Prelude to Glory, Vol. 4

by Ron Carter

  “And now, both boys gone, we don’t know where, or for how long. We don’t even know if they’re still alive. We may never see them again. The men may do the fighting, but the women bear all the heartbreak. The Almighty must know what it does to a woman’s heart. Why does he let it happen?” She drew a great breath and let it out slowly, shaking her head. “All we can do is keep faith in Him that no matter how it turns out, it is His will. If I didn’t have that, I doubt I could stand it.”

  Dorothy swallowed hard and leaned forward. “Have you any news of Kathleen?”

  Margaret’s shoulders slumped, and her face clouded. Kathleen Thorpe. Tall, strong, gentle, dark-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful, decent, a born mother. Raised not four blocks from the Dunson home. She had loved Matthew since they were in grade school together, and Matthew had loved her. In their thirteenth year, Matthew had spent weeks with his father’s woodworking tools to carve a little snow owl from white pine, and two more weeks painting on the eyes and the veins on the feathers—perfect—for Kathleen. And she had secretly spent months with hoops and needles creating a delicate needlepoint watch fob of royal blue silk, with Matthew’s initials embroidered in a gold scroll above a tiny heart in the lower corner.

  They could not wait to exchange the gifts, and stood facing each other, shy, unsure, red-faced, loving the misery of every moment of it, casting their eyes at the ground, or the ceiling, anywhere but at each other. They stammered, not knowing what to say or do, aware only that their young hearts were forever entwined.

  No one could know that Kathleen’s father, Doctor Henry Thorpe, a pillar in the community, a member of the critically important Committee of Safety, would become a spy for the British, passing coded messages to the British general Thomas Gage. He had secretly revealed the names of the patriots and the plans they made in secret meetings in the night, in dimly lighted rooms behind drawn curtains, to rise and throw off the British tyranny. The patriots knew someone had become a traitor to the cause, but none suspected it was Henry Thorpe, with his burgeoning medical practice, his wife from the highest social circles in the colonies, and his family of beautiful children, the eldest of which was Kathleen. When Tom Sievers set the trap that flushed the truth out into the open, the shock rocked the patriots in Boston Town, stunned them, left them silent, wide-eyed, staggering to believe. The trial of Henry Thorpe in the Massachusetts court was brief, the verdict quick in coming, and the sentence severe. Henry Thorpe was banished from the colonies forever, to leave immediately and never return. He was never heard from again.

  Reeling from disbelief, heartbreak, shock, and shame, Kathleen had found it impossible to face their family friends and acquaintances. She went to Matthew to tell him she could not, and would not, disgrace him further. He was not to see her again. He had rebelled; her father’s infamy had nothing to do with their love. She stared him straight in the eye as she firmly shook her head. No, she would not bring the shame of the Thorpes down on the Dunsons.

  The Thorpe family fortune disappeared as if by magic, and Kathleen had taken control of the family affairs. She took work wherever she could find it, finally doing the backbreaking work of cleaning fish alongside the rough men who worked the Boston docks. At last she was given work at the British garrison in Boston, laboring at the big, brass washtubs twelve hours a day, scrubbing British army uniforms on a corrugated washboard with brown lye soap.

  A British officer, a Major McMullen, cast hot eyes on her and approached her with an offer of “work more appropriate to her status.” Insulted and infuriated, she called him an animal and stalked out of his office. At midnight of that day, in a horrendous rain and thunderstorm, Tom Sievers had kicked open the locked door of Major McMullen’s quarters. In a black room that shook with thunderclaps, lighted only by lightning flashes, with Tom’s knife at his throat, Major McMullen had been only too willing to agree he would never talk to Kathleen Thorpe again.

  The scandal utterly destroyed Kathleen’s mother, Phoebe. Her mind never worked correctly again. She wrote a letter to King George III, asking asylum for herself and her children in England, with a yearly stipend to support her family. To the utter amazement of everyone, the king granted her request. Kathleen exploded, but when Phoebe announced she would take the children, Charles and Faith, and go to England without Kathleen, there was little that could be done. Nothing could have been more clear than the hard fact that Phoebe was not mentally capable of caring for either herself, or the children.

  On the darkest day of her life, eyes vacant and dead, beyond tears, Kathleen boarded the British ship Britannia with Phoebe and the children and stood at the ship’s rail for a last look at her beloved Boston Town—the only place she had ever lived. Inside, the devastation was total and complete. There was no light, no hope—only desolation and blackness. For a moment she remembered the utter sweetness and joy of the warm spring evening only weeks before, when Matthew had impulsively asked for her hand in marriage, and then drawn her inside his arms, and kissed her. She remembered throwing her arms about his neck, and the smell of him, and the feel of his embrace as she said yes.

  She swallowed as she gazed at Boston Town once more, then bade good-bye to the only life she had known, and to the man who would own her heart forever.

  Margaret shook her head. “Nothing.” She lowered her eyes to stare unseeing at her coffee cup and saucer as she repeated the sad word. “Nothing. I can hardly bear the thought. Her in England—Phoebe and the children. Her heart broken—Matthew nearly lost his mind. The love they had . . . ” Her voice trailed off, and her chin trembled.

  Dorothy reached to touch her friend’s hand as the first silent tears trickled down Margaret’s cheeks. Margaret grasped Dorothy’s hand, and tears rimmed in Dorothy’s eyes and then ran warm down her own cheeks as the two women sat in silence, shoulders shaking, as they wept.

  Finally Margaret released Dorothy’s hand and reached unashamedly to wipe at her eyes with the heels of her hands. She shook her head as a cryptic chuckle surged up. “Would you look at us? Sitting here crying like babies. The Almighty knows this isn’t going to churn the butter.” She laughed again, then pulled her apron up to wipe at her face, then reached for a towel and handed it to Dorothy.

  Dorothy chuckled, then laughed as she wiped her face and the tear-stained front of her dress. “We must look a sight,” she said, “sitting here red-eyed.”

  Margaret looked at her. “I don’t know about me, but you do.”

  Dorothy pointed at Margaret, and they threw back their heads and laughed.

  It was enough. They had emptied their hearts of their innermost fears and pain as only good friends can. They had wept together and laughed at themselves, and it had worked its magic. They could once again pick up the crushing burdens of life that are known only to the soul of a woman, and move on.

  Dorothy folded the towel and laid it on the table, then leaned forward inquiringly. “Where’s Brigitte? I nearly forgot about her. And Caleb?”

  Margaret shook her head. “At a meeting. The Patriots Group is planning to send medicine and clothes to Washington’s army in Morristown. They think Brigitte and Caleb can help.”

  “After that awful thing last year? They were nearly killed!”

  “I know, I know. Who can account for good sense when people get excited about these things? I’ve told them they can’t go, but they won’t listen. Brigitte wants to redeem herself, and Caleb wants to get out of Boston.” She exhaled a great breath. “I’m so worried about Caleb. He’s struggling. He has a lot of hate for what this war has done to our family. John gone, Matthew at sea. In a way I can’t blame him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Suddenly Dorothy leaned forward, eyes bright. “Have you heard what they’re saying about our bonnets in church?”

  Margaret’s eyebrows arched. “No.”

  “You heard about the law they passed in Abington? Women have to hang their bonnets on pegs by the church door because it’s wrong to wear them during worship? Well,
there’s a rumor they’re going to pass the same law here in Boston.”

  Margaret gaped. “What? Take off our bonnets in church? Absurd!”

  “I know, but that’s what I heard.”

  Margaret shook her head as Dorothy continued.

  “Sally Von Steinman says that if they do it, she’s going to march right in wearing her new pumpkin hood and sit in the front row!” She bobbed her head for emphasis.

  “Sally Von Steinman? A new pumpkin hood? I’ll bet it’s orange, too. Have you noticed she’s starting to wear those broad borders on her skirts again?” Margaret shook her head. “What some women won’t do, just to draw attention and shock people. Imagine. An eight-inch border on a church dress. Why, next thing, she’ll be going without petticoats!”

  Dorothy straightened. “She wouldn’t dare!”

  Margaret tilted her head and raised a finger. “She might. There’s no telling what some of these young women will do.”

  The back door banged open, and the children came tumbling in, Prissy wailing. “Mother, Adam’s being mean! Just mean. He won’t play fair. He just keeps hitting our hoops so we can’t win, and he pushes us. Make him stop.”

  Margaret fixed her son with a glare. “Adam, are you tormenting the girls again?”

  Adam was vociferous. “No, I am not. Girls just don’t know how to play. If they can’t win, they just make up lies.”

  Trudy stood to one side, silent, waiting to see who won and who lost.

  “Adam, you tell me the truth. Did you hit their hoops?”

  “Once. Just once. Because Prissy hit mine.”

  “Prissy?”

  “That’s not true.” She caught herself, and her eyes fell. “Well, it was an accident.”

  Margaret shook her head. “Put the hoops away. If you can’t get along and have fun, you lose the privilege of playing.”

  Prissy turned on Adam, hands on hips, pouting. “See! Now we can’t play at all. It’s your fault.”

  Margaret pointed, and the children stalked out of the room to put the hoops away. Margaret shook her head. “Some days those two just wear a body out.”

  “Be thankful you’ve got them. You don’t now how Trudy treasures having someone to play with once in a while.”

  Margaret looked at her. “You’re right. Help me. I’m going out to the root cellar for some milk. You fetch the cookie jar and some cups from the cupboard right over there. Oatmeal cookies and milk ought to settle their nonsense.”

  Dorothy stood, and as she did, she noticed the letter lying on the table. She folded it carefully, and as she tucked it into the pocket of her dress, her thoughts reached out to her son.

  Is he safe today? Will he be all right? Please, Dear God, watch over my Billy.

  She set her chin, squared her shoulders, and reached for the knob on the cupboard door.

  Notes

  The following facts are taken from Earle, Home Life in Colonial Days.

  Early colonists provided light for their homes by burning pine knots, which left a sticky tar residue. Tar was a valuable commercial product. In time, lamps and lanterns were used, with a wick that burned fish oil or beef tallow. Candles became popular. Colonists strained all the animal fat from their meat through the winter and saved it in jars in root cellars. They also gathered bayberries, which grew wild along the eastern coast and could be gathered at will. The bayberries were boiled down, producing a waxy substance that was light green in color and had a pleasant smell when burned. It was strained until it was clear, then stored in jars in the root cellar. By mixing animal tallow with bayberry wax, the animal smell was eliminated. The description of the equipment used by Dorothy and Trudy in making their candles is accurate. They twisted their own wicks from hemp, tow, milkweed, or other materials; mounted them on iron rods; dipped them; and set them between sawhorses to harden, indoors or outdoors, depending on the weather. They often stored their candlemaking apparatus in their kitchen rafters (pp. 32–42).

  In most New England towns, men and boys shared the responsibility of walking the streets at night to watch for thieves, fire, and the weather, and to call out the time and weather conditions at regular intervals. They were often sent out in pairs—an adult and a boy. In Boston, they were called “bellmen” (p. 363).

  Dress styles for both men and women were closely watched. The early pilgrims were “deeply disturbed over the dress of their minister’s wife, Madam Johnson, who wore lawn coives, and busks, and a velvet hood, and whalebones in her petticoat bodice, and worst of all, a topish hat.” Roger Williams instructed the women in his Salem parish to wear veils in public; however, John Cotton preached against it. In 1769, the church at Andover voted to disapprove the “female sex sitting with their hats on in the meetinghouse in time of Divine service,” this practice being considered indecent. In 1775, in the town of Abington, it was voted that the women were to hang their hats on pegs during church services. The law was not enforced (pp. 285–86).

  Hudson River valley, south of Albany

  Mid-May 1777

  CHAPTER II

  * * *

  It came swift and brutal, in the strange twilight time between sunset and full darkness, when purple shadows turn the great trees, and the rotting trunks of fallen giants, and the thick ferns of the deep forest into vague shadows, and for a moment the world is suspended between the real and the surreal.

  Eli Stroud, tall, clad in Iroquois buckskins, stopped dead in his tracks and stood slightly crouched, eyes narrowed, knees flexed, ready to move. Six feet behind him, Billy Weems, shorter, barrel-chested, thick in the neck and shoulders and legs, stopped and stood perfectly still, silent, barely breathing, every sense focused on Eli. Six hundred yards eastward, to their right, the mighty Hudson River, invisible through the trees, silently rolled south through the great valley, while mosquitoes swarmed from the marshy bogs to hum incessantly.

  Suddenly, one hundred yards to the north, straight ahead in the forested twilight, the birds—huge, black ravens—cawed, their raucous protest ringing through the gloom as they rose from tree tops on glossy wings to disappear, and once again silence settled. Soundlessly, without looking back, Eli slowly retreated to Billy’s side, and Billy was aware that once again Eli was an Iroquois warrior, seeing, hearing, feeling, sensing things that the forest shared only with those who had learned her secrets. Every fiber of Eli’s being was fiercely alive, reaching for something he felt out in the twilight. His eyes were glittering slits as his head slowly turned from side to side, testing every sound, every scent, every shadow, every movement against some inner source. He hooked his thumb over the hammer of his long Pennsylvania rifle and drew it to full cock, the two clicks sounding loud in the silence. Billy also cocked his musket while Eli silently drew his black-handled, iron-headed tomahawk from his weapons belt and slipped the leather thong over his wrist to let it dangle free as he stood still, testing the air, watching every shadow.

  Eli tensed, then raised his right hand only far enough to motion to Billy to follow, and they started back through the heavy undergrowth, Eli leading at a trot. The only sounds were the hum of mosquitoes and the whisper of the ferns and bushes that brushed at their legs as they dodged through roots and trees, and over the decaying, crumbling trunks of ancient windfalls, and around clusters of great boulders left behind in distant eons of time, when ice two miles thick had crept slowly southward to gouge and sculpt lakes and mountains and valleys before melting to form the oceans.

  Without sound or warning, a shadow flickered in the trees to their right, and in that instant Eli twisted, swinging his rifle to meet the dusky figure that came leaping, naked to the waist, face painted black from the nose down, hair roached, carrying a spiked war club high above his head, swinging downward. The man’s chest was only two feet from the muzzle of his rifle when Eli pulled the trigger. The crack of the rifle rang through the forest as flame leaped to burn the man’s chest and light the awful surprise in his face as the .60-caliber ball tore through his chest and crac
ked his spine. Eli dodged to his left to let the dead body fall headlong as a second sprinting figure came hurtling in the dwindling light, and Billy’s musket blasted. A tongue of orange flame spurted as the huge musketball spun the man twisting, to drop, rolling in the foliage, dead at their feet.

  With the sounds of the two shots still ringing through the forest, Eli pivoted, crouched, ready, as three more half-naked, painted shadows erupted from behind them, two with war clubs, one with a tomahawk, raised, swinging as they came. Eli dropped his rifle as he swept his tomahawk above his head in both hands to take the downstroke of the war club and turn it, and in the moment it turned, Eli slashed his tomahawk downward with both hands. The blade struck deep, and the man’s eyes widened as he dropped to his knees and toppled.

  Six feet to Eli’s right, Billy faced the charge of a second man with raised war club. With his feet set, Billy jammed his musket muzzle violently forward into the pit of the man’s stomach, and he heard the grunt as the man stopped in his tracks to grab his ruptured mid-section and buckle over. Billy dropped his musket and was a blur as he closed with the man to grasp him by the braid of hair at the back of his head and by his buckskin leggings, and throw him headlong into the trunk of a giant pine. He heard the crack of the neck, and the body slumped to the ground.

  Eli’s desperate, shouted warning came, and it flashed in Billy’s mind—the third one. Instinctively he crouched and moved quickly to his right. From the corner of his eye, he saw the raised tomahawk plunging and in the next instant took the electric shock of the numbing blow on his left shoulder blade as he drove his right shoulder into the naked, painted chest to knock the scrambling man onto his back, and then Billy was sitting on top of him. He saw the tomahawk coming upward as he smashed his doubled fist into the snarling face and the man stopped struggling. Twice more Billy drove his fist into the face with all his strength, and the body went limp.