Prelude to Glory, Vol. 8

by Ron Carter

  Boston

  May 21, 1787

  CHAPTER V

  * * *

  Six-year-old John Matthew Dunson glared at his image in the mirror that hung on the wall just above the porcelain basin in the washroom next to his bedroom, teeth set in angry frustration as he tried once more to conquer the rooster tail that stood up at the back of his head. He had used water until his hair was dripping and plastered it down four times, only to have it stand straight up again, stubborn, refusing to die. He had washed his hands and face for breakfast, and had somewhat succeeded in establishing a part in the left side of his hair, albeit the part more closely resembled a winding country road than a straight line. It was the rooster tail that he could not subdue. It seemed to him it had a mind of its own and was defying him with gleeful vengeance. As the battle climaxed, he felt the sick realization that he was going to lose. For one brief moment a vision of scissors flashed in his mind, and he felt the evil temptation to sneak to his mother’s sewing room, find the shears, creep back to the washroom, and assassinate the rooster tail. Reluctantly, he abandoned the idea, dropped the comb beside the basin on the washstand, and stalked out the door and down the hallway to the dining room.

  The rooster tail was forgotten at the scent of cooked oatmeal mixed with dried apple slices steaming on the kitchen stove and the sight of his mother standing at the table pouring buttermilk into a glass beside his bowl. A can of brown sugar, a small cutting board with slices of warm bread, a pitcher of milk, and a saucer with a large pat of home-churned butter surrounded his glass of buttermilk. Today was Monday in Boston, and that meant washtubs and scrub boards and water buckets and clothes hanging on the line in the backyard. His mother was dressed in an ankle-length gray work dress, high-topped leather shoes, and a thick blue apron. Her long, dark hair was pulled back and tied behind her head. Though he had given it no conscious thought, for him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  She glanced at him as he approached the table, and he saw her make a mother’s instant appraisal. He was wearing old, hand-me-down leather shoes that were too big and made a clomping sound as he walked on the hardwood floors, a worn, tan cotton work shirt, and his heavy brown trousers with the broad straps over his shoulders. The look of approval came into her eyes for a moment, and he knew he had passed inspection for the day’s work.

  “Take your place,” she said, and he climbed onto Matthew’s chair at the head of the table to peer at her place to his left, where there was no bowl or glass. He looked up at her, worry in his wide eyes.

  “Don’t you want any buttermilk?” he asked, “or breakfast?”

  She shook her head. “Not hungry.”

  He asked no further. In the past ten days she had not eaten breakfast five times, and had only picked at her midday dinner and supper. It had caused him worry, and he had asked why. She had only shrugged and smiled and said, “Just not hungry. You’re not to worry.”

  She brought the pot from the stove to scoop twice into his breakfast bowl with the large wooden spoon, then spoke as she returned the smoking pot to the stove and set the lid on it, clanging. “Butter your bread while it’s hot,” she called to him.

  He reached for a slice of warm bread with one hand and his knife with the other as she walked back from the kitchen to sit down next to him. He smoothed the butter thickly on the bread then laid the knife down.

  “Grace,” she said, and he bowed his head and clasped his hands beneath his chin and repeated, “Almighty Father, we thank thee for this food and ask thee to bless it and may we do good always and bless father to be safe and to come home soon, Amen.”

  He raised his face to peer into hers for approval, she nodded slightly, and he reached for the large, decorated can of sugar. She sat unmoving to watch him sprinkle the brown sugar, then reach for the milk pitcher. He carefully added the milk, slowly so it would not splash, then set the pitcher down and reached for his spoon and the buttered bread at the same time. The rooster tail swayed slightly each time he leaned forward for the next spoonful of sweet, warm oatmeal, and again when took the next bite of the bread. He did not see the mix of emotions in his mother’s eyes as she watched him eat, nor would he have understood the love, and the fear, and the fierce, selfless need to protect him in the innocence and trust of his childish world.

  He finished, wiped his face on his napkin, gathered his bowl and utensils, and carried them to the kitchen to set them on the cupboard while Kathleen took the milk, buttermilk, and butter out the backdoor into the bright sunlight of a calm, warm, beautiful May morning in Boston. The outer door to the root cellar was already open as she had left it, leaned against its post, and she descended the six steps to the inner door and entered the deep shadows and the dank coolness to store the food. John was in the kitchen, waiting, and he faced her as she entered, waiting for her to speak.

  “Let’s get the sheets off our beds,” she said, and led him through the archway into the hall where she turned left to her bedroom while he turned right, to his. Three minutes later they were back in the kitchen with a large woven-reed basket filled with the week’s wash on the floor between them. Without a word Kathleen turned and John followed her out to the woodyard where they dragged the low, heavy bench from beneath the lean-to that covered the woodyard, out to its place near the backdoor, followed by the three wooden washtubs, which they wrestled onto the bench. Ten minutes later they had the nine-foot, iron tripod in place with the black, cast-iron kettle dangling from the chain, and a fire crackling beneath it. John walked to the well and lowered the bucket into the black hole while Kathleen came behind, a wooden bucket with a rope handle in either hand.

  Twenty minutes later, water was steaming in the kettle, and Kathleen used a long-handled, wooden dipper to scoop it into the first two washtubs—one for scrubbing, one for hot rinse, the third for cold rinse. She dipped a clean rag in the hot water and walked to the clotheslines strung outward from the woodyard to a heavy pole frame, and walked rapidly back and forth, clutching the wet, hot rag over the lines to wipe them clean. Then she and John half-dragged, half-carried the clothes basket from the kitchen, and Kathleen carved curls from the large, brown bar of homemade soap into the first washtub and stirred the water with a peeled oak stick until the soap had mostly dissolved. Then she lifted the first sheet into the hot water and poked it down. Dropping the corrugated, wooden washboard into the tub, she gathered the sopping sheet in her hands, hunched over, and began the monotonous, arduous labor of bearing down hard as she rubbed the sheet up and down, up and down the board. Finished, she wrung what soapy water she could from the dripping sheet, dropped it into the hot water rinse, poked it down, plucked up the next sheet and poked it into the soapy water, then wrung out the rinsed sheet and dropped it into the cold water rinse. She poked it down, worked it with her hands, then lifted it out, handed one end to John, and the two of them twisted in opposite directions until it quit dripping. Then they carried it to the clotheslines where John handed her the clothes-pegs while she hung the sheet, and then they both walked back to the washtub to start the second sheet through the rinse, wring, and hang process.

  By half-past ten o’clock, Boston was sweltering in the heat of a humid spring day. John watched his mother wipe with her long sleeve at her forehead and blot the tiny beads of sweat that hung from the end of her nose and the point of her chin. He stood nearby, trousers and shoes damp, rooster tail forgotten, eyes squinted against the bright sun, wishing he could go into the cool of the house, thinking of his two armies of toy soldiers in the big box under his bed, one clad in red coats, one in blue, wishing he could once again pit them against each other at the Battle of Yorktown the way Father and Billy Weems had told him, or at the fight at Cowpens when old Daniel Morgan had tricked the terrible British Colonel Banastre Tarleton and beat him so badly, according to Uncle Caleb.

  But he could not leave the work and go into the house. Father had told him he could sit in his place at the table as long as he did the work of ma
n of the house, and he had to do it. He did not think about why, he only knew he had to do it, no matter what. He stood near his mother, perspiring, shifting his weight, moving his feet, ready to do the things he had been taught should be done by the man of the house, to help her.

  The sun was directly overhead when John watched his mother hang the last of the clothes that were finished, place her hands on her hips, and lean back for a moment before she spoke.

  “Time for dinner,” she said, and John gratefully followed her into the house. She set two places at the table along with sliced bread and plum jam, then disappeared into the root cellar for milk, strips of cooked mutton, and the remainder of a small block of cheese. They said grace, and John silently began to eat. He nodded when his mother said, “Chew it well,” and for a few seconds slowed before her order was forgotten, and he chewed on. He was aware when Kathleen reached for a small piece of cheese and broke a tiny corner off a slice of bread to put into her mouth and work at it indifferently.

  John looked at her in silent question.

  She forced a smile and shrugged. “Just not hungry.”

  For a moment he stared into her eyes, and she broke it off before he could speak. “Want any more cheese or meat? Milk?”

  He shook his head.

  She stood and gathered the food and started for the door. “When I get back from the root cellar we’ll clear the table and rest a while. You can play with your soldiers if you like.”

  He brightened and reached for his milk glass.

  With dinner finished, John trotted down the hall to his room, dropped to his knees, and drew out the large box of soldiers. He had the British soldiers inside the imaginary Redoubt Number Ten on the banks of the imaginary York River at the imaginary Yorktown, and was lining the Americans in a semicircle for their predawn attack when he heard his mother in the hall, and turned to look. She stopped in the doorframe.

  “I’m going to lie down for half an hour. We need to finish before four o’clock. I’m expecting Doctor Soderquist.”

  John’s eyes widened and he blurted defensively, “I don’t feel sick.”

  “Not for you. I just need to talk with him for a few minutes. Leave your soldiers out. You can play with them while he’s here.”

  It was twenty minutes past three o’clock when they leaned the last washtub against the wall beneath the lean-to and walked into the kitchen. Their clothes were damp from the washing and wringing of the laundry, and they were both sweating in the heat and humidity. By five minutes before four o’clock they were both washed and wearing clean, dry clothes. At ten minutes past four o’clock a rap came at the door, and John watched his mother stride across the parlor and swing the large door open. Facing her was Doctor Walter Soderquist, large, shambling, heavyjowled, a great shock of white hair, large nose, bushy white brows, and gray eyes that said he had seen and survived most of what mortal life had to offer. In his left hand was a small black leather bag.

  For John, Doctor Soderquist was part of Boston, like the waterfront and the North Church and the great grassy green. He had been there for every sickness or ailment of the Thorpe family and the Dunson family since John could remember. He did not know why his mother wanted to talk with him, nor did he question it. He knew that grown-ups had secrets that they kept from children, although he was not clear as to why. All he knew was that his father and his mother and his Grandmother Margaret had at different times each held his chin in their hand while they looked him in the eye and said, “Someday you’ll understand.” It left him struggling with the question, “When is someday?” He was already six and acting as the man of the house. Wasn’t that someday?

  “Do come in, Doctor,” his mother said.

  John watched the large man move himself inside the door, and for the first time saw that he moved slowly, with a heavy, crooked, oak cane supporting his right side. Never before had the doctor relied on a cane. John silently stared.

  “Thank you, Kathleen,” the doctor said and moved awkwardly through the door. He shook his head in disgust. “Can’t get used to this blessed cane,” he growled.

  “Come into the parlor and take a seat. Would you care for some cider?”

  Soderquist brightened. “That sounds good, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Within two minutes they were seated across the table from each other, each with a cup of cider at hand. Kathleen looked at John.

  “There’s a cup of cider on the kitchen cupboard for you. You can take it to your room and play with your soldiers. The doctor and I will be finished shortly.”

  John spun on his heel and trotted into the kitchen, then down the hallway to his room. He stopped long enough to drink long at the sweetness of the apple juice, then put the cup on the nightstand beside his bed. For several moments he stared at his soldiers, weighing which was most important: storming Yorktown’s Redoubt Number Ten or sneaking back down the hall to listen to why his mother had asked Doctor Soderquist to come visiting.

  Doctor Soderquist won.

  Silently, slowly, he crept down the hall, avoiding the two places that squeaked if stepped on. He could hear their voices in hushed conversation as he came nearer, and he stopped a scant six feet from the archway into the parlor, listening to the voice of Doctor Soderquist.

  “. . . how long since? Six weeks? Eight?”

  “Four.”

  “Been regular before that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Smells give you nausea? Food?”

  “Yes. Sometimes I can’t eat.”

  “Well, child,” the doctor said with finality, “I don’t think there’s a question. It sticks out all over you like the plague. That look in your eye. Your face. Give it about seven more months—around Christmas or maybe New Year’s—and it’ll take care of itself. I’ll be back in about a month to give you an examination to confirm it. In the meantime, my condolences for your discomfort and my congratulations for the blessing that’s coming. Seems the Almighty tried to keep things in balance when he saw to it the greatest blessings come with the heaviest price.”

  He drained his cider cup and smacked his lips. “That was sure worth the trip.” He handed her his empty cup then shrugged and heaved his frame back onto his feet. “John’s looking more like his grandfather every day. Stout little fellow. I can see some of Matthew in him, too. And you.”

  Kathleen stood to face him, smiling. “He’s a good boy.”

  “I need to get started for home,” Soderquist said. “Can’t move like I used to. You schedule with my wife. We’ll do the examination next month.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Wait ’til it’s over.”

  John listened to the footsteps across the hardwood parlor floor, then the door opening and closing, and his mother walked back to the kitchen with the two empty cups. John waited for a few seconds before he walked through the archway.

  “Is Doctor Soderquist gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was he here?”

  “You’ll know in a while.”

  John shook his head. What was so secret? When was a while?

  After the supper table had been cleared, and he had dried some of the dishes while Kathleen washed, John sat close to his mother on the sofa, facing the great fireplace as she read to him from the Bible, letting him follow each word with his finger. Then they knelt for prayer, and Kathleen took him back to his room where she tucked him into bed, turned down the lamp to a faint light, and left the door half open as she walked back into the hall. John waited until the house was quiet, then crept back down the dimly lighted hallway to the library. Through the crack in the doorway he saw his mother seated at the writing table in the corner, a piece of paper before her, and a quill in her hand. For a time she sat with her head tilted slightly back, then leaned forward, and for several minutes the quiet scratching of the quill was the only sound. She laid the quill down, read what she had written, folded it, sealed it with wax, and laid it on the writing table.

 
When she stood, John quickly vanished back down the hallway to his room and was buried beneath the comforter when Kathleen silently opened his bedroom door to study him before she retreated across the hall. He heard her bedroom door open as she wearily entered to go to her rest, and he lay for a time in the dark shadows, deep in thought about what the secret was that he would learn about at Christmas. Slowly John’s thoughts drifted, and the work and worries of the day faded. His muscles relaxed, and his eyes closed, and then he was at Redoubt Number Ten with the Americans, and the British were losing.

  Note

  John Matthew Dunson is the six-year-old son of Matthew and Kathleen Dunson, all of whom are fictional characters.

  Philadelphia

  May 24, 1787

  CHAPTER VI

  * * *

  A scatter of wispy clouds flamed red and yellow at sunrise, and by eight o’clock fluffy balls of cotton speckled the bright blue Philadelphia skies. On the waterfront, men of the sea cast narrowed eyes at the heavens, reading the signs, making calculations. At Mother Asher’s Boardinghouse, Matthew Dunson parted the curtains in his bedroom and leaned forward to peer upward through the half-open window. His practiced eye told him the isolated, fluffy cottonballs would soon collect into huge, white, billowing clouds. The thunderheads would turn to gray, then purple, and when the tons of water inside them became too heavy, Philadelphia would enjoy a spring cloudburst. He could smell it and feel it. It was coming. Late today. Maybe tonight. Without conscious thought it became part of his plan for the day.

  He knotted his cravat, then descended the stairs down to the kitchen where Mother Asher was scurrying about to bring the bread to a golden brown at the same time a huge omelet filled with diced ham, chopped onions, and green peppers reached perfection. She smiled her good morning to Matthew.