Time Enough for Drums

by Ann Rinaldi

  I sighed and pushed back the quilt and sat up. She stood, slim and erect and elegant in her homespun clothes. “I’m going to tell Mother you’re slipping back into your careless ways of speaking if you tell her I was being blasphemous, Lucy.”

  “Put your feet on the floor and git up.”

  “The floor is cold.”

  She poured some water into the china washing basin, put another log on the fire, and handed me a piece of flannel. “Start washin’.”

  “You can read almost all of Poor Richard’s Almanac, Lucy. And verses in the Bible that even I have trouble with. Mama works so hard with you. You can speak properly and you should at all times.”

  “John Reid … he works hard with you, too,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You don’t ’preciate what he does for you. You ran off yesterday when you was supposed to be learnin’.”

  “And so what if I did, Lucy?”

  “So you’re nobody to be tellin’ Lucy what she should do. There’s scented soap from your father’s shop. Use it.”

  “Why do I get scented soap today?”

  “Special. So you can smell sweet for your sister.”

  “I don’t care a shilling’s worth about smelling sweet for her.”

  “There’s a new blue ribbon there, too. Your mama say you’re to wear it with your new printed English gown.”

  “I told you, Lucy, I don’t care about your fine Miss Rebeckah.”

  “She ain’t no miss no more. And she never was mine, anyway.”

  “She always was. You liked her manners. And you don’t like me because I’m not prim and proper like her.”

  “I said start washin’.”

  “If I were Father, I’d never set you free, Lucy, do you know that? Never!”

  She glided toward the door. “Hurry up,” she said, “before the water gits cold.”

  Everything worth talking about in our family was discussed at mealtime. Breakfast was particularly noteworthy for this. When I got down to the kitchen the family was already assembled and eating.

  We ate breakfast in the kitchen at the long oaken table. Cornelius had recently put a fresh coat of whitewash on the walls, and the usual assortment of dried herbs hung from the beams. The windows were without curtains, letting in plenty of light. The big cupboard in the corner held all of Mother’s Delft plates, pewter, porcelain, and wooden bowls. The eight-foot fireplace was trimmed with blue and white tiles Father had imported from Holland, and there hung the oversized teakettle and brass and copper chafing dishes and all the other equipment Mother and Lucy needed for the constant cooking. It was a very friendly kitchen. But the look Father cast me as I slid into my place at the table was decidedly unfriendly.

  “How long have you lived in this house, Jemima Emerson?”

  “It will soon be sixteen years.”

  “And have you noticed, over those sixteen years, that breakfast in this house has always been at eight?”

  “Yes, Father, I’ve noticed.”

  “Is this morning an exception?”

  “I was dressing for my trip today. It took extra time.”

  He sipped his hot coffee and put a generous share of butter on his bread. My father’s face, with his wisps of hair tucked behind his ears and his spectacles and finely chisled features, was the very image of a mild and loving parent. But he could manage sternness very nicely when the occasion warranted it.

  For some reason he seemed to think it was warranted now.

  “Jemima Emerson, I want a good account of your behavior today when you visit Grandfather Henshaw and Rebeckah. There is to be no talk of politics and no blame put at your sister’s feet for her past actions. Is that understood?”

  “I think so, Father.”

  “And you’re to ride over in the chaise with Dan. You’ll leave your horse in the barn today and give the creature a rest and act like a lady.”

  “But what do I do if Grandfather talks politics, Father? He’s forever receiving news from Aunt Grace about Boston.”

  “You will politely change the subject, Jem,” Mother said.

  “But wouldn’t that be rude?”

  My father was glaring at me across the table. “Jemima, you aren’t very high in my esteem for running off on your lessons yesterday, so I’d keep quiet for the rest of this meal if I were you. And don’t talk with your mouth full in the first place.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  We continued eating. “Sarah, there are whispers in the merchant community that Thomas Riche is selling to the British army.”

  “And who is whispering such things, James? I tell you I don’t believe it!”

  The Riches were Philadelphia friends, dear to my parents. “We Patriot merchants have no proof,” Father went on, “and I have seen his cash book. No wheat, flour, or pork is going to the British. He’s been my friend for years, and I’ll continue to send him goods from Trenton until I’m convinced I should do otherwise.”

  “John Fitch says most of the Philadelphia merchants are selling to the British.” David saw his mistake as soon as he spoke the words, for now my father’s steadfast gaze was upon him.

  “He does, does he? Is that the kind of prattle he fills your mind with when you’re at the mill with him?”

  David said nothing.

  “Do you know he’s about to be expelled from the Methodist Society for repairing firearms on the Sabbath?”

  “He’s gunsmith for the Committee of Safety,” David said. “It’s his job.”

  “I’m quite aware that he’s our gunsmith. Is it your job?”

  “No, sir.”

  “John Fitch can do as he pleases. He’s a good man and I’ve nothing against him. But when he drags you off from your responsibilities …”

  “Nobody dragged me off. I went willingly.”

  “Then the fault is yours. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Again David saw his mistake. “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Then suppose you just cut an hour’s worth of wood when you come home from Singer’s this afternoon.”

  David mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “I said I don’t see why I have to keep apprenticing to be a merchant when I’ll be in the militia soon anyway.”

  “You’ll be in the militia when I say you’re ready, and not before.”

  Father was full of pepper in the morning. He put in an hour at the shop before breakfast and had plenty of time to formulate his early-morning discourses. Mother had told us to mollify him and not argue, that his bark was worse than his bite. But David was set to argue.

  “You always said, Father, that betraying a confidence is just about the worst sin a man can commit, didn’t you?”

  Father reached for the pot of Mother’s homemade raspberry jam. “If we’re discussing sins, David, the field is wide open for comment. You’ll be knee-deep in it if you’re not careful.”

  “Didn’t you?” David insisted.

  “I did.” Father always let us have our say. He dearly loved such discussions.

  “Well, John Reid betrayed my confidence when he told you I ran off with Fitch yesterday.”

  “David!” Mother chided.

  “It’s all right, Sarah.” Father waved off her dismay. “Did you confide in John that you were running off, then?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then there was no confidence to break.”

  Breakfast was over. Father pushed back his chair. “Sarah, you look tired.” She had gotten up to hand him his blanket-coat.

  “I was writing letters late last night, James.”

  “Does your sister Grace deserve such dedication?”

  “I enjoy my letter writing.”

  He turned his attention to Dan. “Have you asked for Betsy Moore’s hand yet?”

  “I was going to do that today, Father.”

  “Well, do it, then. And stop dallying with that girl’s feelings.”

  “It isn’
t my intention to dally.”

  “You’re twenty, Dan. I was married to your mother at eighteen. At eighteen you court. At twenty, with war coming, you dally. Either do it today or have an end to it with her. And give the Moores our best when you stop by.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Grandfather Henshaw cried when he saw us. I had never seen a grown man cry, and I was unprepared for it. As for Dan, I think it unsettled him too because he just stood there on the front portico of the house with his tricorn hat under his arm while the old man shed his tears.

  “Children, children,” said Grandfather, opening his arms and crushing me against the velvet of his coat. “Come into the library, children, come, come.” He dabbed his eyes with a silk handkerchief.

  The library ran the whole length of the house. It had windows that looked out on lawns sloping to the Delaware River. The walls were lined with books, and a globe of the world and a telescope stood in front of the windows. He spent hours every day watching the barges go down the river to Philadelphia.

  Grandfather Henshaw was a lawyer with a fine office in town. Dan planned to read law for his exams when his classical education at Princeton was finished, and so the two of them used to share much talk and intellectual argument. But the war came and Dan chose his side and joined up. This was the first time he had seen Grandfather since doing so. But the old man said nothing as he led us in front of the crackling fire. A table was laid for lunch.

  He poured wine for himself and Dan. I was given hot cider. The warmth and richness of the room made me sleepy after the long, cold ride. I sank down on the yellow damask sofa. A winter sun shone through yellow satin draperies, making the floors gleam where they weren’t covered with carpets imported from Turkey. I never asked my mother, but I think her father was a very rich man.

  “So, Daniel, you’ve done it. You’ve thrown your lot in with the Rebels.”

  “I prefer to call them Patriots, Grandfather.”

  “If it helps, call yourselves such. But it won’t aid your cause. It makes me sad to see you go against your king.”

  “I have no king, Grandfather. The time for kings is past.”

  “Is the time for common sense also past?”

  “I had hoped we wouldn’t argue, Grandfather. It won’t get us anywhere.”

  “You’re right, dear boy, of course. It makes me even sadder, though, to see you give up your studies.”

  “I’ve all but finished my classical education. When the war is over there will be time enough to read law. Many of us are giving up a lot that we cherish these days. But we cherish our right to self-government even more.”

  “A fine sentiment, Daniel, and well spoken. But now let’s eat, shall we?” He pulled a bell cord. A black man dressed in scarlet breeches came into the room accompanied by a black woman in gray with a white apron. Silently they laid out platters of cold turkey and beef, hot biscuits and honey, bowls of hot soup and preserved fruits. We sat at a round table near the fire. “Your sister will be down presently,” Grandfather said.

  “Let the children start. They must be famished.”

  How like Rebeckah to start out the visit by calling us children. She came into the room, beautifully gowned in dark green damask with ruffles. Dan and Grandfather rose, and you could see her astonishment as Dan towered over her.

  “My, you look handsome. I can’t believe how you’ve sprouted up. My little brother.” She offered her cheek for a kiss.

  There was less than two years’ difference in their ages. She brushed her face against mine. “How are you, Jemima. Still as feisty as ever?”

  We ate. Grandfather did most of the talking. He spoke of his farm and the weather and his law practice, which he was moving to Philadelphia, the center of cultural activity. And how he intended to pay a visit to our house before he left.

  Rebeckah didn’t bother with such niceties. “You didn’t ride Bleu over, did you, Jem?”

  “No, we came in the chaise.”

  “Heavens, you look as if you rode five miles on a horse.”

  “It’s windy out there, Becky,” Dan said firmly.

  “So it is. How are your lessons, Jem? More to the point, how is John Reid? Does he ask after me?”

  “He never mentions you, Becky,” Dan said.

  “Well, it was too brief a courtship to be worth mentioning. It didn’t take me long to realize I didn’t want to be married to a schoolmaster.”

  “I’d say it would be an improvement over a British officer,” Dan said. He said it quietly so that Grandfather, who had taken his wine to the window, wouldn’t hear.

  Rebeckah laughed. “Our verbal dueling is one of the things I miss, not being home, Dan.”

  “I would have thought you’d miss other things.”

  She looked at him, her gray eyes troubled, and I could see that she realized she was no match for him anymore. “How is everyone at home?”

  “Everyone is fine, Becky. I’ll tell them you inquired.”

  “Yes, do. I should congratulate you on your commission, I suppose. Grandfather says you’ve raised your own company. You do look dashing. What militia group wears such a coat?”

  “The Second New Jersey. We’re not militia. We’re Continental Line.”

  “I should hope, not. The poor beggars didn’t even have proper uniforms outside Boston. They were a rabble at Cambridge, I understand, when your Washington came to assume command in June. You couldn’t tell them from the farmers.”

  “Probably because many of them were farmers. Proper uniforms or not, those poor beggars held their own at Lexington and Concord. Not to mention the way that rabble of an army has the British penned in Boston.”

  She got up. “Please don’t talk of Boston. I left my husband there with General Howe, and I don’t know if I’ll see him again.”

  At this point Grandfather turned from the window. “Children, the river is so beautiful. Come look at it.”

  We went to stand beside him. “It’s a moving, breathing, living thing,” he said reverently. “It gives life to our town. It is deep in secrets and rich in dreams, and if we could know those secrets and dreams, we’d be a wiser people.”

  Grandfather always could turn a phrase, Mother said. The Delaware was beautiful, but frankly, I think he feared an argument was developing between Dan and Becky and wanted to distract them.

  “Now,” he said, “you brought a package for Becky, didn’t you, Jem? Why don’t you two go into the music room and have a nice visit. Dan and I have some business to talk over.”

  Becky soon made it clear to me that she had no intention of having a nice visit. She took the package, then said she had to oversee the help in the kitchen, as they were expecting guests for supper. As she left, she stopped in the doorway.

  “Aunt Grace wonders why she receives so few letters from Mother. You may tell Mother she inquires after her.”

  “Mother writes to Aunt Grace all the time.”

  “Does she? How odd. Well, perhaps with the siege and all it’s difficult for the mail to get through. Although I receive Aunt Grace’s letters with little delay. Tell me, is John Reid really worming his way into Mother and Father’s affections, as I hear from some friends in town?”

  “If you want to know what’s going on at home, Becky, you ought to visit and find out for yourself.”

  “Just as impudent as you ever were, Jemima, I can see that,” she said, closing the door and leaving me to my own devices. I wandered around the room a bit. The large house seemed strangely silent. After a few minutes, though, I heard Grandfather’s voice. It seemed to be getting louder and louder. Certainly he must be doing more than discussing business with Dan, since I could hear him clear across the wide hall.

  I opened the door of the music room cautiously. The hall was deserted. I crept out and edged toward the closed library door.

  “This is an intolerable situation, Daniel. Your mother’s foolishness is going to get you all into trouble.”

  “Mother isn’
t a foolish woman, Grandfather.”

  “Nonsense. All women are foolish. It’s in their nature. How can you take this so lightly? I don’t think you realize what I said. Your mother is writing letters to the Pennsylvania Gazette, in support of the American army. Those letters are being published under the name of Intrepid. Letters, did I say? Why, they’re a series of essays, I’ve been told. All calling for contributions of money and supplies. They’ve become so popular that other Patriot papers are reprinting them!”

  “Mother always did write a fine hand, Grandfather.”

  “This is no time for impudence, Daniel. Let’s be sensible. Our politics are different. As a well-to-do citizen I have much to lose with this social upheaval. Most men of influence are siding with the Crown. That your father chooses not to is his business. And I respect it. As I respect your right to fight for what you believe in.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather.”

  “However, not siding with the Crown and making activist moves against it are two different things. Your father has built a fine life for his family here in Trenton. If those letters came to light with the right authorities, he could lose everything he has.”

  “I don’t think Father knows about the letters, if what you say about Mother is true, Grandfather.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t! Those letters are open acts of treason. Nothing less!”

  I stood trembling out in the hall, shaken to the bone. I was trembling for Mama. The tone in Grandfather’s voice was so urgent.

  “My wearing this uniform is treason,” Dan said.

  “But you fight with your brother officers, under the command of an experienced general. Your Washington had years of experience in the French and Indian Wars. Your mother fights alone. Her pen is her only weapon. And if retaliation comes, she won’t have an army with her. Be sensible, Dan. That’s all I ask you to do.”

  “Exactly what are you asking me to do, Grandfather?”

  “I called you here today to ask you to speak to your mother about the full consequences of her actions. Let her spin her cloth, if she will. Let her make her liberty teas. Such occupations are relatively harmless. I can’t speak to your father. It would do no good. He wouldn’t stop her anyway. Will you, for heaven’s sake, speak to your mother? Will you do that?”