“Yes, Mistress. We have to sew all night or wear blankets to Meeting tomorrow.”
The next week two fellows came, cold and hungry. One of them was smaller, and so I gave one of Brendan’s old coats to him. I had nothing finished yet for the larger man, except Cullah’s old and tattered cloak. “I am sorry it is so poor,” I said.
“Mistress, it is marvelous warm. Thank you kindly.”
January 2, 1776
Christmas and Hogmanay we celebrated in Dolly’s kitchen. I made a pudding the size of her new babe’s head. His name was John Paul. By Epiphany, Roland returned home to tell us of a place called Valley Forge, and that our own Congress had left the men naked and starving after promising food and uniforms. Smallpox, he said, killed scores every day. Men deserted whose enlistments were up because to stay meant starvation. I had little money left. I rummaged through trunks and every hidey-hole in the house for coins or clothing to send. He offered to return to the field with anything I could find.
On a shelf in the attic, a little crate held some old clothes I had never meant to part with. I pulled out my quilted petticoat made by Ma. Almost nothing remained of the original, though I expected it still lay inside the other layers. In a sort of desperate hope that I had overlooked some odd ha’penny, I carried it downstairs. By the fireplace, I took up scissors and began to cut it apart, carefully opening every wide place where anything might be hidden. I found a lump that was not tow or lint. I cut into the place and pried it open. A length of gold chain fell out, and when I pulled it, it was a ruby necklace. Three large stones set in pure gold hung from the chain. I saw by the familiar design that they had been meant as a set with the ruby ring, the only thing of value I yet owned. Ma had given one of her daughters part of the set, one another, as sisters should be two parts of something that went together. I put it in my pocket and returned to Dolly and Roland’s house. A great lump stilled my voice, as I tried not to weep, and held it up so that the fire showed through the stones. “Roland,” I said, “take this. Take my wagon, too. We will use yours. Take everything we can spare, and use this to buy whatever it will buy.”
March 21, 1776
It was a blustery, muddy spring. With Bertie driving the wagon, Alice sat next to me as we made our way to Boston, for now women could trade a little there, and the soldiers did allow us to buy flour though it was costly. She seemed oblivious to the uniformed army all about us, busy at her tatting. I remarked to her that in a moving coach that was no small feat, for I could do aught but stare at the trees when I rode else I suffered motion sickness. I asked her to look about, just to appear more natural, but she said, “Mistress, you admire all the pretty gentlemen’s red clothes for me, as I have got a knot here I am trying to fix and I am vexed out of my eternal life over it.” Then she winked at me, slyly, and wrinkled her lips in disgust. Bertie was filled with a fervor that I reckon could be accounted for by his being so great a part of the events that had called us all to arms. It was all I could do to remind him not to thrash the horses into a run, and that decorum and a straight face would serve us both. We passed line after line of British soldiers, fusiliers, and marines, ranks of artillery and wagons full of ammunition pulled by mules.
Tied under my petticoat by their stocking straps and overlapping like great pleats hung four pairs of men’s buff breeches. Two more were rolled into each side of my small farthingale. Under our feet in the false bottom were seven blue coats of differing size, all cut to resemble General Washington’s fine habit. I had not attached braids of rank, for I knew not to whom the coats would go, but I had sewed on gold buttons, rows of them, and turned up the cuffs so elegantly. I had prayed the chant over every one of them, that the man wearing it would never be wounded, that blood would not touch the work of my loom and my needle.
We reached the woods beyond Menotomy, and Bertie began to sing “O Waly, Waly.” A man walking past wearing plain clothes and a flat parson’s hat looked up at us as we passed. He nodded, touching his hat brim. I smiled. In a few minutes, after crossing and heading up the road, toward the Neck, three plain-clothed minutemen appeared from the woods and walked ahead of our horse. One more came from behind, carrying a pack as if he were a craftsman on his way to sell his wares though I knew him from the Committee of Safety.