Time Enough for Drums

by Ann Rinaldi

“How John Fitch knows so much about the Anglican Church when he’s a Methodist is beyond me.”

  “He knows a lot about what goes on in town,” David insisted.

  “So it seems. He could start his own newspaper. Trenton could use one. But until he does, I’d like to read mine.”

  “Father, I have to ask you something,” I said.

  He sighed. “Is there no peace for a man in his own home on the Sabbath? What is it, Jemima?”

  “I’ve promised to write to Raymond Moore while he’s away.”

  “Since you’ve already promised, I don’t see the problem.”

  “John Reid insists on reading my letters first.”

  “And why is that?”

  “He says my penmanship is a disgrace and as my tutor he can’t allow a letter to go off unless he inspects it.”

  He smiled.

  “Well, goodness, Father, I don’t see what’s so funny. Why should he be allowed to read my letters?”

  “Jemima, first, your penmanship is a disgrace. And second, one of these days you will understand the humor of his purpose. And when you do, God willing, you’ll be mature enough to not mind John inspecting your correspondence.”

  “Now whatever is that supposed to mean? Mama, please can’t you help?”

  “John means no harm dear. Do as he wishes.”

  “You always defend him! Both of you! He has more privileges in this house than any of us!”

  “Jemima!” Father said sternly. “You will conduct yourself as a proper young lady of Christian upbringing in this house on the Sabbath or you will be confined to your chamber for the day. Now, which will it be?”

  He knew which it would be. I calmed myself. The bells of St. Michael’s were ringing. Well, at least Dan and I kept Father from reading the essay and upsetting Mama.

  CHAPTER

  10

  In the west the sky was still dark, and the houses and shops loomed against it in unnatural shapes. But in the east the sun was streaking the sky with red.

  Like blood, I thought. I shivered and pulled my blanket coat around me. All up and down our street Dan’s men were assembling to go off to war on that cold January morning. Some brought their womenfolk with them.

  The Moores were there. I saw Raymond in the distance, and he sighted me immediately and came over and took off his hat. He had a fine new musket, and with his cartridge box and canteen and powder horn, he looked like a soldier. Lanterns flickered in the morning cold and families huddled with their men for the last time. Horses and men alike breathed spurts of white breath. Dan and his officers were everywhere, checking off names and inspecting equipment. Some children whimpered in their mothers’ arms, and a few dogs mingled with the crowd, wagging their tails at the excitement.

  Lucy stood next to me holding a lantern and a small bundle. Cornelius held the reins of Dan’s horse, Gulliver. How many times I, on Bleu, and Dan, on Gulliver, had ridden over to the Moores’. Now Gulliver was going off to war. I couldn’t bear thinking on it.

  “I would speak with thee, Jemima.” Raymond Moore took my arm and led me away from the lantern light. “Thee will look after Betsy while I am gone?” He peered down earnestly into my face, his eyes filled with unspoken longings.

  “I’ll look after her, Raymond. And oh, I’ll miss you. And I am proud of you for … for going against everyone and joining up.”

  “Jemima …” He almost croaked my name. Then he looked about wildly to see who was watching, pulled me farther into the morning dark, took me by the shoulders, and kissed me.

  I was too surprised to resist, and then, after I got through being surprised, I didn’t want to resist anymore. The last thing in the world that I wanted to do was resist, as a matter of fact. It was very nice in his arms and I wished it would never end. But it did. He pulled back, confused and embarrassed.

  “I hope I haven’t offended thee.”

  “You could never offend me, Raymond.”

  “Jemima, remember thy promise to write.”

  He was moving away. I knew in my heart that I would never forget the way he stood looking at me in the middle of the confusion that day. “I’ll write, Raymond.”

  Dan was shouting commands and the men, about fifty of them, fell into some sort of order. They would rendezvous with another twenty-five or so along the way to Princeton. I saw Dan go to Mother and Father and Betsy and say goodbye. Then he murmured some words to David, shook Cornelius’s hand, and hugged Lucy, who gave him the bundle. He was in full dress, wearing epaulets on his shoulders, a sword and pistols, and a cocked hat. He looked very capable and dashing.

  “Jemima.” He was looking down at me.

  I couldn’t bear any more goodbyes. “Dan, I don’t want you to go.”

  “None of us wants to go. But it’s our duty. Will you look after Mother and Betsy?”

  “Goodness, if one more person asks me to look after Betsy …”

  “I saw you with Raymond.” He smiled. “Is that what he was doing? Asking you to look after Betsy?”

  I blushed. “Dan, could you really kill people?”

  “I don’t think about killing.”

  “But you will if you have to?”

  “I’ll do what I must. As you will. Don’t worry about killing. War is mostly marching and encampments and drilling and boredom. Jem, listen to me. Grandfather Emerson knows about Mother and the letters.”

  “What?”

  “He mentioned it to me. Mother confided in him. You know those two have always gotten along. It’s all right. There’s no better Patriot than he.”

  “I’m glad he knows.”

  “Yes. You can confide in him, if you must. But no one else. And don’t mention it to Mother. Let her keep her secret. And one more thing. Be kind to John Reid.”

  “How can you think of him at a time like this?”

  “Because he’s a dear friend. More dear than you could know. And although you two are always fighting, he holds you in high esteem.”

  “I won’t argue with you because you’re leaving.”

  “Then don’t. Trust me. Things are not always what they seem with people. Goodbye for now, Jem. I’ll write.” He embraced me. His hold was fierce, his face cold, and, pulling away, he brushed my face with his hand. He walked to his horse, which Cornelius still held, mounted, gave an order, and then they were all moving down the street. They would pick up their two musicians in Penny Town, so there was no music now, just their steady rhythmic shuffling and the creak of their wagons as they marched off into the mist.

  The houses hovered over us protectively. A cock crowed, a dog barked, and the lanterns added an eerie light to the awful, silent scene. I stood rooted as they marched past the red frame house of Sam Bellerjeau, Dr. Bellvidere’s stable, Ethan Downing’s house, and Benjamin Smith’s, then past Third Street and Thomas Tindall’s fine house of brick.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, I thought. It was all too desolate, too final. I had never thought that anything could be as empty and final as seeing them march off like that. I’d gone several times with Father to see our militia drill. It had always been under blue skies. The drums had been drumming to quicken the blood. And the fifes had been playing saucy tunes. There had been a gaiety and excitement about it.

  There was no gaiety and excitement now. There ought to be more to it, I decided. All around me people were leaving, going back home. “Come along, Jem,” Father said.

  But I stood there until I felt a hand on my arm. “Come on in,” Lucy said. “We be havin’ fresh-baked bread and strawberry preserves for breakfast.”

  In the kitchen I sat numbly, shivering, still in my blanket-coat, while my family ate. Mother had gone upstairs. David and Father ate in silence and left to do their respective chores. Cornelius went about his work out in the barn.

  “He be all right,” Lucy said. “Dan’l is one smart boy.”

  “It’s all wrong, Lucy. A person shouldn’t go off to war like that. There ought to be more to it.”


  “What more is there?”

  “I don’t know. Drums. I think there should be drums.”

  “Drums on the battlefield. Time enough for drums. Eat now.”

  I ate. The morning light came through the windows. I never knew that a person’s soul had such depths as I felt, sitting there. And I still thought there ought to be more.

  CHAPTER

  11

  After breakfast I had chores, and since it was Monday, John Reid was coming in the afternoon. I couldn’t bear the thought of lessons that day. I didn’t know if anybody could undo my soul more than it was undone already. But I knew one thing—John Reid would try.

  There was only one person in the world I wanted to see, and that was Grandfather Emerson. So I slipped out of the house and saddled Bleu and was off, cutting across our property to Second Street. At the corner I headed up King to DeCow’s Alley and out to River Road. The morning wind whipped my hair and the ground blurred beneath Bleu’s hooves. Once out on River Road, I let the tears come. They fell into Bleu’s mane as he carried me along.

  Grandfather Emerson had three hundred and fifty acres of farmland on River Road. All his help was hired, for he would not keep slaves. He lived with an Indian servant or an Indian friend—I wasn’t quite sure what the young man known as Broken Canoe was to him.

  I’d heard gossip that Canoe was his son by a second wife, an Indian woman he’d left up in Canada. I had never asked my father about it. Father was always friendly to Canoe, but Canoe never visited our house and hardly ever came to town. I never held with gossip. All I knew was that Grandfather’s first wife had died when my father was a boy in 1745 and that Canoe was twenty-seven.

  I figured that what Grandfather did with any woman in Canada after his wife died was his business. He still made trips to Canada every so often and traveled among the Indians. He had their respect and was invited to all their treaty-making assemblies.

  He never scolded me for being unladylike. He had a white beard, and I knew that my father visited him often for quiet talks and counsel. I did too, but not as much as I would have liked.

  About half a mile before the farm Bleu surged forward with a new burst of energy, his muscles straining. I held on, but while I was cutting across a field to Grandfather’s barns, he tripped. I didn’t have enough of a grip on the reins, and I flew right over his head and hit the ground hard, landing on one hand.

  Everything was upside down for a moment, spinning. I sat on the frozen ground, stunned. There was a narrow brook nearby, and Bleu was drinking out of it with as much concern for me as John Reid had when I cried after one of his scoldings.

  I jumped up and grabbed the reins. He shouldn’t be drinking so greedily after such a workout. He was glistening with sweat, and Grandfather would scold me for allowing him to become overheated. I dipped my wrist into the water, and it was so cold tears came to my eyes. I started shivering. I was feeling poorly, as a matter of fact, so I began to walk slowly across the field in the direction of Grandfather’s house. But by the time I was halfway across, the wrist was hurting to the point of distraction and I was almost faint with my efforts.

  It was Canoe who saw me coming. He was near the stables and came running. I handed the reins wordlessly to him, but he scooped me up instead and carried me across the rest of the field. Bleu followed.

  “Jemima Emerson, did that horse throw you?”

  “No, Grandfather, it was my fault, truly.”

  “And how was it your fault?”

  “I was riding too fast. I didn’t hold his head up when he tripped.”

  “Your parents never did like the fact that I gave him to you. You’ll break your neck one of these days and they’ll disown me.”

  “I won’t break my neck, Grandfather.”

  Canoe had carried me through the huge center hall where Grandfather’s beloved hunting dogs had come to greet us. From the large rooms beyond, two Indian women on moccasined feet approached. Canoe set me down on the sofa. Relics of Grandfather’s trips north were all around, and the wide floorboards were covered with woven Indian rugs.

  One of the Indian women washed my face. The other attended to my wrist, and in no time at all it felt better.

  Grandfather watched me all the while. “You’re exactly like I am, Jemima Emerson,” he said. “You like to run free and lead your own life and not account to anyone. A certain amount of that is fine, but we do have to conform to some rules in this world. Now tell me, why were you riding so fast?”

  “I was anxious to see you.”

  He scowled. “You’ve been crying. Why?”

  “Because I fell.”

  He thanked the Indian women and they left. “Now you can tell me why you were crying.” He looked at me steadily.

  “Because everything’s so awful.”

  “What’s awful?”

  “Dan left today. And Raymond Moore.”

  “Ah, the Moore boy. The Quaker who joined up. I met him Christmas Day. I saw you and him talking at the table. You’re fond of him?”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “And do you suppose he returns your esteem?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so, breaking your neck is going to make you feel better?”

  “Well, there’s everything else, too.”

  “What else?” He stood, unyielding, while I recited my list of woes. In the background was Canoe, arms crossed on his chest, wearing the same frontier clothes as Grandfather. He was very striking and dignified and tall. He didn’t smile, but his eyes were most sympathetic.

  “So,” Grandfather said, “you ran off on your family, you’ll not be home for lessons, you’ve muddied and torn your clothing, sprained your wrist, and run your horse half to death. How do you expect me to make this day come out right for you, little lady, when you’ve done so much to make it wrong?”

  “You always could, before.” I started to cry.

  He sat down next to me. “Jemima, I won’t pretend your troubles aren’t real. But you’ve brought many of them upon yourself today. I know you worry about Dan and your friend. But Dan was here last evening to say goodbye. He’s capable and he has sense. He knows when to be brave and when not to be foolish. I promise you, he’ll come through.”

  I hugged him. “I haven’t told you everything yet.”

  “What else is there?”

  But I couldn’t say. He understood. He signaled Canoe with a nod of his head, and Canoe left.

  “Your mother and her letter-writing campaign, is that it? Dan told me you knew. That’s a lot for someone your age to keep her own good counsel about.” He took my hands in his own. “Listen to me. I’ve just given a considerable amount of money to Washington for the army. I can tell you, it’s needed. On Breed’s Hill our army would have won outright if they hadn’t run out of musket balls. Would you want that to happen to Dan someday?”

  “No.”

  “The support your mother is raising could someday help Dan and the Moore boy and others. We’re all going to be called upon to do our part before this thing is through. Be proud of your mother.”

  He wiped my tears, then called the Indian women to come back. One brought tea made with herbs, the other cornmeal pudding mixed with bits of meat and nuts and dried berries. There were cakes that I didn’t recognize. We ate, and then Grandfather made me lie down and rest. He covered me with a blanket, and I was left alone to sleep. I awoke to find him kneeling over me with Canoe standing nearby. I was to start for home, he said, and Canoe would ride with me. I protested that I could ride alone, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  “I have a visitor coming this afternoon, or I’d take you myself. Canoe will take my place. Anytime you need to talk, I’m here. You know that.” He kissed me goodbye. Canoe took me to the kitchen, where I was given warm cider and I washed my face. Outside he lifted me onto Bleu, and we began the ride home.

  We rode in silence for a while. From my past visits to Grandfather’s farm I knew that Canoe would talk whe
n he was ready and that he wouldn’t talk if he didn’t like someone. After the first mile he started to tell me about his boyhood in Canada, of how Indian children are never punished and are allowed to run free. At the outskirts of town he dismounted and handed me a bag of pemmican, which is made of dried buffalo meat mixed with fat and dried cranberries. He gave me a bag every time I visited. I kept it in a small chest in my room. Someday, if the British ever came to Trenton, I would have it, for it was an emergency ration. And then, whatever else happened, we wouldn’t be hungry.

  CHAPTER

  12

  As I rode Bleu slowly up Queen Street I could see Grandfather Henshaw’s carriage in front of our house. It was piled high with baggage. I felt sick with foreboding. Now I not only had Mother to face but Grandfather and Rebeckah as well. I brought Bleu to the barn and took my time feeding and watering him. Then I went into the house the back way and was about to slip up the stairs when Rebeckah called from the parlor.

  “You might have the decency to come and say hello, Jemima.”

  They were having coffee. A cheery fire was burning on the hearth. Grandfather Henshaw was seated on one side of the fireplace, Mother on the other. John Reid was perched on a window seat. Rebeckah, in scarlet silk, stood in the middle of the room.

  “Jem, what happened?” Mother jumped up when she saw me.

  “I’m all right, Mama. I took a spill riding Bleu and hurt my hand, but the Indian women at Grandfather Emerson’s bandaged it for me. It’s much better now.”

  “Grandfather Emerson’s! Is that where you were! And I’ve been sitting here worrying about you! Jemima, how can you be so inconsiderate?”

  “I’m sorry, Mama.” I was suddenly aware of my torn and muddy petticoat and disheveled appearance.

  “You look a fine mess, I must say.” Rebeckah stepped forward. “Did it ever occur to you that Mother may have wanted you here today, after Dan left? You never change, do you, Jem?”

  For the life of me I could think of no reply. They were all looking at me accusingly. John Reid watched me knowingly, but said nothing.