Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (15 page)

18

THANKSGIVING 1775. AT THE LAST MOMENT, THE
Peirces were unable to attend, much to Mama’s dismay. Instead, the Atkinsons came. Mr. Atkinson was the proprietor of Portsmouth’s rope-making enterprise; we hardly needed our inexpertly altered gowns
for
him
. However, Mama observed that the gowns might do
double-duty for a Christmas dinner or New Year’s party.

It had taken near a month of preparation to create our Thanksgiving dinner. In previous years, such dinners were a weekly occurrence. Uncle Robert hired a butler for the evening, and the Atkinsons were served a fine wine and oysters. The silver was polished; fires blazed in the dining room and the parlor. Cousin George looked quite the courtly gentleman in his regimentals, and little Phoebe and regal Linda moved about so quickly that it gave the impression of there being more servants than there actually were.

Passing Cassie in the hallway, I asked her where the butler had come from.

“A friend in debt to Master Robert loaned him.”

I smirked. How absurd, to go through such a charade—and all for the Atkinsons!

Mr. Atkinson, in his middle forties, fidgeted with his cravat, intimidated by his surroundings. Mrs. Atkinson thought it safest to wear an unvarying grin that did not always tally with the drift of the conversation. What’s more, she wore a gown nearly identical in style to ours before we had altered them. I endeavored to avoid looking at Mrs. Atkinson, for fear that I might burst out laughing.

Once we were all seated around the dining table, my father began a solemn prayer. After it, he said, “And now, I would like to thank my dear brother-in-law Robert for his gracious hospitality.”

Uncle Robert, moved to say something, said, “
I’d
like to thank my son, George, for leaving off his military duties to join us.”

The Atkinsons’ little girl, Annie, wishing to participate somehow, said, “Thank you, Mama and Papa, for my new puppy!” at which we all laughed good-naturedly. Mama’s smile and bright eyes told me that she was contented with how the party unfolded. The ice had been broken, as it were, and we had only to enjoy our repast.

The fish in cream sauce, though not turbot, was excellent. After several glasses of wine, everyone conversed with easy animation, steering carefully around Cousin George’s thoughtless praise of a recent British success at Falmouth. I was thankful for Mrs. Atkinson, who engaged us in a lengthy conversation about the table decorations.

At last, my uncle’s “butler” presented the boar. Cassie had planted the tusks upright in the center of the platter, which made a dramatic display; murmurs of appreciation went round the table. Uncle Robert carved the meat, and the butler offered the platter to each member of our party. But when my turn came, I pulled my plate away with a quiet, “No, thank you.”

Papa looked at me. “What? Are you unwell, my love?”

“No, I am well,” I assured him.

“Well, then,” my mother said cheerfully, looking about the table at her guests, “have a morsel. For surely we do not have such a fine roast every day.” Assenting twitters flew about the table. But my gorge rose at the idea of taking even one bite of that meat. My feelings had not changed, had not been dampened by the conviviality or the wine. I kept seeing Watkins, tied and stripped to the waist in the square, blood coursing down his back. No, I could not put this flesh to my lips.

“I’m sorry, Papa. I can’t eat it.” I had said the words in a whisper, hoping he would let my turn at the meat pass. But he persisted.

“Why not? It is perfectly good.” His voice fairly boomed, as it did when he was agitated. The butler stood as immobile as a garden statue. Was it my imagination, or had our guests shifted their postures imperceptibly away from the now-suspect meat upon the platter? Little Annie’s mouth was open, her eyes wide at this wholly unexpected scene.

And then I spoke. “I cannot eat this meat because the man who was good enough to hunt it for us, he who set out to forage all day and night in the cold and dark, to put food on
our
table, was whipped until his blood ran. All for having missed his curfew. As I am a Christian woman, I cannot eat this meat!”

“Eliza!” my father exclaimed. My uncle set his utensils down and cleared his throat. Cousin George’s face swelled, his cravat becoming so tight that it seemed to be strangling him. My mother, rising slightly off her seat, announced, “You
shall
eat it!” She then skewered a slice of the roast with her fork and slapped it so forcefully onto my plate that the juices flew everywhere. I covered my face with my hands and fled the table.

19

I WAS SHUNNED FOR TWO WEEKS. NO
one spoke to me, and I was forbidden to come to table. I took my meals either alone in my room or in the kitchen with the servants. I knew not what had transpired until later that evening, when, as Cassie and I supped in my chamber, she recounted the early departure of the Atkinsons and the subsequent convening of my family in the parlor to discuss “what to do about Eliza.”

It was oddly peaceful to be shunned. I lay on my bed, daydreamed, read, and watched the movement of the boats from my window. I listened to the sounds of the blacksmith’s hammer and the sawyers working somewhere down the street. At times, thoughts about Watkins invaded—his whipping, his eyes when they looked at me, and his whispered question, “Are you all right, Miss Boylston?” Six words that I reduced to their smallest particles, examining them for hidden meaning.

I watched the bruise on my arm, the one I had received when Watkins bumped into me, slowly fade from a greenish black to pale yellow. Time faded like the bruise, and after a while, I knew not the day of the week. Then, one morning, my father entered my chamber. He sat on the side of the bed. “Eliza. You’ve made a terrible mistake, painful to all involved. I understand your soft heart, which is commendable. But as this is your uncle’s house, surely you can see how he has every right to impose his own rules in it?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Papa, cheered by my docile reply, nodded. “Well, after some discussion, Uncle has offered to forgive your offense if you make a sincere apology and show true remorse.” Here he paused, a look of eager, almost childlike hope on his face.

After a few moments, I replied quietly, “It is he who should apologize.”

“Incorrigible girl!” Papa bellowed. He stood up, wiped his sweaty brow, and caught his breath. “You don’t seem to comprehend the situation. He means to send you from us if you do not beg his forgiveness.”

“Send me where, pray?”

“He has not divulged that to me,” Papa admitted.

“A hollow threat, then.” I smoothed my bedcover with my hand to hide a wicked smile.

“Don’t doubt it, Eliza. Your uncle is yet a powerful man, with powerful connections.”

“My uncle is in danger of being arrested.”

We all knew this to be true, though none of us spoke of it. Only the week before, a letter from General Washington to General Sullivan appeared in the papers. It announced, ominously, that Tories who continued to reside in Portsmouth would soon “meet their fates.”

Papa sighed. “You used to be such a sweet, agreeable girl,” he said plaintively.

“Sweet? Agreeable? Surely you speak of someone else. Ignorant, perhaps, but I’ve grown up. You would not wish me to remain a silly child forever?”

Papa patted my hand in silence. But, as he left my chamber, giving a defeated little cough as he did so, I had the impression that this was precisely what he would have liked.

I never apologized to Uncle Robert, nor did he send me away. But for several weeks, I feared it earnestly. Each time a coach passed by, I was seized with terror. Each time a servant trod upon the stair, I feared it was to deliver me a trunk in which to pack my things. Yet no one came for me.

Meanwhile, Cassie told me that news of my refusal to eat the meat at Thanksgiving had spread like fire among Portsmouth’s slaves. I thought she exaggerated, but, after Cousin George’s departure, I began to notice a subtle change in the way the neighboring slaves treated me.

One day, when I brought Cassie upstairs to show her a stain on one of my gowns, we found the gown missing.

“Where on earth is my gown?” I cried. “I hope this is not some silly prank, Cassie. You know how I dislike those.”

“You’ll see,” said Cassie, smiling.

Indeed, the next day, I saw Dinah crossing the field behind our house as if sh
e’d
just left it. I ran to my closet, where I found my gown, returned to me. The stain was gone.

Cuffee Whipple, knowing how much I enjoyed music, began stopping over on his way to events and warmed up by playing me a tune. He knew I loved the song “Chester” and played it often. The song, reminding me of Jeb, always brought tears to my eyes.

Let tyrants shake their iron rod,

And Slav’ry clank her galling chains,

We fear them not, we trust in God

New England’s God forever reigns.

One afternoon, after a particularly somber rendition, I was moved beyond mere listening. I leapt up from my stool and hugged Cuffee. So surprised was the poor soul that he dropped his violin upon the kitchen floor and nearly broke it.

Christmas was quiet that year, and our dinner included no special meat. It featured a chicken that had annoyed Cassie once too often by pecking at her herbs and that now found itself resting crisply on a bolster of mashed potatoes, adorned by a necklace of rosemary.

We ate our meal. Afterward, we planned to attend meeting at the North Church. My family was not happy about attending this church, surrounded by the likes of Colonel Whipple and John Langdon and other “rebels,” but as St. John’s had closed its doors several years earlier, we had little choice. Then, just before we left to attend meeting, it began to snow. In the distance, I heard the voices of children singing. Perhaps they were rehearsing for the service. Without, the sky had darkened, and we wrapped our cloaks more tightly about us.

I made my way down the path ahead of my parents, chin tucked down against the cold, and was surprised by Watkins rounding the path from the street. I had not seen him since Thanksgiving. For a moment, we were alone together. Watkins looked up and his eyes met mine. Surely he knew by now, like every other slave in Portsmouth, how
I’d
refused to eat that boar. I blushed with the knowledge but willed myself not to look away from him. Nor did he look away from me. And when our eyes met, my heart leapt with a joy that he could not help but perceive.

In January, Dr. Jackson gave Papa the news we already suspected: he had the consumption. Dr. Jackson told him that he was to rest, to be bled regularly, to avoid fatty foods, and, if possible, to remove himself to a warmer clime.

Upon hearing the news, my mother became so distraught that she did not leave her chamber until February. When she emerged, she looked oddly calm, and I had little doubt that she had convinced herself that Dr. Jackson had been entirely mistaken.

I myself could not deny my father’s illness, but neither could I give up hope of a cure. Perhaps he
would
get well. God granted my mother’s denial and my own several months’ grace, a time in which Papa seemed no worse. Then the blood came—copious amounts when he coughed. His cheeks were perpetually flushed with fever, and I could no longer deny the truth.

Mama could, however. “Oh, you’ll see. These doctors always deliver the worst news—they know we would not pay them for anything less.”

The town of Portsmouth seemed ill as well. But this was more a moral fever. Passing through the market, one feared for one’s safety. Customers accused vendors of weighting the scales and offering maggot-ridden food. Others got into political rows. A few came to blows. We feared that my uncle might decide to flee. If he did, we could not remain behind, for his house would certainly be confiscated. But Papa refused to board another ship, believing that such a voyage would be his last.

By the end of March 1776, I began to think of the boar, which I had so nobly rejected at Thanksgiving, with a deep pang of longing. Had that same boar been served to me then, I should have clasped it in my bare hands and gnawed at it like a she wolf. So much for righteous indignation!

Meanwhile, Watkins, Cassie informed me, was laying the keel of the
Raleigh
. I woke at his rising each dawn, and, once he had gone past my chamber door, I observed him through a crack as he paused at the Palladian window and looked out upon the day. Once I even saw him stretch his limbs luxuriously, loosening them from the stiffness of sleep before heading to the kitchen, where Cassie filled his gunnysack.

On some days, though, he did use the back stairs, and on these days I would not hear him and would sleep until eight or even nine in the morning. By then my family would be awake, and Cassie would be too busy to share the day’s gossip.

Cassie never failed to tell me what good friends Linda and Watkins were becoming.

“Every day she tell me how much she admire ’eem. ’Ow clevah ’ee is.”

Indeed, I often heard them laughing above me and soon believed, like everyone else, that Watkins and Linda were in love.

“I imagine they’ll marry, if Uncle allows it,” I replied gloomily.

“And you be very ’appy for dem, I’m sure.” Cassie smirked.

Offended, I replied, “Papa says that sarcasm is man’s poor substitute for wit.”

“Den it’s a good ting I not a man, Miss Eliza,” she said, ending the conversation.

One morning, as the family sat at breakfast, Papa, much to my surprise, inquired after Watkins. None of us had seen him about of late.

“Oh,” replied my uncle, “I’ve hired him out once more to that infernal John Langdon.”

I had heard talk about this Colonel Langdon. People in town said he was quickly becoming one of the great leaders of the Cause.

“Uncle, why is it you dislike Colonel Langdon so much?” I ventured to ask. “People say he’s an honorable man.”

“Honorable? Aye, a ‘great patriot.’ One wh
o’d
be pleased to confiscate this house and throw us all in jail. Well, all right. But if he makes a Rebel of our nigger, I’ll kill ’im.”

“I don’t see how that would be in Colonel Langdon’s interest, as there is so much yet to do here for the war effort.”

Uncle Robert glowered at me. He did not like his logic being challenged by a woman, certainly not by his own niece. I knew he had not forgiven me for my shocking defiance at Thanksgiving. However, he said nothing further.

After breakfast, everyone repaired to his chamber. I went into the kitchen. Upon entering, I noticed an old, tattered gunnysack on the table. Cassie was outside breaking up the hard soil in the garden for some potatoes. I opened the back door and felt the chill morning air assault me. But the sun was strong, and the air smelled of spring.