“La, thank you, Mistress. ’At’s generous of you.”
I walked home, pushing my feet to a hard rhythm so that Alice, whose knee still pained her, had no choice but to lag behind me.
My sons and grandson survived Breed’s Hill and cheered their rout of the British army, though Bertie was sent back to me for a rest, and for two weeks could not keep his food down. He fretted until I gave him permission to return to the fight once he was well. In the meantime, he practiced, inventing new drum patterns, so that no one would mistake his beating for that of a British drummer boy.
July 21, 1775
No one moved through Boston. It was besieged. We worked our farm as we could then, we women, always with Cullah’s pistol nearby. We hid from any travelers on the road.
On a night in July, a birdcall and a tap at my window made me open the door. My brother August stood before me, dressed in huntsman’s leathers. He motioned behind his back, and a cadre of men in fine blue coats entered. One of them was taller than the rest. He would have towered over Cullah, and I saw he was seconded and attended by my son Brendan, who also wore a blue coat. Brendan looked neither right nor left, nor at me. I held my breath for a moment, sensing that this was not the time for motherly kisses.
“Madam,” began the tall man. “I beg your indulgence. May we spend a couple of hours before your hearth?”
“If August Talbot brings you to my door, you are welcome. I have a piece of mutton warmed, with parsnip roots and celery. I have cider.”
August jerked his head from Brendan’s direction to the kitchen table, then he addressed the tall man. “General Washington? You will do the Continental army a good service by letting this lady inspect your coat.”
*
By the end of summer, an epidemic of bloody dysentery hit Massachusetts and devastated the British army. There were by then more of them in the country than of us. I stayed away from the city but I heard Serenity Spencer died of it, as did Daniel Charlesworth. America Roberts Charlesworth moved to Pennsylvania to live with her sister Portia.
In September, as it began to rain, Reverend Clarke called upon his congregation, now almost all women, to mind how judgment could come upon the earth when her inhabitants displeased their Creator.
We did not get dysentery or suffer for food, though Dolly, Alice, and I worked long days at harvesting and drying. We had no salt for curing so we butchered nothing larger than a hen. I missed things like salt and sugar, spices and wheat flour. I sent and spent the gold August left with me for food for our army. When Alice and I managed to shear a sheep—poor animal looked as if it had been caught by some wool-eating animal, so rough was our job of it—I made a man’s coat and gave it to the first one who came to our door.
During the long rains of autumn, I filled my secret room above the loom with cloth, stockpiling it in the barn, too, searching twice a week for moths and weevils. I traded bolts of it for precious indigo and whiting. Once, on a street in Lexington in broad daylight, my skirt heavy with vials of indigo, my wheelbarrow light and empty, I glared at some young British conscript until he turned from my eyes.
I worried much about my sons, but not my brother, for I held great faith that because I heard nothing from him, August was somewhere doing what he could in the name of the Continental army. I moved some boxes and crates and came upon the first chests he had once hidden with me. Neither was locked.
I turned the latch of one and raised the lid. It held a few papers. They seemed to be letters, from August to a woman. Love letters. I smiled and held them to my bosom. I hoped he was happy at least for a while, as I had been. I set them down reverently. Under the letters sat a boxed set of dueling pistols and a box of shot and powder. I lifted them out. We might need them. Beneath that was a small casket, about the size of two loaves of bread. Its latch was closed and no key sat in the lock. I set it on the floor, and took out some clothes. They looked to be a boy’s clothes, with stains and holes. Ripped keepsakes of his past, I supposed. In the pocket of the waistcoat, I found a small key. It opened the casket. The casket held doubloons. Dozens of them. We would be able to eat, I thought, and buy more wool. I could make more coats. No American who crossed my path or my doorway would leave without a coat if he needed one.