by Ron Carter
Thirty minutes later Caleb pointed, and two of the crew turned to shout back at Pettigrew, “Lighthouse on the port side,” and three minutes later, “Lighthouse to the starboard.”
Pettigrew held to the broad, deep channel between the two distant flecks of light, and the crew stood still to watch them pass and fade into the distance to the west. Pettigrew judged the passing of four miles before he turned the ship due north, and she was running before the wind in the black waters of the Atlantic. A spontaneous shout from the crew rolled out over the sea, and Caleb and Pettigrew rounded their mouths to blow air in relief.
Half the crew stood watch over the ten Virginia militiamen tied to the rails, while one man climbed to the crow’s nest with a telescope and the others trotted to the stern to peer into the blackness due south, all of them searching for running lights of any pursuing ships, or their silhouettes in the night. There were none. The night wore on with Pettigrew at the wheel and the crew straining to see pursuing ships that were not there, while their spirits rose with each passing mile. The first hint of dawn defined the flat line of the ocean to the east, and as the morning star faded, the call came down from the crow’s nest, “All’s clear!”
At mid-afternoon, two light frigates mounting twenty-four cannon each appeared on the southern skyline. By four o’clock they were alongside, flying the flag of the State of Virginia while their captains used telescopes to study the ten men wearing the uniform of Virginia militiamen, tied to the rails. The crew of the Rebecca stood at the rails, watching every move aboard the two frigates, grimly waiting for the gun crews to open the gun ports and commence firing, but the gun ports remained closed, and the frigates were still alongside as dusk settled into full darkness; the following morning they were not to be seen.
The Rebecca sped on north with the crew settling into the daily duties of running a ship, watching the American coastline slip past far to the west. Pettigrew charted their course on a map in the captain’s quarters and took his four-hour shifts, with Caleb and McKinrow at the wheel while he slept. On the third day the ten Virginia militiamen were divided into two groups of five and allowed to move about the ship freely so long as the two groups did not talk with each other, and they were always under the eye of two of Pettigrew’s crew. They watched the state of Maryland pass in the distance, then Delaware, Delaware Bay, and then New Jersey. At two o’clock on the afternoon of the fifth day the call came from the crow’s nest, “Sandy Hook ahead, port side.”
The crew watched as Pettigrew lined up the ship for the tricky passage through the bar, past the battery on Sandy Hook, then the hard turn to starboard, north up the channel for deep water ships, through the narrows between Staten Island and Long Island, to emerge into the broad, protected waters of New York harbor, with Manhattan Island and the New York docks and waterfront on the southern tip of the island, dead ahead.
By half past five o’clock the Rebecca was tied to a pier. At ten minutes before six o’clock, Pettigrew and Caleb walked through the door of a waterfront office with the sign DOERNEN above it and stood at the counter. A thick-featured man studied them as he walked to the counter.
“Something you wanted?”
“I’m Captain Theodore Pettigrew. I am employed by the Dunson and Weems carrying firm. I have just docked with three hundred tons of Virginia tobacco. I believe your company is the buyer.”
The man’s eyebrows raised. “You have papers? The manifest?”
“I do.” He drew them from inside his coat and laid them on the counter.
A broad grin creased the melon face. “Can you start to unload tonight?”
“I can.”
“Good. Are you the ship that came in less than an hour ago?”
“The Rebecca. Yes.”
“I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes. Show you our warehouse.”
Pettigrew nodded. “You have the pay for my crew?”
“In British pounds. Right here in the office.”
“Could I see it?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t remember ever being asked that before, but you certainly can.”
Three minutes later, with the heavy iron safe at the rear of the office standing open, the man walked back to the counter and dropped a leather bag before Pettigrew. “There it is. Want to count it?”
Pettigrew shook his head. “No. You’ll have to overlook my lack of manners. Getting that cargo here has been an experience we can talk about later. I’ll go back to the ship and wait for you there.”
“Good.” The man picked up the bag. “I’ll put this back in the safe. We can sign the releases later.”
In gathering dusk, Pettigrew and Caleb walked back to the ship, hands in their coat pockets, watching the lights come on in the windows and on the ships. They reached the Rebecca, thumped up the gangplank, and faced the crew. They were dirty, unshaven, hungry, bone-weary, and they stood silent with dead eyes and faces, waiting.
“Doernen will have a man here in ten minutes to show us the warehouse. We can start unloading tonight if you’re up to it.”
McKinrow asked, “Do they have our pay?”
A smile showed in Pettigrew’s beard. “In British sterling. I’ve seen it.”
For a moment the air went out of the entire crew, and then McKinrow said, “Let’s get at it.”
Pettigrew turned to the ten Virginia militiamen, gathered together, listening intently.
“We’re going to pay you dockhand wages for the time you’ve been on this ship, and then pay your passage back to Jamestown on the next ship leaving here for your home port. Any questions?
There were none.
“One more thing. We’re sending the added three percent export tariff on the tobacco with you. Every one of you is going to have to sign the receipt. If the money doesn’t reach Mr. Curtis, we’ll visit you there. Are there any questions now?”
The corporal looked at Pettigrew, then the crew, and for a moment reflected on what he had seen them do at night at the Jamestown waterfront, and in the past six days. He cleared his throat. “No, sir. None. Your money will reach Mr. Curtis.”
Notes
In 1784, Virginia did have an export tariff on tobacco being shipped from her ports (Nevins, The American States, 1775–1789, p. 559).
For an excellent map of the James River, Jamestown, Lynnhaven Bay, Chesapeake Bay, and the Cape Charles and Cape Henry lights, all as described herein, see Mackesy, The War for America, 1775–1783, p. 340.
Boston
March 1784
CHAPTER XXVI
* * *
They all quietly repeated her “amen,” rose from their knees beside her bed, and in the yellow light of the single lamp walked from the bedroom of Margaret Dunson. For a few moments she stood on the oval braided rag rug beside her bed and closed her eyes to listen to the faint footsteps of her children fade as they passed down the dark hallway to their bedrooms. She heard their doors quietly close and sat to remove her woolen slippers with the feeling of rightness warm in her heart as it always was at day’s end, when they were all fed, prayed, and safe in their beds.
For a moment she sat still, clenching and unclenching her toes on the rug, before she stood and pulled the heavy comforter down. And once again she felt the emptiness in the room, and in the bed, and she wondered if the ache for her husband would ever leave. Nine years. At that moment she could not remember beyond the time Tom Sievers had brought him home from the shooting at Concord, with the British musketball in his lung, nor the following day when he promised they would be together again, and had died. Nine years ago. She remembered every moment of his passing as if it were today, and she felt the ache and the loneliness and the longing that had become part of her. The daily busyness of surviving in a harsh, unforgiving world muted it, but in the quiet dark of the night, she would reach to touch the empty half of the bed and the pillow that was still in its place, and the silent tears would come.
She tucked her feet beneath the great comforter and was reaching for
the wheel on the lamp when she heard the whisper of slippers on hardwood, and then her door quietly opened. Her eyes widened as Prissy entered, and stood beside her bed.
“Mother, may I talk to you?”
For a moment Margaret studied her, searching for a reason that quiet, thoughtful Prissy would need to talk alone, at night. Prissy’s face gleamed in the yellow light, and Margaret saw the confusion, and she moved her legs and patted the bed, and Prissy sat down. Margaret waited in silence while Prissy worked her hands in her lap, then spoke without looking up.
“Something’s happening with Brigitte. I don’t know what it is.”
“What has she said?”
“Nothing, to me.”
“Has she done something?”
“No. Well, yes.”
“What?”
“Two days ago I saw her take those things she’s kept on her dresser for years—the ones about Richard Buchanan—and put them in a box. You know . . . the letters, and his commission—his things. She put the box on the top shelf of her closet, back in the corner, and she hasn’t looked at them since.”
“That’s all?”
“No. She doesn’t talk. It’s like she has something . . . bad . . . that won’t let go of her.” For the first time Prissy raised her eyes to Margaret’s, and Margaret saw the pain as she forced the words.
“Mother, has she done something wrong?”
In that instant Margaret realized that her youngest was no longer a child. She had become a woman, just entering the world of intuition and emotions that were at once wonderful and exciting and confusing and bewildering and frightening, with their promise of love that could lift her to the heights of joy and ecstasy, and sorrows that could plunge her to the depths of grief and torment.
Margaret took a breath and reached deep. “Has she said anything to you about it?”
“No.”
Margaret’s tone was level, even, as though talking to an equal. “She’s done nothing wrong.”
She saw the relief in Prissy, and she went on.
“Can you keep this between us?”
“Yes.”
“She is trying to deal with something none of us expected. Not her, not me, not Matthew. None of us.”
Prissy’s eyes widened in wonderment.
“It’s Billy Weems.”
For five seconds Prissy’s face drew down as she struggled to comprehend, and then understanding struck, and she recoiled and clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Billy? Billy Weems?,” she exclaimed.
Margaret raised a finger to her lips to quiet Prissy, and continued.
“You remember the Sunday not long ago when Billy asked to walk with her from church?”
“Yes.”
“He told her he had feelings for her. Strong feelings. That he had had them for a long time. While he was away, he wrote letters to her. For over five years. Twenty-two of them. He didn’t want to hurt her, so he didn’t send them. When he and Matthew went into business together, he thought he owed it to Matthew to let him know, and Matthew urged Billy to give her the letters. He gave them to her that day.”
Prissy’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Letters? To Brigitte? Billy?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they? Have you seen them?”
“She has them. I don’t know where she keeps them—that’s her business. But she invited me to read them, and I did.”
“What. . . . what did Billy say?”
For a moment Margaret dropped her eyes and then raised them to Prissy’s.
“He said everything a decent man should say.”
“Does he love her?”
“Yes. He does.”
“Does he want to marry her?”
“He didn’t say that, but he does.”
For a time Prissy could not find words. She was seeing Billy as she had seen him her entire life. Plain, homely, barrel-chested, arms and legs like tree stumps, always there, just like Matthew, letting her ride on his back or his shoulders, tugging her braids—Billy. She had never questioned that he would always be there, like the sun and the rain and the seasons, and with her awakening intuition she suddenly knew that Brigitte had always seen him the same.
“Oh, mother,” she whispered. “Brigitte must be. . . .”
Margaret nodded. “She is. In a way, for her, it’s like discovering someone in your family is in love with you.”
“Mother, I love Billy. We all do. I can hardly think of life without him. But to marry?”
Margaret nodded. “Now you know why Brigitte put Richard’s things away, and why she’s been so quiet.”
Prissy slowly shook her head. “I can hardly imagine . . . What is she going to do?”
“I don’t know. She’ll decide that, and tell us when she’s ready.”
“She’ll break his heart if she turns him away, and she’ll break her own heart if she accepts him without loving him. Has she said she loves him? Or doesn’t love him?”
“Not a word.”
Prissy’s shoulders sagged and her head dropped forward. “I never dreamed anything like this could happen. How has she held herself together?”
Margaret saw the opening.
“The same way she did when she got the letter about Richard. The same way she did when your father was killed. The same way she will when her own children come, and she feels their pain in life. Maybe that’s the worst of all—watching your children suffer, and you can’t stop it.”
Margaret stopped and waited until she saw Prissy was ready, then continued. “She’ll work her way through it the same way you will when your turn comes.”
Prissy locked eyes with Margaret, and for a time she stared at her mother while the first real understanding broke clear in her heart of the price nature demands of a woman for the singular privilege of bearing children. For the first time, Prissy caught the beginnings of what Margaret had endured when she lost her first child, then her husband, and then watched her sons leave to go into harm’s way, never knowing if she would see them again, or if they would come home whole or crippled or disfigured. And all the while, Margaret had stood steady, unflinching, carrying her terrible burden in determined silence while she stepped up to fill the void of household leadership while the men were gone. Prissy saw her hands, hard, cracked, red from endless work, and she saw the lines that had grown about her eyes and her mouth, and in that moment she realized that her mother’s silent, hidden sacrifice had been in part for her. Never had she felt such a surge of love and emotion, and her chin trembled as the tears came welling. She tried to speak, but there were no words that would say what was in her heart, and she sat silent, wiping at her cheeks.
With wisdom learned from pain and toil, Margaret remained quiet, giving her daughter time to begin the unending struggle to accept what life brings, and put it—the good and the bad, the pain and the joy—into its place and make sense of it. Time passed before Prissy wiped away her tears and again spoke to her mother.
“How do we ever repay? For what you’ve done?”
“For being a mother?”
Prissy looked her in the eyes. “I never thought what that meant. Being a mother.”
“Repay? You repay by being a mother. A good one. And when your time comes, you will.”
“Brigitte? What do you think she’ll do about Billy?”
Margaret spoke slowly, with thought. “I don’t know. It depends on what she finally decides marriage means.”
Prissy’s eyes widened. “What marriage means?”
“Yes. What makes it work. What will make it work for her. Brigitte’s headstrong. She’s mellowing, but she’s always going to be a little headstrong. She’s bright. Impatient with people who can’t keep up. Sometimes she gets into things outside the home. About got herself and Caleb killed eight years ago when she insisted on leading those wagons loaded with ammunition down across Connecticut to our soldiers. You remember. They had to walk home. Nearly starved.”
Prissy nodded at t
he remembrance.
“Well, if Brigitte has the sense—and I think she does—she ought to be coming to a clear picture of herself, and then a clear picture of Billy. Then she should be asking herself if a woman like her and a man like him can make a marriage work.”
Margaret paused until she saw Prissy had caught up with her, and then continued. She chose her words carefully, and she spaced them for emphasis, and her voice was low, penetrating.
“Finally, that’s what marriage is all about. When the fascination and romance have taken their proper place in the man and the woman, and they face the raising of children and keeping food on the table, the real business of life is what they must face together, every day, every hour. The love they share in their moments alone will be there, and that is important. But getting along in the business of family and living fills most of their lives. And that is what Brigitte must decide now. Is she a woman, and is Billy a man, who can carry the load together?”
Prissy was scarcely breathing as Margaret continued.
“It’s nice to have a husband who is handsome and charming. But as life moves on, and troubles come as they always do, handsome and charming doesn’t get up in the night to help with a sick one, or take charge of a rebellious child, or work dawn to dark to pay the taxes and fill the root cellar. Solid and steady is the one who does that. And after a time, solid and steady becomes handsome and charming, no matter what he looks like. Then one day you get up in the morning and you realize how deep love can reach, and that every good thing in life finally depends on it, and that all the troubles and the worry and the pain are worth it. Many times over.”
Margaret stopped, and Prissy sat mesmerized as Margaret concluded.
“You asked about Brigitte. I’ve given you the best I can. She has to decide these things for herself. And then she has to be ready for what her decision brings to her.”
Prissy murmured, “If she decides wrong?”
“She learns to live with it.”
