A Buss from Lafayette (16 page)

As we approached the village, we heard the sonorous tones of the bell in the tower of the First Church. I was proud that my own church had a bell made by the famous silversmith, Paul Revere, but it always jarred me a little to hear it ring. The sound of it was a disturbing reminder of my mother’s funeral, only a little over a year ago. On that sad day, the Revere bell had rung out the traditional six chimes to proclaim that a woman of the town had died. A
mournful stream of tones followed, one for each year of Mother’s all too short life.

Apparently, the sound of the bell put Uncle Timothy in mind of a happier memory than mine. “You know, when Lafayette came to our town, there was quite a funny thing that happened at our meetinghouse. After word arrived that the general was about to make his appearance in the village, a very excited young boy started ringing the meetinghouse bell. He rang and rang and rang with all his might, while gazing intently at the road for a glimpse of the famous visitor. When Lafayette’s carriage did finally come into view, however, the boy got so excited that he dropped the bell rope and stood motionless, staring at the procession. The sound of the bell quickly came to a halt, which surprised everyone. Lafayette could see what had happened, and made a joke about it: ‘That boy thinks the bell is as enthusiastic as he is and will keep on ringing by itself while he is watching me!’”

We all chuckled at this story until we reached the churchyard. I looked up at the tall steeple housing the Revere bell, then at the porches on either side of the white-clapboarded church building. To me they looked a bit like arms welcoming churchgoers.
No other church in town looks as beautiful or as friendly as ours
, I thought.

The sound of the Revere bell came to a stop. This hurried us the last few yards into the church where
we quickly sat down in the pews inside our family’s box. As always, I looked around at the inside of the sanctuary. Galleries lined the upper walls on three sides. At the front was a tall, imposing pulpit, its floor fully six feet above the one our pews stood on. Over the pulpit was a large wooden canopy, a sounding board that magnified the minister’s voice. When I was a little girl, dozing off in the pew next to my mother, I used to fancy I was hearing the voice of God himself.

Soon a group of musicians began to play on bass viols, violins, cellos, and clarinets.

“Those look like some of the same men who played last night at the dance,” said Uncle Timothy. “Although I suspect that those who were
fiddlers
at the Perkins Tavern are
violinists
here.”

“And I suspect the music they are playing is
not
‘The Swinish Multitude,’” I whispered, grinning.

Father leaned forward to put in a word. “There is some talk of replacing the musicians with a seraphim, a reed organ with a keyboard. That would be a loss, I think. I would rather see the lively faces of these friendly fiddlers, er,
violinists
, up in front than see the back of some stranger seated at a keyboard.”

“I think the fiddlers would not like such a change, either,” my stepmother observed dryly.

Their conversation was put to an end by the entrance
of the large choir of singers, followed by the dignified minister, Reverend Hatch.

He climbed up the stairs to the pulpit and began to speak. To my amusement, the topic of his sermon was “Keeping the Sabbath Holy,” in which he urged the congregation to refrain from working, idling, or traveling on Sundays.

I could not help glancing down the pew to my aunt. Her head was bowed, but still, the blush of mortification visible under the brim of her frivolously decorated bonnet was obvious.

Well,
I thought.
If there is to be no working, idling, or traveling on Sundays, little else is left to do except sleeping or reading. I wonder how the Reverend feels about novels? Better not ask.
I felt a giggle rising inside me at this shocking notion and pinched my arm to stop the giggle from escaping.

At the end of the lengthy sermon, the minister made an announcement somewhat at odds with his previous theme. “I have heard that the great Nation’s Guest is traveling back from Maine today and will be coming through our town tomorrow. There will be a formal reception in front of the Wiggins Tavern at about noon. I urge you all to come to the village to witness this historic occurrence. I hope you younger members of the congregation understand just how great a man
General Lafayette is. You will never see his like again.”

This announcement caused a buzz of excitement to wash over the people inside the church, which only increased in intensity and volume as we all spilled out the doors into the churchyard.

C
HAPTER 28

Once outside the church, the congregation separated into its usual clusters to exchange greetings, news, and gossip: women on one side of the yard and men on the other.

My stepmother was soon surrounded by a gaggle of women, all anxious about her health. Since I already knew as much as I wanted to about this topic, I turned my attention to what the men were discussing.

I saw that Trueworthy Gilman, another Hopkinton storekeeper, seemed to be holding forth on some subject of great interest to the men and boys gathered around him. Although Mr. Gilman was not even thirty years of age, so could not be considered a “witness of history,” one of his cousins had been in the Revolution, and was a signer of the U.S. Constitution, and a member of Congress. Another had been the governor of New Hampshire. Because of this, and perhaps because he was quite a tall, handsome young man, I drifted over to stand at the back of the group to listen.

“Such an exciting event for our town, having the
great Lafayette in our midst! Why, I heard such tales of him when I was a small boy. My distant relation, Nicholas Gilman, was at the siege of Yorktown and had nothing but praise for what he witnessed of Lafayette’s actions there. Not so much for what he
did
, you understand, but for what he did
not
do.”

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Gilman?” I said, so intrigued by his statement that I spoke aloud what was in my mind.

Every single one of Mr. Gilman’s listeners, boy and man, turned to peer at the young lady with the temerity to ask a question in a mob of men. I saw with a blush that among them was Dickon Weeks. Still, I did not regret my question. I truly wanted to know the answer.

Mr. Gilman nodded at me and explained how after Lafayette had bottled up Cornwallis at Yorktown, the French fleet under Admiral DeGrasse arrived to put the cork in that bottle. The French ships blocked the British from escaping from Yorktown by sea. DeGrasse thought that between Lafayette’s men and his own forces, there were enough men to mount an immediate assault on the besieged town.

“Such an attack could have brought Lafayette all the glory of what proved to be the final major action of the war,” said Mr. Gilman, “but Lafayette refused to do it. Instead, he waited patiently for Washington
to arrive with the bulk of the American and French troops.

“Why did he do that?” I asked.

Mr. Gilman seemed to ponder this over before he answered. “I believe that Lafayette knew how important it was that Washington
himself
preside over the surrender of Cornwallis. It was Washington who had held us together those long years of war. He was indeed the ‘Father of our Nation’ and deserved whatever glory might be found at Yorktown.”

One of the men asked if Gilman’s relative had witnessed the surrender at Yorktown.

“Aye. In fact, he was in charge of documenting the prisoners as they surrendered. This was a mighty big job, as there were well over eight thousand Lobsterbacks who laid down their weapons that day.” Mr. Gilman grinned. “Some say that during the surrender the British bands were playing the old tune, ‘The World Turned Upside Down’ as if to take one last poke at the American cause. Upside down indeed! My cousin said that all the Americans there—and possibly the French—could see that the world was finally right side up!”

That is exactly the way I felt at the dance the other night,
I thought.
As if my world was finally right side up. Or will be as soon as my hair turns black.

“I have heard that Lafayette ordered the American
bands to play ‘Yankee Doodle’ good and loud,” Mr. Gilman went on. “I am not sure if that is true or not, but if so, it was wondrously appropriate. The Brits had used that song to make fun of us for the whole war, but at Yorktown we had finally proved we were not the ‘doodles’ they thought us.”

One of the men exclaimed, “And now Lafayette himself will be coming right through our town tomorrow. Everybody in Hopkinton will be there!”

“Everyone except Joss and me, I am afraid,” said Father. “We must deliver a horse to a buyer in Warner tomorrow and will be gone for a good part of the day.”

“You might still catch a glimpse of the great man. He will travel straight to Warner from Hopkinton. You might just pass him on the road,” Mr. Gilman said.

I felt a pang at the thought of losing Feather, the horse that had carried me through many childhood adventures. Now all I would have for riding was Flame, who was not even really trained to the bridle yet, let alone the despised sidesaddle.

My sad thoughts flew out of my head, however, when I saw Dickon Weeks coming over to me. I nodded shyly at him. Or at his feet, to be exact, which I noted were properly clad in black leather boots, before I managed to speak.

“Hello, Dickon.”

He nodded back at me. “Clara.”

“I forgot to do something very important last night,” I said in a soft voice so no one but Dickon could hear me.

“Really?”

I managed to lift my eyes to his face. The smile that I saw there gave me the confidence to say what I needed to say. “Yes, I forgot to thank you for your gift. And I do thank you, Dickon. It was very thoughtful of you to give me that fan. And with all I have learned lately about Lafayette, I shall treasure this memento of him the rest of my life.” I smiled at him and curtsied my gratitude.

Before Dickon could reply, we were interrupted by the arrival of Aunt P. “Come, Clara,” she said breathlessly. “Elder Putney has offered to give your family a ride home, so that Timothy, Hetty, and I can leave for home straight from here. Although I think we should wait until the minister goes home before we depart.”

“Why, Aunt
Pen-el-o-pe!
How devious you are, trying to conceal your sinful Sabbath travel from Reverend Hatch!” I teased. Then, with another quick curtsy to Dickon, I hurried after my aunt to bid Hetty an almost affectionate farewell. This clearly surprised Joss and the rest of the family.

After we watched my uncle’s barouche drive away, we all climbed into the Putneys’ capacious old coach.
On the way up the hill, Mrs. Putney urged us to stop at their inn for Sunday dinner.

“It is just silly for you to try and cook anything in this heat, my dear, especially in your condition,” she said to my stepmother. “I have prepared a large amount of food to serve the travelers staying with us at present, so it shall be no burden to feed the four of you as well. Our treat, of course, especially since it is frowned upon for us to serve local customers on the Sabbath. This will just be a neighborly dinner together.”

I was happy when my stepmother accepted Mrs. Putney’s kind offer. My brother and I loved going inside the inn, which we had often done as children. Not only did Elder Putney give us cider and apples whenever we did so, but we enjoyed pushing the Indian shutters back and forth in the windows of the common room. These wooden shutters actually slid into the sides of the window and could be pulled out to cover the glass on the inside in case of an Indian attack.

Joss often had said he hoped for such an attack, just for the excitement of it. In fact, he and Dickon used to sneak up on the Putney Tavern pretending to be Indians when they were mischievous young lads, but Elder Putney had always caught them at it. He told them over and over that there had not been a true Indian
attack since before the Putney Tavern was built. The war-whooping boys, however, persisted in mounting “attacks” at every opportunity. I always suspected that Elder Putney giving the “Indian warriors” a cup of cider and an apple or two might have factored into their persistence.