Prelude to Glory, Vol. 7

by Ron Carter

  “Are you willing to risk finding out?”

  Billy weighed his words carefully. “I won’t risk hurting her. I won’t.”

  A strange look that was a mix of pain and resolve crossed Matthew’s face before he continued.

  “Maybe what you mean is that you won’t risk hurting yourself, should she reject you. The price of every right thing in this life is risk. Wife. Children. Country. There is risk in all of them. And pain. The rewards are there only for those who are willing to pay the price.”

  “You think I should tell her?”

  “Are you ready to spend the rest of your life wondering?”

  Billy drew and slowly released a great breath. “I can’t do anything that might hurt her. I can’t.”

  “It might hurt her. Or it might bring her the greatest fulfillment she will ever know. The only question is, which? There’s the risk. Are you willing to take it? Or are you going to settle for fifty years of not knowing? Of living with an ache that can only get worse?”

  The beginnings of fear came into Billy’s face as Matthew went on.

  “You said Eli Stroud knows. What did he have to say about it?”

  “Deliver the letters.”

  “Didn’t Eli lose his wife?”

  “Mary died when Laura was born.”

  “He took the risk, and he knows the pain, and still he told you to deliver the letters.”

  Billy’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, and Matthew went on.

  “Do you want me to read the letters?”

  “No! . . . Yes.” Billy held his head in his hands. “If you want to.”

  “I doubt it. They’re between you and Brigitte.”

  “But, you think I should tell her?”

  “Yes. But that’s for you to decide.”

  For a time Billy sat in silence, working with the new thoughts. Then he stood, picked up the packet, and walked to his coat.

  “When you hear from that Amsterdam bank, let me know.”

  He slipped the packet into the coat pocket and then put the coat on. He said nothing more of the letters; for the moment the matter was closed between them.

  Matthew spoke as they walked to the front door. “I will. Tomorrow’s the Sabbath. See you at church?”

  “We’ll be there. Do you know how Silas is getting on? His health? And Mattie’s?”

  “Mattie’s failing. Silas is starting to show aging.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  Billy tightened his scarf, raised his coat collar against the crisp night air, and slowly walked home, working with his thoughts. He spoke very little at the supper table and said nothing as he helped gather the dishes to the wooden washtub in the kitchen, with Dorothy watching his every expression, aware he was struggling with something inside. He knelt with Dorothy and Trudy for evening prayer, then went to his room to sit on his bed fully dressed until past eleven o’clock. He was in his bed by midnight, staring upward in the blackness, and he did not drift off into a troubled sleep until after one o’clock.

  The Sabbath broke with a frigid sun in a clear, cloudless, windless sky, to transform the frost on the trees into countless tiny prisms of yellow, green, and blue diamonds. Neighbors raised top hats and uttered their typical Boston “Good morning to you” as they walked to church, with vapor trailing behind their heads. The bell in the tower was ringing as they entered the small white building, and their faces had white spots from the cold as the families took their places in their reserved pews. The Reverend Silas Olmsted labored to the pulpit on stiff legs to conduct services and deliver his sermon. It was clear the fire still burned within his heart, despite the diminished strength in his voice. At the conclusion of the meeting, he took his usual place beside the door to bid his congregation his customary good-bye, and they slowed to shake his hand warmly and share their love for this little man who had spent his life as their spiritual counselor.

  Outside, the Weemses waited for the Dunsons, as they had ever since they could remember, and for a few moments the two families stood on the cobblestone walk in the usual banter and chatter before they began the short walk home. As the talk died and they said their good-byes, Billy spoke quietly to Brigitte.

  “Could I walk with you part way?”

  Matthew caught the words, and with no visible sign, listened to hear Brigitte’s reply.

  For an instant her eyes narrowed in question before she answered. “Of course.” She turned to Margaret. “You go on. I’ll be home shortly.”

  Margaret looked at her, then Billy, but did not question it. “We’ll start dinner. Don’t be long.”

  Dorothy stood silent, wonder in her eyes.

  Billy took Brigitte’s arm and steered her away from the few people left in front of the church, to the street on the west. They walked for a time, side by side, each with their hands thrust into their coat pockets, saying nothing. They had reached the corner before a premonition rose within Brigitte’s heart, and she slowed.

  “You wanted to talk?”

  Billy nodded. “Yes.”

  He stopped, and Brigitte saw him struggle to take charge of himself. After a moment, he said, “Over five years ago I became aware of some feelings inside of me. For you.”

  He heard her gasp, glanced at her, but went on.

  “It was during battle. I lived through it, and when I could, I wrote you a letter.”

  “I didn’t receive it.”

  “I didn’t send it.”

  “You didn’t send it?”

  “No. I wrote another. And I kept writing. I wrote about the things happening around me, and the pain of war—killing—and my thoughts about it all.”

  Again he paused, and she waited.

  “And I wrote about my feelings for you. It’s all in the letters. . . . Twenty-two of them. . . . I still have them.”

  He began to walk, with her beside him, and Brigitte turned her head to look at him, then straightened to stare straight ahead, shocked beyond words. Quietly Billy went on.

  “I did not intend you should ever see the letters. I did not think I would ever be telling you this. But with our families ready to go into a business that will be difficult at best, and a failure at worst, it seemed to me you should know.”

  She forced the words. “You wrote of your feelings for me?”

  “Yes.”

  She wanted desperately to ask him of those feelings, but could not.

  He went on. “I think I have unsettled you with all this. Badly. I doubt it would be good to talk much further right now. I think it will be better if you take the letters and read them. Start with the oldest first. Take whatever time you need. I only ask that when you’ve finished, and taken time to understand your own thoughts, you share them with me.”

  He stopped on the cobblestones, and she stopped, and he looked her full in the face.

  “Will you do that?”

  “Read the letters?”

  “And talk with me after?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I will.”

  “Thank you.” He drew the packet from his pocket and offered it to her, and she accepted it and stared at it for several seconds before she put it in her coat pocket. He pointed up the street, and walked her to the gate into her yard, and held it for her as she walked steadily to the front door. She entered the house without looking back, and Billy closed the gate, and turned toward his own home.

  Inside, Brigitte walked into the kitchen, where Margaret and Prissy were bustling with the stove and pots of steaming food, and stopped.

  “Mother, I’ll be in my room for a while.”

  Margaret had never heard her voice so subdued. “Child, what is it? What did Billy want? Is something wrong?”

  Brigitte shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong. We’ll talk later.”

  Margaret listened to Brigitte’s footsteps fade in the hallway, then heard her bedroom door close. For several moments she stood still, caught between needing to know what had happened to unsettle Brigitte so badly, and Brigitte’s rig
ht to the privacy of her own affairs.

  Inside her room, Brigitte turned up the lamp and drew the packet from her coat pocket, then sat on the bed, still wearing her coat and Sunday bonnet. Her fingers were trembling as she unwrapped the letters, and her heart was pounding when she opened the first one. The paper was yellowed, and the lines fading. She turned it to the light to read.

  My Dear Brigitte:

  The fortunes of the battlefield have made me accept the fact that many of us will not be coming home. In the quiet of the night I have thought on this and realized the need to use what time I have, be it much or little, to spend on things that matter. It was to me a surprise to realize that thoughts of you came often, and then they became dear to me. I did not know how strong a place you hold in my heart. . . .

  She finished the letter and sat staring at it for a long time. Never in her life had she supposed she would ever read such a thing from Billy.

  She set the first letter aside and unfolded the next one, curled, water-stained, fading.

  My Dear Brigitte:

  Since last I wrote, I have come to understand I cannot send these letters to you, since your heart belongs to another, and in any event, can never belong to me. Still, there is that inside of me that demands I write to you, and I shall continue to do so. I know the words are only for me, but still, the writing of them brings a sense of peace. . . .

  She blinked in disbelief. Billy? Billy Weems? He had such feelings? He could write such words? She folded the letter and reached for the third.

  My Dear Brigitte:

  It seems that the best connection I have to carry me from the insanity of war to my loved ones at home, is the letters I write to you . . .

  She continued reading the letters as they came from the packet. Her breath came short as she began with the ninth. In a cramped and labored hand, Billy had written:

  My Dear Brigitte:

  I find myself in the north woods, not far from the Mohawk River, with my good friend Eli Stroud. We are under orders to find and make a report on certain Indians. We were ambushed by at least nine of them, and in the combat I sustained a rather severe tomahawk wound on the back of my left shoulder. Eli tended the wound, and it appears it will be all right, except that my left arm is tightly bound to my body. I spent two nights with a heavy fever that brought many dreams, and my only clear recollection is that you were there . . .

  She brought the letter to her breast and her head rolled back. She closed her eyes and murmured, “Oh. Oh.”

  Margaret’s determined steps sounded in the hall, and Brigitte waited for the firm rap on the door.

  “Brigitte! Are you all right?”

  Brigitte did not move. There was a vacant sound in her voice as she said, “Come in.”

  Margaret opened the door and set one foot inside the room, then stopped short at the sight of Brigitte sitting, white-faced, on her bed with the letters on both sides, still in her coat and bonnet. Margaret’s hand flew to her throat.

  “Child! What . . . have you seen a ghost?”

  Brigitte could only raise the letter in her hand to her mother and stare into her eyes.

  Margaret seized it and blurted, “What is it? Who wrote it?”

  Brigitte gestured to those still in the oilskin packet and those she had already read, and shook her head without saying a word. Margaret turned the letter in her hand to the light and looked first at the signature. Her face drew down in profound wonderment.

  “Billy? He wrote this?”

  Brigitte nodded but said nothing.

  Margaret did not move as she read the faded lines. Then she looked at Brigitte in stunned disbelief, and carefully read it again while her mind refused to accept it.

  “When did you get these?”

  “Coming home from church. That’s what Billy wanted to see me about.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. Many.”

  “What do the others say?”

  Brigitte pointed. “I’ve read these. They’re like the one you have. I haven’t read the rest of them yet.”

  It took Margaret time to force her thoughts into some sense of order. “How long have you known?”

  “Not until today. Now.”

  “Never a word before?”

  “Never.”

  “May I read some of the others?”

  Brigitte gestured and Margaret sat on the bed. For ten minutes there was no sound in the bedroom while Margaret silently read.

  Footsteps in the hall brought both their heads up, and Prissy stepped through the open door. “I think the potatoes are done.”

  “Set them off the stove. Take care of the kitchen. We’ll be out in a while.”

  Prissy asked, “What are all the papers?”

  Margaret raised a hand. “Later. Take care of the potatoes. Close the door, please.”

  Prissy shrugged and closed the door as she left.

  Margaret turned to Brigitte. “You had no idea?”

  Brigitte looked her in the eye. “None.”

  Margaret licked dry lips and slowly began to shake her head. “Billy. In a thousand years. . . . That poor boy! Held this inside for over five years. Oh, how I wish he had said something.”

  She turned to Brigitte and reached for her hand. “I can’t imagine the shock to you. Billy. Billy Weems. Have you ever had these kinds of feelings for him?”

  “No, Mama. Never. Not once. He’s always been Billy. Like Matthew.”

  “Could you ever feel this way about him?”

  “I can’t feel anything right now.”

  “I was wrong to ask. Wait. Give this some time. Do you want me to bring supper in to you?”

  Brigitte paused before answering. “No. I don’t think so. I’ll come out.”

  “I’ll tell Adam and Prissy something so they won’t bother you. We’ll have supper on in about an hour.”

  “I want to read a few more letters and then put them away.”

  “Get your coat and bonnet off. Do you want me to stay here with you?”

  “No. I’ll be all right. I’ll come for supper.”

  “Call if you need me.”

  Margaret stood and walked to the door with the question burning in her mind as to why she had not seen this coming—how had she failed to see what was now plain before her eyes? She stopped to look at Brigitte one more time, then closed the door, and walked down the hall to the archway, slowly realizing there were two men named Billy Weems—the boy up the street whom she and her family had known all his life and helped raise as if he were their own, and the stranger who had declared his love for her daughter Brigitte. She did not know if she could ever make the two into one.

  She walked into the kitchen and thrust a fork into the potatoes, then turned to Prissy.

  “They’re done. Get some flour. When the ham’s done we’ll use some of the potato water and ham drippings for gravy. Supper will be in an hour. Brigitte has a bad pain in her chest. We might have to send Adam to get Doctor Soderquist.”

  Two blocks to the northwest, Billy sat on his bed, alone in his room, door closed. For a time he stared blankly at the wall, then rose to pace, then walked to the parlor where Dorothy was knitting while she rocked quietly before the fireplace, and Trudy was seated at the table, poring over the Bible.

  “Mother, could I talk with you? In my bedroom?”

  Dorothy stilled her hands and looked at Billy for a moment. She laid her knitting aside and followed him quietly down the hall into his room, and he closed the door. He sat on the bed and gestured, and she sat beside him.

  “There are some things you need to know. It’s about me, and some feelings I have for . . . Brigitte.”

  A mother’s intuition rose in her chest, and Dorothy’s breathing slowed with the impossible premonition. “Does it have to do with you walking with her after church?”

  “Yes. It does. That and more. Much more. I’ll tell you.”

  Notes

  The Dunson and Weems families and their affair
s are of course fictional as previously indicated.

  Charlestown, Massachusetts

  December 28, 1783

  CHAPTER XXII

  * * *

  On the waterfront, the draw of a grudge fight was nearly irresistible.

  Among the rich and powerful, gentlemen settled their differences with dueling pistols, or swords, in an agreed-to, secluded place away from the eyes of all but the two contestants, the ones chosen to act as their seconds, a disinterested party selected to conduct the matter, and a doctor to declare one party or the other dead should that become necessary. The entire proceeding was conducted according to a plethora of rules that had to be scrupulously observed to preserve the notion that the killing was a civilized way of settling affairs of honor, and not bald-faced murder.

  Not so on the docks. Differences between two bearded dockhands, each of whom was absolutely destitute of wealth or power, and each of whom smelled of drink and sweat and wore shabby clothing, were settled with fists or clubs or freight-hooks, surrounded by a raucous crowd of their peers, gathered for the evil pleasure of seeing the blood of men locked in mortal combat.

  Society deemed the former procedure honorable, and the second one despicable, notwithstanding the hard fact that the purpose of both rituals was identical, and generally, at least, so were the results.

  Cobweb ice was forming near the shore when Caleb lowered himself into his borrowed rowboat at the foot of Copp’s Hill on the eastern tip of the Boston peninsula. In the gloom of early evening he dipped his right oar deep and pulled hard to turn the boat and take a bearing on the lights of the western shores of the Charlestown peninsula, five hundred yards across the channel that separated the two. For the first ten yards he could hear the rasping sound of ice disintegrating against the bow of the small craft, and he felt the slight resistance as his oars punched through. Vapors trailed behind his head as he steadily stroked for the far shore, feet braced to take the leverage as he put his back into it.

  The boat ground onto the rocks and sand of the shore, and he shipped the oars and jumped onto the frozen bank to drag it out of the water, then walked up a beaten path onto the docks and slowed to study who was there, and what they were doing. A few laborers were still working to unload two ships by firelight, and paid him no attention. Beyond them, forty yards off the far end of the black timbers of the wharf, stood the burned-out wreckage of the old Hollenbeck Warehouse. It was within the half-burned roof and walls of the abandoned warehouse that Loman had arranged to have Caleb and Judd meet after dark to settle their differences according to the customs of the waterfront, which meant a brawl until one of them was unconscious, or unable to get back onto his feet, or dead.