Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (20 page)

He pulled at my arm. Seeing his pleading expression, I said, “All right. Just this once. I can do a little fishing while I’m here, I suppose, and fetch you in an hour.”

“Yay, yay!” Isaac leaped in the air.

I smiled. How well the child fared—how changed from the silent, terrorized boy h
e’d
been but a month before. We still did not know his story, or to whom he belonged. The time was nigh when we would insist that he tell us.

Soon break was over. The men, grateful for their treat, lifted their mugs to toast me. I blushed and curtsied. Watkins, however, was not among them, and I was hurt that he did not at least partake of the food. After all, it was for him that
I’d
brought it. But this thought led me to another. I soon dried my eyes and inwardly laughed at myself for having thought I had been moved to return to the island out of Christian charity. I then moved off to find my rod and bait and walked through the tall dune grass to my usual spot.

The wind was strong, but the sun was quite hot above me. I knew my skin burned. My feet became intolerably hot, too, and after a while I set down the rod and removed my shoes and stockings. Oh, sweet release! But the sand was broiling, and I walked directly into the water—icy, exquisite. It lapped against my toes and splashed my petticoats. I allowed myself a moment to wade in the water. I reached down and wet my hands and brought some of the icy water to my face. The water spilled down my bodice, and I cried, laughing happily out of shock and relief, “Oh, Lord!”

When at last I moved to take up my line again, I saw a shadow move in front of me. I turned to find Watkins standing upon the dunes. How long had he been there, watching?

“Eliza.” He descended, and in a moment I felt his hair on my neck, his cheek against my cheek. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “God, what test is this?”

I couldn’t help it. I put my fingers through his curly hair and kissed him. We sat down together on the sand, not speaking. After a while I asked, “What was it about, all that yelling?”

“Mr. Jones is alarmed at the condition of the
Ranger
. He’s right: I’ve been insisting the same all along. She’s top-heavy and will keel over in a major wind. What’s more, Jones assumed sh
e’d
be outfitted by now. It’s not Colonel Langdon’s fault, though. He has been greatly occupied and left things in the incompetent hands of Mr. Hackett.”

“But this Captain Jones seems—brutish,” I hazarded.

Watkins considered my words. “His manner, I agree, leaves a great deal to be desired. But he’s a good man, at heart. An excellent man, even.”

I turned to him. “Good man? Excellent man? Why say you so? He nearly broke your neck.”

Watkins smirked but said nothing. “I must return.”

“That’s no answer.”

“It’s better you were out of it—but oh, I’m so glad you came! You know not how miserable I have been.” He continued to hold my hands in his.

“Your attempt to divert my curiosity won’t work. I will find out what you hide, by and by.” Then I could not help but add, “But why did you not come to me that day? I waited for you.”

“You know why.”

“Yes.” I nodded, looking out to the water. “But it hurt.”

“I know. But we’ll speak of it tomorrow. Now I must go.”

I lingered awhile before retrieving Isaac. I continued to feel Watkins’s kiss on my lips, and I marveled: There are lines that cannot be crossed, and yet we do so. In spite of everything we’re told, in spite even of what we tell ourselves.

24

I RETURNED TO THE ISLAND THE FOLLOWING
day determined to find out what Watkins concealed. I fished in my usual spot and awaited his arrival. He finally appeared at about two
o’c
lock. He came to embrace me, but I pushed him away. “Tell me what you’re hiding,” I said.

“There are things about Langdon’s Yard you know nothing about, and about which you should remain ignorant.”

“You can’t tell me half the truth and expect me to be content with that. I’m not a child.”

John looked about him. “All right, then. On your own head be it. Come on. But let’s hurry.” He took my hand and led me quickly up the dunes toward the north end of the island, where several small merchant ships had anchored. He stopped before a French brig that was moored at the end of a long dock. The brig’s masts were furled, and her deck was crammed with barrels and sacks of every variety.

“What do you show me?” I inquired. “It’s a merchant ship. Not a great one, either. Sugar, perhaps. Or grain.”

Watkins leaned toward me and whispered a single word. “Guns,” he said. His warm breath on my skin made me shiver.

“Where?”

“In the barrels. Buried in the grain.”

“Does Colonel Langdon know?”

“Of course. As does Captain Jones.”

Watkins then returned me to my safe fishing spot, but I kept glancing back at the ship. A thought occurred to me as I did so. “That would be an excellent means for a person, say, a person who sought their freedom to escape. Yes, an excellent means. But one would need help, would one not? One can’t simply steal a ship from its mooring, can one?”

Watkins was silent. I did not expect him to reply, but after a long moment, he finally said, “I implore you—I care little for myself, but the colonel does such very great work for so many . . .”

“You trust me so little,” I said. “But then, why should you?”

“I have little experience in trust,” he replied.

“I shall tell no one. But it strikes me that you place yourself in danger far too easily.”

“I do what God grants I may—though blast it, it is not enough! Why, I would blow our enemy to the moon, if I could!”

I smiled, reflecting upon the familiar tone of his words. “You remind me of my brother, Jeb,” I said.

“I’ve not heard you speak of him,” Watkins said, surprised. “Is he with a militia just now?”

“He was. He is dead. At Breed’s Hill.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. You must have . . .”

“Yes.” I looked up at him. “I did.”

He soon left me, but I had not the heart to fish. I listened to the terns shriek and watched the plovers run up and back with the tide. Then, after twenty minutes, I brought my rod to the shed, gathered Isaac up, and returned home.

It was good to know that Watkins had such a very great ally in Colonel Langdon, but I had a bad feeling about this Captain Jones. I had no opportunity to mention my feelings to Watkins, however, because he began working round the clock to make alterations to the
Ranger
.

By July, there was no grain to be had anywhere. Food became so scarce that even shopkeepers had nothing to give us for the soldiers or shipwrights. Our militia were by now not merely starving, not merely sick, but every moment expecting an invasion. I did not see how they would have the strength to fight were such a disaster to befall them.

Meanwhile, arrests were imminent for those who had not signed the Association Test. Papa suggested we move to his plantation without him. Although Papa had signed it, we lived under the same roof as Uncle Robert, and our fate was tied to his.

“We’re going nowhere without you,” I objected.

“I can be of little use to you, I’m afraid.”

“Useful or not, you shan’t be left.”

Nonetheless, Papa insisted that we pack our trunks and be at the ready. I lived in terror, not only for my family but for Watkins who, were we to flee, would certainly be sold.

One night I heard Watkins’s boots venture into the hallway. It was quite late—past midnight. The boots paused by my chamber door. I didn’t dare open the door but sat upon my bed, hands braced upon the bed, elbows locked, for it was all I could do to keep myself from running to him.

Each night for several nights I heard the boots in the hall, and I began to press my cheek against the door in search of his sounds. At times, I imagined I could hear him breathing, hear him shift from one foot to another. Once he had left, I remained wakeful for many hours.

After a week of such torment, I could bear it no longer. I rose from my bed and opened the door. I looked up at him—O, pitiable creature!—and placed my hands in his rough ones. We stood like that, in the hallway. Silent as the grave, hands entwined, dark silhouettes breathing in each other’s scent and feasting on each other’s eyes.

Some nights, he came to me like this—so I could hold his rough hands and inhale him silently in the dark hallway. But on other nights, I heard only his boots fleeing up the stairs, and I would open the door to catch the shadow made by the candle he held before him.

Soon I no longer even had this much, for Watkins began to work even longer hours at the shipyard. The
Ranger
was now being outfitted night and day: new cannon, new mast, rum, Windsor chairs, even a backgammon set for the officers. The only item no amount of money could purchase was canvas: the ship would have to go to sea with gunnysack sails. There were fewer men to work at the shipyard as well, as Colonel Langdon left with his battalion, the Light Horse Volunteers, to fight at Bennington.

For several weeks, I had lived on shadows, or on the sound of my love’s boots upon the stairs in the dead of night. All the while, I thought,
Surely this foolishness shall pass. Surely I will wake up one morning and wonder what I had played at
.

Yet, something akin to the opposite happened: I woke up one morning with a physical yearning that would not be put down. Rather, this sensation grew more intense throughout the day. I waited impatiently for him to return home all that day. Then, at long last, after we had supped, I heard his boots upon the stairs. He ascended, then, minutes later, descended.

Cassie would give him a bath. I knew she would undress him, strip him of his filthy clothing. She would douse his hair with a pitcher of water, and he, wiping his eyes, would complain of her harshness. She would scrub his curly head with soap, after which he would suffer another ablution from the dreaded pitcher. Finally, Watkins would stand and, his back to Cassie, would let her drape a robe about him and tell him to be off so she herself could get to bed.

Then he would mount the stairs. And it is here that I imagined how it might feel to embrace his warm, clean body. Could one be sent to hell for such thoughts? Mere thoughts, I knew, were the least of my problems.

I waited several minutes after I heard him return to his closet, standing by my door in my shift, heart furiously pounding. My entire body throbbed. Mama had retired an hour earlier; Papa was long since asleep.

Taking my candle, I stepped into the dark hall and gently shut my chamber door behind me. The floorboards creaked upon the joists, and I froze in terror. I then fairly slid toward the stairs, the boards continuing to squeak slightly, and mounted them.

In the attic, the air was close. To the left, in what was once the nursery, little Phoebe slept alone, door ajar, for the heat was stifling. I could hear her soft breathing. Watkins had shut his door, but beneath it I saw the dim yellow glow of candlelight.

I knocked softly. No answer. I knocked again, so fearful now that I had begun to tremble. I had nearly turned and fled when the door opened.

“Eliza,” Watkins whispered, those bright eyes blazing with shock. He was dressed in his linen nightshirt. He pulled me into his closet, for he could not risk making a sound in the hallway. Once inside, he silently took my candle from me and set it on the table by his bed, alongside his. I noticed his bare collarbone and feet. Now that I was there, I knew not what to do or say.

“Eliza,” he whispered again.

“John,” I replied. “For, since you call me Eliza, I should by rights call you John.”

“Eliza,” he repeated, undeterred. “You cannot stay.”

“A little while yet,” I glanced at him entreatingly.

“But if your mother should seek you out, or your father call for you . . .”

“They never do.”

“But if they
should
.”

“Just a few minutes more.” I must have appeared desperate: Watkins reached for my hand, and I gave it to him. He pulled me closer until his long limbs enveloped me, and I could smell his clean, warm skin. My cheek felt the pulse of life in his neck, wet curls against my face. We stayed like that for some moments: not kissing, not speaking, just clinging to each other, my need having grown most powerful.

I sat down on his narrow bed, awaiting him. He sat beside me, unsmiling. I lay myself down and coaxed him to lie down beside me. The bed was so narrow he had to lie partly on me, and I wrapped my limbs around him and said, “Oh, yes. This is what I want. Only this.” Impulsively, he kissed my neck, placed his head between my breasts, pulled my shift down, and kissed me there. My eyes closed, expecting more.

Abruptly, he sat up and closed the neck of my shift. “You must go.”

“Why must I?”

“You well know why.”

“Yes. But—what else?” I asked. For I had caught something unspoken in his tone.

John was silent a long while. He would not look at me.

“I’m going away,” he said finally.

“Going? Where to?” My voice rose.

“Shh! It’s all arranged. I dare not tell you how or when. Not for several months at least, I should think. But I shall be
free
, Eliza.”

“Free, you say?” My tone was pitiless, sneering. “Dispatched by the enemy in our own harbor? Free to drown in a storm at sea?”

“Surely you’re not so blind!” he whispered harshly. “Do you not see that death would be better than this? Do you not see my rage at loving a woman and yet being counted nobody to do so? Every day, part of me hopes I will fall, drown, be blown to bits. Oh, Eliza, do you not
see
?”

The tears fell unchecked from my eyes then. I had not truly seen, but now I did, and I was speechless at this heartfelt expression of his misery.

“Eliza,” he said more gently, endeavoring to heal the wound he had made, “let us speak in the light of day. Surely you must want me to be a free man. Were I to think otherwise”—he broke off this thought. “Like this—like this, I’m no one. You know that.”

“What good is
knowing
anything?” I stood up and took hold of my candle.

Watkins held my arm. “You know I mean to return.”

“Oh, let me go!” I opened the door and passed through it.