Prelude to Glory, Vol. 1

by Ron Carter

  Matthew let him go, and Caleb walked to help the children with the bag, and Matthew lifted it to a chair. A moment later he had the laces open and rummaged around inside.

  “For Adam.” He handed him a small carved whale mounted on a pedestal.

  Adam’s eyes popped. “What’s it made of?”

  “Genuine whale’s tooth.”

  “Genuine? Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  Adam blew air. “Wait’ll the others at church see this!”

  “Prissy,” Matthew said and handed her a comb of many colors.

  “Mine? My own?”

  “Your very own.”

  “What makes the colors?”

  “That’s made from abalone.”

  “Abalone! Oh! What’s abalone? Mama, can I take it to church? Please? Please?”

  Margaret smiled. “Abalone is seashell. You can take it to church.”

  “Caleb,” Matthew said, and handed him a sextant.

  Caleb beamed.

  “That’s a sextant we took from a British man-of-war. It’s used for—”

  Caleb interrupted. “I know what it is. I’ve been reading your books.” Caleb ran his fingers over the fine precision instrument and his eyes shined. “Thanks.”

  “Brigitte.” Matthew handed her a great white hand-knitted shawl with her name in royal blue in one corner.

  “It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed. “Oh, thank you.”

  “Mother.” He handed her a large vanity hand mirror, set in silver, with delicate roses and leaves engraved on the back and handle by a master silversmith, and a brush to match.

  Margaret stopped in her tracks and her mouth dropped open for a second. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely!” she said softly. “Oh, son, they’re just lovely.” She caressed them for a time, feeling the polished silver and admiring the work.

  Then she turned to the children. “Now, off with all of you. Put your gifts away for now and get ready for breakfast. Fifteen minutes.”

  With all of them standing at the table, Margaret nodded to Matthew. “Your turn.”

  They all knelt beside their chairs and Matthew clasped his hands. “Almighty God . . .”

  The prayer was not long, and each said amen before they rose to sit, and it was then that each of them was suddenly aware of the vacant chair at the head of the table. Silent eyes turned to look, and an odd moment of unexpected quiet gripped them all as they worked with their own thoughts, their own memories of their father, and then Margaret cleared her throat.

  “Matthew, John is here, but he can’t sit at the head of the table anymore. Would you move to his chair? He expected you to do that.”

  It was done! In that peculiar moment, the healing that had gone on for nearly a year was completed, closed, behind them forever. Each drew a breath, and then they reached for the steaming platters.

  Breakfast was a flood of questions and answers and exclamations and surprises and laughter that flowed around hot griddle cakes and melting butter and maple syrup and milk. Margaret and Brigitte did the dishes while Matthew took his bag to his room and unpacked, then walked back into the kitchen.

  “I want to go see Kathleen for a few minutes before church,” he said.

  Margaret slowed. “She’s still suffering—won’t let anyone close. She’s been attending church at the North Chapel. I think Phoebe’s mind has been wandering. It might not be a good idea.”

  “I’ll have to take a chance,” Matthew said. “I have to see her.”

  Brigitte spoke. “Kathleen’s been working wherever she could. The British laundry, at inns and taverns in Charlestown, and now she’s working with the men at Helgestad’s.”

  Matthew’s head dropped forward. “Helgestad’s? Cleaning cod?”

  “Alongside the men.”

  “Why?”

  Margaret stopped and faced him. “No one would give her work. No one. She worked at the British laundry because that was all she could find in Boston, and people called her a traitor just like her father. It’s only gotten worse since. I don’t know what’s holding her together.”

  “Didn’t anyone try to help?” Matthew’s voice was high, excited.

  “We all did. Me, Billy, Tom—but she refused. Simply refused.”

  “I’ll be back in time for church,” Matthew said as he walked to the door. Half a block from the Thorpe home Matthew saw the boards over the side windows, and his breath came short as he hurried on. He stopped at the front gate, appalled, stunned. There was no smoke from the chimney, the windows were all boarded, and a heavy wooden bar was bolted across the front door. A large padlock sealed the gate, and he vaulted it and trotted to the front door and banged hard with his clenched fist.

  There was no greeting, no sound from within. He walked around the house, into the backyard, where the outbuildings were bolted shut and all windows were covered with boards. There was no cut kindling stacked against the back wall, no coal in the coal bin.

  He vaulted the fence back into the street and trotted home and barged into the parlor, breathing hard.

  Margaret came from the kitchen, hot pad in her hand, to stare at his face, frantic and wild. “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

  “The Thorpes are gone,” he exclaimed, pointing.

  “Gone?”

  “The house is boarded up. Gone!”

  Margaret was incredulous. Brigitte came trotting up the hall.

  “Isn’t there a sign on the door? Something?” Margaret asked.

  “Nothing! Just a vacant house and yard.”

  Brigitte stood still, in shock. “Kathleen or the whole family?”

  “All of them! Do you know anything about it?”

  Brigitte shook her head violently. “No! I’ve been at the bakery.”

  “We’ve all been working,” Margaret exclaimed. “I don’t know a thing about it, but I can’t believe they would do it—just leave without a word.”

  Matthew dropped into his chair, bewildered, unable to force his thoughts to a plan, a conclusion. “Somebody has to know! Billy? Would he know?”

  Margaret answered. “Maybe. Let’s go early and ask at church.”

  At nine twenty-five Matthew opened the tall doors to the church, and they entered to peer into the silent chapel. The sun streaming through the east bank of stained-glass windows cast a rainbow of color on the west wall.

  “No one’s arrived yet,” Brigitte said.

  “I’ll go ask the reverend,” Matthew replied. “You stay here and wait for Billy or someone and ask them.” His heels clicked loud on the polished hardwood floor, and he stopped at the door behind the pulpit and rapped. A moment later it opened and the Reverend Silas Olmsted’s bushy brows rose.

  “Matthew! What a surprise! How good to see you! Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you, Reverend, but I haven’t come visiting. I need an answer to a question. I was down at the Thorpe home this morning and . . .”

  Matthew saw the slight jerk of the reverend’s head and the instant flex of the jaw muscles as his mouth tightened. He broke off his sentence and paused for one moment, then asked quietly, “Where are they?”

  The reverend licked dry lips and stammered, “Won’t you come in? We’ll need to talk.”

  “Just tell me,” Matthew said, and did not move.

  The reverend straightened and looked him in the eye. “En-gland. They sailed two days ago on the Britannia. The king granted them a home and stipend there.”

  For long seconds Matthew held the reverend’s steady gaze, and then he repeated softly, “England?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. Kathleen left me with Phoebe’s written authority to sell their house. She made me promise to tell no one—no one—until they were gone.”

  “Why did they go?”

  “It was Phoebe, not Kathleen. Kathleen was bitter about it.”

  “But why?”

  “Phoebe was becoming a recluse—not in her right mi
nd.”

  “Couldn’t someone stop her?”

  “She wrote to the king. Directly to the king. He authorized General Howe to grant her passage and a home and money. There was no way to stop it without declaring her insane. Her mind wanders, but she’s not insane.”

  “Why didn’t Kathleen stay here, with the children?”

  “Split the family? Separate the children from their mother? Worry about Phoebe forever?”

  Matthew hesitated, then asked, “How long did she say they’d be gone?” He held his breath waiting for the answer.

  “They won’t be back. I’m to sell the house and forward the proceeds when Kathleen writes from England.”

  Matthew slowly exhaled and his shoulders dropped and he stood with face downcast, and he felt everything inside go dead. His heart turned to ashes. His mind quit functioning. He did not move or speak for more than one minute while Silas waited, giving him time.

  Finally Silas touched his arm. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. Please come inside.”

  Still Matthew remained mute, unmoving.

  “Matthew? Are you all right?”

  Finally Matthew raised his head. “Thank you.” He turned and walked slowly back up the aisle, out the door into the bright sunlight, where Margaret waited with the family.

  Margaret sensed it. “Matthew! What’s happened?”

  He took her by the arm and walked her onto the grass, away from the entry, with Brigitte following. For three minutes he spoke quietly, haltingly, while both women covered their mouths with their hands and stood frozen like pillars.

  Matthew finished and raised his eyes to Margaret, and she was speechless.

  Brigitte broke the silence. “Gone? For always?” She shook her head, unable to grasp what was happening.

  Margaret touched his arm. “Matthew, I am so sorry.”

  He looked at her and said nothing.

  They turned at the sound of voices and watched a family in their Sunday best cross the street.

  Margaret spoke. “Do you want to go home?” she asked.

  Matthew shook his head. “No.” He straightened and squared his shoulders. “Let’s go inside.”

  By force of will Matthew and the family sealed off their inner devastation and abided the social requirements of greeting friends, and singing, and soberly listening to Silas Olmsted’s sermon, and adding their “Amen” to his before rising to walk out into the February sunshine. Their façade succeeded with everyone save for one person. In the churchyard Billy Weems pulled Matthew aside.

  “What’s wrong?”

  For three minutes Matthew talked low, and Billy felt the pain and his head dropped forward for a moment. “Last week, I talked to her, she didn’t say a word.”

  “I’ve got to know some things. Why? How long, Billy? What am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Let me think on it.”

  They worked their way back to their families, and with Margaret on his arm, Matthew led the children home. They changed clothes, and Margaret and Brigitte put on aprons. Brigitte tested the beef pie while Margaret slipped two apple pies into the oven. The children cornered Matthew in the parlor.

  “Any sea battles?” Caleb asked.

  Matthew nodded. “Quite a few.”

  Adam and Priscilla settled onto the sofa, wide-eyed, waiting.

  “Did you capture any ships?”

  “Several.”

  “What was the first one?” Caleb sat down facing Matthew on the sofa.

  Half an hour later Margaret called, “Get washed for dinner.”

  Margaret said grace, and Adam declared, “Matthew caught some bad ships and brought ’em back with lots of gunpowder, and we’re going to win the war because George Washington wanted the gunpowder.” He looked fierce.

  Matthew chuckled.

  “Not Matthew,” Prissy said, disgusted. “The captain of the ship.”

  “No sir,” Adam declared, “it was Matthew.” He turned large, pleading eyes upward. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Well,” Matthew said, “it was Captain Weyland and me and the crew. We all did it.”

  Adam turned indignant eyes back to Prissy. “See! I told you.”

  “That’s not the same as you said first,” Prissy insisted.

  “It is too,” Adam declared.

  “Hush, you two,” Margaret said. “Matthew, when will you return from this next trip?”

  “A month, six weeks.”

  “Where you going?” Caleb asked.

  “West Indies.”

  “What for?”

  “General Washington ordered it.”

  “Can’t you tell us?”

  “No.”

  Adam reared up in his seat. “A secret! Matthew’s doing a secret for George Washington.”

  “He is not,” Prissy retorted.

  “He is so! He said!”

  The talk flowed freely, uninhibited, in the bedrock security of the family.

  Matthew turned to Brigitte. “Like working at the bakery?”

  She answered without raising her eyes. “Yes. Fine.”

  “I’ll get the custard,” Margaret announced, and they all waited with spoons in hand while she disappeared out the back door, into the root cellar.

  Again Matthew looked at Brigitte. “You haven’t had much to say.”

  She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “It’s nice just listening. It’s been so long since we’ve all been here.”

  With the dishes done and the shadows growing long in the streets, Matthew sat for a time at the dining table with a book, then rose to pace, running his hands through his hair.

  “Kathleen?” Margaret asked.

  Matthew nodded. “I can’t leave it like this. I need to talk to her.”

  “Get her address from Silas when she writes to him, and send her a letter.”

  “That could be a year.”

  Margaret shrugged. “Sail one of your ships over there and find her.” She turned to him. “Son, you may have to put this behind you without ever seeing her again. Don’t get your heart too set.”

  Matthew sighed. “I’ll see her again.”

  At eight-thirty Matthew called the family to the table and they knelt beside their chairs, and Margaret offered their evening prayer, then stood.

  “To bed with you children,” she said. “School tomorrow. Caleb, you too.”

  At nine-fifteen Margaret went into the kitchen to shake the grate in the stove, and Matthew followed her.

  He spoke softly. “Is something wrong with Brigitte? Not ten words all day.”

  Margaret stared at the stove for a moment, deciding, then drew a determined breath. “Yes, there is.” She walked back into the parlor to where Brigitte was sitting. “Come sit at the table. Matthew, you too.” She waited. “Brigitte, you have something to tell Matthew.”

  Brigitte looked at her mother, and for a moment Matthew saw fear flicker in her eyes, and then she set her mouth and turned to him. “Yes, I do. Tuesday evening I have invited a guest for supper. Richard Arlen Buchanan, a captain in the regulars.”

  Slowly Matthew leaned back in his chair while he tried to make sense of it. “A British officer? What are you saying?”

  “I invited him here. I want you and Mother to meet him.”

  Matthew shook his head slightly. “I don’t understand what this is about.” He looked at Margaret, face drawn in question.

  Margaret looked at Brigitte. “Come to the point.”

  “I met him before Concord. He was wounded in the battle. I’ve written to him. I want him to come here.”

  Matthew’s mouth fell open and he stared. “You’re interested in this man?”

  Brigitte’s eyes were steady, firm. “Yes.”

  Matthew turned to Margaret, looking for help. “Is this true? An officer in the English army?”

  Margaret nodded her head and remained silent.

  “He was in the Concord battle?”

  “Yes,” Brigitte answered. “Nearly killed.”
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br />   “Father was killed. Does he know that?”

  “Not from me. I don’t think he knows.”

  “Does he know I’ve spent the last eight months taking ships flying the Union Jack on the high seas?”

  “No.”

  Matthew’s voice was beginning to rise, hot. “What do you expect to come of it? Are you thinking of marriage?”

  Brigitte’s eyes fell and she remained silent, subdued.

  “Brigitte! Think what you’re saying!” Matthew leaned forward, concentrative, intent.

  “A colonial girl and a British officer! It’s insane! Could you forswear us, your home, this land, to become a British subject? the wife of a British officer? live in England?”

  Brigitte would not raise her eyes.

  “What do you know about him? How much time have you spent with him?”

  “I know he’s good and honorable.”

  “No, how much time? When have you talked with him?”

  She shook her head. “Once.”

  “When? Where?”

  “At the church.”

  “Church! He went to church with you?”

  “No. That night they ransacked it.”

  “That was April of last year! You’ve never talked with him about all this?”

  “I don’t need to. I know what I know.”

  Matthew turned to Margaret, incredulous, angry. “She told you all this?”

  “We’ve been through it half a dozen times.”

  “Can you see any good coming of it?”

  Margaret shook her head emphatically. “I’ve told her. She’s going to break her own heart.”

  Matthew turned back to Brigitte, loud. “What will it do to him when I tell him Father was killed in the Concord fight? that my ship’s crew and I have killed British sailors, taken twelve British ships, given their guns and powder to George Washington to fight this man’s king and country? What’s he going to feel when he understands that Father or I or Billy or Tom would have killed him at Concord if we’d seen him?”

  Margaret interrupted. “Not so loud. Don’t wake the children.”

  Brigitte neither spoke nor moved.

  Matthew lowered his voice. “That doesn’t concern you?”

  “Yes, it does. But it will not change things between him and me.”

  “Brigitte! Wake up! I might have to kill that man on the field of battle, or him me. Don’t you see what you’re doing?”