Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  “None to whom we can go.”

  “What is it you wish the king to do for you?”

  “Compensate us for the selfless service rendered the Crown by my husband. For years he has delivered invaluable information to the Crown at great risk to his life and welfare.”

  “Yes, so I understand. I ask again, what do you want the king to do?”

  Phoebe drew a determined breath. “Give us a residence in England with a monthly stipend sufficient to our need.”

  Kathleen gasped and recoiled.

  The general studied her for a moment, then turned back to Phoebe. “That is an extremely radical request. Do you know what you’re asking?”

  “I do.”

  “Leave your home, your friends, all with which you are familiar, to live in a new society where you are unknown—do you think you’re prepared for such a thing?”

  “I am.”

  He looked at Kathleen. “Do you think you and the children are prepared?”

  Kathleen leaned forward on her chair. “May I have audience with the general alone?”

  Phoebe cut her off. “Absolutely not.”

  “At least send the children from the room.”

  The general called his orderly, and he gently led the children into the anteroom.

  Kathleen pointed at Phoebe. “She has not been in her right mind since Father was exiled. Somehow she has made herself believe he will return this fall. If you have read the court proceedings you know he was banished for the rest of his life. He will never return.”

  She paused for a moment. “I knew nothing of the letter she sent to the king. If I had, it would never have happened. We are having difficulties right now, but we will survive somehow. I can think of nothing—nothing—more insane than sending us all to England. I have no idea how the children would survive—”

  Phoebe cut her off, her voice high, near hysteria. “The children will be fine. They’re doing well in school. When Henry—”

  Kathleen raised both hands, palms out, and exclaimed, “Stop! The children are not in school. Father is gone!” She turned back to General Howe. “Do you see how she is? Do you think she knows what she’s asking the king to do?”

  General Howe drew and released a great breath. “Do you have work, Miss Thorpe?”

  “Yes.”

  “At Helgestad’s fishery?”

  Kathleen started. “How did you know?”

  “The king asked me to investigate. You’ve also worked at inns and taverns in Charlestown—four of them—and at the laundry here at the base.”

  Phoebe gestured. “And look at her! She’s becoming a shadow. If she continues she will become ill—permanently damage her health.”

  Kathleen turned. “I will be all right. I can—”

  General Howe raised a hand and silenced them both. “I believe I have a grasp on this matter, at least sufficient to obey the orders sent to me by the king. Would you both wait in the foyer?”

  They sat in the austere anteroom while Kathleen counted off thirty minutes on the mantel clock that ticked rhythmically in the silence. They heard the general walk to the door and it opened.

  “Please come in and be seated.”

  They took their places, and General Howe leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands on the desktop, and studied them for a moment before he raised his head.

  “I was authorized by the king to take whatever action I deemed appropriate. He suggested the family may find comfort in England. I tend to agree with him, and that is what I am prepared to offer. You will have a small cottage near London and a monthly allowance sufficient to your needs. There is a British man-of-war, the Britannia, leaving for England with some of our wounded on February ninth, which is Friday next, five days from now. You will be allowed to take clothing and personal effects but none of your household furniture. You will have to dispose of your home any way you decide. This arrangement is extended to all of you. However, time is short. We will have to have all your luggage and personal effects no later than noon Thursday to be loaded, and I will have to know now if you wish to accept the king’s hospitality.”

  He leaned back in his chair to give time for his offer to settle in.

  “We accept!” Phoebe exclaimed.

  Kathleen bolted to her feet. “We do not accept! This is insanity!”

  General Howe again raised his hand for silence. “I refuse to be drawn into this conflict. However, I do believe you would be wise to consider one thing, Miss Thorpe.”

  Kathleen waited.

  “If your mother goes alone, which she has the right to do, what would that do to you, and more important, the children, you living here and knowing nothing of your mother’s condition or state of health?” He paused. “And if your mother takes the children, which she also has the right to do, how would you fare here, not knowing how the children were managing in a new and strange land? In short, if this family divides, what will that do to you, Miss Thorpe?”

  Kathleen stared.

  “Young lady,” the general said quietly, “you have a difficult decision, and it may come down to the lesser of two evils. I am sorry I cannot give you time to ponder it, but I must know now if we need room for four passengers on the Britannia, or less.”

  Kathleen stood with hands clenched, eyes flat, dead. She settled back onto her chair and folded her hands in her lap and stared at them, and then looked at the children for a time, and finally spoke quietly. “Four.”

  At ten minutes past nine, the Reverend Mr. Silas Olmsted paused to listen, then hastened to open the outside door of his living quarters at the back of the church. His mouth fell open for a moment. “Kathleen! In heaven’s name, come in, child. It’s freezing out there.”

  He turned. “Millie, pour some hot tea.” He guided Kathleen to a chair and sat opposite her in the small, sparse room in the light of two small lamps. “What brings you here this time of night?”

  She leaned forward, eyes earnest. “I need your help. We will be leaving our home, and I need someone to sell it and the furniture. I don’t know who to go to. Would you help?”

  The reverend started. “Leaving? Going where?”

  “That doesn’t matter. I don’t know when we’ll be back. Perhaps never. Could you take care of the house until it’s sold? We can compensate you from the sale money.”

  “Kathleen, I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on. Where are you going? Why?”

  Kathleen bowed her head and tears came for a moment. She wiped at her nose and her downcast eyes. “England. Mother wrote the king without telling me. He’s providing passage for us next Friday, and a home near London and a stipend, because Father was loyal to the Crown.” She raised tortured eyes. “I am so sorry. Don’t think ill of us. I don’t know who else to turn to. Will you sell the house for us? I can write you with details as soon as I arrive there.” She reached to clutch his arm. “And above all, Reverend, you must tell no one until we’re gone. Promise me. No one.”

  Dawn broke clear and clean, and by midmorning the birds were singing their hearts out in temperatures nearing an unseasonable fifty degrees. Margaret hummed absentmindedly as she set one flatiron on the stove, picked up another, tested it with a wet finger, and continued ironing the yoke of a white shirt for Darren McGivey, a cantankerous old Scot who insisted his shirts be done just so. It was Tuesday, ironing day for all goodwives in Boston, and Margaret was alone in the house, kitchen window open to catch the fresh air and the first feeling of the awakening of earliest spring.

  A rap at the front door stopped her, and she settled the iron back on the stove and hastened to open the door.

  “Post, Mrs. Dunson.” Arvin Fergus handed her two envelopes, and Margaret took them as she said, “Thank you,” and eagerly looked at the addresses of the senders.

  Her face clouded. “Captain Richard Arlen Buchanan,” she said softly, “for Brigitte.” She stared at it for long seconds. Brigitte had written two letters to him and sent three boxes of baked tarts and pump
kin cookies, none of which had been returned, but she had never received a letter or an acknowledgment from him. This was the first. Margaret felt a rise of concern.

  She looked at the other envelope and her face blossomed. “Matthew! We have a letter from Matthew,” she sang as she walked to the table and sat down. She opened the envelope and leaned forward on her arms while she read it slowly, savoring every word, every sentence. Halfway through she leaned back and exclaimed, “He’s coming home! Matthew’s coming home! The eleventh or twelfth, for four or five days!” She revelled in the deep joy that surged through her being, then finished reading the letter. She read it all again, smiling, laughing, then looked at the mantel clock. Ten thirty-five, Tuesday, February 6, 1776. Five more days. Sunday or Monday. Five more days. Matthew’s coming home!

  She refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope, then laid both of them on the mantel.

  The children arrived from school, and Caleb sat at the table to eat the bread and cheese strips Margaret placed before them. She beamed when she told them, “Matthew’s coming home this weekend,” and they broke into chatter as they drank their milk. Caleb finished and walked to the door while Margaret gave him his daily admonition, “Come straight home after work. And tell Daniel that Matthew’s coming home.” Caleb nodded and walked out and turned up the street, trotting towards the print shop, while the younger children changed their clothing and sat at the dining table, turning pages in a large picture book.

  Half an hour later Brigitte walked in, smiling. “Isn’t it nice outside?” she exclaimed as she hung her heavy sweater. The work at the bakery had been onerous at first, then endurable, then satisfying, and in the last month, to her profound surprise, she had found a sense of pride in working with the others, creating bread that came out of the ovens brown and steaming, and cakes and tarts that filled the air with rich aromas, and she sometimes paused and listened to the pleasant chatter from the front counter.

  She started for her bedroom to change clothes, when Margaret gestured to the mantel. “You have a letter.”

  She stopped, startled. “Me?” The sudden realization struck her and she gasped. “From whom?”

  “Your captain.”

  Brigitte flew to the mantel and snatched her letter, then trotted to her room and closed the door. She sat on the bed and opened it with trembling fingers and read it, scarcely breathing. Halfway through, her hand clamped over her mouth and she gasped in disbelief. She read it again, then once more, and leaped up and ran to the kitchen to Margaret, who was working on the last of Darren McGivey’s shirts.

  “He’s well! He got my letters and my packages. He’s being released from the hospital next Monday.”

  Brigitte’s eyes were wide, wild with excitement. “Mama, please, please let me invite him here. Please.”

  Margaret continued stroking with the iron. “For what reason?”

  “To meet you. And the family. Mama, you’ll like him. I promise. Please.” Brigitte’s hands were clasped together under her chin as she pleaded.

  Margaret laid the flatiron back on the stove and took the white shirt by the collar and lifted it to inspect the sleeves and front before she placed it on its wooden hanger. “You better read the letter from Matthew before you invite your captain. It’s on the mantel.”

  “Matthew?”

  “Yes. He’s coming home next Sunday or Monday for a few days.” She stopped and gave Brigitte a few seconds to understand. “You want a British captain here with your brother whose ship has taken twelve British gunboats and crews as prizes of war? I can hardly wait for their conversation.”

  Brigitte paused for long seconds as she struggled inside. “I still want him to come. Please, Mama.”

  ______

  Notes

  Reference is again made to the petition, or request, made by the wife of Doctor Benjamin Church (Phoebe Thorpe in this volume) for a stipend, or pension, from King George of England in compensation for the doctor’s services to the British Crown. It was her husband who had given colonial secrets to General Gage. His loyalty to the Crown had resulted in his arrest, trial, and eventual banishment from the colonies, leaving his wife and children in dire need. The details are more fully explained and supported by references in the notes for chapter 20.

  February 1776

  Chapter XXIII

  * * *

  Matthew shouldered his seaman’s bag, shook hands with the officer of the deck, and walked rapidly down the gangplank of the schooner Penrod onto the familiar east docks of Boston Town. His eyes were alive and shining as he strode thumping on the heavy planking in the five o’clock a.m. gray. Seagulls wheeled overhead and argued on the rocky beach over things the tides had left, and fishermen cast off the ropes that moored their boats to the docks, and prepared to work their way from Boston Harbor to the open sea. Each glanced at the eastern sky—red sky in the morning, sailor take warning—and, satisfied with the clear gray and the surprising warmth for February twelfth, began loosening the cords that lashed sails to lanyards. With the cod running up north, observance of the Sabbath would have to wait.

  Matthew walked briskly through the narrow streets, a tight smile on his face, watching Boston Town begin to stir as the gray dawn turned to azure blue, and the sun, not yet risen, shot the low line of clouds through with reds and golds for a few brief moments. He turned onto the familiar street and looked two blocks ahead at the white fence, and his stride quickened at the thoughts of home. Home. Family. Kathleen. Kathleen.

  He pushed through the front gate and set his bag down and tried the locked door, then rapped lightly. A moment later the curtain at the large front window stirred, and then Margaret flung the door open and threw herself into his arms and clung to him with all her strength. She kissed him on the cheek and said his name and remained within his arms, holding him, repeating his name softly.

  She pushed herself away, still holding his arms, and looked at him from head to foot as though expecting somehow something should be wrong with him, but there was nothing, and words began to tumble. “You look wonderful. Come in. No one’s up yet—I was just getting things ready for the Sabbath.”

  He walked in with her, arm tightly about her waist, and set his bag beside the dining table and followed her into the kitchen, where she fed wood to the stove.

  “We got your letter,” she said, “but I didn’t expect you so early in the morning. Hungry?” She opened the cupboard for a bowl.

  “Yes.”

  “Griddle cakes?” She took a large wooden spoon from a drawer.

  “Good. I’ll wait for the others. How are they?”

  “Fine. Caleb’s growing every day. Brigitte’s working at the bakery. I think she’s beginning to enjoy it.”

  Matthew took off his coat, drew his purse from the pocket, tossed the coat across a chair, and laid the purse thumping on the kitchen table. Margaret stopped to look.

  “What’s that?”

  “One hundred twenty pounds sterling, for household use.”

  Margaret blinked in surprise. “That’s a lot of money. Where did you get it?”

  “My share of the prizes.”

  “That’s a blessing. Thank you.” She took the purse and disappeared for a moment in her bedroom, then returned. “How long can you stay?”

  “Thursday the fifteenth. I sail on the Penrod. She brought me.”

  “Would you go get six eggs and some butter?”

  Matthew took a bowl and disappeared into the root cellar, and returned and set the bowl and a butter crock on the table.

  “I’ve been worried about you,” he said. “How are you?”

  She measured flour into a bowl and started cracking eggs on top, and looked at him in mild surprise. “Me?” She shrugged. “Fine. Just keep putting one foot ahead of the other.” She stirred with the wooden spoon.

  “I’ll have time to help around the yard,” he said.

  “Tom’s helped, and Billy’s been here. Caleb’s learning. We’re getting along.”


  “Seen Kathleen?”

  Margaret slowed. “No. She’s working. We’re all so busy we just don’t see her.”

  “I’m going to see her.” He waited. “This morning.”

  Margaret looked at him. “She’s still pushing everybody away.” She resumed stirring. “I feel so sorry for that family. You knew Henry was banished for life.”

  “I heard.” He stared vacantly at the mixing bowl for a moment.

  “Matthew!”

  Brigitte rushed to throw her arms about him, and he held her close, then pushed her away. “You never looked better! The bakery did that for you?”

  “Matthew!” she scolded, then brightened. “You look wonderful. We’ve read your letters a dozen times. How long can you stay?”

  “Thursday.”

  She turned. “I’m going to get the children. They’ve been counting the days.” Minutes later Adam and Prissy stood in the archway in their nightshirts digging fists into their eyes, squinting against the light until they saw him, and then they rushed to him and hugged him around the waist.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, an arm around each. “You’ve both grown up! Why, you’re at least two inches taller.”

  “How long can you stay here?” Adam demanded.

  “Thursday.”

  They both stood silent, staring up at him, waiting.

  “What’s this?” he demanded.

  “Did you bring something?”

  He chuckled. “Drag my bag in here and we’ll see.”

  They both ran to his seaman’s bag and tipped it over and began dragging it, when Caleb appeared in the archway.

  Matthew straightened and looked at him. “Caleb! What happened to you?”

  Caleb grinned, embarrassed. “Nothing.”

  “You’re a foot taller!”

  Margaret said, “He’s delivering for Daniel Knight. Does a good job.”

  Matthew nodded his head in approval. “Well, come over here, little brother.”

  Caleb walked over and offered his hand, and Matthew avoided it and swept Caleb into his arms and held him tight. Caleb looked embarrassed and then didn’t care and threw his long arms about his brother.