Keep your spirits composed and calm, John wrote her that summer, and don’t suffer yourself to be disturbed by idle reports and frivolous alarms. Every refugee and soldier carried rumors. They spread them like an infestation of lice: of British attack, of smallpox in Boston, of Indians in British pay poised to murder. Moreover, every village and farmstead bubbled sullenly with suspicion, as patriots burned the barns and mutilated the stock of those who remained loyal to the Crown, and Loyalists fled to Boston carrying with them intelligence about the countryside and the disposal of patriot troops.
In case of real danger, John wrote, fly to the woods with our children. Abigail was aware that John’s place was unquestionably with the Congress, fighting to unite the disparate colonies into an entity capable of fielding an army—
But if he’d been in the same room with her then, she’d have brained him with a stick of firewood.
Through all that, Nabby was at her side. Washing clothes and making soap, churning butter and dragging ashes to the ash-heap, trying to save pins and medicine, salt and tinware, coffee and fabric and all the other things that British trade had provided and British laws had forbidden the colonies to manufacture. Trying to make the tiny cache of “hard” currency hidden in the attic floor-boards last as long as it could.
Six-year-old Charley thought that another raid by the British would be a tremendous lark (“I’ll kill ’em, Ma, you’ll see!”) and Johnny drew up intricate contingency plans on the sanded kitchen floor. But what Nabby thought of any of it, Abigail never knew.
At night she told them stories from Virgil and Horace and Livy, of Roman strength and Trojan determination: Horatio guarding the bridge, and Appius who stabbed his own daughter to death rather than have her live a slave. Or tales from the Bible: David and Gideon and Deborah, who led God’s chosen people to victory.
My heart is toward the governors of Israel, that offered themselves willingly, the ancient prophetess had sung. They fought from heaven; the stars in their courses fought against Sisera—the river Kishon swept them away.
“We must be strong,” she told her children, “and keep ourselves fit to be of use to our country.” Johnny’s eyes brooded in the firelight and Charley’s shone, and even Tommy forgot his ever-present fear. Nabby quietly stitched at their shirts, or braided candlewicking, and said nothing. Abigail tried not to think of what would become of them during a British raid, or if she were killed.
Winter came. In its shadow, the pale horseman of sickness rode over the barren fields. John’s brother Elihu died in the camp at Cambridge. Abigail’s sharp-tongued sister Mary fell ill in Salem, and at the Weymouth parsonage, so did her younger sister Betsey, twenty-six that winter and still unwed. When John’s mother fell ill, and Abigail’s servant-girl Pattie and little Tommy, Abigail sent the older boys away to her sister in Salem. Eventually eight of their neighbors died. Some nights Abigail was so exhausted she could only cling to her daughter’s shoulders and weep with weariness, feeling the girl’s thin body stiff as a doll with fear. The day Pattie died, it was Nabby who brought Abigail word that Abigail’s mother was sick as well.
John’s mother recovered, tough as a little walnut.
Abigail’s mother died.
“I’m sorry about the cook.” Nabby winced, groped for her mother’s hand. In her voice Abigail could hear the tremor of pain and fright. “Dinner on Sunday was absolutely frightful, and William went down to the kitchen and found her by the hearth, drunk—and on his brandy, too! It was the third time since Christmas—”
“Don’t fret yourself about the cook.” In Abigail’s opinion William Smith should have been looking for a new cook since Christmas. She said instead, “It’s all right.”
Nabby shook her head, blond hair tangling against the pillows. Tears sprang into her eyes. “It isn’t! I’ve tried—I’ve tried so hard…”
“Child, what are you talking about?” Abigail demanded, gripping her daughter’s swollen hands. “You have done all that can be asked of any woman: to love and obey your parents, to be a good sister to your brothers, to marry a good man and bear strong sons and daughters for the new Republic. She’ll be a new little American, you know,” she added, with an encouraging smile. “One of the first of the new generation.”
“Like those stories you used to tell us.” Nabby managed a smile in reply. “Remember? I always liked Cloetia, escaping from the enemy and swimming across the Tiber under a hail of spears.” Her breath caught and her fingers tightened on Abigail’s. “But I always felt like I’d have been one of her friends, who got left behind as a hostage because Cloetia chose to free the young men, knowing Rome would need the soldiers. I always felt—”
“I daresay the Romans carried their patriotism a bit too far,” responded Abigail firmly, looking down at her daughter’s taut face. “Any woman who bears a child, of either sex, is doing far more for our country than the bravest soldier ever did, and enduring more pain as well. But you’ll come through it, dearest. You’re a Smith—my family Smith, as well as William’s. And we Smith girls are tough as ponies.”
Nabby’s eyes pressed shut, her breath coming in gasps and her hands crushing Abigail’s now as the wave of pain swept over her—Where on earth is that miserable midwife? The pains, though sharp, were still some minutes apart, but who knew how long that would last?
“It won’t be long before she’ll go home—we’ll all go home—and see our country again,” Abigail continued, remembering how desperately she’d needed to hear a friendly voice while she herself had been in labor. “Even your father knows what a waste of his time it is, trying to deal with Parliament. They have no more intention of living up to the terms of the treaty than they do of going back to wearing loincloths and painting themselves blue, though I daresay with the fashions I’ve seen here this season it may come to that. They haven’t made a single reparation for American property seized at sea during the War. Your father has sent to Congress asking for his recall. If they do as they’ve said, and reorganize the government, they’ll need him there. And if he goes, almost certainly Colonel Smith will be called home as well.”
Nabby’s body was racked with an aftermath of sobs. She whispered something, Abigail thought she said, “New York.” Meaning, she guessed, that William Smith’s mother, sister, and younger brothers lived outside New York City, a week’s hard travel from Braintree. But when she leaned close and asked softly, “What did you say, dear?” Nabby asked brokenly, “Did I do the right thing, Ma?”
Tears streamed down her face. As Abigail dried them with the clean spare handkerchief she invariably carried, she felt her own heart contract with guilt. She knew exactly what her daughter meant.
In the spring of 1782, Royall Tyler came to board with Abigail’s sister Mary, who had by that time returned to Braintree to live. Nabby was sixteen.
John had been gone two and a half years by that time. The Congress had sent him to France early in 1778, when the French King had allied himself with the American cause. He’d taken Johnny, not quite eleven years old, ostensibly as an assistant but in truth so that there would be one soul at his side whom he could completely trust. He’d come home for four brief months late in the summer of ’79, and had then departed. This time he took with him both Johnny and Charley.
Nine-year-old Charley had wept to leave Braintree, his cousins, his family, and his friends—Johnny at least had borne his own earlier departure with the stoicism of one who knows his duty to family, country, and his own future worth. No amount of parental encouragement about seeing a foreign land, learning a language that would serve him well in the future, and meeting friends who could put his feet on the road of profession and honor seemed to make a difference to Charley. In the end, all Abigail could do was tell her sobbing middle son that he must strive to excel, and hope.
Since the British had abandoned Boston in 1776, there had been no more fighting in Massachusetts. But the War had gone on. With many of the able-bodied men either in the State militia or the Contine
ntal Army, it was hard to find anyone to do the farm’s heavy work, especially given the sharp increase in wages and the scarcity of any kind of real money. Both Congress and the State of Massachusetts had printing-presses instead of treasuries, and most people demanded either specie—of which almost no one had any—or payment in kind: crops, eggs, a lamb. It cost a hundred and fifty dollars just to get a new fence. John took to sending Abigail, from France, small packages of the kind of goods that were scarce in Massachusetts: pins, silk gloves, handkerchiefs of fine muslin, ribbons, the occasional length of fine white lawn. All of these she could sell, or trade.
Somehow, they survived.
Her loneliness, as the months stretched into a year, then two years, was agony. There were days when her longing for his company yawned like a bottomless pit in her soul; nights when sheer carnal hunger for his body filled her with a fever no medicine could slake. Snow heaped around the house in the winters and darkness closed down by four in the afternoon. John’s letters were too often brief, for John had a horror of the British intercepting his correspondence on the high seas.
In the summer of 1781, only months before Cornwallis surrendered, John wrote that he was sending Charley home: He had “too exquisite a sensibility for Europe,” meaning, Abigail guessed, that neither John nor anyone else knew what to make of the boy’s sensitive nature and odd combination of introversion and happy-go-lucky charm. Fear of having the letter—and Charley—intercepted precluded John from saying how, where, or when, which turned out to be just as well for Abigail’s peace of mind. Charley, and one of the two Americans John had entrusted him to, ended up stranded in Spain, caught in high-seas battle with privateers, and becalmed in mid-ocean for weeks before fetching up, five months after setting forth from France, in the shipping town of Beverly, a long day’s journey north of Boston.
Abigail didn’t know whether to fall to her knees praising God for the return of her son or to write her merchant cousin Will in Amsterdam and ask about hiring someone to break a broom over John’s head for sending their boy off alone.
And a few months after that, Royall Tyler had come into her—and Nabby’s—life.
Nabby had at first wanted to have little to do with the handsome young lawyer. Royall was twenty-five, and according to sister Mary—who admittedly had two marriageable daughters of her own to dispose of—had thoroughly disgraced himself at Harvard with drunkenness, profanity, fathering a bastard on the charwoman, and informing the faculty that he cared nothing for a “little paltry degree” which might be bought for twenty shillings anytime he really wanted one.
“My sins were a wild boy’s sins,” he admitted to Abigail, when he ran to catch up with her one summer afternoon on her way home from Mary’s house. “Of them I can only ask, with the Psalmist, that you remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions…Pardon my iniquity, for it is great.” He bowed his head meekly before her, but his dark eyes laughed through his long lashes. “I adore your daughter, Mrs. Adams. Without your aid I am nothing. I cannot open my breast and lay my reformed heart before you on a tray for your inspection, though I would if I could. I ask only that you regard me as tabula rasa, and look upon my present actions with an open mind.”
Abigail was perfectly well aware that she was being flirted with, but she also knew the effects of gossip in Braintree. Though Royall was said to have dissipated a substantial part of the fortune his father had left him (“Of course I did! I was fifteen!”), he was still in possession of a ship, a store, a chaise-and-pair, and a house in Boston, and was negotiating for purchase of the handsomest house in Braintree. It would be no bad thing, she thought, should Nabby wed a man who would be able to keep her well.
And, it was always hard for Abigail to turn a cold shoulder to an educated man. There were few enough people in Braintree with whom she could talk about Voltaire, Cicero, and Plutarch, as she did with John. Royall would drop in at the house on the Plymouth road, as if by accident on his way to and from Boston, to chat in the kitchen or the dairy with mother and daughter. Even when Nabby went to spend weeks in Boston with her Smith relatives, Royall would visit Abigail, to help with the legal business of collecting the long-overdue debts owed John, and to advise her on the details of running the farm and whether investing in land in Vermont would be wise. Afterwards Abigail would write to Nabby, saying that her suitor sent her his love.
She had, she admitted, high hopes for the match, if for no other reason than that Nabby’s aloof silences had begun to worry her. She feared that something in Nabby had been changed or broken in the years of war and fear. If she could not love a man as devoted to her as Royall was, and as educated, clever, and witty, to whom would she ever gift her heart?
Was a part of her fear, she wondered now, looking down at her daughter’s face, a fear for herself? Petals scattered on the wind of time can never be regathered. And her own mirror, that icy winter of 1783, showed her gray in her dark hair, and the spoor of age beginning in the corners of her eyes and lips. When she turned thirty-nine in November she wrote to John, Who shall give me back my time? Who shall compensate me for the years I cannot recall?
In France the treaty-wrangling with England dragged on. John sent letters filled with maddened frustration. Two of the other delegates at the Court of Versailles were completely untrustworthy and bickered like cat and dog; another member of the delegation, he suspected, was selling information to the British by means of a letter-drop in a hollow tree by the Tuileries garden. To make matters worse, he shared quarters in Paris with Benjamin Franklin, and the spectacle of the philosopher—who at seventy-seven was arguably too old for that sort of carrying-on—merrily leaping into and out of half the beds in Paris was almost more than he could stand.
In ’81 John had been taken ill on a journey to Holland—“As near to death as any man ever approached without being grasped in his arms”—and since that time, Abigail had lived with fear.
No more letters signed Portia or Lysander, their old courting nicknames.
No more pillow-fights, followed by burning kisses that consumed the whole of her flesh; no more long evenings of talk and argument and jokes about Plutarch in bed until the candles burned out.
No more hope that she would one day look up from weeding the vegetable-garden and see him striding up the path.
Was that why I pushed you to marry Royall Tyler? Because I wanted you to have what I feared I would lose? Another woman would have gently stroked her daughter’s sweat-damp hair—Abigail prosaically wrung out a washrag in the basin, and mopped Nabby’s face. Rewarded by Nabby’s faint shut-eyed smile, and the plump hand stealing up to briefly close around hers.
I only wanted what was best for you, my dearest child.
And at about the time Nabby at last began to unbend, and yield herself to Royall’s enraptured kisses, the letter came from John.
Will you come to me this fall, and go home with me this spring?
“Lord, ma’am, I am that sorry.”
Abigail looked up swiftly as the midwife came in, plump and wheezing and shadowed by a girl who carried a wicker basket bigger than Abigail’s own.
“It’s as if God sent out a circular letter to all the ladies in London at once, saying He wanted every baby birthed sharp this morning and no shilly-shallying about it. I’ve just got back from Clarges Street, with a fine young lady come into the world.” The midwife beamed, and Abigail, who’d ascertained at a glance that the woman had taken the time to change not only her apron but her dress between deliveries, returned her smile.
“And I devoutly hope we shall see another such before the day’s much older,” she replied, and held out her hand. “Mrs. Throckle, as I recall?”
“It is. And you’re Mrs. Adams, if I remember aright, Mrs. Smith’s good mother. I knew when I came home and found that girl of Mrs. Smith’s there, and she told me you’d been sent for as well, I said to myself, ‘Well, there’s one I don’t have to worry will come to harm before I arrive,’ which I’m sorry to say in
my business you can’t always count on and that’s the truth.” After a brisk, firm clasp of Abigail’s hand—a welcome change from the upper-class English habit of extending two limp fingers—she turned away at once and began her examination.
“Her waters broke not long after eight, her maid tells me,” Abigail provided, kneeling at Nabby’s other side. “So it’s been—” She glanced at the elaborate little clock that decorated the bedroom’s marble mantel, “—nearly three hours. The pains are about three minutes apart by my watch.”
“Early days yet.” Mrs. Throckle removed the clean towel that covered her basket, and began removing little flasks of olive oil, chamomile, belladonna.
Nabby gave a gasp and a stifled cry, and her hand closed hard on Abigail’s again, her back arching as if it would break. She sobbed, “Ma!” through gritted teeth, and then, desperately, “Papa!” She had been only seven when her youngest brother was born, too young to remain in the house during her mother’s travails, but the knowledge of childbirth’s pain was something it seemed to Abigail that every woman was born understanding. When the contraction was over she clung to Abigail, and shivered, sobbing.
From the street outside the bedroom window Abigail heard the jingle of harness, and rising, angled her head to look down. It was, as she’d half suspected, Nabby’s husband Colonel Smith, just getting into a smart green-and-gold chaise behind a sleek bay gelding. Abigail thought, Damn him, and then, remembering the brandy on his breath as he’d hugged her, Just as well.
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