The Midwife's Revolt (33 page)

40

IT WAS A hot day the following
week when Martha and I came from the fields to discover Eliza, doubled over in pain in the kitchen garden. At first, I thought it to be some illness. But then I noticed a letter upon the ground at her feet. She could not speak, so I picked it up.

“May I?” I asked, meaning the letter.

She nodded.

The letter was from Colonel John Langdon, Watkins’s overseer at the shipyard, and a great patriot. He wrote to inform Eliza that her uncle Robert Chase had been forced to flee, and that Watkins had been sold—to a most vicious man by the name of Mr. Richards, in Kittery.

“Oh, this is terrible, indeed,” I said.

“But look here. Look what he says,” I pointed to a passage in the letter, for I was certain that in her haste Eliza had not seen it:

“But if perchance you are able to come to Portsmouth, Eliza, I may
. . .
be able to arrange something. I have the means, though it involve some danger. If you do decide to come, tell only those you would trust with your own life, for his may be at stake
. . .
”

Not seeming to hear me, Eliza said, “I knew this would happen. John warned me. I must go.” She moved toward the house.

“When did John warn you? You told us nothing of it.”

“When I was in Cambridge. I received a letter from him, through Colonel Langdon. I had no wish to share my misery with others. Oh, let me go!”

“A moment. A moment,” I forestalled her. “Let us think.”

Just then, Martha joined us from the fields, and I shared Eliza’s news with her.

“At least he remains in the area and has not been shipped elsewhere,” Martha said.

“Yes, thank God for that,” murmured Eliza.

Eliza said she would reply to Colonel Langdon immediately, letting him know of her intended arrival in Portsmouth. I offered to accompany her.

Martha wanted to come as well, but I objected.

“We cannot both go. Someone needs to tend the farm.”

“Of course,” Martha said, though we could see that she was disappointed.

We prevailed upon Eliza to wait until the morning to leave, to give her letter a chance to precede her. Strange as it may seem, this same morning, Thaxter came knocking on our kitchen door with the news that he was leaving us. He looked a great deal abashed, but said he had family in New Hampshire what had procured him a good house job with a very fine family.

I had long expected his departure, but I doubted whether he had found a better situation elsewhere. More likely, he had simply tired of Braintree and its unresolved terrors.

“Whereabouts are you headed?” Eliza inquired, not looking up as she finished her packing.

“Portsmouth,” Thaxter replied.

“Portsmouth!” Eliza cried. “Why, we go there this very day!”

Thaxter readily agreed to accompany us, and we were vastly contented to have a man we knew join us. We set off a few hours later.

Abigail was already sitting in her uncle’s carriage when it came ’round, having decided to accompany us as far as her sister Betsy’s house in Exeter.

The carriage was crowded, what with Abigail, Eliza, Johnny, myself, and Thaxter, and unfortunately required two stops, the first being at my home in Cambridge.

Eliza was loath to stop there, fearing that somehow her mother would get wind of our presence. But I assured her that I would trust Bessie and Giles with my life. Indeed, Bessie was so overjoyed to see me, to meet my friends, and to hear the sound of a babe echo through the old house once more that she rustled up a veritable feast for us.

Giles glanced at Johnny with a questioning brow now and then, but years of training kept him silent on the subject.

Bessie, on the other hand, bouncing a gleeful Johnny on her knee, blurted, “He’s a dark little one, isn’t he!”

“Bessie!” I exclaimed.

“Well,” Bessie continued, glancing quickly about us to ascertain that Eliza was out of earshot, “it won’t do for our races to be mixin’ blood. That poor babe don’t know he’s in a heap of trouble.”

Abigail and I stared mutely at each other; we neither of us were able to disagree.

The following morning, we continued our journey, and it was quite late when we arrived at Betsy and Parson Peabody’s in Exeter. Betsy came running out to greet us, her candelabra trailing swathes of light in the darkness. She was in her bedclothes, and her loose, wavy hair fell all about her shoulders. I instantly liked her; she appeared warm and kind, if slightly frazzled. A keen intelligence shone from her eyes. Secretly I thought Betsy ill-suited to be a parson’s wife.

After bidding Abigail good-bye, we set off, arriving at Stavers’s, a Portsmouth tavern of good repute, at noon the following day. Here Thaxter took his leave of us, and we curtsied politely, though I was not distraught to see him go. He had been an indifferent field hand at best. Upon entering the tavern, Eliza and I learned that there was but one chamber available, so we agreed to share it. As soon as we reached the chamber, I undid my gown and stays and fell upon the bed. Eliza, however, could not rest. She stood and looked out the window, her heart no doubt aching.

“Lizzie,” she turned to me, “would you kindly walk over to the Whipple house, to inform Dinah and Prince Whipple that I have returned? It is but three streets away. Perhaps Dinah can take word to Colonel Langdon that I am arrived.”

“Of course,” I said. Eliza had not mentioned these Whipple slaves previously, and I was surprised that she knew them as intimately as it now appeared.

I sat up, donned my stays and gown as Eliza explained the route, and set off. When I returned an hour later with my charges, I was obliged to rap long and loudly upon the door, for both Eliza and her babe were dead to the world.

“A moment,” Eliza finally called. She opened the door. Within the chamber, it was pitch-dark. No moon shone through the window.

I, however, held a double candle, which no doubt afforded Eliza a good view of the Whipple slaves, and, to her very great surprise, Colonel Langdon himself.

Three slaves then entered the chamber and swarmed Johnny like the magi about baby Jesus. One was tall and proud-looking; the girl, perhaps sixteen, must have been Dinah. The third was a bent old man whose age I could not guess. This was Jupiter, I later learned, Eliza’s uncle’s old coachman.

Sighs, exclamations, and tender clasping of hands all finally served to wake the sleeping babe, at which point the visitors took him up in their arms, each begging for a turn.

Colonel Langdon—a very tall, fair man in his mid-thirties—seemed embarrassed by this unbounded affection between Miss Boylston and the Whipple slaves.

“It’s dark as a tomb in here, Eliza,” I said, setting my candle down and searching for another.

Just as soon as they arrived, it seemed, the slaves tearfully departed. They said they dared not be long absent from their home, as curfew neared.

Colonel Langdon remained. Sensing that he wished to speak to Eliza alone, I turned toward the hallway. I then heard, rather than saw, all that transpired:

“Miss Boylston, I see you have earned the love and trust of those who most often find us undeserving of either.”

“Yes, well. They were kind to me when my so-called equals were not,” she said simply. “Do you wish to sit?”

“Nay—please. Miss Boylston, I have news as will gladden and pain you at once. Your anticipation must be very great, and so I shall be direct. Watkins—John Watkins—”

“Is he well?”

“He is better than he was.”

“What mean you?”

The colonel hesitated. Then he finally said, “I’m afraid he—took a beating.”

Eliza cried out and bent forward in her pain. Herein began a tale of meanness and treachery to harrow up one’s soul. And yet, as I listened to the colonel, even through Eliza’s sobbing, I began to discern the man’s steely conviction, an intent to help Watkins despite the risk to himself and others.

“We shall find a way, Miss Boylston. Do not fear. It may take some time.”

“Time,” she repeated miserably.

Colonel Langdon replied, “You must feel entirely alone. But rest assured: there are others like me—even those in power.” Colonel Langdon then broke off these cryptic remarks, as if he’d already said too much. “But excuse me. You must be exhausted.” He then bowed and took his leave.

“An impressive man,” I said once the colonel had gone.

“Yes. The best of men.”

“And an impressive woman.”

Eliza said nothing, but I continued. “Until this day, Eliza, I don’t believe I knew you truly. Though we have been as sisters these ten months, I didn’t understand your character. I’m frankly in awe. Well and truly in awe.”

Eliza smiled wanly. “You didn’t realize the depth of my love for
. . .
those you would not have expected me to love.”

“No,” I said. “That much I freely admit.”

“Don’t admire me so very greatly, Lizzie. Since I was a small child, I have lived in kitchens. My life was cold, and I sought the warmth. My life was small, and their lives bestowed upon me a depth of experience I hadn’t known. What’s more”—here, she stifled a smile—“I thought—I
still
think—John Watkins by far the handsomest man I ever laid eyes on.”

“Well!” I replied, heartened to glean Eliza’s lightened spirits, “why didn’t you say so in the first place? A woman needs no further explanation.”

Suddenly, Johnny, whom we had thought to be asleep, sat up with an annoyed expression. “Mama!” he cried imperiously. Eliza and I looked at each other in amazement. We had just heard the child’s first word.

41

JOHNNY FELL ASLEEP for the night at
around ten, as I did, though the air in the chamber was hot and close. Eliza remained awake but must have dozed off, for at some hour deep in the night, we were both awakened by a soft knock.

“Lizzie,” she whispered, terrified, “that must be him. Oh, what do I do?”

“Open the door,” I said, bracing her by her shoulders and giving her a push. Eliza got up and approached the door. Then she opened it.

Standing before her was a man of medium height, with a thick head of curls and stunning aqua-blue eyes. Their expression was of a tenderness that cannot be described
. . .

“A moment,” Eliza whispered, then turned to me. “Lizzie, this is John Watkins. My John.”

I rose bashfully, as I was in my shift. I curtsied, then said, “Excuse me. I’ll be just there, beyond the door. I can keep watch.”

“I remain not long,” Watkins replied. “The colonel waits for me below.”

His voice was deep, resonant, and refined. If I had imagined he would sound in any way uncouth, I was at once sorely disabused.

I glanced at John Watkins, then turned to Eliza, eyes wide.
Yes
, my eyes said.
He is the handsomest man in the world.

Then I noticed the dirty linen sling which held his bandaged right arm. I wondered what had happened to him but dared not ask. With his left hand, he took Eliza’s hand in his. She kissed it, then moved to the bed and lifted her child in her arms.

“Your son,” she said, holding Johnny out to him. “Isn’t he amazing? He called me Mama today.”

Watkins gazed down at his child, his eyes taking in the boy’s every part. Tenderly, close to breaking, he caressed the child’s head.

“Amazing, yes. Don’t wake him just yet, though,” he said.

“No,” Eliza agreed.

I left the chamber then, and they shut the door upon me.

He left in the dead of night; I stood guard the entire time. When I finally returned to the chamber, dead on my feet, I asked Eliza no questions. They would keep till the morrow.

At breakfast we sat in one of the tavern’s small public rooms, where we drank coffee and ate a fine plate of ham and eggs. After ten minutes of silence, I began to giggle. The harder I tried to squelch my laughter, the worse the urge became.

“Oh, Eliza,” I blurted at last, “I must have at least some details. Do tell me something and put me out of my misery. For I’m to be an old maid and must live vicariously.”

“You’re a depraved being,” Eliza scolded me. She gave me no prurient details, especially as we were in a public place. But she did say, “Oh, you should have seen him with Johnny. You should have seen his tenderness.”

I stopped laughing, and my eyes grew tearful at the thought of John Watkins holding his son for the first time.

“It is enough. Thank you.”

Eliza grasped my hand beneath the table in silent gratitude. Just as we were finishing our breakfast, a messenger approached us with a letter for me. I had been expecting no letter and felt it could only be bad news. I opened it quickly, but the messenger boy just stood there until I fished a penny from my pocket and handed it to him.

After a moment, I stood up and let out a cry of joy.

“Look, Eliza. Look!”

I proffered the letter, which was from Colonel Quincy, but gave her no time at all to peruse it.

“My Harry is in Braintree, Eliza. We must leave at once.”