by Ron Carter
With his resolve fresh in his heart, he now sat quietly at the supper table, subdued, head bowed, shoulders hunched forward, his mind leaping ahead, making a plan of how he would leave home in the dark of night. At sixteen years of age, he had no concept of what the instinct of his mother’s heart was telling her as she watched him. Everything within her sensed a decision and resolve in him, but she had no way of knowing what it was.
Using a thick pad, Margaret drew a sweet-smelling raisin custard from the kitchen oven, raised and locked the door, then walked to the dining table. She set it steaming on the table, then went back to the kitchen for bowls while Prissy reached to feel the rising steam and Adam grasped his spoon, waiting.
“Brigitte, how much milk is left?” Margaret called.
Brigitte tilted the pitcher to peer inside. “Enough.”
“Good.” Margaret returned to set the bowls on the table, then began portioning out the rich, creamy custard, speckled with large, plump, dark raisins.
Adam’s eyebrows peaked as he raised his voice in protest. “That’s not enough. You always give more than that.”
“It’s enough to start. If you want more, we’ll talk about it.”
“I want more now,” he complained.
Margaret shook her head. “Brigitte, pour the milk. Adam, you wait until the custard is cool.”
Brigitte poured the rich milk onto the custard, and Adam instantly thrust in his spoon to draw out the first heaping load, sticking out his tongue to gingerly test for heat. He jerked back, sucking his tongue furiously. Margaret shook her head. “When will you learn to listen?”
She set Caleb’s bowl before him, and for a moment he did not stir or give any recognition that it was there. “There’s your custard,” she said, and paused for a moment when he did not move.
“Caleb, what’s wrong? You’ve been too quiet. Something happen today? Was there trouble at the print shop?”
Caleb raised his head. “No. Nothing’s wrong. Just thinking.”
“About what?” She waited, intently watching his downcast eyes.
He shrugged. “Nothing. Work. Got a heavy load tomorrow.”
“Sure it’s work? Not something else?”
He shook his head and reached for the milk. “Just work.”
With supper finished, Brigitte washed the dishes while Margaret dried, listening to the twins playing in the backyard as the long, warm, beautiful June day came to a close. There was a hush in the air, and from the distance came the clanging of ship’s bells in the bay and the squawking of seagulls as they settled the question of which one would get the greater share of the scraps of fish and food on the beaches. As the shadows of dusk deepened, Margaret lighted the lamps, and Brigitte sat in an upholstered chair, legs drawn up beneath her, reading a book. Caleb wandered out the front door to stand near the front gate, watching the street traffic thin.
Margaret sat down beside Brigitte and asked, “Notice anything about Caleb?”
Brigitte put her finger on her place in the book and for a moment went back over the events of supper and the evening. “Not especially. He seemed quiet, but that happens.”
“Not like tonight,” Margaret said. “His mind was somewhere else.”
“He said he has a lot to do at work.”
“He’s had a lot at work before, but it never kept him quiet the whole evening. We didn’t get ten words from him. Look at him now. Outside, just standing by the gate. He never goes out there to just stand by the gate watching Boston go by.”
Brigitte shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he’s growing up.”
Margaret rose. “I hope that’s all it is.” She walked to the great stone fireplace, with its four iron arms for hanging cooking pots, and using a brass shovel carefully banked the glowing coals for the night. She replaced the shovel and walked to the front door.
“Caleb,” she called, “we need kindling wood.”
“I’m coming.”
She watched him walk through the house, looking neither right nor left, and out the back door. There was rustling in the wood yard, and he came back, arms loaded with split sticks of pine firewood. It took him two trips to fill the wood boxes in the kitchen and beside the parlor fireplace. Finished with his chore, he sauntered out the front door once again.
Margaret shook her head. “Something’s wrong.”
Brigitte raised her head from her book, glanced at the front door, then resumed reading.
Lights were coming on behind window curtains all up and down the street when Margaret went to the back door. “Adam, Prissy, time for bed. Tomorrow we’ve got to iron and fold all the clothes we washed today, and you both need to help.”
With the family wearing their long nightshirts, and Brigitte with her long, honey-brown hair brushed and wound beneath her night cap, Margaret called them all to their places around her bed, where the stiff clothes from the day’s wash were stacked, waiting to be sprinkled tomorrow, packed in a wicker basket, then ironed. John’s pillow was still beside her own; she could not bring herself to store it on the top shelf of the closet. At times she reached to touch it in the night. More than once she had drawn it to her, to hold it tightly to her breast while she buried her face in it and sobbed her heart out.
For a moment she looked at Caleb, wanting desperately to call on him to offer the evening prayer, but for months, he had offered prayers that were devoid of spirit or reverence toward God and then had begun asking that someone else to do it. The twins had come to her wide-eyed, asking why Caleb no longer took his turn, and with a heart that was breaking, she had told them he was working too hard, first at school, then at the print shop as school ceased for the summer and he went on with his work. She knew she could not let Caleb’s rebellion infect the twins, and quietly ceased calling on him to pray.
“Brigitte,” she said, and they all closed their eyes, hands clasped before their faces, as Brigitte offered the nightly family prayer.
Later, with the house silent, Margaret turned all the lamps down and sat in the rocking chair before the dull glow of the banked coals, watching them, deep in her own thoughts.
John, I don’t know what to do. It was too much for him. Too much for any boy his age. I’m losing him. Something’s happened inside him—he’s made some decision that he will not tell me about. I can only pray it is not to leave. If he leaves, I don’t know what will become of him. I can accept him going to the fighting, and I can accept it if he doesn’t come back. But I cannot accept him turning his back on the Almighty. Oh, John! What would I do if he were not allowed to be with us in heaven? What would I do? What would I do?
In the deep shadows of the parlor, silent tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks to wet the front of her nightshirt. It was midnight before she wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, then rose to silently pad through the archway and into her own bedroom. She dropped to her knees beside her bed and with bowed head poured out her pain to the Almighty. Then she moved the day’s wash to the far side of the bed and silently slipped between the cool sheets.
She did not go to sleep. With an intuition known only to a mother whose life is her children, she lay staring at the ceiling in the darkness, listening to every sound, waiting. At one o’clock she heard the call of the bellmen as the pair walked the streets, watching for thieves, calling out the time and the weather. At two o’clock their call came again: “Two o’clock. Fair weather,” and still she forced herself to rise above the weariness of the heavy day of washing, hanging, and gathering clothes, to remain awake, alert.
At three o’clock their call came once again, and moments later she heard the first faint sound of a footfall in the hallway. She knew instantly who it was. She did not move, nor did she cry out. She listened to the soft click of a door opening, and a moment later closing, then a second door opening and closing, and she knew. He had silently gone into the twins’ bedroom, then into Brigitte’s, to look at them before he left. She waited, but he did not open her door to enter for one last, silent look at his m
other. At sixteen he knew mothers seldom sleep deeply enough to fail to hear sounds from their children.
With her heart and mind racing, she listened to the creaking floor boards leading through the archway into the parlor.
He’s going. That is what possessed him at supper—through the whole evening. He’s leaving. Do I let him go? Do I try to stop him? John, John, what do I do?
She heard the squeak of a chair as he sat to tie on his shoes, and suddenly she did not care what wisdom or reason would require of her. She only knew the soul-wrenching grab in her mother’s heart. Her boy was leaving! She lunged out of bed, opened her door, and ran silently down the hall, through the archway, and across the parlor to the front door as he swung it open. In the soft, warm June night, she saw the silhouette of Caleb stop and turn as she ran to him.
Without a word she threw her arms about him and held him close, clung to him, then buried her face in his chest as the tears came. He dropped his bedroll and raised his arms to wrap her inside, his cheek against her hair, feeling her shake as she sobbed. Neither of them knew how long they stood in the door frame, the boy holding his mother, while she clung to him with all her strength. After a time, her sobbing slowed, then stopped, and she tipped her head back to look into his face in the light of the stars and the full moon. He started to speak, and could not. She remained silent, studying him, memorizing every line of his young face.
Finally she released him and stepped back. Again Caleb tried to speak, but was unable to choke out a word. Margaret picked up the bedroll that held his blanket, a change of clothes, and a leather purse with money he had saved from work and handed it to him. He took it and held it loosely in his hands, not knowing what he should do next.
She stepped back and nodded to him. “I love you. God bless you, son. I’ll be waiting.”
He looked into her face for a long time, then raised his hand to gently touch the familiar softness before turning and walking into the night. She did not move as she watched him reach the front gate, where he stopped and turned to look one more time. He opened the gate, and in her bare feet she walked to the white picket fence to watch him disappear in the blackness.
Notes
The Dunson family is a fictional family, hence, the ongoing story of the various family members, including Caleb, is fictional.
The custom of having bellmen patrolling the Boston streets at night, calling out the weather and the time, is set forth in Chapter I.
Raritan River, New Jersey
June 28, 1777
CHAPTER XIII
* * *
The noon sun was a ball of brass that bore down relentlessly to turn the world into a sweltering, oppressive oven of dead, wet air that lay heavy on the rolling New Jersey hills and valleys. The wild flowers and lush foliage that lined the banks of the Raritan River hung limp, drooping, while the brown-black water flowed south, twisting and turning until the river suddenly veered due east to empty into the Atlantic at the southern tip of Staten Island.
River traffic labored in both directions—the southbound moving with paddles and the current, and the northbound being driven upstream with long poles. The men moving the northbound boats and barges had long since stripped off their sweat-soaked shirts and draped them to dry on barrels or shipping crates or on the roof of the tiny, low cabins on the small, squat freight boats and barges, while they continued to walk the narrow planks along the inside of the gunwales. They jammed their long poles into the mud on the river bottom, then threw their weight against them, legs driving, as they walked from the bow to the stern, bucking the current to move the boat and its load of freight another few yards upriver. Muscles stood out like cords while sweat ran shining to soak their rough, homespun trousers, and dripped from elbows and chins and noses.
Amos Jennings, owner of the River Belle, sat slumped on a plank bench in the stern of the small, aging freight boat, arm draped over the tiller, intently watching ahead for sandbars, shallows, and submerged logs. He clamped his cold clay pipe between his teeth and squinted one-eyed at the sun. Noon, and we got no time to spare. We miss the freight wagons at the pier and we might be three, four days getting some more. He drew a determined breath and watched his six-man crew continue their steady rotation, silent, heads down, sweat running as they set their poles and drove the boat and its thirteen tons of flour, blankets, shoes, and dried beef wallowing up the river, the gunwales a scant eight inches above the water line.
He removed his pipe long enough to wipe the sweat from his face and beard with his sleeve, then clenched it grimly back between his teeth. Three days lost waiting in New York for the shoes from Boston—lost another day when that storm come through from the Adirondacks—can’t make up no time going upstream—if we miss those wagons at the pier, the army in Morristown’s not going to like it—can’t lose the hauling contract—got to protect it somehow.
At the pier, newly built to unload river freight bound for the Continental army in Morristown, contract wagons waited to make the two-day haul due east on a rutted dirt road that wound its way through the forest, to the depot on the fringes of the army encampment. The wagons ran on a schedule. To miss them at the pier meant waiting, sometimes four days, for them to return for the next load.
He glanced to his right at the young, attractive woman who had paid him ten pounds British for passage from New York to the pier. She had said her name was Mary Flint and that she had an urgent need to see someone in the Continental army. With the British swarming in New York and New Jersey, she had been forced to seek passage on freight boats and wagons whose operators were willing to chance getting stopped by the British. The delay in New York forced her to pay for food and lodging at an inn for three extra days, and left her with almost nothing after she paid Jennings for passage up the river.
He had warned her about robbers and thieves who preyed on the riverboats and freight wagons, and the chance that British soldiers might intercept and confiscate the entire load, as well as the boat. She listened but said nothing. He also told her she would have to pay to ride the freight wagons to Morristown, and she said she was aware of it, since she had made the arrangements with the teamsters herself, but the cost of the three extra days in New York had left her without enough money. She looked Jennings in the eye and said she would find a way. She would sell her luggage if necessary. Jennings was puzzled. Her manners and speech bespoke cultured breeding, and her clothing and baggage were of high quality. He wondered at the dichotomy of expensive clothing, high breeding, and no money, but staid New England custom would not allow him to inquire into the private affairs of a young woman. He could only wonder in silence.
The dark-eyed, dark-haired woman sat on an empty upside-down keg with her two large leather suitcases, one on either side. She had untied her bonnet strings but left the bonnet in place to shade her eyes and face. Jennings studied her as she leaned to her right to drench her handkerchief in the river, then squeeze it tightly, shake it out, fold it, and wipe at the beads of perspiration on her face. She repeated it to wipe at her neck, then her wrists and hands. She had taken her meals with the men, and with the boat tied to the shore at night, she had slept aboard while the men all slept on the river bank. She had asked no privilege, nor did she complain.
Jennings shifted his gaze back to his crew, watching for the first signs of heat exhaustion. They could endure the backbreaking work of poling the boat under the fierce midday sun for a time, but not all day. When their legs began to quiver and their hands to shake on their poles, it was time to either get them off the boat and into the shade of the forest for a time, or lose one or two of them for two or three days, or worse, dig a shallow grave and move on.
He grasped the tiller with both hands, hauled it to the right, and the boat nosed over toward the east bank. “Get ashore. I’ll bring food.”
The men tied the boat, set the gangplank, and walked down to the thick green growth, into the dank shade of the forest, to lay down on their backs, arms flung wide. They closed the
ir eyes and did not move until Jennings brought cheese, bread, and ham in a sack, and Mary carried two canteens of fresh water. They ate in silence, then once again lay down on the forest floor, closed their eyes, and did not move. One hour after stopping, Jennings called, “Back to the Belle. Miles to go before we sleep.”
They pushed steadily northward until darkness hid the sandbars and shallows and the submerged logs and snags. They tied up once again to the east bank and shared their simple meal, then the men slipped into their dry shirts with the sweat rings showing around the neck and sleeves before they sought their blankets among the trees on shore. Mary remained aboard the gently undulating boat. One hour later, certain the men were asleep, Mary quietly dipped a wooden bucket of water from the river, lowered herself into the cramped hold of the small boat, washed herself in the darkness, put on dry clothing, then went back up on deck. She dipped her sweat-stained dress in the river, then carefully wrung it out and draped it over the edge of the cabin to dry. Minutes later she spread her blanket on the deck near the tiller, and for a time sat with her back propped against the side of the boat, arms wrapped about her drawn-up knees, listening to the quiet murmur of the river, the croak of the bullfrogs, and the chirping song of the crickets.
A night breeze arose fresh and cool on her face. She turned her eyes upward to the countless stars in the black velvet dome, and as the weariness and tension began to slowly drain, she let her thoughts run.
Alone—so far from home. Home? I have no home—or family—all gone—money gone—husband gone—baby gone—war all around—how did it happen—what grand design in heaven took everything—left me on a riverbank with strangers, trying to find two men—one from Boston—one raised Iroquois—am I foolish to be looking for them—no—they will help—Eli will understand—what do I expect from Eli—what will he think—what will he think?
