Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (34 page)

Lit torches descended in dancing blazes to the dinghy. I thought at first it was an Indian attack, though what few Indians remained in the outskirts of our town had caused no trouble of late. But the fire! The raucous cries! I knew not what these meant.

Suddenly the overturned hull of an abandoned canoe upon the shore, one we had seen all day yet not noticed, came to life. It lifted up and flipped over. Rising from it were four men: Thomas Miller, Harry Lee, Colonel Palmer, and William Livingston.

Like the Trojan horse that canoe had sat, immobile and ignored. The men must have been crouching painfully within it for hours. Now at last they lifted their bayoneted muskets. I turned away from the window. “Oh, I cannot,” I said. “I cannot watch.” I moved away just as Lizzie and Martha pulled the wood plank from the door and rushed outside, heedless of Ann or the colonel’s desperate calls.

I heard musket fire; Lizzie cried out. Martha whispered, “There he is!”

Lizzie whispered back, “Who? Who’s there?”

“Mr. Cleverly.”

“Oh, but Thomas!”

“Harry!” Martha cried. We all heard another blast of musket fire. I covered my ears; my body trembled. Had Mr. Miller been killed? Or Harry? What had happened?

Someone took my hand. It was Ann. “The villains are surrounded,” she said. “But Mr. Miller has been wounded.”

I had stood up; now my knees gave way. Mrs. Quincy called to a servant, who brought me a brandy, which I drank. Ann and I sat at the base of the stairway, unable to stand and remove ourselves to the parlor. I listened for Johnny, asleep upstairs in Dr. Franklin’s room. All was quiet on that front.

In a few moments, Harry and two of his officers banged through the front door, carrying Mr. Miller.

Lizzie shrieked. Both Ann and I ran to her as the men brought Mr. Miller into the parlor and set him on the sofa. His face was black with tar; pain darkened his eyes, too. A wound in his side had turned his waistcoat dark red.

“It’s but a scratch,” he insisted, glancing down at the blood that had seeped through his waistcoat.

“Allow me,” said Lizzie, kneeling next to him.

“Tell me what to do,” I said. “Please.”

“I need dry cloths and brandy, if you have it. If not, wine will do. I must clean the wound,” she said evenly. She lifted up Mr. Miller’s waistcoat; Martha, white and silent by Lizzie’s side, aided in removing his shirt.

“I fear I bleed on your sofa,” Mr. Miller said to Mrs. Quincy.

“Goodness, Mr. Miller, what is a sofa, compared to a man?” Ann exclaimed.

I stared at her for a moment, impressed by her pithy remark. I then flew off to the kitchen as Lizzie examined Mr. Miller. When I returned five minutes later, she was still at work, checking him over as methodically and calmly as if he were any soldier. “The shot has passed clean through,” she said with some relief. “No organs are involved.”

“Excellent news!” I said. I set down the bottle of brandy and handed Lizzie several rags. She applied a compress to the wound, which made Mr. Miller groan in pain. She continued to press upon the wound, but as she did so the pain she caused herself seemed worse than that of the patient’s, and she burst into tears.

A knock at the front door silenced us all, so oddly regular and civilized did it sound compared to our turmoil within. The door opened. In walked Mr. Adams and John Quincy Adams—alive, if not entirely well. Mr. Adams spoke quietly for a few minutes with Colonel Quincy and Ann. I saw him pass a hand wearily over his bald head. He then grasped his son’s shoulder and said, “Forgive me. But we should like to go home now.”

“At once,” said the colonel. He rushed abroad to call for his coachman.

I watched the weary father and son depart. I was glad for Abigail, but I felt a pang of envy in my breast for their imminent reunion. We soon took our leave; I did not wish to wake Johnny and so left him to sleep through to the morn. I knew he was safe with the Quincys.

I returned to the cottage with my friends, who supported Mr. Miller beneath his arms, he protesting all the way: “Nonsense. I am well. I am quite well.”

“Hush,” Lizzie hissed at him, “the spirits will hear you.”

Once arrived at our cottage, my friends did what they knew how to do so well: They nursed their men. Martha heated water for a bath for Harry. We found him within, sitting on a stool, bent over and filthy, head in his hands. Lizzie used some of the hot water to bathe Mr. Miller as he lay stretched out on my bed, Lizzie taking care not to disturb his bandaged wound. The two men were clean as babes when the women blew out their bedside candles.

48

I WAS RELIEVED AT THE SUCCESSFUL CONCLUSION
to the terrifying events of the previous day, which might so easily have taken a more sinister turn. My friends’ great trial was nearly over. Yet mine was not. John Adams must be protected at all costs, yet what of my poor John? What practiced band of patriots lay in wait to vanquish those who would harm him? I knew well the answer.

It was quite early the following morning. Mr. Miller was still asleep in bed, but Lizzie was awake and in the kitchen when I descended. I smiled at her as I endeavored to hide the dark feelings in my breast.

“What’s wrong?” she asked the moment she saw me.

I pursed my lips so that no evil would escape them. “I am very happy for everyone,” I began, and then burst into tears.

“Come here,” said Lizzie. “I know what you’re thinking. We have not forgotten him.” She hugged me tight. After I had composed myself somewhat, I asked, “Mr. Miller—is he well?”

“He shall be well, I believe. I was up for hours. There is as yet no redness or swelling at the site of the wound. That is auspicious.”

At the word
auspicious
, I suddenly remembered a dream
I’d
had the night before.

“Lizzie, I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed of my father’s plantation.”

“Have you been there?” she asked, pouring two dishes of tea for us both.

“Oh, no. Never. But in the dream, I saw it clearly. It was a house much like Colonel Quincy’s. Airy and light-filled. It too sat upon a hill—not by our waters but overlooking the Caribbean Sea. So blue, so warm, surrounded by white sand and palm trees. We pulled up to find the house uninhabited yet open to the soft breezes. I sensed an air of possibility all about, and I thought,
I shall have to procure some furniture
. What make you of it, Lizzie?”

“I know not,” she said honestly. “But it sounds lovely. Quite—free of care. I almost wish I were there myself.”

“It was another world.”

“The enemy’s world, though,” she reminded me. “Entirely against our Cause.”

“Yes,” I replied thoughtfully. “I suppose.”

After I had finished my tea, I made my way up the hill in the fog, to retrieve Johnny. The Quincy house was dead quiet as I entered through the back door, now unlocked. One servant was up and preparing breakfast for the Quincys, who had not yet descended. I ascended the stairs with a familiar nod to her.

Johnny was asleep on his back, splayed out on the bed. A bolster was twisted, surrounding him so that he would not roll off in the night. I lifted him gently; he was warm with sleep.

Returning with him to the cottage, I gently set my child upon the bed next to a still-sleeping Mr. Miller. Johnny squirmed, put his thumb in his mouth, but did not wake. It was near six—a late start for us. But this morning, the chores could wait.

“Is it well Mr. Miller sleeps so long?” I asked Lizzie.

“Oh, yes. His body heals itself. Yet I’ll watch him closely throughout the day.”

Her air of indifference did not fool me. Nor did it fool Martha, who, coming in from feeding the animals, had overheard her.

“Indeed, you should watch him very closely, Lizzie. I shouldn’t leave his bedside, if I were you.”

Lizzie darted a warning glance at Martha.

I smiled. “Lizzie, if we can’t tease you now, when can we?”

“Never.”

“But I’m so happy for you, truly,” I said, my low spirits lifting at the news that Mr. Miller would recover. “What’s more, I’m delighted that Mr. Miller is precisely who we thought him to be, and not an evil manipulator like Mr. Cleverly or Dr. Flynt.”

“Well,” replied Lizzie, “I’m not certain General Howe will feel as we do. The general had thought Mr. Miller quite a dedicated subject of the crown. Even our dear Abigail was fooled.”

We heard the creak of the stairs and turned to find Harry, descending. Normally a bold rogue, Harry now looked sheepish. What had he been doing upstairs? We had left him quite cozily ensconced in the dairy!

Entering the kitchen, he would not meet our eyes. Lizzie pursed her lips and endeavored to stifle a smile. But the attempt failed, and she burst into laughter.

“Shut up, Lizzie,” said Martha. “Nothing untoward happened. As you see, I have not yet changed my gown.”

“A great deal can happen with a gown on,” she replied. “I have safe delivered many a product of such an encounter.”

“Lizzie!” Martha blushed scarlet.

“Oh, don’t torment the poor girl,” I said. “For I see no mark of sainthood upon your fair brow.”

“No, indeed,” she said, pinching her lips tight as she glanced toward my sleeping babe. I smiled good-naturedly as we all helped to put some breakfast upon the table.

Suddenly we heard footsteps and turned to find Mr. Miller, walking toward us in a bloodstained nightshirt. He sat down on a stool in obvious discomfort.

Lizzie shrieked. “What on earth? What do you think you’re doing?”

“Why, joining you for breakfast, if I may.”

“You may not. Your bandage leaks. I must change it. You should remain in bed another day at least.”

“One night by his side and she henpecks him like a wife,” Martha muttered. “Take care, Tom. She’ll soon have you fetching and carrying.”

Lizzie swatted Martha out of her way. “Come along, Mr. Miller. Let’s get you out of that bloody shirt. And I must change your bandage.”

Mr. Miller obeyed. He turned around and headed slowly back toward the bed, where Lizzie removed his shirt, her face turned modestly away.

“You will look upon me someday, you know,” said Mr. Miller brashly.

“Yes, well. Not
today
,” Lizzie replied.

She asked me would I fetch another shirt from her upstairs chest of drawers. I did so, as she went about changing his bandage. In a few minutes, she had succeeded in helping him back into bed. Finally Lizzie went to fetch him breakfast on a tray, but by the time she returned, he was fast asleep.

It was a day of quiet industry and contemplation. We had all been through so much together, and yet some of what we suffered could not be shared. Thus it was with great tact that we allowed one another time and space to make sense of that which had been revealed.

Much later that day, after the extreme heat had passed, Martha, myself, and Lizzie took tea in the kitchen garden, where we had brought our garden stools. Johnny sat on my lap, and he was banging a spoon against a block of wood. Harry had gone into town to follow up on the arrests of Mr. Cleverly and his band. Mr. Miller was awake and sitting up in bed.

Unbidden, Martha began to weep.

“Why, Martha, what is the matter?” asked Lizzie. I had never seen Martha weep, and I suspected that Lizzie hadn’t, either.

“I promised him I wouldn’t say, but I fear I can’t keep the news to myself.”

“What news?” Lizzie and I asked in unison.

“Nothing. Nothing at all, compared to yesterday.” Martha endeavored to laugh. “Harry leaves for New York Monday next.”

“Harry leaves? He didn’t tell
me
,” said Lizzie.

“He’s not afraid of the British, but he is apparently quite terrified of his sister. Yes, Lizzie, he’s been given orders.”

Lizzie paused, searching for a tactful way to phrase the question we both had on our minds: “And . . . do you have an understanding?”

“There has been no time for words. But—” Here, Martha sent Lizzie a look that went beyond my understanding.

“Yes,” Lizzie replied to Martha’s silent question. “You must speak to him.”

“It’s certain he loves you,” I said. “We’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Martha sighed. “Yes, he loves me,” she agreed. “If only love were enough.”

I might have questioned Martha further but just then a shadow caught my eye, and when I looked up I saw Abigail turn into our yard. With her was Mr. Adams. When they saw us they let go of each other’s hands like young lovers caught by disapproving parents. At once we showed our respect by standing.

“Nay, nay, stay where you are.” Mr. Adams waved to us. “I would not have you stand on my account.”

Martha and I sat down, but Lizzie approached Mr. Adams. She said, “Mr. Adams, I don’t believe you’ve met my friend Martha Miller, or my sister-in-law, Eliza Boylston. The handsome fellow on her lap is her son, Johnny.”

“Well, ho
w’d
ye do, Johnny,” said Mr. Adams, and came over to where I sat. He reached out his arms for the child, but of late Johnny had become shy of strangers. He frowned at Mr. Adams and turned into my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Adams. I don’t know what’s come over him. He’s a friendly child, usually.”

“Don’t concern yourself, my dear,” said Mr. Adams. “I have that effect on most people.”

“Oh, John,” Abigail reproached him.

“Would you like some tea?” Lizzie asked. “It’s the real thing—my brother Harry’s spoils of war.”

“It’s our patriotic duty to drink the spoils of war, wouldn’t you say, Portia?” Here, John looked so lovingly at Abigail that I blushed, though she did not.

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” Lizzie said.

“We stay not long,” said Abigail. “Don’t fuss. John wished to see Mr. Miller, as did I.”

Turning to Lizzie, Mr. Adams said, “I’m very glad to hear that Mr. Miller’s wound is not life-threatening. I owe him a very great debt.
We
do, that is.” He looked at his wife.

“What
I
owe him is an apology,” said Abigail. “Excuse me. I’ll be but a moment.” Mr. Adams moved to accompany his wife to the bedside of Mr. Miller.

“He’s in the parlor,” said Lizzie. “Please don’t incite him to any patriotic activity just now, Mr. Adams.”

“No, I think we’ve had enough of that for the time being.” Abigail looked pointedly at me and Martha.

She returned a few minutes later, leaving her husband by Mr. Miller’s side. Her little face was aflame with anger. In a hushed voice she addressed us:

“I simply can’t believe that no one thought it meet to tell me that Mr. Adams and John Quincy arrived.”

“We
could
not, Abigail,” said Lizzie, looking down at the ground.

“We took our orders from Colonel Quincy,” Martha added.

“But why?” Abigail’s voice rose in distress.

“Shh,” said Lizzie. “We’ve no wish to disturb our men. They’ve all been through a great ordeal.”

“That’s just the point,” said Abigail hotly. “What if the
y’d
not survived? What if my John, or John Quincy—oh, I cannot even think of it.”

“But what good would it have done for you to be in agony all that time? We ourselves could hardly bear it. Isn’t it better this way? Wouldn’t you have done the same, in our place?”

Abigail contemplated this new idea. “If I were you . . . I should not have wanted you to suffer in anticipation. I suppose I would have trusted in my fine soldiers. Oh, Lizzie,” she turned to her friend. “I am so heartily sorry I misjudged Thomas Miller. That must have caused you indescribable pain.”

“You were meant to be deceived, Abigail. But let us forget the past—it was all for the best. And here we have our men, safe and nearly sound.”

“I am so contented to see my John.” She sighed and allowed herself a small smile. “Though he tells me he is to go to Cambridge to write the Commonwealth’s Constitution. He’s like Odysseus. But if he expects me to sit home knitting his shroud, he’s wrong. We nearly argued about it, but I had not the heart last night.”

Lizzie went in to make the tea, and as she opened the door, we heard John Adams’s hearty laugh coming from the parlor. I wondered what he could have been laughing at. I followed her into the kitchen.

Soon, with the teapot and dishes on a tray, we offered a dish to Mr. Miller, who was sitting up. He glanced at Lizzie with unabashed adoration, which made her blush. Then we all stepped into the garden. Martha brought up the rear carrying a candlestand, upon which she set the tea and a plate of biscuits.

“Oh, how delighted I am to be on dry land,” said Mr. Adams, after sitting down, a dish of tea on his lap. He stretched his short legs out before him and tipped his face into the late afternoon sun. “You’ve no idea of the tedium of a ship. I’ve a mind never to leave Braintree again.”