The New Land

by The New Land (retail) (epub)

“Hard to believe. He was equal parts thief and brave man. I wish I remembered your father at Louisbourg.”

  “He said they mostly dug trenches.”

  “Then he really was there.” He led the visitors back to the cobbler shop. “We won’t march out for a few days. We can put you up in our barn in return for some chores. My wife’s got a garden and could use some help before we go. You boys can sleep in the barn.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  †

  F ranklin woke to the sound of a giggle. Then another one. Then came the drumming of liquid hitting the bottom of a wooden bucket. He brushed straw from his hair and pulled on his boots.

  “See what comes forth!” Marcus called from the milking stool. “It’s the champion sleeper of Lincoln County!” The giggle came again. Jane Bellamy was the source. The sun, bursting through the open barn door, gave depth to her dark hair and darker eyes.

  “Good morning,” Franklin managed.

  “Breakfast’ll be at eight,” Jane said, adding an impish smile. “I believe my father’s instructions will keep you busy until then.”

  “They’ll keep us busy until breakfast tomorrow,” Marcus said, eliciting another giggle as Jane left.

  “Charming girl, ain’t she?” Marcus said. Franklin grunted his agreement. He left to wash up at the pump.

  The first chore was shoveling manure from the livestock pen into Bellamy’s wagon for sale to a tannery. “The people here,” Franklin said after spitting, “must have no sense of smell.”

  “All the same, bright things seem to grow here.” Marcus aimed his chin at Jane, who was hoeing in the garden with two young boys as dark-featured as she was. “Just takes a bit of scrubbing.”

  When they were washing up again, Jane brought soap. “You won’t get into the house without it. Mother insists.”

  Marcus accepted it with a grin. “Stay and show us how to use it.”

  “If you need instruction,” the girl said over her shoulder, “I fear for the future of the cause.”

  “How does anyone here tell when they’re clean?” Franklin muttered after she had left.

  “Have you noticed,” Marcus said, “how many people are walking by?”

  “Sure. Who would linger here?”

  “No, I mean where they’re going. They’re headed that way”—he pointed—”toward Boston. Toward the fighting.”

  “That’s where we’re going, and it can’t be too soon for me.”

  A small boy opened the back door for them. Marcus took a step inside, then froze. Franklin nearly walked into him.

  “Come in, come in,” Captain Bellamy called from the table. “Biscuits are almost ready. Mrs. Bellamy made them in your honor.”

  Franklin nudged Marcus to get him moving again. A woman was reaching into an oven built into the side of the fireplace. Her long dark hair escaped from the back of her cap. Catherine had been after his father to build an oven like that. “That smells wonderful,” Franklin said, his mouth watering. When the woman rotated to deliver the biscuits to the table, Franklin saw why Marcus had stopped. Though dressed like anyone, Mrs. Bellamy was Indian.

  He smiled at her and gave his name, then shoved Marcus toward the table.

  The breakfast featured dishes not served in Waldoborough, but Franklin and Marcus ate with enthusiasm, especially the baked beans and creamed codfish. The talk turned on the day’s chores, which Captain Bellamy laid out precisely. “I’ll be out in the forenoon,” he concluded, “making preparations. We leave tomorrow, first thing.”

  Franklin said he’d noticed a hole in the barn wall with some lumber next to it. The Bellamy children smiled.

  “Yes,” the captain said. “Whilst saddling George the mule, Robert managed to annoy George sufficiently that the animal kicked those holes.” The boy looked down at his plate. “We’re lucky that George didn’t kick any holes in his head. Any new ones, that is.”

  Franklin offered to patch the wall if there were tools. “By all means.” The captain smiled. “Jane, will you show Mr. Overstreet the tools?”

  “And shall I do the fence, too, sir—over on the east side?” Franklin said.

  “It would be rude for a host to take advantage of his guest so.”

  Franklin insisted, explaining he liked to work with wood. “It’d be small return for the holes that we’re eating in your larder.”

  “You’re not going to get to that fence before you go, are you?” Mrs. Bellamy directed the question to her husband.

  “Indeed, not,” he said, turning to Franklin. “Shall we have young James serve as your helper?” He wagged a finger at the younger boy. “Watch and listen. You might learn a few things.”

  After breakfast, Marcus placed the mule George into harness while the older Bellamy boy recited the animal’s likes and dislikes. Captain Bellamy, in a faded green uniform coat with buff breeches, waved as he set off down the road. All three paused to watch. “That’s from the last war,” Robert said. “And the one before that. The one where they found my mother.”

  “Found her, they did?” Franklin said.

  “Yes, her whole village had either been killed or run away. The Barlows”—he pointed at the next farm to the west—”have a scalp from then, but I’m not allowed to look at it.”

  “You wouldn’t want to, would you?” Franklin asked.

  The boy pursed his lips and shook his head as he climbed up to drive the wagon filled with manure. “You two can walk alongside,” he said. “George can’t pull both the load and you.”

  It was nearly noon before they had delivered the load and washed down the wagon. When Jane came toward them, wiping her hands on her apron, Marcus said he would start digging out the second garden plot that the captain wanted. As he passed the girl, Marcus nodded and touched the brim of his hat, but didn’t speak. She walked on without expression.

  Franklin turned to the wall patches, which came hard at first. He missed his own tools. The lumber was a mishmash of lengths and widths, scraps and leftovers from other jobs. Franklin had James sort them by type of wood, width, and thickness, while Franklin filed off and squared the damage the mule had wrought. Preparation, he preached to the boy, was the key. How many times had Franklin heard that from his father?

  When the call came for dinner, Franklin was near the end of the second patch. He sent James in to eat, with the message that he was making progress and wanted to finish up. He didn’t mention that the neighborhood’s pestilential odors were suppressing his appetite. Franklin was looking over the last gap in the wall when he realized that Jane was behind him. She held a plate with a cloth over it, a mug in her other hand.

  “Oh,” he said, “I didn’t mean to make you do that.”

  “Father didn’t want you interrupted, but mother insists. This is the compromise. You must eat—mother’s codfish cakes shouldn’t be missed—but I’ve saved you coming inside and having to be polite.”

  Franklin smiled, “Right.” He gestured to a stump. “Why don’t you sit there and I’ll practice being polite with you.”

  When he returned from washing up, Franklin sat on the ground with the plate, leaning against the barn. The sun lit one side of her face. He first drank off half the beer. His appetite rallied at the sight and smell of brown bread and more codfish.

  “Your mother’s a marvel,” he said around a mouthful of bread.

  “For an Indian, you mean.”

  “No. I say what I mean.”

  “And what of your friend? Who barely said a word through dinner?”

  Franklin shrugged. “He’s not like that. Not really.”

  “He’s exactly like that.”

  He swallowed the bread. He started coughing, then drank some more beer. She waited. When he was settled, he said, “Your brother said your mother was found as a child. Where?”

  “Out east, towards where you’re from. She’s Penobscot. Her people were. She doesn’t remember much. She was only four.”

  “There’s still some Penobscots up our way, not far
from us. We get along with them. I guess we didn’t when our people first got here. Our people came from Germany.” Her dark eyes looked levelly at him. A man could lose himself in those eyes. That must be what happened to Captain Bellamy with Jane’s mother. He tried the bread again. “Is it hard? Being part Indian? I mean, around here?”

  “Sometimes my brothers get into fights. Most folks around here are used to us. A few stay away. Like your friend. My father, he’s pretty well respected.”

  “He seems a fine man. Your mother too.”

  “She seems a fine man?” Jane was smiling.

  Franklin smiled back. “I guess you’re making me nervous.”

  “You’re always nervous around Indians? Worried that I’ve got my scalping knife under this apron?” She reached underneath it.

  “No, around girls who seem nice.”

  Jane nodded at the patches on the barn wall. “You’re a carpenter?”

  “My father makes furniture. He favors making fine pieces, though there’s not so much demand for them in Waldoborough. He’s taught himself the trade, did that here in America.”

  “And he’s taught you.”

  “Yes, we made a boat together, when I was a boy. He taught me everything, then we kept learning together.” He told her about the Christiane and sailing. “There’s nothing like it. The air’s so fresh and clean out there.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not like here.”

  He smiled. “No, not like here.”

  “You and your father should make more boats.”

  “He won’t. He says he doesn’t have any feel for them, not like I do. He says we have the two boats we need, so why make more?”

  “Then you should make boats by yourself. You have the feel for them.”

  He nodded. “I plan to.” He almost started to tell her about his plans, which were for more than boats, for ships, coasters, even big ships. Waldoborough was a good place for it. The lumber could float down from forests upriver. Pitch could come from local pines. Hemp for ropes grew nearby.

  “I should get back for my spinning.” She stood, then paused. “Why are you going to fight?”

  “Why, for liberty. So we can rule ourselves.”

  “Does it matter so much to you?”

  “You know, my parents, the people who settled Waldoborough, they say they came from Germany for land. That’s what my father says. He’s got the land, so why fight? He says he doesn’t understand why I’m going. When he was young, he fought for King George, the one before this one. But when he talks about it, why he came, I don’t think it was for the land. That’s just the way he says it. I think he came to get out from under the thumb of the Landgraf—that was the ruler where they lived. He hated that. But here we are, under the thumb of the king and Parliament.”

  “My mother keeps asking why.”

  “What does the captain say?”

  “Much like what you say. Without the German part.”

  “Do you understand?”

  She shook her head. “Not entirely. I think fighting’s more important to men.”

  Franklin stood and held the plate out. She was tall. They looked eye-to-eye. “Jane,” he said, then his mouth felt dried out. He locked up.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I’d like to come back here after the fighting.”

  “You’ll be a member of the Essex County militia, fully entitled to breathe the restoring air of Lynn at your leisure.”

  “No. I mean, to see you. Come here to see you. If your folks didn’t mind.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. And I’m sure they wouldn’t.” She took a step back, then looked at him again. “It would be fine.”

  After supper, when Franklin and Marcus were settling down by lantern light, Marcus said, “You looked to be having quite a chat with that girl.”

  “Jane?”

  “No. I mean Helga!”

  “She’s interesting.”

  “Because she’s part savage?”

  “Why do you say that? She’s Captain Bellamy’s daughter. She speaks better than we do. And why did you go off like that? They had to notice.”

  Marcus sat down on a hay bale. “I’m not sure. I was surprised, that first time, when we first went inside. I hadn’t figured on that.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know. It felt wrong.”

  “We see Penobscots in Waldoborough. That’s what Mrs. Bellamy is. Or was.”

  “See?” Marcus looked at him. “You don’t even know how to describe her. It’s confusing. It doesn’t seem natural. Not right.”

  “The captain doesn’t seem confused.”

  “I suppose not. Do you like her? Jane?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Because she’s part Penobscot?”

  “I don’t know. Because I like her.”

  After a few seconds, Marcus said, “You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Marcus blew out the lantern. After a minute, he said, “Are you going to try to see her again?”

  “If I can. The British may have something to say about that.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. About the fighting.”

  “Yes. I think we’re lucky to be with Captain Bellamy. He’s done it before.” Franklin rolled on his side. “My father says it’s all luck.”

  “What is?”

  “The fighting. Whether you live or die.”

  “He ought to know.” Marcus added, “Is that supposed to make us feel better?”

  “He wasn’t trying to.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  †

  Shortly after dawn, Captain Bellamy’s company mustered on the town commons. Most of the forty-two men carried muskets. Each wore the clothes he thought best for the expedition. Most chose trousers and work shirt, waistcoat, and jacket, with a blanket for cool nights. Hats ranged from broad-brimmed felt ones like Franklin’s to beaver caps to the straw hats of farmers. Only the captain had a tricorn, and only he wore a uniform. Ancient swords dangled from a few belts.

  Ages ranged from younger than Franklin to older than the captain -- a few were considerably older. The company had three pairs of brothers and a couple of fathers and sons. The men shifted from foot to foot, impatient for the march to start. Families waited at the edges of the company. Wives and mothers and fathers smiled gamely while young children chased each other. Josiah Alderson was there, leaning on his crutch and calling out good wishes. Franklin and Marcus stood to the side while the Bellamys struggled to master their feelings. If there were Tories in Lynn, they stayed indoors.

  Two wagons pulled up. One held bullets and two kegs of powder; the other held canvas and lumber for temporary shelters. In view of the sparse equipment, Franklin judged that no one was going to give him a musket to fight with, which meant he might never have a chance to use his father’s bayonet.

  When the march began, the two volunteers from Waldoborough fell in at the end. Franklin was glad to have someone to wave farewell to. The morning gave him no chance to speak with Jane, but he waved specially to her. He thought she waved specially to him. Maybe.

  The company’s progress varied between a walk and a trot. The men were eager to get to the action but rarely stayed in formation. Captain Bellamy, having drilled them for months, knew enough to insist on only a rough order. The narrowness of the road forced them to advance no more than three abreast, moving aside for mounted and horse-drawn traffic in either direction. At noontime, when they crossed over the Charles River, Franklin pointed out British warships in the harbor. Those were ships of the line, he said, bigger than anything he’d seen on his one trip to Boston with his father. Each carried sixty-four guns.

  As they neared Cambridge, Captain Bellamy insisted on better order. He led them briskly past crowds of lounging men who chatted and shouted to each other, walking here and there on a thousand different errands. The atmosphere felt closer to market day than to a military camp.

  “Where we headed, Captain?” a man in the front called.
>
  “Harvard College grounds. Just up on the left.”

  “Hear that boys?” the same voice called out. “We’re going to get educated before we fight!”

  But the college grounds were filled. The company walked to an open field a mile beyond. Captain Bellamy ordered the men to stay put. Taking one man, he left to find the wagons, which had fallen behind. He said he’d also look for someone who was in charge of the camp.

  Marcus flopped onto the ground, only to spring back up, twisting to looking at the seat of his trousers. The others laughed at the manure stain. Franklin grabbed a handful of grass and handed it to his friend to clean himself up. “Guess it’s pastureland,” he said.

  “More like it came from our fellow soldiers,” an older man said. He pointed to the side of the field. A man crouched to perform an act usually conducted in private.

  “Good Christ,” another said, “like beasts of the field they are.”

  “We won’t be beating the British if that’s the kind of camp we have,” the first man said. “No discipline. Can’t win a fight without discipline. Did you see those characters we marched by? Some of them already stewed to the gills. The rotgut peddlers are having a big time.”

  “Didn’t you see the fine bottles they were swigging?” said the other. “I bet they’ve been off plundering Tory houses for better stuff than these fellows have ever drunk before.”

  The two men, who proved to be the brothers Ben and Christopher Talbot, sat with Franklin and Marcus. Each of them pulled out some bread to share. Franklin didn’t know where the rest of their meals were going to come from.

  Ben, the older brother, had been on campaign with Captain Bellamy twenty years before, against the French. “That’s where the captain got that gorgeous uniform,” he said with a smile.

  “Where’s yours?” Franklin asked.

  “You’re looking at it. That Seth Bellamy, even the British could see he was a natural soldier. They recruited him for one of their American regiments. Went all the way to Quebec with Wolfe, he did. He’d fought in the war with the Indians before that one, when I was a boy.”

  “Is that when he found Mrs. Bellamy?”