the sea?
Though it did not make sense, I longed to hear the bells of Old North again. To let their chimes cast out the demons they were believed to defeat, one more time, on this night, for me and Sarah.
Noah had a right to be frightened. Perhaps I had been callous and disrespectful of the dangers of this mission. And yet some part of me grew determined to conquer these perils, to do this thing not only for myself and for my husband, but for the innocent in Boston, for General Washington, for the legacy of the Sons and Daughters of Liberty, for my own unborn children even.
I tamped down
my fear as I slipped into the boat behind Sarah, the frigid wind biting my cheeks. I drew my hands from my muff, inched the edges of my cloak around my face, and took up an oar. Sarah adjusted the hem of her skirt, placing it protectively in her lap so it would not become wet and ruined by the slosh of the oars.
We rowed without speaking, our breaths counting out a rhythm, our oars in unison as the boat sliced through the water. In the distance, a man-of-war stood guard over the Charles. When we spotted a sentry patrolling its decks, we stilled our oars, waited for him to disappear below deck before continuing.
Chunks of ice surrounded us, the harbor only now beginning to thaw from a long winter. I thought of General Washington’s plans to use the ice to attack Boston. Though I couldn’t be certain, it appeared his plan had been denied, or mayhap he had thought better of it. A second plan was now in place. One that would occur within a few days’ time, mayhap on the anniversary of the bloody massacre on King Street.
My fingers turned numb with the cold, the icy water slashing at them with frozen fingertips. Once I nearly dropped my oar. Sarah and I took two short breaks to catch our breath and warm our fingers as best we could, but still my toes grew numb beneath the flimsy covering of my boots.
The river kept pulling us away from our destination, and my muscles strained as we aimed for Copp’s Hill. We could not afford to miss our mark.
The shore inched closer, almost tantalizing for the respite it offered. My arms burned, my fingers throbbed numb and painful all at once.
When the keel of our boat hit a small beach, I breathed out long and slow, tried not to succumb to tears. We had made it, and at the same time I could not imagine how we would have enough strength to return this night. ’Twas a good thing we had both decided to come, for I did not see how one alone could have made the journey across the river.
Sarah pulled the boat in, and careful to avoid the ebbing waves, I gingerly stepped out, both of us seeking the warmth of our muffs for our hands.
The town stood quiet, as it was well past midnight. British detachments might be out, patrolling the streets, but if we listened for them, we should be able to stay clear.
The Tea Chest Page 27
