On
Tuesday, I gave you the first chapter of “Maiden America.”
If
you haven’t officially met the (so-far) freaked-out Abigail Carpenter, her
hotheaded older brother Garrett, her
stressed sister-in-law Elizabeth, and the bevy of British soldiers who just
barged into their lives and made themselves at home, click
here to start at the beginning.
Otherwise,
read on for chapter two…
Maiden America
Chapter 2
Occupation
Dec. 7 - 8, 1776
s expected, the rest of the night
is miserable. I manage to pull myself together enough to help Elizabeth with
the dishes, but I’m still a sniveling mess until bedtime.
My amazing
sister-in-law has already assured me that we will go visit Garrett with food
and blankets just as soon as we’ve prepared our tyrannical guests their
breakfast in the morning. Going alone doesn’t seem all that intelligent. For
that matter, neither does staying behind without the other. Not when the
British officers among us are so intent on exercising their supremacy. And not
when there are Hessians who can apparently walk into houses whenever they so
wish.
We’re accosted one
more time by such wretched people that evening. This time it’s by two Hessian
women, who come barging inside and immediately start tearing things off the
wall before Captain Sneeder can come roaring into the picture. These creatures
aren’t beastly looking. The one is even quite pretty, I dare say, or at least
she would be if she wasn’t behaving in such a dreadful fashion. Elizabeth attempts
to stop them right away, but has to dart back when the more attractive of the
two reaches out to slap her face.
The captain is
furious when he comes on this scene, swearing at the intruders and telling them
to be gone before he knocks them senseless. They obey immediately, having
stopped their destructive efforts as soon as he came into view.
It’s clear whom they
respect and whom they don’t.
Despite this, huddled
in bed with Elizabeth and the babies that night, I realize that I’ve been
foolish to consider the Hessians so much worse than their masters. It’s the
British, my former countrymen, who hired these people in the first place and
let them do whatever they want without real fear of reprisal.
People with that
mentality can kick back with their civilized cigars and glasses of brandy in my
sitting room until kingdom come, basking in their supposed superiority. But the
men who hold to that line of thinking are just as guilty as their minions, if
not more so.
That’s quite the
frightening thought. So too is the way Captain Sneeder barely blinked before
condemning my brother, despite what should have been fairly obvious facts and
regardless of our justice system. Which, incidentally, we learned from them!
That justice system
saved their sorry necks before too, no matter how little they think of it now.
It was only six years ago that the Boston Massacre happened, where a group of
British soldiers fired on an angry mob of townspeople. Despite their
unpopularity in the area, John Adams, one of our predominant voices for
freedom, signed onto their defense. Moreover, he performed his job so well that
he got six out of eight of the soldiers acquitted, and the two who were
convicted of manslaughter received reduced sentences.
It seems clear how
the British wouldn’t give Adams, who is part of the Second Continental
Congress, the same consideration if positions were reversed today. King George
is a hypocrite, expecting the right to behave one way, yet demanding that we
subject ourselves to completely different standards.
These thoughts roil
through my head and chest and stomach until I feel like I’m boiling. My throat
is horribly dry, and all I want is to go outside to our private well for a
drink of water. Yet I can’t. I might not be locked up like my brother is now,
but I might as well be for all the safety my own home can provide me.
Since I can’t sleep,
I pray, asking God to protect Garrett. The same plea applies to my other
brothers and my father down in Trenton, so close and so far away. I pray that
he will keep me and Elizabeth and the babies safe. And then I ask the Creator
above to make the five soldiers sleeping here rue the day they ever crossed
foot over my threshold.
There are five
soldiers now, not four, since Garrett won’t be using his room anymore. They
added a Sergeant Jules Girth, a tall, thin, blond thing with a consistently
pursed mouth like he disagrees with everything around him. I’d like to tell him
that there’s a plenty fine inn down the street if he’s so disgusted with his
current accommodations. But that would require speaking directly to him, which
isn’t something I intend on doing if at all possible.
When I get dressed
hours later, the looking glass at Elizabeth’s writing desk shows significant
dark circles under my golden-brown eyes. Normally, I might try to cover that up
with the little jars of powder and paint that I keep in my room, unbeknownst to
my father. But I don’t this time. Not when I forgot to grab the items in
question out of my closet in the first place, and not when I don’t care to look
presentable to a bunch of lawless bullies anyway.
Getting dressed in as
simple and modest an outfit as I can put together, some part of me hopes they
all feel dreadfully guilty at my haggard appearance.
The rest of me knows
full well that they won’t.
I’m mostly correct in
that bitter assumption, though one officer proves me not completely right. This
irritates me further, since it’s not the one who can actually undo last night’s
unfair verdict.
As if he hasn’t
learned his lesson once already, Sergeant James Slasen approaches me in the
kitchen again. Though he makes sure Elizabeth is there this time as a suitable
chaperone for his entirely honorable but nevertheless undesirable attentions.
It’s early enough in the morning that he hasn’t bothered to put on his full
uniform, but he’s as solemn as if he’s standing before a commanding officer
when he peeks his bruised face inside the doorway.
I see him but pretend
to ignore his presence, unwilling to give him the time of day when he played
such a crucial part in landing Garrett in jail. My reasonable side (and I do
have one, believe it or not) tells me that Slasen didn’t intend any harm. And I
do know that he wasn’t actually trying to accost me. Quite the opposite,
regardless of what mistaken notion my brother stumbled onto. But I also know
that he could have spoken up a little more forcibly in order to prevent Captain
Sneeder from dragging poor Garrett away like a common criminal.
I reach up to adjust
the head cap covering my mess of barely brushed-out brown curls. I normally
don’t wear the thing since I know my hair is one of my finer assets. Richard
Token from down the street used to write sonnets about its chocolate hue before
he went off to war and died of pneumonia last month.
As a sound patriot
and a good man, I never rebuked him for his forward comments. But I’m not going
to present my locks for any of the town’s current residents to enjoy. At this
point, the majority of them are redcoats. And of those few legal occupants that
stayed, almost all of them are Quakers who refuse to fight on either side, or
blasted Tories and therefore loyalists to the despicable crown.
I do realize that my
mental language is sounding far too much like Garrett’s, and I wonder whether
that will cancel out my earnest prayers to God from before. Spoken or not, my
thoughts are hardly ladylike, and I’m fairly sure the Almighty does not
approve.
Elizabeth sees Slasen
when she turns away from the pot of oatmeal she’s making, complete with fresh
apples and cinnamon and ginger, all at Sneeder’s pretentious request. It’s
apparently become a favorite combination of his since arriving here in America.
Unlike me, my
sister-in-law is far too mature to leave the officer standing so awkwardly for
too long. “Yes, Sergeant?” She asks, all business. “What can I do for you?”
He reaches upward to
take off his hat, then remembers he’s not wearing any such thing. Between that
and the black and purple bruise along his bottom cheek, he looks very young.
I’m nonetheless certain he has to be in his mid-twenties and therefore a good
seven years older than me.
“Missus Carpenter.
Miss Carpenter,” he begins. “I wanted to sincerely apologize again for last
night. I never meant for any of that to happen.”
“Yes, well, it did
anyway,” Elizabeth replies with as little emotion as she started out.
I remember how she
behaved right before and even right after the officers came tramping into our
home, and wonder at her impressive about-face. Maybe she’s just resigned
herself to being the only adult in the family. I don’t know, though I am
exceptionally grateful for her newfound attitude. Without it, I’m not entirely
sure whether I would fly at Slasen, raving like a madwoman; or fall right back
into hysterics thinking about everything they’re demanding of us and will
continue to demand until one side wins and the other loses this dreadful,
convoluted civil war of sorts.
“There’s nothing we
can do about it now, is there,” Elizabeth adds.
I can tell she’s
speaking only to end the conversation. Her tone leaves no real room for the
officer in the doorway to continue.
Yet he does anyway.
“I can bring Miss Carpenter’s brother food, if you’d like. The main bulk of the
army is to move out this morning, but it appears that a few companies will be
staying behind here in Prince Town, my own included, and I have no real orders
for the day.”
Elizabeth looks at
him sharply, and I’m sure that my thoughts are mirroring hers. She wants to
tell him that we can take care of ourselves, thank him ever so kindly. We might
not look like much in this violently disputed, sovereign state of New Jersey,
but we’re a lot more sturdy and resourceful than his king gives us credit for.
He ignores our
expressions, continuing with, “I’m sure you’ll have your hands full with my
fellows out there and your children you mentioned the other night. My sister
has four of her own back home in Cheltenham, and I know how busy they keep her.
Besides, prison is never a place for little ones.”
Slasen sees us
hesitating and tries again, growing a little more bold in his real message,
even if that real message makes him visibly uncomfortable.
“Prison likely isn’t
the best place for women of good standing either. Especially prisons in a place
as traitorous –” at both of our mutinous looks, he scrambles to find different
wording “– erm… dissentious as Prince Town. Actually… erm… you might want to be
careful about going out in general. There are some soldiers and officers – not
all, mind you, but some – who are of the mind that behaving badly – very badly,
mind you – is not to be dissuaded. Quite the opposite, really.”
He’s all but
stuttering by the time he gets to the end of his disturbing little speech.
Which, incidentally, we largely didn’t need to hear. We know quite well that
Princeton isn’t His Majesty’s favorite location in America. Certainly, we rank
better than Boston, where the citizens are exceptionally outspoken. Up there,
they made a regular habit of public displays of protest. Those were both
planned and otherwise, and well before we ever declared war, much less
independence.
I also know we’re not
as high a prize as Philadelphia. That’s where the Continental Congress is
currently established. And what a feather in the British’s caps it would be to
take that hallowed place.
Then there’s New York
City, which is quite the big to-do. They already have that though, the
blackguards.
However, small though
it is, Princeton is nonetheless a hotbed of what Slasen calls “treason” and we
call “liberty.” And with most of our men gone off to fight and the like, it
rather makes a wretched kind of sense that those left behind should take the
brunt of the contempt our oppressors have for our fair town.
Elizabeth protests
anyway, I’m sure for the sole reason of making him feel even more ashamed at
what he’s just admitted. His mild mannerisms and sincere apologies are
emboldening her, while simultaneously setting himself up as an outlet for her
opinion of the entire British encampment.
“So you’re saying we’re not safe on our own
public streets in broad daylight? Isn’t that just rich. And you call us
Americans uncivilized.”
I can’t believe those
last words came out of her mouth. Personally, I don’t believe she would have
said any such thing if it was any of the other officers standing in front of
us. But since Slasen is proving to be such a tenderhearted little sap, it’s
easier to vent at him.
The non-bruised
portions of Slasen’s cheeks have already turned red, but that blossom of color
extends further across his face, flushing a deeper shade of crimson.
“My apologies for
upsetting you, Missus Carpenter. I merely wanted to forewarn you. I wouldn’t
want to see either of you harmed in any way.”
The way he says it so
solemnly, as if it’s his express duty to safeguard the fairer sex housing him,
finally makes a dent in Elizabeth’s ire. She sighs and then squares her
shoulders, and I know she’s going to apologize before she opens her mouth.
As freedom-minded as
we largely are in Princeton, unlike certain other parts of New Jersey filled
with yellow-bellied crown sympathizers, we’re not so stupid as to turn down
help when we obviously need it. Because if he’s right about the dangers
outside, then he’s also right about us needing him. We’re in a bind: two women
by ourselves with so many responsibilities to handle.
It would actually be
selfish of us to turn down his offer, even if it pains us to take him up on it.
Garrett needs supplies. It’s as simple as that.
“No need to ask
forgiveness, Sergeant,” Elizabeth assures heavily. “If anything, I should be
doing as much.”
I notice she doesn’t
though, and Slasen politely doesn’t point it out.
“It’s just that the
last twenty-four hours have been particularly trying, and we’re still
attempting to wrap our heads around the changes we face. If you were sincere in
your warnings and your offer to bring some breakfast to my brother-in-law, then
we won’t spurn your kindness.”
The truth is that I
still want to tell him to go away. Not to spite Slasen so much as to get to see
Garrett myself. He might be an irritating presence in my life more often than
not, but I do love him dearly regardless of our quarrels and spats.
That’s why I set my
pride and anger aside, and finally address the enemy in our midst. “If I write
a quick letter, would you be able to deliver that as well?”
He practically bows
to me, what would be a gallant gesture in any other setting. “Of course, Miss
Carpenter. It would be my pleasure.”
I nod back, my
movement a shade or two less than cordial even now. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
I think he wants to
say more, but he takes his leave after only one more hesitation. Really, he’s
better off keeping whatever it was to himself anyway, as there’s no chance in
heaven or earth that I’m going to let him court me.
I’m not a simpleton.
I know he fancies me. It’s obvious, as it usually is in such cases. Even the
best of men like to think themselves so entirely above the softer emotions.
They might laud grace and beauty and gentleness in women, but they would much
rather deem themselves stoic and logical.
It’s all rubbish.
Complete rot when they feel as deeply as we do. Otherwise, how did I get all of
those silly sonnets written to me? It certainly wasn’t for my benefit, as they
were quite poorly put together. Not to speak ill of the dead.
Poor Richard Token.
“Well, someone’s
smitten,” Elizabeth notes practically under her breath, a reflection of my own
thoughts. “Might not be such a bad thing, I suppose.”
“Oh?” I ask, right
back to a snippety state of mind.
“Don’t be dense,
Abigail,” she tells me with a knowing look. “And get back to chopping those
apples. The oatmeal is almost ready.”
I do as I’m told, my
knife slicing through the red skin into the soft, white flesh beneath it. Where
the British supply chiefs got so many apples at this time of year, I have no
idea. But we have a whole entire bushel of them to prepare for Sneeder and
company.
“If it’s really as
bad as the sergeant seems to think it out there, having a British soldier for
an escort can’t hurt,” Elizabeth continues. “And don’t tell me otherwise. You
know it to be true just as much as I.”
I sigh unhappily. “He
may have shot at Father and Richard, for all we know.” I’ve purposely used her
husband’s name to gain sympathy points.
Since she’s not a
simpleton any more than I am, she knows it for the trick it is and turns around
to give me another reproachful stare. “He may well have. You’re right. But that
doesn’t make me wrong.”
I pitch my voice
lower even though we’re already practically whispering. “So you’re saying I
should make friends with him?”
“I’m saying it
wouldn’t hurt to smile instead of glower so fearfully. Just at our young
sergeant though. Not the rest of them.”
Our sergeant: The
familiar applied to the fairly undesirable. I wrinkle my nose.
Elizabeth shakes her
head. “Pleasant, Abigail. Be pleasant. For my sake if not for your own. What would
I tell your father if anything happened to you?”
I say something quite
grudging in reply. I’m going to take her advice. I know I am. But considering
that she keeps me cooped up in the kitchen yet again while she serves the men,
I don’t have to try extremely hard at finding a pleasant place in my head right
away. Besides, it’s a difficult attitude to develop when she’s not in any small
amount of risk herself. I can’t help but worry about her while she delivers the
assorted bowls out to the dining room.
Elizabeth is quite
pretty, with dark blond hair and brown eyes and positive proportions. Married
or not, with her husband gone from home and everyone in the house knowing it,
she makes very nearly as easy a mark as I do. In some ways, even more so since she
has a slight limp and can’t run as fast as I can. Most people can’t tell this
when she only walks, but she gets severe pains in her left calf whenever she
picks up the pace.
Then there is the
fact that me staying out of sight didn’t do any of us any good the night
before. I keep glancing toward the kitchen doors, both the one outside and into
the hallway, constantly wondering whether there’s a Hessian or other lowlife
lurking around the corner.
Nothing happens for
that meal though. No sharp surprises, no broken bowls, no new arrests.
Everything goes smoothly enough that I even have time to pen a brief letter to
Garrett in between feeding my niece and nephew. The dears interrupt me
repeatedly with questions about our home’s new occupants, their little voices
filled with innocent curiosity.
I answer some of them
as best as I can, remembering to “be pleasant” in the words I choose and the
tone I use in saying those words. Best to start now after all, I suppose.
Practice makes perfect. Besides, I don’t want to alarm the children.
The only surprise is
when Elizabeth comes back in after serving up a second portion for Captain
Sneeder, telling me to put my letter to the side somewhere it isn’t in plain
sight. When I ask why, she tells me I’m just going to have to trust her. And so
I do.
Her exact scheme
becomes apparent only a half hour later, when we’re cleaning up the dishes.
That’s when Sergeant Slasen shows up again to inquire about the items he’s
promised to bring over to Garrett.
Elizabeth immediately
turns into a fragile female on him. It’s a ploy practically every woman I know
of utilizes from time to time, since it can be so exceptionally effective in
reaching one’s goals. Not necessarily with brothers, of course. But Slasen is
most definitely not a brother.
“Sergeant.” Elizabeth
stops scrubbing at the pot in front of her, which she insisted on handling for
reasons unbeknownst to me before. She usually dislikes washing dishes the same
way I despise doing laundry. “I’m afraid we weren’t able to write out that note
to my brother-in-law. What with all of this added housework, time ran away from
us.”
I shoot her a sharp
glance, which she completely ignores.
Slasen is all
sympathy. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, Missus Carpenter. Take your time. I
can be ready whenever you are.”
“Oh no,” she assures.
“We wouldn’t want to take up your day any further than you’ve so generously
offered. What if you simply bring Miss Carpenter with you instead? I can’t
imagine she’d be in any danger with you at her side, would she?”
I roll my eyes since
I know neither of them can see me when their attention is so heavily on each
other, hers with a cunning projection of helpless innocence and his with
guileless gravity. Something about the scene makes me think about a baby deer
about to become venison.
“Of course I would
see that nothing happened to her,” he assures. “Though I can’t say how we’ll
find her brother. It might not be suitable for delicate sensibilities.”
His expression,
however, practically begs for a protest that will have me walking side by side
with him.
I suppose I can’t
blame him for thinking me so slight on fortitude considering my behavior the
night before. But that’s not my normal personality. I can’t say I’m the bravest
person in the world, and there have been plenty of times Garrett especially
would call me “yellow” in the past. But I’ve never fainted before in my life,
and I don’t intend on ever doing it in the future either. Swooning is for silly
ninnies, as I’m sure Slasen is accustomed to where he comes from.
Pleasantly, I keep my
mouth shut.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth
is busy feeding Slasen the lines he doubtlessly wants to hear. “Nassau Hall
can’t have been turned into a prison more than fifteen hours ago. I can’t
imagine such a lovely place could be made too dangerous in such a short space
of time. Though of course, I leave it to your good judgment, Sergeant.”
For a minute, I
actually think he’s going to consider my “delicate sensibilities” over his
desire for my company. But his selfish side ultimately wins out, just as
Elizabeth figured it would.
When he admits as
much, though in far less unflattering terminology, she smiles gratefully at
him. I can, however, still detect a gleam of triumph in her dark brown eyes.
Slasen, I’m certain,
remains clueless to how neatly he’s just been handled. If only King George
could be so compliant, we wouldn’t have to worry about such awkwardness in the
first place.
During this whole
discussion, little James and Rebekah have been busy gawking at the sergeant in
their midst. And now that the adults are quiet, Rebekah speaks up from her
place at the unadorned kitchen table, stained repeatedly from so many prepared
meals. I’ve wiped it off from this morning’s efforts, but there are still new
marks from where I was cutting apples only an hour ago.
“Are you a soldier?”
My niece queries in her adorable three-year-old voice. I’ve already told her as
much, but she apparently thinks she has some cause to doubt me.
Slasen’s attention
turns completely toward her, his hazel eyes lighting up at being addressed by
such a sweet little miss with her light brown hair falling around her
shoulders. I suppose he wasn’t lying about his sister’s children then. Only the
most clever charlatan could fake the kind of response he’s giving.
“Yes, I am,” he
informs her with a smile. “Aren’t you the bright one.”
Not to be outdone, my
nephew pipes up as well. “What rank do you hold?”
Perhaps children
their age shouldn’t know to ask such questions, but these are unusual times,
and they’ve certainly heard enough “Colonel” this and “General Washington” that
over the last year.
I send a silent
prayer upward that they don’t say anything too patriotic. Not that I think
Slasen will punish them if they do, but better safe than sorry.
“I’m a sergeant,” he
replies, carefully leaving out the “in His Majesty’s Army” I’m sure he would
normally add, so as not to set the little conversationalists before him up for
exactly what I’m worrying about.
This forces me to
consider that perhaps he’s not so simple as I originally assumed.
“Is that better than
a captain?” Rebekah wants to know.
“Oh no,” he assures
her gravely, with only a hint of a grin on one corner of his mouth. “A captain
outranks me.”
“Do you fight with my
father?” James chimes in. Richard is, after all, his hero.
And there it is.
Exactly what I was fearing. I stiffen, as does Elizabeth, but the sergeant
plays along just as nicely as you please.
“I’m afraid not,
though I’m sure he must be a fine man if he has a son as smart as you and a
daughter this lovely.”
Both babies light up
at the compliments.
Elizabeth and I both
relax, though she takes a step further to finish the conversation before
anything especially unfortunate is said.
“I’ll send Miss
Carpenter out with the blankets and such in a minute, Sergeant. And again, we appreciate
your charity.”
When he’s out of the
room, Elizabeth turns to me, completely ignoring the bundle she’s already put
together for Garrett. Contrary to what she said about us not having the time to
do anything, she’s already long-since set me to fetching everything we want to
send. We’re even giving my brother some of the officers’ leftover oatmeal,
wrapped up in a wooden bowl with a cheesecloth tied around it.
“Whatever you do,
don’t leave his side, Abigail. Understand?”
She’s talking to me
like I’m one of her children, which instantly puts me into a slight snit. I
love Richard’s wife, but having four older brothers has left me fiercely
independent and automatically defensive to any attempts of patronization.
Elizabeth knows that
very well, because she grips my shoulders. “I’m serious. This is hopefully as
close to a life or death situation as you’ll ever get. I do not want to see any
harm come to you.”
I mutter a “yes,
ma’am,” which is still slightly barbed. But I do intend on taking her
directions nonetheless.
I know
the consequences of throwing caution to the wind could be dire.
Today
marks a special occasion: the hundredth post here on Muses
and Musings.
