The kitchen was small but it was enough. The walls were made of brick that had been painted white, though by now it was beige and covered with dust and charcoal where the fire pit was. On the wall opposite the entrance was an arched brick oven with a fire pit inside. A cast iron, three-legged pot stood on the floor inside the brick portion behind a little wall-like ledge of the same kind of brick. Father had built up the ledge so that the hot coals would be less of a hazard to the wooden floor. When she was a small child, Abigail would march her index and middle fingers along the top, like a soldier, her mother thinking it was simply play. She supposed, now that she thought back on it, that her mother likely thought she was pretending her walking hand was a proper woman strolling down to the market, or perhaps a child skipping down the street. That's the thing about imagination. Nobody has to know what you really think or what your actions truly mean.
The ledge kept the charcoal and ash nearly completely out of the kitchen, and the arched frame above the oven was well designed, too, keeping the majority of the smoke within its confines and guiding it effortlessly out through the chimney. The top of the brick oven did not reach the ceiling, not nearly. Above the masonry oven was a wooden ledge, another of her father's creations, which ran along the front of the oven and then along the right side, where the oven portion of the wall extended further into the room than the rest of it, and ended at the wall.
On top of this ledge was where her mother kept her main cooking tools. Pots and pans hung from the right corner, and various herbs hung from the ceiling, drying on specially made hooks. Along the left wall, wooden shelves were affixed to the cold brick, holding bread and vegetables, and a bag of potatoes hung where the stove met the wall.
On the far wall to the right of the stove there was a small window that looked out over the gardens, and the right wall also had a window, though smaller and much higher up. The only person who could view the front of the house through this window was Father. He was only five feet eleven inches tall, but Abigail and her mother were both five feet three inches and had no occasion to look through that particular window, anyway.
The floor was uninterrupted wood throughout the entire house. There were, of course, planks that made up the length and breadth of the floor, but it seemed as though rooms had been built upon one large floor base separated only by walls, instead of each room having a floor of its own. Her father was currently standing by the wooden table in the center of the room. Underneath the table and all around it were baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables her mother had picked just the day before from the garden, and three loaves of bread were on the table, wrapped in linen for her father. He had taken an entire basket of potatoes, though they still had three remaining, and his pack was so full she could not form a guess as to how he would carry it out the front door, let alone the many miles to Concord.
She had woken early on several past occasions to see her father off as he headed to work, but this time would be much different. There was no telling how long he would be gone. Though he was only packing three weeks’ worth of food, she knew it could be far longer before he returned, and that it likely would be. They stood there, looking at each other, without saying a word. No words were necessary. She was standing in the doorframe, although “doorframe” was a misnomer, since no door existed between the hallway in which she stood, the front room on her right, and the kitchen on her left. In front of her, if she stood so that she was directly in line with the hall, was the front door of their home. Soon, her father would be walking through that door, and she had no reasonable guess as to when that might be.
"Did I wake you?" her father asked, finally breaking the silence but still speaking in hushed tones.
She shook her head.
"No," she smiled, rather dishonestly, but it was a harmless lie. "I was awake and heard you packing your things so I came out to bid you goodbye."
"I am glad that you did."
They were both smiling, but neither believed the other's expression to be sincere. Rather, there was no point in being as transparent as they usually would in a situation such as this. Smiles may be the only thing they would have of each other for a long while, so there was no sense in spoiling the moment too soon with the inevitable tears that accompany such occasions.
"Are you headed to Concord?" she asked, knowing the answer already in her heart.
He nodded his reply. Both of their faces abandoned the false smiles they had held so far, and solemnly they both allowed their gazes to fall as they privately pondered the events to come.
They lingered there in silence a moment longer, and she watched him turn the same potato over a hundred times it seemed, idle hands engaging in repetitive motion so that there was something, anything, to break the silence and delay the time between now and the moment that would arrive too soon.
Finally, Abigail could no longer stand it, and she disregarded her role as a composed and proper woman, ran across the room, and embraced her father so tightly that air audibly escaped from his lungs. He chuckled slightly, but the moment was no less heart-wrenching. Tears poured down her cheeks and over her lips as she sobbed openly, willing her father to stay but knowing he had to go.
Taking both of her shoulders gently, her father held her out in front of him as though he were looking at a piece of art, examining her, in a way. His eyes were narrow and sincere, and it was as though he were trying to remember the smallest details of her appearance. Lightly, he wiped a tear away from her eye and straightened his posture, tucking a piece of her brunette hair behind her ear.
"You are a strong woman, Abigail, and whatever others may think of it, I admire that about you. Don't ever allow yourself to bow to the ignorant slander of those who think your strength unbecoming of a woman. You were made by God to be strong, and to bow to the will of those who would confine your existence to a preconceived box would be a sin. One day, you will have the chance to show the world how strong you are, and I pray you will take it."
He swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears from his own eyes as Abigail abandoned any attempt to keep herself composed and together. She didn't even give a thought to what would happen if her mother awoke to find her in such disarray. All she knew was that she did not want her father to leave. Neither of them would dare to speak the thoughts in their minds, but in a way they both felt that it would be a miracle should they ever see each other again.
She heard Mother stirring in the back room, no doubt getting ready to awaken and see Father off. He and Abigail embraced one last time before she left for her bedroom to pretend that she had not yet woke. It would have been improper in her mother's eyes for her to be making such a scene. Emotions were to be kept in check, if they must be had at all, and anything other than calm, cool, even detached composure was not acceptable in Mother’s sight.
Father and Abigail had always agreed in their disagreement with Mother on the matter, but that did not stop them from fearing her wrath. Father understood that while Abigail would have lingered by the doorframe until he was long out of sight and the sun had broken the surface of the horizon if she had had things her way, it was best for both of them if she retreated. Of course he understood. Father always understood her.
Her bare feet silently stepped across the floor and into her bed where she slid beneath her white cotton sheets, waiting for the sun to peek through the window and inform her, without a word, that her appearance was acceptable. It was always at dawn that her work began, though her mother began hers far earlier. If she had thought for a moment that she would obtain any more sleep between the hour that she retreated into her bedroom and the hour she was allowed to reappear for her day's chores, she was mistaken.
Murmurs reached her ears through the wall behind her as she lay on her right side. Her head was facing the right side of their home, if the front door was considered the front, and the kitchen was located immediately to the right upon entering the residence. Then, to the left, was a large open room separated only by one wooden step. The
upper level, close to the front window, was the front room and sewing area, and the far side was the den and dining area all mixed into one. Her father's armchair sat in the corner by the fire, and the long wooden table with affixed bench-like seats where she and her father had discussed revolution just the night before was placed almost to the wall.
To the right were the kitchen and her bedroom, and across from her bedroom was her mother and father's bedroom. As she lay staring toward the back of the house, she wished she had a doorway she could simply walk through. She would escape past the farm, past the crops, and take off into the forest to the back of the home. Revolution would be hers as much as her father's, and she would not have to contend with simple, lady-like chores while their country's future was forged by the men.
Instead, she stared at a wall with only a high window and a desk. Her desk was wooden, much like the wood that made up most of the house but a bit lighter and not as rough. It was of simple construction, but it was the only place in the world she felt she had to herself. Studying was forbidden, of course, as education was of no use to women, according to her mother and most others. But she would still sit at her desk and write. She made sure to hide her writings well in a compartment beneath her desk. Nobody knew the compartment was there except for her, so when she found it she began to store things there that were her own. One day, she promised herself, she would take those things that were hers and hers alone and escape her life of drudgery.
Upon her desk sat the only thing she was allowed to display save for the brisk decor of the room or flowers from the garden, and the only thing she now had of her father. He had once used a compass to hike in the mountains and came back with a handsome kill. We ate for almost the entire winter from that single hunting trip. Her father recounted to her in one of their conversations, which stretched almost until dawn, about how he and his hunting partners had almost become lost in the woods. When she asked him how he found his way home, he said his heart and his compass led him there. He then gave Abigail his compass and told her that he had another one, but that if she ever became lost, she could use her heart and his compass to lead herself to safety and home.
The front door of the house creaked open and she could hear the curt, short tone of her mother's voice and the calming response of her father as they exchanged final goodbyes. Part of her was jealous of her mother for having the last goodbye, particularly because it was so undeserved. Her mother was responsible for so much of the tension in the household, and yet she stood there like the dutiful wife bidding her husband goodbye while she no more cared about the revolution than she did about Abigail, at least after her chores were complete.
With three heavy boot steps her father was beyond the reaches of the home and headed off toward danger, revolution, freedom, and bravery. Abigail knew her mother would never understand. She knew she would always resent the both of them for their wild ambitions and that somehow any ill that might befall her father would be swiftly blamed on Abigail. In that moment, she resolved to ignore whatever her mother said, knowing somehow that she would not be kept in that house much longer. Revolution called Abigail, too, and when her time came, she would fight.
3 Freedom
The morning felt strange when Abigail awoke. It was a Tuesday, the twentieth day of June in the year 1775. Instead of being lulled awake by the rays of sunshine that normally accommodate such a summer day, she sat up straight in her bed after hearing a crash of thunder and seeing a bright bolt of lightning outside her window.
The weather in Massachusetts was usually muggy but hot at this time of year. This day, however, was cold and formidable, even from the outset, and it did not much improve throughout the day. She remembered the day because it was embedded in her mind as though one of the lightning bolts that had pierced the sky that morning had seared it indelibly in the recesses of her memory. She shall never forget, for as long as she lives, that morning.
Abigail looked at the clock that hung just above her desk above the compass her father had given her. It was not yet time for her to be awake, and she was in no rush to tend to her daily chores. For a moment, she thought that perhaps she could simply drift off to sleep again, but she knew that if she did she would be in danger of sleeping through her morning chores, and that would be more reprehensible than being up early.
As she sat back against her pillows in the four-poster bed that took up the majority of her bedroom, she rested her eyes for just for a moment. Suddenly, she was startled awake by a knock at the door. She knew she was not allowed to exit her room, particularly while she was still in her morning gown, but she walked as close to her door as she could without being seen and pressed her ear against the crack around the door frame.
Mother walked to the door and opened it. Abigail could hear her shoes lightly clicking across the wooden floor, and the door's audible creak could not be missed. Low voices murmured, almost whispered, and then she heard the sound that would never leave her memory. Her mother screamed. Abigail had not in all her eighteen years heard her mother scream, nor seen her lose her composure, nor witnessed her show any emotion whatever. After the scream came a continual sobbing, and Abigail knew that horrible news had arrived on their doorstep that morning.
Ever so silently, Abigail opened her bedroom door and peeked down the hallway toward the front door. Two men in uniforms, or at least what she assumed were uniforms, ill-fitted and unmatched as they were, stood with somber faces as they attempted to console Mother, who had somehow regained her composure in the moments between the sobbing and the opening of Abigail’s door. She stood with a solemn face, nodding frequently and speaking in low tones to the men at the door.
Their hats were in their hands and they looked at the ground frequently when speaking to Mother. She eventually closed the door, and while she had her back turned Abigail quietly shut her bedroom door and retreated to the comfort of her bed, where she assumed she would not long be able to stay. She was correct.
She held her breath, knowing what Mother was about to tell her, realizing that the only possible reason for the men's visit and her mother's reaction was that her father was dead. She kept her eyes closed until she heard her mother’s voice wake her. Every fiber of her being willed time to slow down, to stop, so that she would not have to hear the words, would not have to face the truth. Her heart beat so loudly in her chest that she thought her mother would certainly be able to hear it. When her mother spoke to her in quiet tones, she knew something was very wrong.
"Abigail, wake up," she said. It was more of a question as to whether or not Abigail could be woken with such a subtle tone than a direct command, and Abigail took her time responding so that the facade of her having been asleep in the first place would be more believable. She let her mother ask her a second time, and this time it was apparent that she had found her staunch will and that the stern wall of composure she had so consistently displayed throughout Abigail’s life up until this point was fast recovering. Abigail thought it wise to respond favorably this time.
Slowly, rubbing one eye for effect, she turned over in her bed and sat up, blinking as though she was seeing the sun for the first time. With the best confused expression she could muster, she looked toward her mother with questioning eyes, hoping to appear fragile and innocent and young, thinking that perhaps it would soften her heart and take the sharp edge off of her next words. If it worked, it wasn't noticeable.
"Yes, Mother?" she asked, as she noted her blotchy, tear-stained face.
"Get up. Work starts early today. Your father is dead."
Just like that, in the amount of time it took for her to walk down the hall and open Abigail’s door, the expression of humanity she had seen in the doorway had disappeared and was replaced immediately with the stern demeanor of a dictator.
"What do you mean Father is dead?" I asked, true concern showing in my face, no need for acting anymore.
"He's dead, Abigail. Gone. Shot to death in that wretched revolution of his."
I
tried my best to keep the look of shock from my face, but it did no good. Even for my mother, this cold and uncaring language was remarkable. His revolution? She acted as though he single-handedly asked the British to fight us, as though he had, on his own, planted the seed for revolution in the minds of the people, as though he himself had created the idea of freedom in the first place and then incited everyone in the American colonies to defend it. His revolution. It was the revolution of us all, at least those who cared enough about life outside of laundry and garden tending to realize its necessity.
"Oh, come along, Abigail, don't give me that look! You were always just like him." She did not say this in a loving tone or as though it were a compliment. Instead, the words left her mouth as though she were spitting out poisonous venom so that it would not kill her, as though the very thought of my father, and by extension me, made her sick. She continued in no softer tones. "You and him with your silly ideas of revolution and freedom! And now look! Are you happy? Are you glad for what you've done to this family? Without your encouragement, maybe your father would still be home, but now he's dead, and with your help. Get out of your bed, Abigail, you can be the man of the house now, since you've never had any need for the lifestyle of a woman."
Her eyes were like dark pools, almost entirely black, as though she were possessed by some evil being or demon. It was as though Satan himself had come to their little town and taken hold of Mother. But Abigail knew better. If she was, indeed, possessed, she had been contending with the indwelling beast for as long as Abigail had been alive. Some people are just born with a stone heart, and Mother was one of them.
Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War Page 2
