Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (2 page)

For a moment she seemed to consider my request. But then she cried, “No, indeed! I have indulged you far too much as it is. If you must teach him, do it in the kitchen.”

And so I sat upon the kitchen floor with Toby in my lap, his little hand wrapped around mine as I fashioned the letters. “
A
. . . like so. And then there’s
B
,” I said, sounding them out as I went along. Soon, in but a few weeks’ time, Toby descended from my lap, grabbed the pencil, and began to fashion the letters all by himself. The first time he did so, I exclaimed, “Oh, Toby!” and tears of pride welled in my eyes.

2

ON SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1772, I AWOKE
in great spirits because it was the day Mama and I were to plan my sixteenth birthday party. We began to speak of it over breakfast while Papa, Jeb, and Maria ate silently. Jeb was now seventeen and near six feet tall. He had a fine, aristocratic nose and clear, wide-set eyes. Blond, wavy locks fell carelessly about his shoulders. Maria had descended with her bodice askew and her thick, dark hair a wild tangle. Mama glanced at her with disapprobation but fortunately was distracted by her thoughts concerning my party.

She asked, “And what do you think of a great pair of sugared plum pyramids on either side of the—?”

“Cannot you speak of table decorations in the library?” Papa interrupted. “I find it impossible to concentrate.”

Papa had told us all a hundred times that it was not polite to read at table. Yet somehow this rule never applied to him. On Sundays, he looked forward to reading the
Courier
as if it were his divine right. The
Courier
’s audience was those men who firmly believed, as did my father, that
all the recent public whining about oppression was a lot of nonsense. For years the crown had turned a blind eye to Colonial merchants who did not pay their taxes. What were a few pennies to them now?

I replied, “Well, what
would
you have us talk about at breakfast?”

Papa cast me a baleful look, but we were both distracted by Jeb, for at that very moment he stood up from the table and bellowed, “Yes, by all means! Let us speak of anything but the real world. For it seems that no one in this house has the least notion of what is going on in it.”

“Jeb!” Mama cried. “How can you be so rude?”

I glanced at my brother. I knew not to what he referred, though we all had heard of the unfortunate incident that past June, when some wild ruffians attacked and burned the HMS
Gaspee
in Narragansett Bay, killing its captain.

“Well, our son is not far off the mark, Mrs. Boylston. I do not like to trouble our ladies with it, Jeb, but—”

“Then don’t,” said Mama firmly. “Come, Eliza, let us away to the peace and quiet of the library.”

“Yes—be off,” said Jeb. “To your flower books and talk of sugar ornaments. Just don’t seat me near your friend Louisa, or I shall plead illness and take to my chamber.”

I shoved Jeb in the arm as Mama and I rose from the table. “Oh, Jeb, Louisa is a charming person. I know she’s not very bright, but she is plump and pretty, and quite agreeable.”

“Take heed, Eliza,” Jeb said, smirking now and pointing a finger at me as he made his way toward the stairs.

Mama and I moved into the library and sat there for some time, chatting happily away about the upcoming party. We gossiped about all those who would attend, and I asked her whether she thought Louisa Ruggles might someday make a good match for Jeb.

“Possibly,” said Mama, looking through her flower book, as we had still not decided on the arrangements for the table. “I for one would not be averse. The Ruggles are a fine family, though I
have
heard rumors of an uncle with liberal sympathies.”

“She is madly in love with him, poor thing,” I insisted. “But you heard Jeb. He says she is dull and that I mustn’t seat him next to her.”

“What is wrong with a dull girl, I wonder?” Mama asked. “Any man would be pleased to have a wife with no strong opinions of her own. Well, it’s your party. You may seat people where you like.” Then she paused and finally blurted, “Why not put Cassie between them?” At this absurd idea, we both laughed.

We went to church and returned. Cassie did not join us, but I thought nothing of that. She, Cato, and Toby often attended but one of the two Sunday services. Usually Toby would be waiting for me just behind the kitchen door, and I would hear his shriek of delight when he heard us return. He knew that his lesson would begin shortly.

This time, no shriek greeted me. Noon came, and then one, but there was still no call to dinner. Wondering whether there had been some mishap in the kitchen, I moved in that direction. It was odd that neither Mama nor Papa had said a word about the lateness of the meal.

But why was Toby so silent? I expected him to come careening out the kitchen door once I opened it, which I then did.

Cassie was standing in the middle of the room, her back bent flat as a table. She supported herself with both hands gripped upon the cutting board. She was moaning, inhaling and exhaling in gulping heaves, as if she would be violently ill. I glanced about. Toby was not in the kitchen, and I asked aloud, “But what has happened? Where is Toby?”

Cassie was unable to speak, but our young scullery maid, whose name I could never remember, turned to me and replied, “He’s been taken, miss. To the tavern. Cato and Toby both. There’s to be an auction.”

“An auction?” I did not understand. I left the kitchen at once, to seek out my parents. I found my father in his library, reading the
Courier
. When he heard my steps, he looked up from his paper and smiled.

“Eliza. Darling. How go your preparations? Are you ready to be admired by near and far? I expect you shall soon have more beaux than you know what to do with. I’m sorry I was so short-tempered about it. I really am most proud of you. Yes, most proud.”

As I said nothing, he returned to his paper. But I just stood there. “What has happened to Cato and Toby?” I finally asked. “Where have you sent them?”

My father sighed. He then pointed to the broadside, as if it were to blame. “I can hardly expect you to know the events of the day. But, in a word, I must retrench. Yes, retrench and consolidate.”

I gazed about my father’s study: hundreds of leather-bound volumes stood within flame-red mahogany cases. A blue damask sofa sat upon a large Turkey carpet.

“What mean you? Toby is my special charge.”

“Yes, I know. But Eliza,” he sighed. “You’ve simply no idea of the pressure I am under. A hurricane has hit Barbados, and my crops have been destroyed. My debts grow. It was either the carriage or—”

“The carriage?” I cried in disbelief, hearing only that much. I then turned and fled the room, mounted the stairs, and flung myself onto my bed, where I cried hot tears. My face was red and wet when Mama knocked. She said, “Eliza, Louisa is here.”

“Louisa?” I sighed. “Well, all right. A moment.” Usually I was glad of Louisa’s company, but not today. I dried my tears and descended. Upon seeing me at the base of the stairs, my friend curtsied.

“I hope you’ve dined already?” she asked courteously.

“No, in fact. Our cook, Cassie—well—” Here, I grabbed Louisa by the hand and fairly dragged her into the library. “Oh, Louisa. Something terrible has happened.”

Louisa placed a thick, warm hand on mine and sucked in her breath, her look one of complete absorption in my predicament. “Tell me, dear. Tell me
everything
.”

We sat together upon the sofa facing the fireplace. Taking a deep breath, I told her what had happened. At the end of my narrative, she released my hand, and I awaited Louisa’s considered judgment. At the time, I heard wisdom in her dull, heavy pauses, and in her parroted adult phrases I was sure that I heard the ring of truth.

“It is very sad about the little boy, since he was such a favorite of yours.”

“Yes, yes,” I agreed warmly.

Then she smiled slightly. “But Eliza, you may take comfort in knowing that they don’t really feel the same way about things as we do.”

“What mean you?” I frowned. I recalled Cassie, doubled over in pain, her arm braced upon the kitchen table. And I recalled Toby’s delight in learning to read—at three, whereas Jeb was five before he could do so. I said, “I
saw
Cassie. I believe her pain was very extreme.”

Louisa smiled knowingly. “Oh, they make a great show of it, I’ll grant you. But she’ll get over it soon enough, I expect. The key, Mama says, is to keep them busy.”

For once, I was not convinced of Louisa’s wisdom, but I fell silent on the topic of Cassie. Louisa went on to ask me what she had come to ask, namely, whether she could bring a cousin of hers to my party. This cousin, apparently, would be staying with them through the holidays. I said of course she could, and she left soon after, all smiles.

Once Louisa had gone, I sat thoughtfully in the library for a few moments. I could not remove the image of Cassie from my mind, and this image was soon fortified with the low, real, keening sound of her grief coming from across the hall.

I stood up from the sofa and moved out of the library, determined to seek Jeb’s help. For while he was not as close to Cassie or Toby as I was, lately his heart seemed so certain about things, especially upon the topics of right and wrong.

A few moments later, I entered my brother’s chamber without knocking. He was sitting on the floor amidst a flotsam of wood and scraps of cloth, his long legs splayed. He was constructing a kite.

Jeb looked up as I entered. “Oh, hallo, Eliza. I’m just—”

“I wish to tell you something that greatly puzzles me,” I interrupted him. “I can’t rest until I do.”

“Tell me, Sister.” He stood up from the floor. I then told Jeb everything Papa had said, and where Cato and Toby had gone. Hearing me, Jeb’s jaw clenched, and he bent to lace his boots.

“Go you somewhere?” I asked.

Jeb looked at me, puzzled. “We’ll both go.”

“But where to?”

He took my hand. “Come,” he said. “I dare not waste a moment explaining.”

Jeb leapt down the stairs two at a time and then opened the front door. A nipping autumn air rushed in, and I hesitated, wondering whether I should don my cape. We heard footsteps, and Jeb grasped my hand tightly. Mama appeared in the foyer, followed by shadowy Maria, who was holding her place in a book she had been reading.

“Where go you at this hour? Dinner is nearly ready.
At
last
,” Mama sighed.

“Do not wait for us,” Jeb said.

We stepped outside. Through the closed door, I could hear Mama turn to Maria: “What can they mean, going abroad like this just now, and with no explanation? Papa!”

“Yes, what mean you, Jeb,” I echoed, “dragging me out without my cape? It’s cold!” I flapped my arms as Jeb fairly dragged me down the road toward town.

“Papa has sent your ‘special pet’ to auction. Do you wish to retrieve him or not?”

I made no reply, but merely grasped Jeb’s hand as we walked the rest of the way to the tavern. It was a fine autumn afternoon, though a little chilly. The white houses along Brattle Street shone with the bright declining sun. It had been a warm summer, and the maple leaves had just begun to yellow; a few had turned a brilliant orange, and even fewer had fallen. In town, I saw no signs of the duress about which my father had spoken. In the center of town, where the market stood, we came upon people going about their chores: servants stood in lines at the stalls. Ladies peered into shop windows. Coachmen smoked their pipes by the flanks of their tethered horses. We heard the clang of the church bell, marking two.

But the commotion of the market, the sun’s glare off the houses, and my inner turmoil all conspired to make my head spin. “A moment, Jeb. Please.” I stopped walking and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I noticed that things
had
changed: ladies, many of whom I recognized, strolled as usual with their families; their servants waited in line to purchase fish for supper—yet I could hardly tell the two apart, for they all now wore homespun to show their support for the Cause. How very ugly it was!

We soon passed the bright-yellow courthouse and made our way up the road to Stedman’s Tavern, near the Common. Within, it was dark with smoke and dense with men. Jeb inquired of some old fellow standing next to him, whose hands were taken up with a pipe and mug of cider, and was told by a nod of the head that the auction was upstairs. We mounted the tavern’s narrow, steep stairs, Jeb going first. Coming up the final steps, we emerged into a great room, also quite smoky, in which chairs had been set in rows. Here sat farmers, shopkeepers, and the lawyers of merchants who could not be importuned to attend the auction. No doubt Papa’s lawyer was here, though I knew not which of them he was. These men spoke among themselves; some wrote in ledgers. Their suits appeared dusty, their thick-soled shoes worn and scuffed.

Before them, a line of Negro men and women stood. The men were in chains that held their arms behind their backs. They stood erect, some staring off toward an imagined horizon. The women wept, their tears making shiny rivulets down their black faces. One woman cried so loudly that the auctioneer gave her a violent poke, and she stopped crying at once. I was astonished that the poor creature’s fear of this man was even greater than her grief.

My horror at this scene cannot be described. I knew we had slaves, but I had never considered where they came from, or where they went when they left us. They simply
were
—much like our chairs, or the food on our table.

But there was little time to dwell on these new feelings. My eyes sought out Cato and Toby. I saw them not at first, for they were not in the line. They were safe! Or so I thought for a moment. My eyes wandered to the right, where I noticed a placard nailed to the wall: “Slave Auction TODAY.” The word had been painted on its own slat and nailed over the board, hung by a nail. In this way, I supposed, one might easily exchange the slat for others that read “TOMORROW” or “NEXT WEEK.” It was then I espied Toby. He was nearly hidden behind the row of slaves standing next to the sign, in the arms of a young Negro girl. I approached her. Jeb placed his hand on my shoulder, as if to hold me back. I shook him off, and he went to have a word with the auctioneer.

“Give me the child,” I said to the girl. “He’s ours. He’s here by mistake.”

Recognizing me, Toby ceased his crying. He reached out as if he would play once more with my cross. “’Liza!” He grinned.

I nudged the girl’s arms loose and placed mine across the child’s thin, naked shoulders. A cloud suddenly passed over the sun, casting the room in almost total darkness. I felt the press of Toby’s warm hands upon my throat as Jeb pulled me back.