by Ron Carter
Bostonian custom was to make candles in the fall, but Dorothy Weems had discovered that if she would mix bayberry wax with the tallow to improve the smell, make them in the springtime, and store them in a cool place so they would retain their pleasing, clear color, and not crack, she could sell them to half a dozen regular wealthy customers for fourpence, or fivepence, at the beginning of candlemaking season. It brought in enough money to buy ham, and perhaps salted beef, to be stored in the cool root cellar for the worst of the winter months.
Dorothy seized both ends of one, thirty-six-inch thread and began twisting the ends in opposite directions until it was wound tightly. Then she brought the two ends together to tie them. She inserted a finger at each end of the loop and again she twisted, this time in the opposite direction, until the doubled thread was tight and stiff.
She looked at Trudy. “Twist it, double it, tie it, twist the other way.”
Trudy nodded, and Dorothy continued. She picked up one of the thin metal rods and inserted it through the loop left by her finger at the knotted end, held the rod firmly in one hand, then pulled on the string until it was hanging straight down, stiff, a fully formed wick. She looked at it with satisfaction and spoke to Trudy.
“There. Now you make one.”
For a moment Trudy’s brow furrowed as she went over the steps in her mind. Then she picked up one of the long threads and began twisting it under Dorothy’s critical, approving eye.
While Trudy twisted wicks and strung them on the metal rod, Dorothy watched the two pots, waiting for the tallow and bayberry wax to become molten. She stirred the mixture with a long, clean stick from the wood yard until it was mixed, then skimmed it twice with cheesecloth. When the mixture began to emit tiny wisps of steam, she used a brass shovel to pull the fire from beneath the pots, stirred the steaming mix once more, and turned to Trudy.
“It has to cool to just the right temperature before we dip the wicks. Not too hot, not too cool. Let’s finish twisting wicks while we wait.”
With six wicks dangling from each of eight metal rods, Dorothy dipped a small amount of the mix in a cup, then slowly poured it back into the pot, watching intently to gauge how it was thickening.
“It’s ready. Do what I do, and we’ll start the dipping.”
Dorothy grasped one end of a metal rod, and Trudy picked up the other. They lifted it high, and positioned the six twisted wicks above the nearest pot. Slowly, being careful not to dip so quickly that the wicks would bend, they lowered the rod, watching the wicks sink into the soft tallow and bayberry wax mix. They held the rod steady for ten seconds, then slowly drew it straight up and held it above the pot while one or two drops from each wick fell back into the pot, waiting while the mix began to harden. Carefully they carried it to the two long poles set on the sawhorses, and each lowered their end of the metal rods onto one of the wooden poles. They stepped back to look at their handiwork, smiled in satisfaction, and picked up the next rod.
With all eight rods through the first dip, Dorothy used the brass shovel to push the coals back under the pots and then added a few sticks of kindling. “Getting just a bit cool. Needs a little more heat,” she explained to Trudy.
While she waited for the pots to warm, she took Trudy to the rack and leaned over to examine the wicks. “See how they are starting to show a clear, light green color? That’s from the bayberry wax. If they were all tallow, they would be a brownish color, and they’d smell like animal fat, not sweet. You’ve got to let them cool and harden slowly. If the day was too cold, they’d harden too fast and crack. If it was too warm, they’d harden too slowly and lose their shape. Today’s a good day. If it weren’t, we’d have to do this inside, and that always makes a mess on the floors.”
She raised her head to glance at the sun and the sky. “The weather is going to hold. We’ll be all right.”
They dipped all eight rods again, replaced them on the poles, waited, and then dipped them a third time before Dorothy shaded her eyes to look at the sun and turned to Trudy.
“Hungry?”
Trudy nodded, and they walked into the kitchen where they ate some boiled cabbage with mutton and bread and drank cold well water.
By midafternoon they had finished the eighth dipping, and Dorothy stood back to examine their handiwork. The candles were curing to a light, clear green, twelve inches in length, about one inch in diameter, and hardening perfectly. None had cracked. She scattered the coals to put out the fires and turned to Trudy. “We’ll let the pots cool. What’s left of the wax will be hard by Monday. We’ll break it off the top of the water and save it for fall before we clean the pots. We’d better go in and finish the house work. Tomorrow’s the Sabbath and we . . .”
Movement at the corner of the house caught her eye, and she turned to look, then brightened as she spoke.
“Reverend Olmsted! What a surprise.” She glanced down at her stained apron, and her face reddened. “We didn’t expect . . . I’m sorry for how we look.”
Thin, hunch-shouldered, hawk-faced, with graying hair and beard, Reverend Silas Olmsted picked his way through the sawhorses and tripods, speaking in his high, nasal voice.
“You look fine, Dorothy. And, Trudy, you’re just about grown up. Look at you. A young lady.” He smiled at her, and Trudy grinned and blushed and dropped her eyes.
Dorothy spoke. “We just finished dipping candles, Reverend. Won’t you come in for coffee?”
“Thank you, but I need to get back to help Mattie get ready for the Sabbath. I was just down at the market getting my mail, and there was a letter from Billy to you. I thought I’d bring it over.”
Dorothy caught her breath, and her hand flew to her breast. “From Billy?”
“Right here.” He thrust it forward, and Dorothy reached with trembling fingers. “Mind if I stay while you read it? I’d like to know if he’s all right.”
Her hands were shaking as she broke the seal and unfolded the brief writing. She stood still while her eyes flew over the words, and then her shoulders slumped in relief. “He’s all right. Let me read it to you.”
The reverend nodded and listened intently.
May 5, 1777
Morristown, New Jersey
My Dear Mother and Sister:
I first assure you I am well in mind and body. Since I wrote last, I have enjoyed good food and a warm log hut. The army remains camped here at Morristown, where we are safe. Spring has arrived and the mountains here are green—the weather generally warm.
I am obliged to inform you that I am being sent north with my friend, Eli Stroud. We are to join the militia in the region of Lake Champlain where it is thought Eli can be of help in fighting the British, since he knows the country and the language of the Indian people up there. I do not know when I will return, or when I will be able to write again. You are not to worry. We are in the right cause, and the Almighty favors us, as I have seen many times.
I think of you often. Trudy, I will try to bring you a surprise from the north country when I return. Obey Mother and help her in every way. You are a fine daughter and sister.
I am sorry I do not have more time. I think of you every day, and you are in my prayers always. I look forward to the day when I can return. I’ll have much to tell. Please let Margaret and Brigitte read this letter, and ask them to inform Matthew about me when they write to him next.
I place you all in the hands of the Almighty.
Your loving and ob’dt son and brother,
Billy Weems
She paused for a moment, studying the neatly formed words, treasuring them, until Silas spoke.
“He’s going north?”
“That’s what he says.”
“I heard the British are sending General John Burgoyne and an army down from Canada on Lake Champlain to try to cut off the New England states. If that’s true, they’ll be coming right through the Iroquois country. Has Billy told you how his friend comes to know the Indian language and customs?”
“He wrote a
bout Mr. Stroud earlier. It seems Eli was taken by the Iroquois as a baby and raised by them. Billy says he’s a good man.” Dorothy’s face clouded. “Will they be in among the Indians?”
Silas reached to thoughtfully scratch at his beard. “Sounds like it.” He placed his hand on Dorothy’s shoulder. “Now, you’re not to worry. We’ll have soldiers up there, and Billy will be all right. He’s a good boy. God will look after him.”
Dorothy nodded, but the fear did not leave her heart. “I hope so.”
Silas gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then stood for a moment examining the candles. “You’ve done a good day’s work. They should bring a good price this fall. Will you and Trudy be at church in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If you need help trimming those candles, just say so. Mattie and I can come.”
“Thank you, Trudy and I can do it.”
“I know, but a little company now and then won’t hurt.” He turned to walk back out to the street. “See you in the morning.”
“Thank you for bringing the letter.”
He nodded and waved and was gone.
For a moment Dorothy stood in the afternoon sunlight, holding the letter. North, into Iroquois Indian country. She struggled while horrifying images flitted in her mind of families and entire villages where the savage Iroquois Indians had struck, leaving behind only dead, scalped, mutilated bodies. She shuddered, then shook herself and squared her shoulders. He will be all right. The Almighty is watching over him. He will be all right. She repeated it to herself silently and pushed away the heart-rending scenes before she turned to Trudy.
“Billy wants us to take this letter down to Margaret to read. Would you like to visit the twins for a while?”
Trudy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Now?”
“Yes.”
The girl turned on her heel and dashed to her room to change, with Dorothy following. It would not do for a mother and daughter to be seen walking the streets of Boston in candlemaking garb.
A few minutes later, wearing their long-skirted dresses with wrist-length sleeves, they tied on their bonnets, inspected each other, and walked out into the beauty of the late afternoon of a warm spring day, petticoats and skirts swishing. Side-by-side they passed the white picket fences and manicured yards, calling greetings to friends and acquaintances. High-stepping horses in well-oiled and ornamented harnesses, pulling shiny buggies and coaches, clattered by on the tree-lined cobblestone streets while the drivers and those in the vans nodded sedately to those they knew. A man wearing a leather cap and an old threadbare coat, leading a huge dog hitched to a rickety milk-cart, made his way homeward after a day of delivering milk to his customers. A chimney sweep, black from head to toe except for the whites of his eyes, walked briskly up the far side of the street, carrying his whisks, scoop, and broom, whistling as he made his way to his last chimney for the day.
They pushed through the gate in a white fence where a five-foot sign stood in the yard with a large clock carved in the top and JOHN DUNSON, MASTER CLOCKMAKER, GUNSMITH neatly carved below. As the gate closed behind them, the door to the house burst open, and the twins, Adam and Priscilla, came bounding out, shouting to Trudy as they ran down the brick walkway. Trudy shrieked with joy as she threw her arms around Prissy, and the children turned to go into the house as Margaret Dunson came through the doorway into the bright sunlight. Average height, well-built, a handsome woman, Margaret threw open her arms, and the two women embraced warmly before Margaret linked her arm through Dorothy’s and led her into the house, smiling, chattering.
“Well,” Margaret exclaimed, “what an unexpected pleasure. Take off your bonnet and come into the kitchen. We’ll fix coffee.”
Dorothy hung her bonnet on a peg by the door and followed Margaret into the kitchen, where Margaret stirred the coals in the stove firebox, added two sticks of kindling, and set the coffeepot to heat. She gestured to a chair, and the two women sat down to wait. Margaret spoke.
“Have you gotten to your candlemaking yet, Dorothy?”
“Today.”
“How many?”
“Forty-eight.”
“My. A good day’s work. Did Trudy help?”
Dorothy’s eyes brightened with pride. “She helped twist the wicks, and we did the dipping together.”
Margaret smiled. “Wonderful. I’ll start training Prissy and Adam this fall when we make our winter candles. How are the blossoms on the apple and peach trees?”
“Good. We should have plenty for winter.”
Margaret hesitated for a moment, watching Dorothy keenly before asking, “Heard from Billy lately?”
From earliest childhood, Margaret’s son Matthew, and Billy, had been inseparable. They were a contrast, with Billy stocky, sandy-haired, strong as a bull, and Matthew tall, slender, dark-eyed. Billy, plain, homely, open, loud, laughing, fun, while Matthew was handsome, serious, intense, tending to withhold. But somehow the two seemed to complement each other. They had shared everything while growing up. When Billy lost his father, it was Matthew who had come to his house and slept on the floor beside Billy’s bed for a week, never leaving his side. School bullies soon discovered they could not pick a fight with just one of them, and with Billy’s strength, there were few who tried. Those who did quickly regretted their mistake. Each boy barged into the home of the other as though they belonged, and if either mother found both boys at their home at supper time, they simply set another plate.
The coffeepot came to a boil, and Margaret reached for the coffee can.
As Margaret busied herself at the stove, Dorothy plucked the letter from the pocket in the folds of her dress and laid it on the table. “Silas brought this today. Billy asked that I share it with you.”
Margaret’s breath came short. “He’s all right, isn’t he?”
Dorothy nodded. “For now. But he’s going north, into Iroquois country.”
Margaret stared at her friend, her eyes intense. “North? I thought the army was still at Morristown.”
“It is. Billy and his friend are apparently going up there alone.”
Quickly Margaret measured coffee into the steaming pot and set the lid on it to let it steep, then wiped her hands and reached for the letter. She read it slowly, then laid it back on the table, deep in thought.
Dorothy spoke. “Silas said the British are sending an army down from Canada, through the Iroquois country.”
A look of puzzlement crossed Margaret’s face. “From Canada? Why?”
Dorothy shrugged. “Silas didn’t say.”
Margaret’s words came slowly. “They’re probably after Fort Ticonderoga. If they come down the Hudson River, they’ll have an army in New York and another one west of us, and they’ll also hold Fort Ti.” She rounded her mouth and blew air for a moment, then quietly murmured, “They’ll be on both sides of us, and they’ll control the river.”
Dorothy nodded. “It frightens me.” She raised one hand as though to protest. “What can two boys do against a British army?”
Margaret took two cups and saucers from the cupboard. Proper Bostonians served coffee to their guests in the parlor, but the rare friendship of twenty years that bound these two women together rose far above Boston’s stiff rules. Margaret served Dorothy in the kitchen, on the small table near the stove. Carefully she poured the steaming brown coffee and set out milk and sugar while she spoke.
“Maybe General Washington will take his army north, or at least part of it.”
“Maybe. Maybe they’ll have to order out the militia.”
Margaret nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that. Either way, don’t worry about Billy. He’s old enough, and he’s seen enough battles to take care of himself.” She locked eyes with Dorothy, trying to reassure her. “He has good judgment and a strong measure of common sense. He’ll be all right.”
The sound of feet running down the hallway from the bedroom wing brought both women up short as the three children burst through the archw
ay into the kitchen.
“Mother, can Trudy wear some of my clothes? We want to play hoops in the backyard, and her dress is too nice.”
“Of course.” Margaret raised a warning finger. “Adam, you be fair, and don’t tease!”
Both women smiled as they watched the children turn on their heels and run back through the parlor and down the hall. The mothers both squinted against the heat as they raised their steaming coffee cups and gingerly sipped. Dorothy set her cup down as an involuntary shudder ran through her body. Margaret looked at her friend, silently questioning, waiting for Dorothy to speak.
“For a moment I saw images of people the Indians had killed.” She shuddered again. “It’s horrible, what they do. I can hardly think of Billy going up among them.”
Margaret set her coffee cup on her saucer, and for long seconds the two remained silent, each working with her own thoughts. After a moment, Margaret spoke quietly.
“It seems the Almighty has given the women to do most of the suffering in this life. I watched and I worried and I prayed for you when you lost Bartholomew. You wasted away for a long time—got so thin I thought you would die. I wept for the pain in your heart.” She paused and her eyes dropped. “Now, every day when I wake, the first thing I see is John, in bed, dying from that musketball. I doubt any man will ever understand what it does to a woman to lose her husband.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wish I could join him.”
For a time they sat in silence until the children came clambering through the parlor and out the back door, each with a wooden hoop and a long, thin stick to guide it as they rolled them around the yard, racing. The two mothers watched the back door slam shut, and they listened to the children’s loud talk as they made the rules for the hoop race. Then the yard was filled with shrieks and shouts, accusations and exclamations, as the children pushed and guided their hoops around the racecourse in the backyard.
Margaret turned back to Dorothy. “I received a letter not long ago, written by Matthew clear last October. He was in the battle on Lake Champlain when Benedict Arnold and Philip Schuyler met the British fleet coming down to attack General Washington from the west. Matthew was cut badly on the cheek—over an inch long, and deep.” She bowed her head and stared at her hands as she worked them together on the table. “My Matthew, with a deep scar on his face.” She shook her head sadly. “Your Billy with the wounds in his side, and on his back.” Her lip trembled and she waited until it stopped.
