The Midwife's Revolt (36 page)

45

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Mr. Miller returned early.
The very sight of him made me tremble in fear, whether of him or for him I couldn’t say. For while I had no reason to think otherwise than that Abigail’s information was correct, and that he would very soon be arrested, Mr. Miller’s face expressed an inexplicable good cheer.

I was in the dooryard feeding my chickens when he arrived. I saw the dust lift off the path moments before his horse came into view. I held little Johnny in my arms, wanting to let his mother sleep, for Eliza had been greatly fatigued.

Thomas alit from his horse and tied him to my post. His face when he saw me was soft, his eyes tender. About his mouth was the tiniest curl of amusement. He was, once more, the insouciant Mr. Miller I had known in Cambridge, the man who made me laugh, and with whom I was entirely in love.

Seeing me with Johnny, Mr. Miller grinned. “A child becomes you, Elizabeth.”

I nestled my face against Johnny’s warm head. “Have you breakfasted, Mr. Miller?” I asked.

“Yes. They feed one well where I stay. Make you a preparation of any kind for my sister?”

“Indeed I do. A cake of British goods confiscated by my pirate brother. I must go make it.”

I turned to go back inside, but not before glancing up the hill to ascertain whether the colonel watched our movements, for I had come to suspect that he used his spyglass for more than watching departing British ships.

“May I watch?” Mr. Miller asked.

I was surprised at this request, but could not think of a quick rejoinder. “If you like.”

“I should like it very much. I enjoy the domestic arts immensely. Watching them, I mean.”

“Indeed.”

For some reason, I blushed at this. We entered the kitchen, whereupon he sat himself at the table, stretched his long legs out, and said, “Show me, if you will, how to make a cake.”

“If you truly wish.”

“I do.”

“Well, one must go about it in an orderly fashion,” I was moved to say, as if somehow Mr. Miller might otherwise believe me to be disorderly. “I dislike waste immensely. And chaotic habits in the kitchen breed waste.”

Mr. Miller nodded gravely, and I glanced at him to know whether he mocked me. His countenance remained perfectly sober.

“Orderly, no waste. Go on.”

I continued. “First, you mix the wet and the dry separately.”

“Wet and dry separately.”

I stopped my narrative and placed a hand on my hip. “Shall you repeat everything I say? For then this shall take twice as long, and it is a hot day, Mr. Miller.”

“How else am I to remember it?” he objected petulantly, looking up at me with a disconcertingly serious expression.

I sighed and proceeded. “For this cake, I use four eggs. And a glass of milk. Excuse me.”

I moved into the dairy to fetch my eggs and milk. His eyes followed my every step. Returning, I continued.

“You break the eggs thus, then beat them smooth. Should you wish for a lighter cake, you must separate the yolks from the whites and beat them separately.”

“Separate whites, fluffier,” this tall, serious man repeated. It might have made anyone else roil with laughter.

I kept my bearings, however, and would not be thrown off.

“Add the milk and stir. Then you add your spices.”

“Spices?” he asked. “What use you for such a purpose? To add spice, I mean.”

Forgive me, Reader, but I could not help but feel that every one of Mr. Miller’s utterances contained a secondary meaning. But neither did I wish him to stop. No, I told him of cinnamon, and nutmeg, and baking powder. When the time finally came to mix the dry with the wet, I was scarlet in the face, and Mr. Miller stood abruptly.

“Allow me to help you. That looks demonishly difficult.”

He rose to his full height and walked toward me. I remained rigidly still as he came behind me, taking the spoon from me to stir. At the same time, little Johnny crawled into the kitchen and sat by our feet. He was playing with a silver spoon. Mr. Miller pressed into me from behind, so gently one might almost call it inadvertent. But only almost.

“Like this?” he asked, beginning to stir.

I felt his breath on my neck and shivered. His arms began to fold around me, and I could feel the circular movement of his torso as he stirred the bowl.

“Yes.”

Suddenly Martha appeared at the door. I blushed as if caught in some sinful act. I had thought her still asleep. She herself looked flushed and excited. Hearing her, Mr. Miller turned, spoon in hand, and Martha literally leapt into his arms.

“Birthday felicitations, Sister,” he cried. “How you grow! You must be, what—forty-seven, now?”

“Nineteen, you idiot.”

I looked over at Harry, who stood watching in the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, watching Martha and her brother. Had he seen me and Mr. Miller stirring the cake? And had I seen him release Martha’s hand upon entering the kitchen?

When Martha looked up and saw the red coals in the hearth, she scowled. “Are you mad, to be baking on such a day? It is not struck nine and already an inferno in here.”

“It’s nearly finished, and you’ll be thankful and eat it without complaining, if you please.”

“I have a suggestion that should please us all very well,” interrupted my brother, who was in unusually high spirits. “As the cake shall keep well enough, and as it is
very
hot—”

Eliza suddenly appeared, looking agitated, in search of her missing son. When she saw him playing happily with a spoon by my feet, she sighed.

“Johnny, where did you go off to?” she cried, not expecting an answer. But to our mutual astonishment, Johnny looked up and pointed at me: “Izzzzie!”

“You went to Izzzzie?” She turned to me. “Lizzie, did you hear him?”

We were all so overjoyed at this new word that for a moment we just stood and clapped our hands together, crying, “Izzzzie! Izzzzie.” Johnny clapped and shouted my name as well.

I glanced at Thomas Miller, but he merely kept his affable, unreadable smile as he stared down at Eliza’s child.

“A remarkable boy.”

“Yes, we love him dearly. But I must get this baking immediately.”

I poured the batter into a tin and set it upon a trivet by the coals.

“I say it’s too hot for baking,” my brother continued, looking at me. “You shall melt away.”

“Well, what have you in mind? Go on.”

“I suggest we all go and jump in the colonel’s pond.”

Cries of both opposition and assent broke out then in my kitchen. Johnny banged the floor with the spoon.

I put my hand to my ears. “All right. Anything! But allow me twenty minutes for my cake.”

And with that everyone dispersed to prepare for a swim at the colonel’s pond, otherwise known as Black’s Creek. Mr. Miller exited the kitchen with his sister. I lifted up little Johnny, who insisted on bringing his spoon with him.

Twenty minutes later, I had removed my cake to cool, setting it on the kitchen table by the open window. I wiped my hands and ran outside, for by this point I was drenched and could have plunged headfirst into the pond.

Dying of the heat, we all ran into the dunes, which shivered in golden, mid-summer fullness. Soon, I thought, perhaps that afternoon, we would need to begin cutting the flax. Then the corn would need harvesting, and a great deal else. But today was Martha’s birthday, and a spirit of incautious joy had seized us all.

I had never had much occasion to swim and hardly knew how. I had certainly never swum in the colonel’s pond. As it was saltwater, it was not a true pond. And as it was an inlet of the ocean, it was not truly the colonel’s, but we called it the colonel’s pond nonetheless. Once or twice, I had gathered herbs there—Seneca root and rushes for the lamps. It had never once occurred to me to throw myself into it, and I had no real intention of doing so now.

But as we approached the pond, stopping to observe the wildflowers and other fragrant and medicinal plants that bordered it, a wild recklessness took hold of our brothers. They ripped off their shoes and began to remove their shirts, though we all called, “No, indeed! Should you wish to strip yourselves naked, go around to the other side of the rushes!”

“Other side? Bollocks!” my brother cried.

“Harry!” I said, aghast at his foul language, but everyone else merely laughed. We were so hot, the sun pounded, and the pond looked like pure ecstasy. Its surface was cool and glassy. I sat Johnny down, and he crawled to the water’s edge, heedless of the rough stones and sharp shells. Then, without warning, he threw my silver spoon into the pond.

Thomas Miller glanced at my brother. The two of them took Johnny’s toss as a signal of fate.

“That’s it, Tom—go!” my brother cried out. “I’ll race you for the spoon!”

The two men, clad now only in their breeches, ran straight into the water with pained cries of “Ah!” and “It’s cold! Dear Lord!”

We looked at them disapprovingly, but only for a moment. They dove under and emerged dripping, wiping the salty water from their joyous faces. Never had I seen Thomas Miller so happy, so entirely abandoned. Compared to this, his earlier insouciance appeared studied. He tipped his face up toward the sun, let his hair fling back behind him, closed his eyes, and laughed freely. To accompany this joyous image, I had the recent memory of his body pressed against mine in the kitchen. And while he did not remove his clothing now, I could imagine full well all that lay beneath it.

I cannot recall which of us followed the men first, but within moments we had kicked off our shoes and gone running in after them, our petticoats rising up and ballooning to the water’s surface.

“Ah! Ooh!” we gasped as our muscles constricted, taking our breath away. But it was too late to back down now.

“Go all the way!” cried my brother, no doubt the most used of all of us to taking a cold dip. I let myself sink down, down, into the water, before popping back up with a yelp of delight. The cold on our hot scalps was a joy unto itself. Life was good. And war? Well, as my brother had rightly exclaimed: oh, bollocks!

All but Eliza got her head under water. She did not wish to take her eyes off little John, who played so close to the water’s edge. I ran, drenched and laughing, and gathered Johnny up as Martha tackled Eliza, bringing her under the now roiling surface of the pond.

“Oh! No, indeed!” Eliza cried. And then, in another moment, she was under.

“Look, Johnny, water!” I gently introduced the boy to the water as he, expressing the shock of his life, began to squeal and flail his arms and legs as naturally as if he might swim away from me. I kept a tight grip upon him.

Our cries of joy might have sounded like a sudden conflagration from afar. Soon, numb with cold, we panted toward land and fell laughingly upon the ground.

Swimming in that cold pond on that hot day, the world fell away from us. No more were we Patriots and Tories, spinsters and widows and mulatto bastards. We were young and happy to be alive on this God-given earth. We were all hopelessly in love as well, but for just this one moment it was joy merely to feel that love within us, without hope of its realization.

We lay on the ground laughing and gasping for breath for as long as we dared. The sun warmed our faces and the icy garments that clung to every bend of our limbs and torsos. Then, one by one, we gradually rose and made our way back to the house. Harry said he was ravenous and wished to sample the cake. Laughing, I told him he would need to wait until after supper, as I had not frosted it. As we neared the house, passing by Thaxter’s former cabin and the barn, I thought I heard a noise and stopped. The others stopped behind me.

“What is that?” asked Martha.

“Shh,” I hushed her.

It was a groaning noise, coming from the barn. The groan sounded agonized and nearly human. At that moment, Thomas Miller heard it and ordered us back with a wave of his arm. “Stay here!”

Along with my brother, he swiftly but quietly ran to the barn.

After a moment, I heard Harry exclaim, “Dear God.”

“Oh, my good Lord,” added Thomas Miller.

The two men then spoke to each other in tones too low for us to hear.

“Ladies, remain where you are,” one of them called. “Do not approach.”

But I would not remain where I was, not on anyone’s orders. I ran to the barn at once just as I passed my brother running in the other direction, toward my house, with great celerity.

Inside the barn, all was dark at first. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I saw Thomas Miller bent down over a large, dark, writhing form on the ground.

It was Star. He was lying on his side, endeavoring to raise himself up. His eyes, gleaming wild and white in the darkness, soon caught mine. They were filled with agony and entreaty.

“Star!” I shrieked. I bent over him and hugged his neck as he endeavored, with all his ebbing strength, to pull himself toward me. He seemed unable to breathe. His breath came in groaning gasps. Blood leaked from his mouth. He continued to look at me imploringly with his huge brown eyes.

“Star! Star!”

Hearing my voice, his nose pressed into my neck in a loving, familiar gesture. I lay upon him; feeling me, his breathing eased. Oh, what agony for me as well as him!

“Stand away,” said Thomas Miller, pushing me aside.

“I shall not,” I said.

I felt his hands upon me, moving me aside by force. A powerful shot rang out, and Star fell back. His eyes rolled up, almost in relief. He was dead.

46

CLOTHING DRIPPING, I sat for a moment
on the ground by Star’s side. My beloved, my faithful companion, was now silent forever. He had been my one true companion. I could have wailed like Hecuba, made milch the burning eyes of heaven, but I did not. No, there was no time for mourning. I felt a hand on my shoulder, which I shrugged off at once. I must have appeared beaten down, at a loss for words. At a loss for life and even reason.

Far from it. It took but a few moments before I was on my feet. I looked about briefly. My brother stood there, panting and wild-eyed, Martha by his side. Eliza, having shielded Johnny’s ears, had moved swiftly into the house to protect him from the horrible sight: a noble beast stilled in a posture of utter torment. Thomas Miller had set the musket down beside Star, along with its flask of powder, and disappeared. Presumably he had gone to fetch help.

I stared at the musket and reached to pick it up. I gazed about me again, hoping I might catch a clue as to the author of this evil. Nothing was out of place. I did not then see the powder residue at the bottom of his feed pail; Martha told me of it only later. But I did notice a folded paper lying upon the ground just to the side of the path that led to the colonel’s. It must have fallen from Mr. Miller’s pocket. It was but a small, wet rectangle, upon which brown ink had run. I at first thought little of it and stuffed it in my skirt pocket to return to its owner. Then, a moment later, curiosity got the better of me.

I picked it out of my pocket with one hand and unfolded it. I expected to find a bill of sale or an account of expenses. Instead, I saw traces of a letter in ink that had been washed away by the pond, but the telltale signature had not been entirely erased. I stared at it a moment longer before placing it back in my skirt. Slowly, I lifted the musket from the ground. Slowly, I loaded it.

“Lizzie, wait.” Martha took my arm. “What is it you plan to do?”

I said nothing, only moved quickly through the garden. I met one of my new day laborers, a young man named Samuel Whitcomb. He had turned up only just the week before, seeking work. He had seemed too good to be true—a young man of few words, willing to work for nothing but a promise of future recompense. I had accepted at once. Mr. Whitcomb looked at me in silent alarm. My petticoats were dripping wet, and Medusa-like locks of hair clung to my face. In my firm grasp was a loaded musket.

“My horse is dead. Kindly call upon Mr. Billings at the tannery. He will be of assistance.”

He said nothing, but merely moved carefully aside as I ran up the hill and through the dunes toward the great house. I gathered speed as I went, until once again Martha, who had been breathlessly trailing behind, took hold of me.

“Lizzie. It’s not safe. Allow me to accompany you.”

“No, I need no help to go a few feet up the hill. I’ll return as soon as I’ve ascertained the truth. For I believe I now know what that truth is, though everyone sought to obscure it from my eyes. Stay with Eliza.”

“Lizzie!” she called after me.

I ran the rest of the way to the colonel’s, heedless of her entreaties.

Ann Quincy opened the door. She took me in all in a single glance: my wet dress and my loose, wet hair, musket at the ready. To her credit, her alarm seemed one of genuine concern for my person, not my impropriety.

“What has happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m afraid I must see your husband on a matter of greatest urgency. It cannot wait.”

She ushered me in. “Of course. But don’t you wish to change first? You are dripping wet.”

“No, thank you. It’s only from the pond.”

“The colonel is in the parlor with the others.” She pointed to the right.

When my head turned in the direction of her outstretched arm, I saw Colonel Quincy, Richard Cranch, and Mr. Miller. They sat in a tight circle and were deep in discussion, which ceased the moment I entered.

When Thomas saw me, he bounded up from his chair. Like myself, he had not had time to change out of his wet clothes. Water pooled everywhere on the colonel’s Turkey carpet. No one seemed to pay it the least attention.

“Mrs. Boylston.”

I mastered myself, though perhaps not as well as he. “I believe you dropped this in your haste,” I said. I then proffered the wet letter, but Thomas Miller didn’t move to fetch it from me. He stood there as if awaiting command.

Colonel Quincy now stood to address me.

“Lizzie, my child, perhaps you’d care to change out of your wet things?”

“I would
not
care to change, thank you. I merely wish—”

Here I recalled I was still holding my musket and must have appeared to Colonel Quincy and his guests like a madwoman. But I did not relinquish the weapon. Instead, I held it tighter to me. “Allow me to know what is going on.”

The musket, though not pointed at them, told them of my intent to brook no refusal.

“Please, sit,” said the colonel, pointing to a chair. But I stood firm. I continued to hold the letter before me, the letter that had been all but washed away by our impetuous frolic.

“If you refuse to answer me, then I will ask him myself.”

The colonel was silent.

I turned to Mr. Miller. “Why is it, Mr. Miller, that you had upon your person a letter from His Excellency, General Washington?”

Mr. Miller glanced at the colonel.

“I understand you demand an explanation, but time is of the essence,” said Colonel Quincy.

Thomas nodded, then glanced up briefly at me, a look of misery upon his countenance. Yet I had no pity for him.

“Lizzie,” the colonel finally began, “I’m afraid you have been deceived. But believe me when I say it could not be helped. You see—”

“What is it I see?” I cried. “That you must tell me.”

“If you only calm yourself, I shall tell you.”

“I’m quite calm. The fact that some evildoer poisoned my horse has made me quite, quite calm, I assure you.”

Here, in a gesture of good faith, I set the musket down on the carpet.

“Well, I suppose we can keep it from you no longer,” began the colonel, not looking at me. “Mr. Miller has been in my employ these three years past. I engaged him in April of ’76, upon His Excellency’s personal request.”

All eyes were upon me, a wet, trembling, devastated creature. My silence was but momentary. “How is it I am to believe such a thing?”

“Lizzie, it is true.”

The voice came from behind me. It belonged to Richard Cranch.

I turned to him. “You knew of this?”

He refused to meet my eyes. “I have known but a relatively short time, yes.”

“And you, my closest friends, have knowingly deceived me? And sought to warn me against him and treat him as the lowest criminal?”

My regard for Mr. Miller was now exposed for all to see. The “him” in question remained silent while the colonel spoke. “Elizabeth, your heart is ready to serve. I have noted it with great admiration. But your skills—a successful spy must remain unknown even to his nearest and dearest. Surely you can understand that.”

My head understood, Reader; but my heart—how it revolted! I could not tell my friends the true suffering I had experienced at war with myself over Mr. Miller.

“And Abigail? Does she know?”

“No, indeed,” interjected Colonel Quincy. “It is she most of all we seek to protect.”

“I want proof,” I said finally. “I can tolerate no more doubt. Not one more moment of it.” I didn’t need proof, not really. What I needed was for my friends to account for themselves fully.

Perhaps I had been breathing too rapidly, for I very suddenly felt quite unwell. “I am most grievously tired,” I said.

Ann came toward me. “Please. Allow Ginny to change you. I have something suitable, no doubt.”

The room had begun to spin. As we moved down the hall, Thomas Miller approached to steady me.

“You look faint, Lizzie. Please—allow Mrs. Quincy to help you out of your wet clothing. When you return, you may read this.” He showed me a large folded parchment.

“Is that proof of your stainless heroism?” I said mockingly. I was then overcome—by grief, fear, betrayal, and self-pity, all at once—and burst into long-delayed tears.

“Come,” implored Mrs. Quincy, “I insist. The letter shall wait.”

But I said suddenly, “I shall move no farther until I read what Mr. Miller has offered.”

I had walked toward the stairs, where I stood waveringly. My tears had ceased as quickly as they had begun. I had reached that point of unmooring within my mind that would brook no contradiction, that cared nothing for consequences. Oh, how hard and steely this thing was! And yet, it seemed to consume my flesh as it galvanized my spirit, for I felt truly weak now and sat down upon the steps.

Mr. Miller addressed me. The awkwardness of this address I shall never forget, since all present now knew of my feelings for him, yet he did not express the slightest affection for me. Indeed, so correct was he that I entirely doubted that he shared my feelings—another grief, another mortification, to add to the rest!

“Mrs. Boylston, I understand your wish to know all, and yet you must also understand it is not safe to know everything.”

“Safe?” I laughed mirthlessly. “My house has been raided. My beloved horse is dead. Think you that I have cowered in my chamber all these months? You of all people know otherwise. Give it here.” I took the parchment from Thomas Miller’s hand.

In faint brown script, it read:

To the honorable Jos. Q,

I was heartened to learn that the situation in Braintree has been contained and that Traitors T. and H. have been removed. But we know there to be others, both among us and among you. I have only now had a Communication from Gen’l S. that the Man who presented himself to you as his Aide Cleverly is one Benjamin Thompson of Stonington, New Hampshire. We believe him to be among the leaders of the planned attack on J.A. and J.Q.A. I have also had communication from Dr. F. in Paris, who has lately heard from his Contacts in England that this Group will stop at nothing to achieve their Aims. My profoundest Thanks to T.M. for his untiring Vigilance and strong Intelligence, particularly regarding the imminent arrival of La S. upon your shores. You must remain ever-vigilant until our great citizen is safely arrived with his most precious cargo. I know you to have spent every waking Breath to protect our Cause and our brave Citizens, and I have Faith that you shall continue to do your best in this most treacherous of Times.

Your obedient, Geo. Washington

Reading the letter, I let out a crazed laugh. So, gloomy Mr. Thayer, who had always been at his lap desk, had in fact been Mr. Stephen Holland, the counterfeiter whose whereabouts had long been sought—in our very midst. All along, in our midst! And Dr. Flynt, that paunchy, affable man who had said he was from Philadelphia, had been Holland’s partner, Mr. Tufts.

As for Mr. Cleverly, that truth at least felt like some vindication. He was in fact Benjamin Thompson, the notorious scientist and wife-abandoner from Stonington. The leader of this band of traitors. About him, at least, I had been entirely correct. I had known Mr. Cleverly’s treachery when General Sullivan himself had been duped.

As I sat, wet and shaking, on the back steps of the colonel’s house, the final image wavering before my dizzy eyes was of Mr. Cleverly and myself, hand in hand among my fruitful orchards. I then fainted, thus mercifully closing the scene.