It was against the law for us to feed and house Rolan Perrine. He was, after all, either an escaped French prisoner or a deserter, so whichever side got hands on him would execute him forthwith. He did not wish to return to the French army, or return to France a pauper, or to go north to the Canadas or escape to the wilderness. I wondered if he thought he would not survive the trip, or if the terror of soldiering was too much for him, for he was a pleasant young man, and well versed in the raising of all types of plant and animal. He loved the land and wanted nothing more than his old farmer’s life. The only chance for him, now that his neck began to heal, was to become as “English” as he could. I once was to become French, I told him. He remarked how the world had turned.
We gave him many suggestions for overcoming his accent and speech. We dressed him like every other man about and burned what was left of his clothing. The more we spoke with him, the more he looked about the place, he said he would love to stay at a farm like ours. So we hired Rolan Perrine, a farmer’s son from France, to farm our fields. He would live in Jacob’s old house, as long as he felt no fear of spirits, and he would plow and plant, reap and bundle, in return for the house and food. And we would help him to become English, starting with his name. He became Roland Prine.
From that time forward, Roland Prine spoke of nothing but soils and fertilizer, rain, moon cycles, asking when was the last frost, when was the first? What did the neighbors grow? What crops had failed, what pests were about? He went to meetings with us at First Church but spoke not at all, and put himself in the path of other men who knew farming, so that by the time in April when it seemed the frost was over and the moon was right to plant, he had already broken the fields. He put in barley, wheat, corn, and two acres for naught but vegetable for the table. Every remaining inch of land went to acres of flax. I felt a mixture of pride and despair, and finally, great resignation at the prospect of its harvest.
I said to Roland, “We will have enough for three families.”
He said, “Then, if my mistress will agree, we shall help those who have less.”
“Well and aye, then, Roland,” I said.
“Well and aye, Mistress.”
That summer our land produced more than seemed possible. Had Roland not been there, we would have suffered, for that summer prices doubled and then doubled again on all house goods we did not grow ourselves. A bushel of wheat quadrupled in price. We ate luxuriously of Roland’s tillage so that we were quite plump, stored for the winter, but also gave much away that harvest.
Cullah said to me one morning, “This is not right. He works the land with old Sam to help, and we eat of it. For the trade of a place to sleep? That is meager ration.”
“Should we pay him, too? We could sell the vegetables, and give him a share.”
“Aye. Let us do that. Gwyneth would be good at that. Now that she has come into full bloom, I doubt any could get an ear of corn sold faster.”
*
By the spring of 1758, before the month of April had gone halfway, the roads and hills gone to mud, Roland asked Cullah for Gwyneth’s hand. They married April twenty-first, after he had gotten the land broken up for another year’s planting. We gave them a quarter of it for themselves, and Cullah, Brendan, and Jacob would build them a bonny house. As they clasped hands and prepared to walk to the little old cottage now made into a bower, we gave them each our blessings.
Dorothy said, “Learn to make good pudding, sister, and come home sometimes.”
Ben said, “I shall make a hobby horse for your babe when I apprentice with Pa.”
Brendan gave them both his hand, then kissed his sister. “Aw,” was all he said.
I told them I loved them. Cullah said again, “I shall build you a house.”
Jacob stood up, hobbled to the door, and said, “Now, Gwen. I knew you when you were born. Now you’re wed. So don’t be an old sclarty-paps, and come see your grand-par when he gets old.”
We all laughed, so relieved of the sweet sadness of her going.
“I will, Grandpa,” she said. She had tears in her eyes. She mouthed to me, “I am so happy, Ma. Farewell.” Then she turned away.
I studied my hands. My fingers still pained me from embroidering her new shift and gown. And Jacob was so old. Bent. He walked with a stick now, all the time, but he promised to help all he could. My Gwyneth, the child that I had feared so for her life, was now carrying my life into the future. I felt a rush of sentiment I could not place, and with it, a strong wish to return to Jamaica, to tell my mother, “Oh, Ma, I have a beautiful daughter. Today is her wedding day. Oh, Ma, life has made me a mother and you a grandmother, and perhaps soon I shall also be a grandmother. Oh, Ma, hold me close. Let me rest my head upon your bosom for a moment and be a child again, and hear your voice singing to me.” Tears ran.
Cullah put his arm around me, saying, “She will be fine. Don’t worry. She will make a good wife. You have taught her well.”
“Yes,” I said. “She will.” I laid my head against his chest. “Cullah? How is it possible for me to feel so young and so old at the same time?”
He scratched his head and turned to look at my eyes. “Are you ill?”
I laughed, though more tears flowed. “No. I am only a woman, and we are complicated devices.”
“Well and aye, my love. Well and aye.”