Brendan smiled. “My sister was so homely I had to capture her a husband.”
I looked to the sky and shook my head. “I should box your ears for such an insult to your beautiful sister. May she not hear you from heaven. Think, son, why you did such a thing. Because you looked about you and saw more than orders. You saw the small thing, a single man, who, once you knew him, was not your enemy. You saw the large thing, too. A war fought over greed, a thing that was inherently wrong. From where I live, the crushing of Britain’s subjects to use their blood to grease the wheels of world conquest is equally wrong. Every pulpit in Massachusetts rings every week with talk against such by the king. We are a churchgoing family. Do you hear what I am saying?”
His face held firm but his eyes would give away his thoughts even in the dark. “Be safe, Ma. Keep my son safe.”
“I will.” Brendan shook hands with his son and his father, settled his hat upon his head, and walked away, that tall son of mine, that man who spoke with Cullah MacLammond’s voice and strode with his father’s stride. I said, “Well, Bertie, let us see if you have need of clothing.”
*
Bertie was a good lad but easily bored. It was my thought that he was too intelligent to be satisfied without schooling. I dug through my hidden troves and came up with six pounds in total. I felt such an odd dismay, for on the one hand it was not enough to ensure Bertie an education, and on the other, it was more than enough to have provided better food and shoes for all of us in the present. Should I put it away in keeping for that future day or spend it now upon keeping us alive and in warm shoes? I raised my hem. A couple of yards of twine held my shoes together even now. Perhaps something now must be spent on the boy. Perhaps I should not face another year in these old shoes for the sake of my own health.
One evening Cullah called him to sit beside him on the settle. “Have you any yearning, Bertie, for education? Medicine? Law? The clergy?”
“I do, sir. I should like to be a minister.”
“You will have to go to Harvard for it. It will mean a great deal of work for you and me both. Do you feel as if you are called by God to do this?”
“I want to be able to move people with words like Reverend Clarke does. I want to have people weep, or cheer, or shake in their boots. I wish to speak so that happens.”
I thought that was what I had wanted as a child, to speak and be heard. I asked him, “Are you good at writing, then? Have you read any books or poetry?”
“I cannot read at all, mum.”
“Then we will start there. You will soon read.” Cullah listened and smiled to himself as we began that very night by the fire.
CHAPTER 37
December 1773
That winter snow flew early. Cold seeped into every crevice of the house. In mid-December the navy set up a blockade of the coastline from Long Island to Maine until the East India Company should be repaid for the shipload of tea broken and soaked in brine at the bottom of Boston Harbor. What were we to do? The ones who had spilled it would not pay, and the rest of us could not pay. I knew Benjamin had taken part in it, and I held a very real terror that one day my sons would find themselves aiming at each other. On every street corner men preached day and night against the burdens upon us, but rarely did they get their second page of notes from their pockets before they and their listeners were dispersed at the end of a bayonet.
The long winter days seemed to give Bertram dark moods. I asked him, “Next year, do you want to apprentice? Would you like a trade rather than a profession? What about going after your uncle Benjamin?”
“I should like to be a woodcarver like Grandfather, but he says he won’t teach me. He’s always minding cows, now. Maybe I should go to sea.”
“They say the difference between being a British sailor and being a prisoner in Newgate is the added possibility of drowning, but if that is what you want I shall ask Uncle August—”
“No, mum. I should want to be in His Majesty’s navy. Uncle is a pirate.”
“He is not a pirate, Bertie. Child, I cannot make you happy. I believe you are troubled, wanting a man around, a father. I am but your grandmother and none too exciting. Try to take some interest in your schoolbooks.”
He made a face.
“Well and aye, boy. It is high time you were apprenticed, if you are not going to study. And if you do not appreciate what I have done for you it is also high time you learned to keep that face under control. A lad who wears his every thought upon his face is asking for someone to change his opinions. You could help your uncle Roland more on the farm. No? Then we shall have to ask around. I cannot give you happiness, but I can at least give you a chance to find it.” I felt vexed with the lad. He was never satisfied, never settled, and only half accomplished chores given him.