Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (21 page)

25

“SHE’S BEEN THIS WAY SEVERAL DAYS,” MAMA
was saying to Dr. Jackson. I had eaten nothing, nor emerged from my chamber, since that Sunday past. “She improves not. I cannot think what to make of it.”

“Well, we shall see, we shall see.” The good doctor, a bent and kindly fellow, perhaps a few years older than Papa, continued to examine me. He would not be put off from his task on account of Mama’s fretting. He took his time, palpating my every soft spot with his long, surprisingly strong fingers. Finally he turned to my mother and said, “My considered opinion is that she suffers no physical illness. I believe it to be merely a touch of melancholia.”

“Melancholia?” exclaimed my mother. “What has she, pray, to be melancholic about?”

“It’s not uncommon for unmarried young ladies to suffer melancholia from time to time. I should think that all the celebrations surrounding our recent—er . . .” Dr. Jackson pulled himself back from the brink of the sentence, suddenly aware that his words might not find a sympathetic ear among my Tory family.

“Recent victory?” I was suddenly awake and wanting to know the news.

“At Bennington, miss.” The good doctor grinned. “Colonel Langdon’s Light Horse Volunteers and some others from Massachusetts—they defeated a battalion of Hessian soldiers.”

“And the colonel—is he well?”

“Oh, yes, miss. From what I hear, he’s gone to pursue Burgoyne’s troops over in Saratoga.”

At this news, I smiled. Once Mama and the doctor left my room, I heard Mama say to him, “You did her some good, I think, Dr. Jackson. But I like not her low spirits. She has been very up and down in this regard, and often sleepless. This latest episode, combined with your recent urgings, have worn me down. I fear the next invasion of the pox will carry her off. I shall send her to take the cure as soon as may be, though I shan’t go myself.”

“Madam—” the good doctor began, but Mama interrupted him.

“No,” she said. “I care nothing for myself, and Mr. Boylston had the pox as a child.”

“All right. I shall arrange for her to go as soon as may be.”

I sighed and pulled my head back under the covers. I was miserable where I was, but I didn’t see how taking the cure on Pest Island would render me any more so.

September 1777.
Just as Mama had predicted, the smallpox arrived in full force, and I thought it only a matter of days before I would be shipped off to Pest Island.

Mama commanded me to remain indoors, but as I had hardly stepped abroad in several weeks, I had a sudden desire to do so. One morning Cassie said that she needed to go to the Whipple house.

“Excellent,” I said. “I shall come along.”

It was a glorious morn. The heat had abated, and while the leaves were still mainly on the trees, a few loose ones, gold and yellow, fell, cascading and swirling in the strong sea breeze. The Piscataqua glistened in the strong sun, and my spirits lifted with baseless hope.

“Cassie,” I said, as we walked companionably down the hill. “Know you when the
Ranger
plans to depart? I imagine they must be nearly outfitted by now. Captain Jones will be eager to set sail for France, I’m sure.” Cassie stopped walking and turned to me.

“Soon. Isaac tell me maybe next week.”

I had meant nothing in particular by my question, but something in her eyes—or rather, in the way her eyes shifted away from me, made me ask, “Cassie. What do you know?”

We stood in the road, and I pulled her to the side in time to avoid being run over by a cart.

“I can’t say.” She placed a hand involuntarily on her heart. But now that I knew she harbored a secret, I would not rest until she divulged it.

“You must tell me. At once.”

“Oh, Miss Eliza! He means to leave on board de
Ranger
. ’Eet all arrange.” Cassie began to cry.

“How long have you known, Cassie?”

“A few days—oh, I am greatly fearing for ’eem!”

“I knew it,” I said. “Knew, and yet he said it would be several months yet. We fought . . . oh, we had a terrible row.”

Cassie put her arms around me and held me hard. It was obvious that she needed no explanation. She knew what I knew, and perhaps more. And while she had no answers for me, how comforting it was to reveal my suffering at last!

Cassie took my arm, and we walked on in silence. We mounted the stairs to the Whipple property, up through the carved newel posts, past the walnut tree that Prince Whipple, one of Colonel Whipple’s slaves, had planted several years earlier. We walked around back and entered the grand home through the kitchen door.

Before the massive, blazing hearth stood Prince and Cuffee. Cuffee, normally filled with good cheer, was grave-faced. He kept shifting from foot to foot; he drummed his long fingers on the wall. Cassie kissed him on the cheek, and I nodded. It would not do to curtsy to a slave, though I had grown fond of Cuffee and the open spirit that shone through his music.

Suddenly the kitchen door banged open and in strode Watkins. He carried a heavy sack over his shoulder, which spilled ears of corn. The sight of him, so unexpected, made me lean on Cassie. Why was he here, absent from the shipyard, delivering grain to the Whipple house? He glanced at me briefly but then looked away. I might have run to him right there in the Whipples’ kitchen, surrounded by the slaves and the colonel and his family, had not Cassie pressed her hand against my arm.

Watkins leaned close to Cuffee and whispered in his ear. Cuffee nodded and left the room. Soon, with the help of Prince, Watkins fell to removing the corn from the top of the sack. He then proceeded to withdraw half a dozen flintlock rifles.

“Ai!” Cassie gasped. Just then, the master of the house strode into the kitchen. Seeing the guns, he glanced sharply at me.

“Miss Boylston. You’ve come at a vulnerable moment for us. I trust you’re sympathetic to our cause?”

I curtsied deeply. “Be easy, Colonel Whipple. I lost a brother on Breed’s Hill. I’m as eager as you are for a Rebel victory.” I said the words, but I did not truly
feel
them, feel the vital significance of this victory in my soul. That would not happen for several months yet.

“Then I may trust that this information will not find its way across the field—to your uncle’s house?”

“Certainly not. We are here for a—cup of sugar.”

Colonel Whipple nodded and turned to Prince. “Check ’em over. Then get ’em into the barn. Beneath the hay. Don’t forget the powder.”

“Yes, sir,” said Prince.

The balls and powder lay in cartons at the bottom of the corn-filled sacks.

“We leave before dawn. Make sure you’re ready,” the colonel said to Prince.

“Of course, sir.”

Colonel Whipple nodded, bowed toward me, and departed.

“Where go you?” I asked Prince once the colonel was gone.

“Saratoga, Miss Eliza. To engage Burgoyne.” Prince pronounced these words gravely, proud to bursting to have been invited along. I then looked toward Watkins, who did not return my glance. Rather, he seemed assiduously to avoid my eyes. He examined the guns’ mechanisms, his jaw set hard against the news that Prince had been chosen to go to Saratoga with Colonel Whipple. That would eat at him, I knew.

Watkins retrieved the powder and bullets, emptied the sack of the corn, replaced the guns in the sack, and carried them off to the barn.

I resolved then that I would go to him, beg forgiveness, and applaud his choice to seek his freedom, as I should have done from the first. That night, I listened for the sound of his boots on the stairs until well after midnight, but I heard them not. Nor did I hear them the next morning. Had the
Ranger
already departed? It couldn’t be.

As soon as dawn broke, I sought Cassie out. She was preparing breakfast for Mama, myself, and Uncle, and a tray for Papa. I whispered to her, “Cassie, I have neither heard nor seen Watkins today.”

She said, “Some men—dey stay on de eye-land.”

“Stay on the island? Why?”

“Workin’ all tru de night. ’Ee want to do ’eet. Your uncle, he don’t object—more wages for ’eem.”

“Thank you, Cassie.” I turned to prepare my toilet, but Cassie seized my arm in a clawlike grip.

“I can ’ear your thoughts buzzin’ around in your ’ead. Wait.” She interrupted her other chores to pack a sack. Cassie packed a bit of salted beef and several biscuits and poured cider into a canteen.

“Give dees to Isaac. Tell ’eem to share wit’ Watkins. Don’ be foolish. Don’ try to speak to ’eem. You don’t know de evil eyes dat may watch you, tell on you.”

“Thank you,” I said, and I kissed her on the cheek for her troubles.

As I strode to the ferry, the streets were oddly quiet. The ferryman was surprised to see me. “Going fishin’ again?” he asked.

“No. Just delivering something for our boy, Isaac.”

Once on the island, the ferryman handed me my sack and tipped his hat. I began to climb the dunes.

What progress the
Ranger
had made! She was painted and tarred and had been outfitted with cannons. The four on the leeward side were visible as I mounted the dunes. It was, I thought, a fitting ship for a bold escape.

Isaac was nowhere to be seen, but I was unconcerned. It had been near six months since he had run away, and I assumed that his master, wherever he was, had long since given up on catching the child.

The shipyard had been tidied since last
I’d
been there. The sawmill had been abandoned, and the glaziers had gone. What men there were worked mainly on the ship’s decks or in her hull. The wind on the island was very strong. It moaned and shrieked, and I draped the blanket I had brought around my shoulders.

The minutes passed. I looked out at the sea, now iron gray with curling, white foam tips. I paced back and forth, trying to keep warm. After about ten minutes, I saw Watkins emerge from the ship with Mr. Hackett and Captain Jones. They argued and looked as if they might come to blows. Then, quite suddenly, Captain Jones burst out laughing.

Watkins saw me. I raised the sack to show him my reason for being there. Behind him and to his left stood a ragged row of gunnysack tents. Remains of a communal breakfast lay on boards that had been set upon low makeshift legs. There was a sudden, strong gust of wind that carried the reek of a latrine. Watkins disappeared momentarily and emerged from the hull with Isaac. Isaac flew down the ladder, and I feared he would trip and break his neck. I thought he was glad of the sack, but, to my surprise, he ignored it entirely and flung himself into my arms. “I thought yo
u’d
never come here again. Oh, I’ve missed you, Miss Eliza!”

“I’ve missed
you
,” I said, hugging him. “But look—Cassie has packed some nice things for you, and for Watkins.” Watkins slowly descended the ladder, though it was long before break time. He ambled over with persuasive ease.

“What have we here?” he asked, casually resting a hand on Isaac’s back.

“Regard what Miss Eliza’s brought us, Johnny!” Isaac looked up adoringly at Watkins.

The boy fell to removing his treasures from the sack. He lifted each item and showed it proudly to his beloved mentor. Watkins crouched down, one knee on the sand.

Now was my chance. There would be no opportunity of getting him alone, not with this impress of activity before the
Ranger’s
launch. I knelt down upon the sand, as if to help Isaac remove the articles from the sack. I touched Watkins’s arm lightly. He turned, and I looked straight into the face of the man I loved.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Will you forgive me?”

“Sorry!” Isaac cried, laughing and jumping up and down. “Why, what’re you
sorry
for, Miss Eliza?”

Watkins said nothing; perhaps he nodded imperceptibly. I no longer knew what he felt, but the recollection of my desperation that night made me sick with shame.

Isaac needed an explanation, and so I said, “Only that it seems you boys could have used me long before now. The state you live in is frightful!”

“Frightful?” Isaac said, all astonishment.

I ruffled his soft hair. “What a little man you are. All men feel perfectly contented when they’re living like pigs.”

“Not all,” Watkins added quietly.

Over the next few days, I set about improving the shipyard, cleaning tents and bringing several chamber pots to the island. I now had no illusions about my motivation: It was all so that I could be in Watkins’s proximity during his last few days. There was no opportunity to speak to him, but at least I was able to glance at him from time to time. By his own appearance of indifference, he cared nothing for me any longer.

Such coldness, whether real or feigned, hurt. But I was determined not to waver. I made the men dig a pit in the sand, where I had them empty the reeking latrines. The men laughed good-naturedly at my efforts. One cheeky shipwright shouted, “The whole world’s our chamber pot, miss!” At this witticism, they all roiled with laughter.

That Wednesday, we received most exceeding good news: Burgoyne’s army had surrendered! All fifty-seven hundred of them now marched eastward, toward Cambridge. Supper on the island that evening became a raucous celebration. Cassie and I had earlier that day made a fish stew, enough for the dozen or so men who tarried on the island. As the sun declined in the sky it bathed the river and Portsmouth town in a warm, red light. Men danced and banged on trenchers with their forks. Those who had a whistle played. Others sang bawdy songs with lyrics so shocking I had to stop Isaac’s ears. But he pulled my hands away, saying h
e’d
heard those songs a hundred times before.